This morning I went to check out most of the new street art murals in Ontario, California. My heart bursts at the thought of large scale art. It didn’t disappoint. Street art only disappoints when a tagger decides to destroy it. When I see intentional destruction of art, history, etc., I hurt as if a bird was dying before me. Street artists remind me that while the world feels as if it’s falling apart — art lives boldly. And it will keep living. Tear it down? We, the creators, will keep creating. Rebuilding. Because that is true freedom — and it’s worth fighting for. Our minds and our imaginations.

We will build new buildings. Write new stories. Play our music. Make new art.

And send the robots and destroyers of all things good… packing.

Street artists share their work right out there in the open elements — unprotected. Like the great builders, they give their art freely to us — and walk away. This is the definition of artistic vulnerability. What a gift..

Art as protest
expressed
alive in
full color
never another
as bold 
or compelling
as this
colossal
story telling...

Thank you to Damien and Mia Melle, co-owners and founders of the exquisite lifestyle store, Holt x Palm .  As curators of much beauty, they are also anchor and host to the first, and now second annual, live painting festival in Ontario, Ca.   I was out of town for both festivals, but plan to be in town for the next one! <insert face slap> 

Please check the artists out on the festival website.  The talent is insane.  O-Town Walls is also on Instagram.

I absolutely adore Whitney Holbourn's painting of her and her precious dog "Max," at the end of the video.   He passed away three years ago.  What a special way to honor her love for him.  Gave me some tears thinking about all of our best buddies over the years.  Probably running around with Max up there...

One artist that really blew my mind is Naomi Haverland.  She specializes in anamorphic art and got her start doing street chalk festivals.  She's won many!  You HAVE to check her work out!!

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I had a hell “heck” of a good time today :)

“Keep it moving, yes Lord..”

ox

I just want to inspire Lord
keep going and admire Lord
Reach my 70s in style Lord
Stay awhile Lord
See my grandchildren grow Lord
and hope they know Lord
How much I love them
and You.
You the One
who sketched the world Lord
unfurled it all Lord
and you call us Lord
so we won't fall Lord
Humans on the brink Lord
no one thinks Lord
about them.
Your children Lord
Hidden
in broad daylight Lord
Where's the fight Lord?
The white knight Lord?
Ignite contrite? Lord?
Infuse deep sorrow
hollow out regret Lord
Let us forgive and forget
Lord?
Help us see the earth
as strangely vainly
dim Lord
hope for rebirth Lord?
Sing our hymns Lord?

Can I come with You Lord?

Do you know the way?

it's up up up the Light ladder

Are you there Lord?

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you hang in my room
an archival flume
unseen, unheard
dare I utter a word?

dark-light dictation
folding salvation
gray spectrum, warm heart
wilderness art

tucked into a zine
yet never a rhyme
though I stand before Thee
my interviewee

crowning silver sky
with questions of why?
why move through the wrath?
forge a humble path

trust in the richness
of hope and forgiveness?
perhaps good intention
won't erase dissension 

nor take away pain
prevent years of shame
conformed to this world
renewal is hurled

vanished into the void
where grace is destroyed
and bitter digs holes
in passive-aggressive roles

our spirits.. do they perish?
oh the ferns dance and cherish
say the world cannot preach
.. arborescent I will reach

for what is good and well-pleasing
the trees they are seizing
it's our time to return
reverse and re-learn. 

black crows keep on flying
diving, diving... trying
spilling blue Ektachrome
Lord, illuminate me home..

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About once a year I listen to Joni Mitchell’s entire catalogue. On repeat.

Romans 12:2

My heart goes out to the cities, the history, the art, burning..

Recorded wind near the foothills, just below Route 66 — and the wild children on the playground across the street from my home.

"For days one could drive the Harbor Freeway and see the city on fire, just as we had always known it would be in the end."
— Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem ("The Santa Anas")

And in the end, you begin to burn yourself too. My middle right finger is healing from a blistering burning iron. How appropriate. And, I guess when you reach your sixties life seems to either elude you or it creeps up like the cruel strangler vine that it is. Didn’t I just yank you from your sordid ego?

Don’t do this with people — get too close. Yank. Be the good vine. Stay on your side of the imaginary line. Guard your heart. See the feathered canyons everywhere.

As you age, time crouches behind each door and in front of each mirror. It’s not pretty. I have grown more into myself. I thought that was a good thing. Not so much. The Santa Anas are here and something stirs within them, as Joan Didion wrote in her Los Angeles Notebook.

Mexican Fan, King and Queen palms blast over schoolyards as children squeal like land birds swept up in wild wisps of wind — playing disorganized games of chase. Sounds familiar. Palms shed their fronds, burying themselves in piles of crackly leaves that never made it to Autumn landing on quaint streets — with no palms. Heavy seed pods disperse to the ground releasing hundreds of small colorful grenades fruits. Each holding a palm seed. Tree branches rage against any soul in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was time.

Plastic pumpkins roll down walkways. A random garbage can appears, then disappears. Outdoor chair cushions sit in the street as a turbulent force whisks them away. Again. Barbecue and pool covers travel miles to homes — without barbecues or pools. There are plenty of local Starbuck’s receipts gently floating — and beer cans clanging in gutters.

Polyester spider webbing detaches — working its magic on a swinging squirrel house.

Just in time for candy revelers.

An old man in a three piece beige suit walked across the middle of Garey Avenue today holding a briefcase. An anachronism (say that five times fast). Same wind.

Beaches are flooding. Hills are running like wild mustangs on fire. And God is making more room in heaven for His most vulnerable.

Filthy dogs are lying under a picnic bench — windswept leaves collected around them— a bonus bed. The little one stretched out, disappearing into the concrete. The big one wrapped in a tight ball — shame permeating his once royal demeanor. Two shopping carts are tied down full of the homeless man’s treasures. It’s dark and moody under the giant shade oak, his face concealed by a black sweatshirt hood — face down on the table. Perhaps sleeping.

It’s the afternoon.

Thirty-five feet away children are playing volleyball backdropped by tenacious Autumn trees, in a perfect city of dotted craftsmans against a bright blue sky. Designer dogs look on on cozy blankets next to Sportsman couches.

They didn’t notice the poor kids in the park.

Wind does not lament there.

Gusts of change. Witches and monsters have entered my home. Clouds are blocking the sun. “Something is lost and something is gained. In living every day.” Sins of the past are regurgitated.

I swallow myself whole wishing for more than black and white, pondering demons. Are they flying about in escalated fashion, recycling skeleton bones from windy yards, formulating familiar whistling sounds through the canyons above — inserting their voices into so many good and normally reasonable people? I ask myself. Is this just California? Am I caught up in the snarl? A tangled mess of distraction and pride? Probably not. Probably yes.

Delightful cats get the wind up their tails. They fly high on the slouchy road to Bethlehem asking for more in their fleeting moments of joyful banter. More than nine lives before death. Because life begs more of us. And the deeper we dive, let go, soar — the more meaningful it becomes. And in that depth I find I am repelled from others, raptured, caught mid bounce, with the snatch of an osseous hand — flung into a cage of obscenities. My body is stuck here on planet earth, resisting the rules of engagement.

My mind is in heaven.

Perhaps we never quite figure out how to stop feeding monsters until we become monsters ourselves. Evolving as one is hard enough. Winds of change with more than one? Harder.

I straddle the unknown where silence is filled by idiots like me — and on the other side — an ambit of hope. I am not made for everyone. Maybe not of this world at all. And, oddly, for the first time in my life, I realize not everyone is made for me. I am a late bloomer in a fast moving storm. Choosing Jesus. But failing miserably.

I loathe sides.

We know how it ends.

I really don’t know clouds

at all.

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Mixed, messy, windy media: by me.

Just in case no one told you lately.

Shine.

Be you.

Live your purpose.

Don’t let anyone take that away.

Ever.

Aim at heaven..

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Mixed media collage/poetry by me :)

Music clip to collage at top: Ms. Lauryn Hill, Everything is Everything

Come as you are
be in this place
cast out the austere
it's a time to embrace 
And have no fear
while you beckon
to groan
in your bones
it's true
you were made
to be you
So lay down
each brick
mirrored rhetoric 
outshine your mind
brush out the doubt
let your purpose
be known
in its glorious zone
your artful decree
oh we
the mind blown
in a trance  
of confession
our enchanting 
obsession..
 
this is my ode
(Lord knows)
to expression..

A R T — A R T — A R T

This post is truncated due to several pictures. In Gmail, subscribers can click View entire message at the bottom of the clipped email. In any email app, subscribers can click View in browser at the top of the email.

Cheers to people, places and the sweetness of life.

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Cloaked in deep crimson
Oh Autumn is a home
In shades of goodwill
There’s no need to roam

The path toward winter
Sets my memory ablaze
Telling tales of good cheer
With an unworldly gaze

Let me hold her so dear
As the seasons transform 
From my porch with a view
My fount will stay warm

Lord, make me a haven
And fill it with sonnets
Forever in this spell
Lay Your will upon it

...Please send Autumn, if you will, to Southern California,

Remaining
     Sincerely yours,

     deborah  ox

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Dear Readers,

Do you know a creative, artistic mother, actively raising a child or several children, who also works, or stays at home juggling — maybe homeschooling? I know what it’s like, raising three children while your partner is managing growing a small construction business. Working overtime, weekends — leaving you with everything parenting and all the details of managing a home. He flies in and our of your life, helping as much as he can. You are blessed. But it’s a struggle at times. You are ships passing in the night.

Because I have been creatively inclined my entire life, I can remember trying to grab little intervals, often at midnight in the quiet. I’d fold laundry forcing myself awake to to do something creative. Or look through the film pictures I took. I couldn’t wait for Christmas, so I could send a homemade picture card of the kids.

I knew that creativity was my personal fuel. I see so many moms, even dads, putting their creativity in a closet for years. And I’m here to tell you, the tiny bits can keep you going long past the empty nest. We are happier, more loving people, when we can steal away an interval to create — and that example shines upon our children, possibly bringing out their own creative purpose.

Going back to Jr. College to take a few classes was a huge deal with a five, eleven and twelve year old. Once the youngest was in kindergarten, I had a bit more time — but everyone knows how that goes. Parenting is a full-time job. Lots of it is thinking, scheduling, grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, etc., and if you find yourself doing anything for yourself, you often feel guilty. How taking a few photography courses changed my life — is an understatement. I wasn’t going to take my teacher’s offer to work for her — but my husband must have known life would continue to be busy for him and I’d need something after the kids moved out. I think God knew too.

I was able to decide how I was going to work in this creative field so it wouldn’t interfere with my family life. I can’t tell you how many evenings I worked at my desk, sorting pictures, from 11p.m. to 2am. This, with my last born attending an art high-school over an hour away, each way, for FOUR years. We never had any parents around either, to help us, nor did we expect it.

What I’m proposing here is a space, once a month — or every other month? for moms, with kids at home, to share something they are working on in the quiet “unframed intervals.” The kitchen table work, shadow work, a poem you wrote in the car while waiting for your kids. A short film? painting, sketch, essay, collage, photography, jewelry, etc. This would be a collective place to be seen and I’d do the work to put it out there. Also, this is ideal for moms without a place to put their creativity — but, if you have an Etsy, a social site, a website, or a Substack, where you put your creativity — but don’t feel very seen — this would be an extra place. I know it’s very hard to share your heart and the algorithms don’t help. But a little extra help can’t hurt.

Sooooo — do you know anyone? a daughter, friend, niece, sister — or are you that mom? that might like to submit something for me to share? I would have submission guidelines, possibly a theme to make it fun. I can put the call out as soon as I know if there’s any interest. If not, that’s okay too. Thinking I would share 3 to 5 different creatives per publishing.

What do you think? Can you share this? or share your thoughts with me?

I live to create, create to live — and LOVE to encourage the act of creating.

Because, “our truest life is when we are in dreams awake.” — Henry David Thoreau, 1854

My email is: debtraceyphoto@gmail.com — if you want to share this too!

Thank you.

love, deb

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Through so many forms I’ve walked,
through I and We and You,
yet all remained suffered
through the eternal question: why?

That’s a child’s question. Only late did you realize,
there is only one thing: endure—
whether meaning, addiction, or legend—
your predetermined: You must.

Whether roses, whether snow, whether seas,
all that blossomed, faded,
there are only two things: emptiness
and the marked self.

— Gottfried Benn’s 1953 poem “Two Things,” known in German as “Nur zwei Dinge,” a short, intensely fatalistic, “nihilistic masterpiece.”

In September of 2020, sightseeing my soul might have felt completely empty. Marked in ruin. Nothing left but to fade into the torrent. By September of 2021 the abatement of booming voices had reached it’s ending, yet it’s echo traveled just under the music which brought me back. Every morning was a song and every evening a long prayer. Because there had to be more than two things to follow, or there was nothing. I never wanted for nothing. Finding Jesus in my early 30’s was already a challenge. How could I live on blossoms and darkness, when I knew that the deepest part of me contained a longing that far exceeded the clinging of empires belonging to mere mortals. Mortals who I wanted to know. My spirit lived to connect deeply, from the womb outward. A miraculous event. Birth. And death? Falling to nothing? Flesh and bone, intricate wired purpose lying on the floor squirming like an animal ready to stand in some kind of knowing that it’s legs were made to carry on? Who? or what did this? Made my heart beat with the quickness of excitement, sadness and danger.

Each living breathing being a masterpiece? writer, artist, teacher, builder, athlete, philosopher, scientist? “Through so many forms” we have walked, loved, suffered, “questioned like children and endured we must.”

The roses bloomed, faded, and rose again. Seasons came and went. Storms raged and quelled — and in the fade of gloom there was hope of the eternal. What is left behind, though temporal, lasts long enough in the faces of statues, written and visual history. Something transmitted which shapes the present living.

Something which calls for home.

I believe in more than emptiness and a marked self. Whether spiritual or not, it begs to ask the question: Why were we ever here if the end is nothing but empty and branded. Then why must we “endure” at all? If there is nothing to look forward to at the end — enduring with ourself and others, only, will inevitably disenchant.

And…, as all humans, “your predetermined,” as Benn’s poem states — “your must” sounds about as spiritually directed as it gets. It is holding tight, together, and apart, not absent or empty from each other — yet reaching out for more.

Beyond the hovering dust is more than two things..

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This piece is in response to the poem above, written by German poet, Gottfried Benn, which was written on a plaque, in honor of a magnificent wood carving, titled, “Absence of Emptiness,” 2012, by Newport, Oregon resident artist, and German native, Juergen Eckstein. Overlooking the ocean, at Nye Beach, Juergen carved the piece out of a 16 foot redwood trunk, that had washed up on the beach years prior. When I first saw it, in September of 2021, I was in awe of every detail while coming out of my stupor. It took him five years to complete. I remember feeling inspired as part of my journey to get back up — wishing I had met him before he passed away. A free spirit, full of life, whimsey, humor and a deep love for his community — I had overlooked the plaque with Benn’s poem (translated, for the most part, above).

Running across the images of Juergen’s work today, I looked into a few articles again and discovered Benn’s poem was the inspiration for the carving. Reading it, several times, left me feeling confused.

After researching who Gottfried Benn was, I understood how he was shaped and most likely disillusioned by his circumstances. You can read about him for yourself. I went deep into my questioning. Sadly, Benn unknowingly drove his longtime love interest, a German born, Jewish poet, from their homeland, by his own “initial” support for Hitler — until he realized where things were headed. Else Lasker-Schüler fled to Zurich (another fascinating person and story).

After that, the Nazis banned his writings, although he remained in Germany, making the decision to live a double life and “disappear” into the German Army, stationed in garrison towns, in Eastern Germany, as a doctor of pathology and military medicine, studying suicide rates among soldiers. He continued to write poetry in secret, much of which was inspired by the coldness of death. Benn also experimented with legal cocaine in WWI, while serving as a military doctor in Brussels. This lead to a series of famous novellas, but he was eventually expelled from the military for drug use and erratic behavior.

Is there anything new under the sun of man?

In 2013, Juergen Eckstein created and built a 20 foot tower and took it out to Burning Man, stating it was “a place in the clouds where you feel at home, or it can refer to a place in the clouds where the world is at peace, or it can mean a man has his head in the clouds, meaning he’s a little bit nuts.” It made me “believe” that we are all longing for a better place. Heaven. Light over dark. Yet the poem misses this at the end.

I believe that the Creator Himself, who painted the entire earth, and the miracle of living, breathing, intricate beings, handed over the paintbox to us. And that is worth the eternal hope of a better place.

We are worth more than empty and branded to ourself.

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“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.” — Jeremiah 1:5

Foreword: This is an original piece I wrote January 22, 2023, seven months after I joined Substack. The uncanny thing about sending this piece into the universe again is that I came across it first while cleaning up my Substack and sorting early work. All week I have been having conversations with friends about the word “love.” To walk behind Jesus, I want to imagine and practice something far more radical and powerful than the casualness of the way we use this word so fleetingly, without the impact of meaning…

This also as I was unknowingly just about to take my husband to the emergency room late last night. It was the first time in 41 years of marriage that I would be driving him. He would never, ever, go. Unless. So two different e.r.’s, freeway construction, closed ramps, no gas, bad night eyes. Let’s just say there is no such thing as “emergency” treatment. The trajectory of healthcare here is scary. From 11p.m to finally being admitted in horrifying pain at 7am this morning — he passed a kidney stone in a packed waiting room of screaming babies, exhausted parents, and extremely sick people — some from the street. One “emergency” intake room for two of the largest hospitals in an enormous valley — that left babies screaming in the waiting room all night.

We got a reset button. Love is not about us. It’s about love.

If my grief was weighed on a scale for purchase it would be tied up in a neat package and sold cheap. I am most certain many would not only buy it but trade it for theirs. I would stand and see that the scale could not hold the weight of theirs, yet mine would still leave me pitying the poor soul who carried it away.

They would get home, perhaps make a cup of tea, pace a little and stare at the twine that holds it.

Upon opening it they would find hope, happiness, vulnerability, love, creativity, confidence, music, joy, an aching heart, a health condition, the slamming of a door, questions, lonliness, pictures playing on the t.v. loaded in lonely desperation, preachers talking, silly songs produced for grandchildren, walks, photographs of a brooding sky, an eerily quiet neighborhood, masked children. There are open books of poetry and faith, desperation, hopelessness, grief, an accident, dreams of dying, revival, a bridge, a movement, a “choice,” a road trip home, a fall, a fire, a collapse, a dog passes, no voice, God is near, angels on earth, love, fellowship, death, a dog passes, agony, rebuilding, accepting, what is, unvaccinated, canceled, uninvited, where is God, anger, no voice, forgiveness, anger, sudden reconciliation, a glimpse of beauty, my feet on the ground, time lost, memories faded — and a home built on sand.

Perhaps my package was traded and there I stand staring at a new one. A fresh beginning, hopeful that the deal I sold was returned for a better one.

I pace my garden. My how everything has grown. Sun burned it down, rain built it up — my hands have aged as I rise with the fresh blooms. The kettle is on. My new package sits on the table.

I’ll wait a day — maybe two.

Verses and memories of beauty, little feet, pitter-patter, fellowship, nourishment, laughter and the confidence that my house was not built on sand but in those moments it was enough to last every storm.

I run to the new package. The house is cold. In it I find a beautiful family. Joy, love, the death of a son, the tears of friends who are just like me, questions, gaping wounds, aching hearts, family estrangement, minds failing, and entire homes built on sand.

I have laid it all out here in my writing. I have held virtual hands and prayed with and over people for nearly three years of suffering, similar to my own and beyond. I have found that in the sand lies truth, decency, harmony, hope — and that dying to one’s self, being stripped of all you cherish and value in life is survivable.

When what comes back to you which was lost, if that is even possible — whether literally or figuratively in the sense that God has a way of putting before you His gifts of eternal living to grab., that love is truly patient and kind. Of which, love does not envy or boast, nor is it arrogant or rude and cannot find it’s own way. That love indeed mustn’t be irritable or resentful nor rejoice in wrong-doing, yet uncompromisingly rejoices in the truth — then our home, my home, your home can be rebuilt on that which holds no wrongdoing - yet is only found in a heavenly love.

A Love that emerges through the pain of loss and grief, even in reconciliation, without the words you long to hear — I’m sorry. A love so Divine that you can carry it with that package and use it as a heavy stone to weigh it down when you expect of any human, including yourself, to behave in the way that only Love can behave. It is the forgotten foundation of the flippantly overused word — love.

I emerge this new year with the greatest teaching of all. A guarded heart. Not a mean or angry heart, but a heart that is unwilling to cast His love aside to do life and love my own way. To simply know the depth of love. The discipline of love. The dignity afforded to self and others, by way of Love.

To consider the building materials — and weigh the cost.

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I am a pilgrim stranger

a torch of fine tuned bones

set me free to meet the Painter

in shadows of unknowns

I’m goin’ home

home to meet my Father

oh valley of twilight deepening

home… home to see the Potter

no more vigils for my weakening

I am a pilgrim stranger

wayfaring cobble stones

No sickness, toil nor danger

I am redeemed and atoned

I’m goin’ home to meet my Father

Guide me in the right direction

Open my eyes to the condemned

on the path of my reflection

I am a pilgrim stranger

Let Your Glory be revealed

where I will fear no danger

I’m going home to be healed

Bright land of perfect Portion

I’m going home to meet my Father

I’m just going over Jordan

through dark clouds before my day

To all the loved ones I’ve held strong

Fields of gold will lead the way

I am a pilgrim stranger

singin’ lonesome soulful hymns

I’m going home to meet my Maker

I’m surrendering all my sins..

I wrote this “through” the inspiration of one of the greatest old Appalachia gospel tunes ever written (unknown) — Wayfaring Stranger. There are several recordings, but I love Ralph Stanley’s version with his old southern “high lonesome sound.”

My poem is from the perspective that as I journey toward the valley of the shadow of death, I be on a pilgrimage lifting up forgotten, condemned and broken souls along the way. That I am nothing more or less than just another person, flesh and bones — on the pilgrimage home.

…and for an amazing modern version, here’s Rhiannon Giddens, founding member of the Carolina Chocolate Drops.

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What goes up must come down

waiting for the break of day

jingo jingo ba (do not worry)

the leaves are falling all around,

time I was on my way.

Please allow me to introduce myself —

you could say I lost my faith in science and progress,

fame makes a man take things over.

In the mornin’ you go gunnin’

“the problem is all inside your head,” she said to me.

We are amazed but not amused

a boy is born in hard time Mississippi

if blood will flow when flesh and steel are one

the Cisco kid was a friend of mine,

a little round in the Turkish style.

The moment I wake up

ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low

— well it’s a marvelous night for a moondance.

Roxanne, you don’t have to put on the red light

— ooh-ooh, I bet you’re wondering how I knew?

Down around the corner, half a mile from here

I lost at love before

< chewin’ on a piece of grass >

people keep on learning

you’re everlasting summer you can see it fading fast…

Did you guess the songs?

In other news: my teeny tiny podcast was supposed to be revived this year - and I do believe in revival!! I do!! But seriously, I have no idea what happened to me? other than time flies — at breakneck speed. I recorded a fun one, with my brother Adam (below), in January, and it looks like I might finally be able to talk to Ian (date story below) about his work with the homeless crisis in San Francisco - before the year is out. I’m telling you it will be worth the listen.

In case you’re curious where the above playlist lines came from —

here’s the story:

…and my one podcast of this year! I think it’s sweet :) Thank you brother.

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Tell me, oh unbonded herd
browsing high on acacias
is your soul not stirred
for mine flows in mesas

Tables wider than tall
spent but not broken
yet I cannot recall
one kind word or token

So with my neck outstretched
pained heart of efficiency
I am shrunken and etched
lacking in synchronicity

Oh high star on the meridian!
lend me dignity and stature
Drive me past this oblivion 
of self and zero matter

Tall stones they will move
shifting baggage in the dark
simpering, unrooted hooves
never reaching their mark

Lord, make me a shade tree
no bother will I be
loyal friend that won’t fade
where earth will sit with me

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Did you know that giraffes do not mate for life. They are polygamous and form no long-term bonds. The fiercest bond of a giraffe is a mother and her baby. They are single parents after spending 15 months pregnant, giving birth standing up. One kick from a mother giraffe will crack a lion’s skull or kill a hyena. Sometimes I feel like family is like this. The mother is forced to move on, as her children do — unattached. But maybe somewhere in the herd is one giraffe, one person, that wanted a connection. A seat at the table. A bond for life.

Susana Clemente

Click > "View entire message" if you received a truncated version in your email or simply go to deborahthewitt.substack.com on the web and find The Jacket in the menu bar. Please clear and refresh your history — as this entire story has been lightly edited and tweaked. And I’m learning, so I didn’t realize about the italic rule. All fixed.

The following is all ten chapters of The Jacket. The stories of animal abuse and animal welfare, throughout The Jacket, are true stories within the context of a fictional story and its characters.

Susana Clemente was a tiny thing. Born January 1st, 1959, on a citrus farm in Mérida, Mexico. All 4’11” of her would blow away on a semi windy day if it weren’t for her heavy black Timberlands. She wore them in every season.

The Central Valley provided very little nurturing to her stature with it’s 110 temps in full sun, 95 in the shade. The tiny trailer’s air conditioner put out more water from condensation than she often had to give the discarded and abused animals she rescued.

At present there were seven cats, mostly mothers, a few babies. Somehow she managed to convince the vet, an hour and a half away, to drive out and spay them. Most lived inside the 20 feet, and a few braved the elements. Some cats need to hunt, which was good in a way she thought. They keep the small varmint population down. When the howls of dusk came, she called the mice-chasers in.

Then there were the dogs.

Susana Clemente, 64, had years on the dogs.

She was dumped too.

Susana’s father, Francisco Clemente, was only 18 years old, in the spring of 1959, when he brought his young bride and baby Susana to the “Heartbeat of Agriculture” in McFarland, California. Working on his father’s citrus farm back in Mérida, Francisco dreamed of a brand new beginning in America.

The family would add two sons and find success growing oranges on a small ten acre parcel Francisco purchased with the money he saved. The land came with an old farmhouse that Isabel Clemente proudly fixed up. Outdoor clothes lines blew with the smell of fresh laundry day in and day out, and family dinner on the patio, under several strands of old Italian lightbulbs, were tradition at the end of each working day, which was 24/7. The farm was full of beloved rescue animals, some working, most lazy, and all loved.

After Isabel passed away in her mid sixties, Francisco grew tired in his grief and was more and more forgetful. He sold the farm, asked Susana to take his beloved senior dog Milo, and moved to Clovis near her brothers. He would eventually need every penny for memory care.

Getting by working at the local auto shop didn’t afford much extra for the animals, so Susana finally began to sell various treasures she had locked away in a small shed. Ceramic pots, turquoise jewelry, an Acapulco chair her ex made for her, kitchen items, unnecessary dresses and high heels he bought her, where was she to go in those? and some jackets. Who needs six heavy jackets in the desert?

Except one, she thought.

The summer days began like all other days in Susana’s little town 40 miles south of McFarland. Cool mornings, stifling air by nine, dust kicking up small leftover tumbleweeds across the highway — and Susana thinking about how many wayward pets she had saved over the years.

For now, she had Snow Cone, found half dead and furless, with only a tuft of white hair left on his head. Turned out he was a six month old Great Pyrenees mix. Probably a mistake, like I was to my ex, she thought. Farmers pay a lot for them and fetch a lot for them. When they’re of no use or monetary value. Gone.

And there was Dolly. Susana saw her thrown from a car at one of her various stakeouts. A tiny thing, she held a special place in Susana’s heart. A lapdog who fit perfectly into a basket. Chihuahuas, like pit-bulls, shepherds and huskies, are a dime a dozen at high kill shelters. They’re put out of their misery daily. You name it, Susana rescued hundreds of dogs, large, medium, small, domestic cats, bunnies, reptiles, birds, from deserts, mountains and local parks. Discarded like garbage.

Chuck, a Shepherd-Husky mix, arrived with his partner, Beauty, a White Shepherd mix, with six children. The nice SUV pulled up at the North stakeout. From below the back door, a pair of new Converse dangled as one at a time they were thrown behind the liquor store. After dragging mom and dad out, the car casually drove away.

Then there was Scruffy, Mighty and Sweet One. Susana watched from the self appointed South stakeout, through binoculars, a young rancher pull-up in an expensive new truck, step out, look around, tip his cowboy hat low, and one by one toss them out the back of his bed and then sped away. After the dust fell, Susana drove as close as she could without scaring them further into the abyss. It was an unusual 115 that day and she couldn’t believe her sore eyes. Three little babies whose eyes were barely open. They looked like they might be some kind of Terrier-Poodle mix. Probably rejects.

Lotta backyard breeding going on out in these places where the hiding is easy and money good. Designer dogs, like Labradoodles, White Golden Retrievers and Frenchies turn a decent profit. But when they aren’t perfect, or something goes wrong, they get a tail-wagging ride to Susana’s neck of the valley. She’ll never forget finding two Labradoodles with broken back legs hobbling down her unpaved road. Seemed it was a case of plain sinister abuse and dump. A passerby. Thankfully the same city vet agreed to fix them and they were adopted immediately by someone in the clinic.

Rescue is a 24/7 commitment. Susana rarely slept between working, feeding, caring, staking out and making phone calls.

On her way to work, one spring morning, she saw a few, what looked like Belgian Malinois puppies hanging out in the back of the auto shop. Police dogs? what on earth, she thought. Her boss knew nothing and looked away.

Somehow, Susana managed to get the thirsty and hungry puppies back to her tiny home and make some phone calls until she found a specific breed rescue to take them. They were willing to come to her and for that she was thankful. Where would she put three growing shepherds? A few days wouldn’t hurt. There were times where a rescue didn’t show up, so that also kept her awake at night, let alone the cute snores and never ending potty breaks in the desert night sky.

Recently she had to cough-up some money for cages to keep outside in the cooler evening temps to house some larger rescues. It wasn’t ideal, but they slept safe in them despite the coyotes. During the day, she took some to work and prayed the rickety air conditioner wouldn’t die along with her rescues at home.

The beauty in the story of the Malinois’ were all three found loving homes and to this day Susana stays in touch with the owners.

There are so many stories, but probably the one that really gorged her heart, tore into her faith, shattered her last name meaning “gentle, merciful,” broke all she valued about life, was a stakeout one random Sunday morning on the hillside.

Years ago, a local fruit stand seller described a woman in her 30’s who seemed out of place for a town with one swinging stoplight. Unlike the casual tees, dirty jeans and boots that most women wear around these places, the woman casually wondered out loud, “how long would it take to die in a place like this if you’re stranded?” To which Donna, a nice, overly-rounded single lady, who sold mostly citrus and nuts, responded, “I reckon three to four days max,” pointing to the hills. “Why? ya thinkin bout standing outside in them rolling hills with them fancy shoes on?” she let out a smokey belly laugh.

The woman huffed, took two plums without paying, and hustled away like a street walker approaching her highest payer. Speeding out in what looked like a newer Land Rover, Donna could barely speak through her laughter.

For Susana, the whole thing was odd and she sensed something as only those who know what it’s like to be dumped can. You see, her husband drove her to this town, from her family home, and left her there.

They met in 1979 when he came to her family’s farm looking for work. They fell in love and six months later mom and dad threw a sweet ranch-style wedding, attended by about 20 family members, some who drove all the way from Mexico. It was truly Susana’s most favorite day ever.

One day, about a year later, he asked her to go with him for a ride, packing a tasty lunch of her favorite foods and a vintage bottle of wine. It was winter in the valley and he gave her a thick fur coat to wear. The one she kept. Although too big, it was nice and warm as they sat, legs dangling, in the back of his truck-bed dreaming of their future, staring out at the quiet golden landscape.

Heading home, Tony said he needed a repair part at the small auto shop, told Susana to wait at the counter for it, then went outside to use the toilet. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tony backing their truck out with an odd smile on his face. He never returned to the family farm.

Devastated, she realized it was time to be out on her own. Two years later she bought an old trailer in that same town. Dad gave her a decent farm truck to get around. Ironically, the only job open was front desk at the auto shop. She took it despite the never-ending memory of that day. What drew her back were the lost. Susana noticed there were more dogs, and cats, than people roaming the streets. She knew her broken heart belonged there.

Over the years, Susana had accumulated a diary of license plates, yet she knew no one cared. The police out there consisted of one 72-year old self-appointed retired security guard, Sam, who ate one too many jelly rolls, could barely keep his pants up, donned a Vietnam service hat, an old long sleeve button down, wore a hearing aid that passed his deafness onto anyone trying to communicate with him and even made a dog cower to the smell coming from the pools under his pits.

Reporting all the plates animal abusers to the big city sherif, that oversaw her area, pop. 400, one hour away, was like filling out an application for a used car, cleaning out the one vending machine with every last quarter you owned, bunking down for the night in the dingy car lot, only to awake the next day with Sheriff Harold looking over the glaring light hitting your side mirror, slowly shaking his head no. With no funds, Harold was relegated to desk duty where he could nurse a bad knee. Lance, the younger than Harold officer, snarky wannabe James Bond, had no idea what he was doing.

Driving the highway, Susana thought back to her days on the farm with her dad and younger brothers shooting targets. That Glock 17 in Lance’s holster shone like the cans she took out with her dad’s prized Barrett M82. When dad put real life bullseye targets up, Susana nailed the center every single time, forcing her little brothers envy onto a soccer field where they excelled much better. Little did her dad know, as his memory began to slip, she kept it just in case. A lady needs a little protection in this valley and that particular gun poked business out the door of her abode.

It had been 30 years since Donna spoke with the nicely clad woman in the “fancy” high heels. Donna had long passed. Staring through her binoculars Susana watched an old Mercedes driving up the unpaved road at the end of her town. You know the kind you wonder how they keep working? Local kids would tear the area up with motorcycles using the self-appointed dumping ground for jumping over old car tires. Seemed early morning weekends, sitting in her truck overlooking the area, was the best time to catch another low life save another animal.

Susana had become increasingly overwhelmed and scared to live out there on her own, so she usually took the Barrett for safety.

On this day something snapped.

Just as the car door opened, a pair of fancy heels stepped out. Susana Clemente fired up her engine and tore down the hill. Skidding to a stop in a cloud of smoke, she filled the tall lanky woman’s space with stunned amazement. Holding a filthy matted old dog by it’s upper legs, a female with mammaries hanging longer than her size, the overly botoxed face of the woman cringed in the hot sun ready to deposit her trash.

With nowhere for the woman to go, Susana got out of the cab, grabbed the Barrett, asked Jesus to forgive her, and with the slow approach of a mother lion said, “give. me. the. dog.”

The caught yet smug woman, a little older than Susana, handed over the small dog. As Susana laid it, barely breathing, on the dirt, she looked up, pointing the gun to the now frightened woman, and said, “take off your shoes. I’m not gonna hurt you.” The woman, hands in the air, nervously reached down and slipped them off. “Throw them to me.” While still pointing the gun in the direction of the woman, Susana grabbed a large heavy fur jacket out of the cab. That sucker never did fit her. She found out it was a reject gift her ex had given another woman. She was staring right through the pathetic dog abuser. Tossing it, Susana said, “recognize this? Put it on. Promise, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Shaking, the woman nervously put the jacket on as Susana spat, “Zip it up.”

“I lost my business,” said the woman. “oh yeah?” asked Susana squinting. “I bred these things for years and got tired of it. Everyone wants fancy now. They don’t perform like I need ‘em to,” the woman said indignantly, grimacing.

With a look of fire, Susana snapped, “I’m sick and tired of mopping up after you people. Maybe you’ll think twice before you ever abuse an animal again to profit yourself. You disgust me.”

Looking down the barrel, Susana whispered under her breath “there but for the grace of God go I.”

“One more thing. Hand over your phone. And don’t mess with me. I know how to use this.” As the phone flew threw the air, Susana blew it to pieces. She then proceeded to shoot the tires out of the woman’s old Mercedes.

Slowly walking to her truck, partners in rescue, Snow Cone, Chuck and Beauty looking on, she collected the used up battered old dog in her arms.

Looking back, one last time. “I reckon it takes three to four days to die out here. But you already knew that… didn’t you?”

THE JACKET - Chapter 2

La muerte lenta es una agonía.

Four days later Susana found her tattered jacket on the street in front of her modest home. Slow death is agony, she thought. Hope that woman survived her lesson.

Every morning before work, she walked her rescues through town, mice chasers in tow, bopping leaves dropping from trees, chasing bugs along the way. Thankfully, with her small stature, Snow Cone kept the slower pace as Chuck was aging. She couldn’t resist keeping Beauty, after she managed to get all her puppies adopted. Although a bit younger and stronger, Beauty knew how to be “pack proud,” guiding Susana and little Dolly in a baby pouch, a 22 in her back pocket, down main street.

Autumn was here. Cooler, damp, sweatshirt weather in the Central Valley. And although short, winter could kill a farmer’s livelihood with it’s frosty temps and potential flooding. One hard rainfall can cause water-logging, suffocation, soil erosion, even disease. Deadly combinations, especially at night as temps drop. Young grapes, tomatoes, peppers, and other tender crops, as well as the newly planted blossoms of stone fruit and almond orchards are prayed over like children slipping into a rough sea.

Slow death, Susana remembered it well.

And there it was, two blocks from home. The most beautiful specimen of skunk she had ever seen. No white stripes to be found, lying in the gutter, peaceful, it’s solid black coat shining in a peek of sunshine through the clouds. It lie frozen, twisted, mouth wide open. Probably internal bleeding.

Begging mercy.

Why is their mouth always open.? Clemente. I’ve dishonored my last name. Was I gentle? merciful? So many thoughts. As usual, she’d find a box, shovel the black beauty in and bury it out back later. Her tiny garden made of a small dirt patch and clay pots, with perennial flower cuttings she had found, grew well.

It was different with the dogs she found. They weren’t wild or strays. They were dumps. Unloved. But then dumps become strays. Strays become wild. Like people. Her mind raced.

Susana had found many charred dog carcasses out where the tire graveyard was. Right where that pathetic woman stood holding that poor crushed mama dog. Alive and burning, was all Susana could imagine. Hard to sleep on, but it’s what kept her going. Kept her fierce. All that was left, a bony shape, bits of fur blowing in the breeze, stuck to wood chips, trash — and a wide open mouth screaming silently for help.

They always look the same, she thought.

Torn tents, filthy streets, dirty hands, bare feet, sun parched people scattered throughout Clovis. The early morning drive there was peaceful as many fields lay dormant. Susana hated the walk through town to papa’s facility every weekend. It was getting more and more important she didn’t miss, despite knowing she was responsible for her pack at home. And her mission.

Every mouth open in a drug hazed stoop. Some dogs wandering in and out of camps. A small child chasing one. Humans, dogs, stray cats in such bad shape it was hard to look. Rats, cockroaches… they thrived on the chaos.

This was Susana’s life in every facet. Don’t look away.

Remembering childhood, her father, going on and on about the rapid growth of maquiladoras after they immigrated from Mérida through Tijuana in 1959. “Oh miha, you have no idea what can happen when we are not ready. We have to be ready on the farm to handle the… uh, how you say la llegada — the arrival, you know? Ahhhh miha… it’s impossible to know, we waste sometimes, yes, but we have to be ready.”

Looking back she remembers him telling stories about Tijuana. How as a young boy of 12, 13, Francisco loved to make the journey by bus all the way there. El viaje familiar. The family holiday. They would stop in Oaxaca for a day and explore Mexico City for two days. “La ciudad más bonita del mundo,” her father spoke with admiration for the big city. He loved how they took pillows and warm jackets to sleep on the buses, and he adored his hard working parents, who saved and saved, prayed and prayed. Their faces lighting up with excitement, as they stepped off the bus. She remembered he said, “Ellos maravillaron en mi espíritu miha. Nunca había visto a mis padres tan felices. Tan relajados.” They cast wonder into my spirit. I never saw my mama and papa so happy. So relaxed.

A vibrant city bustling in tourism and entertainment. Eclectic neon signs shined brightly into the wee hours.

When Francisco and Isabel Clemente returned home, they would say to friends, “la maravilla de todo esto.”

The wonder of it all. A far cry from the citrus farm, which had it’s own distinct wonder.

But there was no relaxing, or wonder, walking into downtown Clovis. Just sadness. Fences, sidewalks were hung like the Tijuana of recent decades. Floating down the San Joaquin River, local creeks, canals, laying heavy in leftover rain puddles, nothing but garbage. Diapers, fast-food bags, needles. Susana shook her head.

Ancient street lamps flickered over a quiet plea for warmth from a homeless encampment fire. Asphalt encrusted fingers rubbing together, bodies rocking, as she hurried by.

Everything about this America felt cheap and broken. Four-legged slaves, often chained to chain-link fences, or caged for breeding, in a once vibrant, thriving farming community. “Gateway to the Sierra,” now a gateway to hell. Humans selling puppies, themselves, others — cheap, for a 30 minute high. Women, young teens, dogs. Susana thought of the skunk back at home. Eyes frozen solid, black and lifeless.

Begging mercy.

There was no consolation knowing it was worse in the bigger cities. Go gentle, have mercy, under her breath. “Hey here’s some jackets, it’s getting cold out here,” as she handed out her small collection, still sparing one good heavy Carhartt for herself. The only person who looked straight up into Susana’s eyes was an older lady, Susana noting a pair of fancy high heels on the ground next to her. I better beat the storm, moving along, her mind full, eyes, senses dulled in the despair. Papa would show tears for this place, she chilled a “burrr” under her breath. Maybe it’s okay he doesn’t know anymore.

“Hi Papa, how are you? it’s Susana. I've missed you papa. What have you been up to?”

“Isabel?”

Susana leaned over her Papa in silence, tears building, she reached for a tissue from his bedside.

Francisco loved Isabel more than anything in the world, but in the two years he had been in memory care, he hadn’t spoken of her. And he hadn’t recognized Susana. Not once. Except for today… she was her mother. How she loved and admired her mama. It was a miracle despite. Tiny glimpses of love buried deep in her papa’s soul.

“Mi amor... my God,” his frail hands shaking, gently pulling Susana’s face to his. “No llores mi amor,” searching her eyes. “Don’t cry.” “I’m sorry papa,” she whispered.

Her brothers, Francisco Jr. and Juan Carlos, who everyone called Carlos, came to meet her this day. Maybe once a month they could manage an early weekend visit, since they took turns coming every evening after work. Their wives sneaking in some special food Francisco Sr. loved — at least once a week. “You know, I forgot to tell you he saw her last week too” Carlos said. “He did this to Ana, when she brought Polvorones.” “Yeah, he asked me, the next day, why your mom is not here?” piped in Francisco Jr. “I didn’t know what to say, so I told him she was busy on the farm? Ana told him he was so handsome,” said Carlos. “Seems he holds onto life thinking she is somewhere. Maybe it was the wedding cookies!”

“Yeah, Susana said softly, I can see that, thinking back on the streets, “Love, it’s really what living is made of. You love him so well, he hopes for her.”

Susana hugged her brothers goodbye, so they could get on with their day, take the kids to soccer games, clean the bbq, mow the lawn, etc., do what parents do.

Sitting in Francisco’s recliner, watching him doze, she almost fell asleep too. After 20 minutes, he woke to see her. Susana, now on the edge of his bed, holding one of his hands in both of hers, “Papa?” She waited…. nothing. I’m not me.. or her. She kissed him goodbye on his forehead, as he stared into her eyes. Maybe next weekend, she looked back waving with her beautiful smile. All the family said she had Isabel’s smile.

As Susana made her way out of the facility, several blocks to the free parking lot, she saw an old woman with ripped clothes, black stained face, wobbling, unsteady on high heels that were way too fancy for her hunched over dirty stature. As Susana passed her, she noticed the woman dangling a jacket. It was the woman who stared up at her on the way in. There was something familiar. The woman’s mouth hung open.

Begging mercy.

When Susana got home, she asked a local who was watching her pick up the dead black skunk, “why are the dead found with their mouths hanging open? they look like they’re begging mercy? no?” Luis, was a wise old man who, although gruff, seemed to have an ethereal sense of the world. He said, hands in his pockets, with a hunch of the shoulders, “Bueno, ya no están mendigando,” a, let me say, in English, “they gave up ..la pelea? you know, how you say it… the fight. La boca abierta, you see the open mouth is…. how you say, el proceso de muerte lentathe, ummm see… slow death. They um, relajar… relax? … how you say …into it. They don’t remember …el dolor…the pain, you know? they don’t remember anymore,” Luis finished slowly.. “Solo la maravilla… only the wonder. The marvel.”

“La maravilla de todo esto,” Susana said, as she smiled at Luis and carried the box home.

They’re no longer begging, that’s right, she thought, as she tossed the last bit of dirt in the hole.

And just then, with the pack looking on, Susana slowly stood up from the fresh grave, dusk over a bright valley below, the hills between. Fixated, she followed Beauty’s eyes, and watched in the distance, as a large dog wobbled unsteady, turning in circles, until it could no longer stand.

“Do you remember the wonder of it all mi perra?”

La muerte lenta es una agonía.

“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for Me.” — Matthew 25:40

THE JACKET - Chapter 3

Obadiah

Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know— there’s a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as its always done, and take everything from me — loved ones, property, everything — but it can’t take that. Some day I’ll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest.

— Mark Twain

On his old thick collar hung a beaten silver tag with the worn name, “Obadiah.”

Servant of Yahweh. “The best of the best, like you,” as she looked into Beauty’s eyes and rubbed her soft chest.

“For the day of the Lord is near, over all nations” — Obadiah 1:15

Beauty laid herself down near his body as Susana looked him over. His coat was full of caked mud, beautiful brown eyes wide open, as if he was waiting on heaven. Tears welling in her eyes, there was something extra special about this old boy. Susana was determined to find out.

First, she needed to call a friend to help get Obadiah to his final resting place. She gave Mark specific directions to meet her on the hill with a shovel, some fresh dirt and a cross.

Mark was a good friend. He’d seen the way Susana cared and was quietly in love with her. He owned a little wood-working shop in town where he carved animals of all kinds. An anomaly, folks would come from all over to buy a giant wood bear, an alligator, or whatever they had in mind to make their yard or entryway unique. Mark was a master craftsman and a true artist. He did custom work and could make just about anything. His dining tables were what kept the business open initially, but when visitors saw his unique carvings, word got out. It is said, without Mark, the tiny town would crumble. His friendship bloomed with Susana when he decided to make a little wooden cross for the first dog she buried. Name, date, all carved into an oak masterpiece. It was special. She was special. But he could wait. Curious about her past, there was something about her he couldn’t place.

The only details Susana knew about Mark was he had an older sister down south, and they were raised near a lake in Oregon, where his uncle taught him to fish and carve wood. She told him about growing up on the farm in McFarland. Every person in town knows better than to speak of her marriage.

They would bury the old boy overlooking the small ranch, where she was certain he came from. He was just too big to carry. The hill was still green with hints of autumn in the surrounding trees. They’d bury Obadiah where he landed. Under the old oak.

Mark walked away with his phone and came back five minutes later confirming what Susana thought. They dug against the long shadows. When they lifted Obadiah into his grave, she noticed Mark was teary-eyed and very quiet. Strong and chatty, something felt off. Perhaps he was struggling. Everyone was struggling in her town.

Susana asked Mark to follow them down to the ranch. She needed to let the owners know. Obadiah’s collar on her lap, they slowly made their way toward the valley of dotted farms. Strange, she thought, Mark never looked at the dog tag. How did he know? Who did he call? Just before the turn-off, she looked in the rear view mirror to see Mark suddenly veer away towards home. “Whatever” she thought. She never allowed herself to get too close.

Luckily, it was the first farm off the highway. It had recognizable fencing. Some of it was broken in places, but it had been painted white many years ago. Easy to spot from the hill. Most farmers use cheap poly wire or hot wiring between metal posts. Susana wondered if Obadiah had been trying to get help. Most Great Pyrenees have strong protective instincts and deep loyalty to their flocks, often leading them to observe the outer boundaries of their charges. Susana’s instincts told her this was different. Obadiah was also very skinny. Farmers in these outskirts were aging and unable to keep up. She remembered. She remembered how Papa hired more help, after her brothers left home, but he could no longer manage — especially after Mama died. He was too sad. Not only did he give her his beloved dog, Milo, but he sold the farm. She remembered the dreams of her parents, how hard they worked to provide, giving her and her brothers every opportunity at a good life. The thought of both of them being gone was too much for Susana to bear.

She made her way down the short dirt road, leading to the little farm, Beauty’s head hanging out the window, sniffing the air. There was an eery quiet in the old pastures. Vintage rusty tractors spread-out, half buried by weeds, and an old truck parked up against the dilapidating farmhouse. A lot like the prized one she inherited, after the farm was sold. A ’72 Chevy C10. Papa’s “business truck.” She can still see him detailing it after a long citrus season. Gold and white, it was a dream.

“Papa why are you so happy?” Windows down, citrus boxes piled high in the bed. Special delivery. They were all special. “I am happy because I have the best life. I have you mija! I have my dreams!” Francisco broke out singing to the AM/FM radio. “Never.……I never met a girl like you in my life…. I never, no, no, yeah.. I never met a girl like you in my life.”

Susana can see it like yesterday. January 1st, 1972, Mama and Papa threw a big party to celebrate the new year and the fact she was officially a teenager. A few weeks later she remembers the newspaper clipping Papa had pinned on his desk. It was an advertisement for the latest Chevy Truck. Francisco and Isabel had been sharing an old station wagon for a few years making it increasingly difficult to split between business deliveries and general family use.

Months went by, after an outstanding citrus season — then one hot August day, Francisco told Isabel he was getting a ride to Sacramento, “to do some business.” As odd as that was, Isabel knew her husband was a trustworthy man. Loaded with cash, good at bargaining, Francisco drove his first new truck off the Capital Chevrolet lot, pushing to get home before sunset. Leaning on the horn, all the way up the drive to the front door, he hopped out to see Mama standing on the porch, laughing, hands on her hips, her brothers losing their minds, running all around the shiny hunk of metal. Shaking the keys, he planted a big kiss on Isabel’s lips, then yelled, “vamos, vamos! everyone in!” Her brothers jumped into the bed, Susana and Mama rode next to Papa. He drove them around town, honking, yelling out the window, “Es un día hermoso!!” It’s a beautiful day! That truck represented the pride of their family farm.

Smiling, America was blessed to have us. All of us. We gave it our best, she thought, it’s different now, but we still are. Giving it our best.

Despite her low budget, all the guys at work were happy to maintain “Papa’s truck” for her. In trade, she let them borrow it for the occasional date. It always came back clean and detailed, until she had a dusty rescue. Everyone respected Susana and looked out for her. They knew the stories. They knew her heart.

As she approached the old farm, a putrid smell was growing stronger. She left Beauty in the truck, got out and began to discover that Obadiah was watching over about a dozen farm animals. Scattered in the pasture, some in the barn, Susana knew they were all dead. Starvation by the looks of it. The water troughs were empty. The place looked completely abandoned.

Panicked, “No no no no no no no esto no puede ser!!!!” Susana screamed in agony. It was too much.

BANG BANG BANG!!! she hammered on the front door as a buckled window screen fell to the ground, making her jump. BANG BANG BANG BANG, “HELLO? HELLO? PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ANSWER” Susana didn’t stop.

She could hear the shuffle, push of a walker, getting closer, in what felt like an eternity. He opened the door to a crack, slowly whispering, “My wife is gone. I tried to call the doctor…my kids,” his wrinkled old face broke into tears. “Our phone was disconnected. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…. He was right.”

Her face red with dirty wet marks, Susana cried, “I’m here to tell you about your dog Obadiah. Do you know what I’m talking about? I believe he’s your dog, or was, I mean, your dog, oh my dear Jesus I am so sorry about your wife….” her voice trailed off, fighting back the emotions. And who was he talking about — who was “right?” she thought…

“Obadiah… Obadiah. How I loved that boy,” coughing and wheezing, grabbing his hanky, tears met snot, head and shoulders bowled over. “Can you help me?” us?” he said shaking.

Cupping one hand over her mouth and nose, breathless, she said, “Yes, I can help you. I buried Obadiah,” pointing up the hill, past the pastures, “up there where I saw him circling until he fell,” she told the old man, as she squeezed Obadiah’s collar in the other hand. It wasn’t important now. Her phone covered in tears, while Beauty was aggressively barking from the truck. Squeezing her eyes shut, at the site of it all, Susana placed a call to Mark. She really needed him. He didn’t answer. He always answered. She didn’t have time to think about why.

“911, what is your emergency.”

“Hello. I need help. Please hurry.”

Entering the home, the stench of death hit like a freight train. Susana knew she needed to get the old farmer out of there. “Wait here, at the door. I’m going to grab a blanket. It’s getting dark and cold. I keep snacks in my truck and made coffee for my thermos today...” My Papa’s truck, she thought, as she ran down the front porch steps. “I love you Papa,” she whispered under breath. I’ll be with you soon…

“Shush shush, cállate Beauty!!, shush, shush,” Beauty knew. She knew the cruel earth.

Somehow, Susana was able to get his frail frame down the steps, and onto a rickety bench, where she wrapped him in the blanket and got the old man to sip some coffee. The crows were circling, squawking, pecking what was once his livelihood. Some, were his most devoted buddies. Beauty was still barking in the truck, the air was closing in, and in the faint distance, Susana could hear the sirens.

What is your name? noticing his Vietnam baseball cap slipping over his eyes. Slowly, he lifted his head, “I’m Jefferson Smith. I think… I believe I am 83 or 84 years old. I’ve. I’ve lost track of time.” And in a moment of prideful clarity, he said, “We are Jefferson and Margaret Smith.”

Just then, Susana felt an even deeper dread. “Obadiah lead me to you Jefferson. I’m so sorry you didn’t get the help you needed,” holding his shaky hands. “But I’m here now.”

Feeling like she couldn’t hold it in any longer, “Excuse me, they’re coming.” Running towards the foggy dust of flashing red lights, Susana stopped at her truck, draped her arms across the hood, pulled back, choked out the vomit, gasping, “Mark?” Mark Smith? What are the chances?”

Dizzy in congealed chaos, and indescribable agony, Susana watched silhouettes of hungry birds hovering against the indigo sky, championed by the hope of a thousand stars. She could feel the earth moving, Beauty howling through her chest, Jefferson’s faint voice calling for his wife, wheels rolling, heart pounding, and so much talking…

“Ma’am, ma’am.., Susana, um, Clemente?”

“Yes. He’s over there. On the bench. Jefferson. His name is Jefferson. His wife.. um. Margaret. She’s been.. she’s in.. she’s in there… in the house. Oh God, I don’t know how long. She’s dead. I didn’t see. I saw. their animals. over. there. in the pasture. the barn. I can’t breathe, every. everything, every thing, thing” Susana was hyperventilating, “is dead. Everything’s dead,” she collapsed to the ground.

THE JACKET - Chapter 4

Mark Smith. And Sarge.

“There’s no limit to how complicated things can get, on account of one thing always leading to another.” ― E.B. White

“So much talking… Oh God,” she moaned, reaching her hands up to block the haze of flash lights.

“What? huh? I don’t understand,” Susana was delirious.

Unsteady, pushing to her feet, two paramedics were firmly telling her “no mam you need to stay here.” Susana woke, after what seemed like an eternity. “Ma’am, you blacked out for about 60 seconds. We’re going to take you to the hospital for observation. Do you have anyone we can call?” “But my truck, my pets, this place...Jefferson... her voice trailed off. “Ma’am, do you know these people?” “Please. call me Susana,” her eyes glazed. “Susana, has this happened to you before?” “No, never. I think I was overwhelmed,” rubbing her head, “How do you guys do this? Por favor... I need to get home. My anima….”. “Listen ma’am, — we can hang out for another hour. It’s slow tonight. Just to make sure you’re okay to drive. Give you some fluids. Would that work?” We can’t let you go in this state.” They were young, handsome and ever so tatted, Susana observed. She recalled the Kern County Fire Department’s beefcake fundraiser calendar from 2016 hanging in Ranch Town Liquor. Still there.

Does anything feel real anymore? It had been years of rescue and exposure to trauma.

As she sat on the gurney, in back of the fire unit, Susana asked them if they could let Beauty out of her truck. “It’s unlocked. She won’t bite. Her name is Beauty. She needs to see me.”

Obliging, one of the young firemen went and got the frantic white shepherd. She was the most devoted dog Susana had ever encountered. Meanwhile, an ambulance left with Jefferson and most of the engines were packing up. A coroner’s vehicle had arrived and the county Sherif were giving details. Everything felt like a nightmare. She was too old for this, she thought.

By the time Susana got home all the animals were in an uproar to be fed, barking, clamoring away at the containers in her small trailer. “Shhhh shhhh shhhh, it’s okay, you did so good… here you go.” Food bowl frenzy, she dumped the water bowls over her flower pots, and poured fresh water from store-bought jugs. “Okay okay, all good now?” as she plopped down on the makeshift kitchen table-bed.

It was 11 p.m. and she couldn’t stop thinking about Jefferson, his eyes, the sadness, the things he said. And Mark. God she was mad. But how would she really know? she thought. Open the phone book. It’s not like Smith is uncommon. Dolly was all over her from the time she walked in the door and now sound asleep on her lap. Chuck, Beauty’s partner was an old boy and it was getting harder and harder for him to get in the truck without Susana lifting him, and that just wasn’t going to happen anymore with her small frame. She needed to be healthy for them. Snow Cone, her Great Pyrenees took great charge of the little ones, Susana’s lookout trio, Scruffy, Mighty and Sweet One. The minute they were done eating they all laid down together in the back of the trailer, Chuck on his bed squished below in the small hallway. She gave up the good bed for them. Beauty stayed near the door all night on her bed, but tonight she was as restless as Susana’s stomach. Pacing, panting, nose-nudging her hands, “what is it mija?” trying to calm her down. “Okay, okay, let me see if I can find my big torch.”

She knew better than to drive back over to Jefferson’s ranch in the middle of the night, but with Beauty by her side, she felt a bit more confident. After all, she had seen the worst for years. Although eerie, her gut nagged her to go back. In all the chaos, could there have been the possibility of life? Somewhere? Anywhere. Thoughts kept creeping in. La muerte lenta es una agonía. Visions of dying animals, dumped animals. The big city. Her Papa. People lying in filth, gutters for toilets, lost souls captured by power, dangling on threads of addiction. Prey food. Muted bedlam in a fog of stories.

She was supposed to be at work, bright and early, by 8:00 a.m.

Susana left a soft classical station on the portable radio, grabbed her keys, an N95, and headed out. Guess it made her feel better leaving them, but she also noticed how the animals completely relaxed to the music, often chasing rabbits in their sleep. She kept dry food in an airtight container, a crate and a box of leashes in the back of the truck, plus a few old blankets.

Jefferson Henry Smith III and Margaret Alice Miller were married in Bakersfield, just before Jefferson was deployed, in April of 1965, at the beginning of the U.S. involvement in Vietnam. He was a baby-faced 18 year old and she was a few months shy of legal. He looked 90 in his frail 79 years. They both dreamt of a small manageable ranch income, where they would only have dairy cows, goats, barn kitties and rescue dogs. Margaret’s family were descendants of the famed cattle baron, known as “The Cattle King.” Beef ranching, though, had it’s tolls. It was ugly work despite the necessity.

Jefferson’s namesake, and great-great grandfather, Jefferson Henry Smith I, traveled by steam locomotive, from Nebraska, with his young bride and baby child, to the warmer climate of California in search of land for beef production. He claimed 160 acres, under The Homestead Act of 1862.

Susana arrived to see one light flickering on the side of the old barn out in the field where half dead ghost pines leaned. Sheriff promised they’d take care of the deceased animals. She wouldn’t hold her breath.

Leaving Beauty in the cab, she shut the truck door to an overwhelming steam of urine permeating from the ground. Susana put the mask around her neck, grabbed a small first-aid backpack, stuffed with rescue necessities, placed her huge portable torch on the ground, flipped it on, so she could find her way back, donned her headlamp and checked her holster. 9mm. Locked and loaded.

It was really bad. Ugly in fact. Turkey Buzzards were never meant to have manners. Susana squeezed her eyes and kept walking. She looked all around the perimeter of the old farmhouse first. Nothing but some dead cats, mice scampering and mischiefs of the night moving about. Susana noted how big the rats were.

As the barn drew near, a voice suddenly rang out and across the low plain. It’s freaking midnight out here, what the hell? she thought, walking faster. After a few seconds she heard it again. “Susana Susana!! wait! wait! stop!! it’s me, it’s me, Mark!!! Mark Smith! It’s okay it’s okay,” as the cold cloud of his voice hustled into her light. “What are you doing here?” he asked her. Stunned, like a cold drink on a bad tooth, she pulled down her mask and said, “I could say the same for you. Why did you turn away and leave earlier? who are you??!! what’s wrong with you?!!” Yelling now, she threw her backpack to the ground and grabbed her holster. “Hey, wait, what are you doing? I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. “Then what are you here for that you couldn’t have been here for earlier? are they your parents?, her hands flailing madly toward the house, “or is that some kind of coincidence? Is this a bad joke?” “Look, I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I didn’t know how. I just…” “You just what? What are you just?? huh? their son? what about your sister? your life in Oregon? your uncle?” Out of breath, she kept going.

He was the most ruggedly handsome man she’d seen this side of McFarland. “I don’t. I DON’T have time for you! For liars! For crazy people!! I’ve had enough! I don’t want to hear anything right now!! Do you hear?? NOTHING. My entire life has been about rescuing unwanted dogs, cats, you name it, .. and for some reason, for some DAMN reason, it seems as if you can’t relate to that? AND, if this was where your life began, well one of your parents is dead and the other is struggling, and I don’t know where the hell they took him. EVERY HOPE AND LIFE SURROUNDING THEM IS DEAD! Do you hear me??” Susana drew her gun, aiming it between his eyes. “You see? as I stand here in the dark, on an old farm that smells like piss and rotting carcasses, I’M DONE. DONE WITH PEOPLE LIKE YOU!!” Mark interrupted, loudly, “You don’t know me from Adam! “Well, it would SEEM THAT WAY!!” she yelled back, completely hoarse, now pointing the gun at his knees.

“Listen. LISTEN. My Beauty is howling her head off in the cab. You’ve basically destroyed any hope I could find a surviving thing out here!!” Mark snapped back, spitting on the ground, “you’re wasting your time! you won’t find anything.” Susana still waving the gun, “Stop it with the gun will you,” he said. “Como digas,” she was waving it now, “No, what are you going to do? stop me from telling everyone in town about you and how you let your parents and everything around them suffer? Go ahead. Stop me.”

“Don’t be foolish. You don’t know everything. You have no idea how stubborn these people were. Are. I mean. How hard they made my life.” “Awe, how sad. You look like you’ve had a terrible life,” she said, looking him up and down in all his success, fancy new truck parked behind hers. “Look, I’ll say a prayer for you, but leave me alone for now. I never want to talk to you again, do you hear?” she said trembling defiantly.

Yadi, ya. Shaking her head, she thought she’d seen it all, and she had. She’d seen everything. The stories ran like scripts in these places. God forbid your parents hoped you’d stick by them, help with the farm, or at the very least, be their friend, honor them. But it was a different world and one that left Susana cynical.

Susana already had a history with one liar. She didn’t want another.

“Look, at least hear me out at some point when you’re not wielding a gun in my face, my God Susana!! what is wrong with YOU?” Mark said. “Do you think this is easy for me to come here?” she piped in, sliding the gun back into her holster, “It’s past midnight Mark. You snuck over here. You didn’t come here to be seen. Obviously! What kind of artist are you anyways? aren’t artists supposed to feel things?” “Please Susana, give me another chance. Not now, maybe not next week. But when you’re ready. Let me explain,” he said exasperated.

“Ready? Ready? you need to leave,” she said with a deep breath. “Vete! Go! Now. I can’t unsee today and the longer you stand here the longer I will never, ever consider talking to you.” “Fine, I’m going, but…” she interjected, “There are no buts. Buts are for cowards who let everything fall apart and die while living inside of a made up story so you could make your real life go away. And by the way, who did you call when we were burying Obadiah?” Looking sullen, he answered, “Some rich dude was standing inside of my shop wanting a custom monstrosity for his beach house in Morro Bay. Sorry. Jake called me because he doesn’t handle this stuff.” “Who’s Jake?” Susana was drained. “He’s a kid I just hired. Graduated last May, lingered all summer, no college, or future plans ahead of him. He walked in the shop a few weeks ago and I thought, why not.”

How convenient, her mind persisted.

“Okay, whatever. Just go,” she said. Mark turned around to walk back across the field to his truck as Susana made her way closer to the barn. Just as she was passing the ghost pines, she noticed a rustling in the leaves. Definitely not a rat, was it a cat. Slowly, reaching for her holster, edging closer, she encountered the most beautiful brown eyes, a wolf-like face, peering through the old deadened trees. Heart beating out of her chest, her eyes locked on the animal, she heard that voice again in the distance. Running at full speed this time, Mark was screaming her name.

“Susana. Susana. He won’t hurt you.

His name is Sarge.

He’s mine.”

THE JACKET - Chapter 5

Home

“Absence is such a large house that you’ll walk through the walls, hang pictures in sheer air.” — Pablo Neruda

She just stood there and watched as he knelt down and began to unravel.

Sarge buried his head in Mark’s chest and didn’t move.

Susana also fell to her knees. For what seemed like hours, unable to move or utter a word, the adrenaline of rescue felt like a puncture wound draining years of trauma from her core. What was it? what happened to him? to her?, she thought. Suddenly, a rush of snapshots flashed before her with the kind of speed and confusion people talk about when you’re seconds from death. But you live to tell it. A little girl, a wedding dress, Papa’s laugh, her tricycle, laundry on the line, evening breezes, party lights, vows, Mama in the kitchen, Milo riding shotgun, boys wrestling, her brother begging her to come home, the truck, Tony smiling, her bedroom, toasts, faces of all the animals, arms wrapped around her, the dusty old town, line dancing, mama’s death, the woman, Papa’s tears, the jacket.

Her life of longing and avoiding with no escape hatch.

Susana was 21 when Tony dumped her.

43 years later, staring at Mark, she could have gone home, started over, helped her family. Maybe married again? No. And now she was flaming mad at a man she barely knew for doing the same. He abandoned them.

She felt colder than normal.

Shivering, Susana got up and knelt down near Mark. Sarge was now half asleep. “Mark,” her mind kicked in, “he looks like he needs water. We, I mean you, need to get him to a vet. Why is he here? in this mess? oh my God. Never mind, please, I don’t. I don’t understand what happened.” He looked up at her and said, “I need to talk to you. Will you let me now?” His eyes red and swollen, choking on his words, holding that gorgeous boy. “I have some water and food. I’ll need to wait ‘til morning to get him checked out. He’s a tough dog Susana. I had no idea it would come to this with my parents.” His nose was running, embarrassed. “But I should have known. I should have known.”

In a way, they were both pathetic, she thought. Susana had deeply judged him, but still couldn’t wrap her head around how horrible it all was. “Look, I need to get Beauty home. I might call in sick to work.” “If you don’t go to work can we at least speak on the phone after I get back from the vet? Set up a time to talk? Nothing I’m gonna say is an excuse. Just the truth. I need to find my dad. I. I screwed up Susana. I loved her. My mom. She put up with so much. I’m sorry you had to see this. Maybe I need a few days, but can I see you at some point?” He was drowning in shame and a sense of relief, holding Sarge.

When he looked up at her, Susana was walking away, through the field, her headlamp shining steady downward, the stench, a reminder of her parent’s dream, except it wasn’t a horrific ending. Oh Papa. You were right to leave when you did, she thought, as the tears began to break the dam she built. All these years. Grit, love, could not overcome the pain and humiliation of her own dreams collapsing. Isolated in a trailer with a bunch of unwanted pets and a stubborn sense of pride.

Tears now flowing, Beauty was licking the salt off her face, smelling Sarge on her clothes, pacing on the bench seat. Susana took her out for a fast pee.

She just wanted to get out of this place.

At least she was wide awake when she arrived home at 2am. One by one the sleepy crew woke, stepped into the dark cold night, sorted, snorted, shifted weight, then up the trailer steps, one by one, and right back to slumberland. Susana set her alarm for 6. She’d call in sick and sleep a few more hours. After the 6am business that is. Animals are full-time work. No wonder people get to the point of Jefferson and Margaret, she thought. Everyone needs a little help. “But, seriously? can I ever talk to him again?” she asked Beauty who climbed up on the tiny table turned bed, laying down across her feet.

BAM BAM BAM, Susana woke, 5am, heart pounding, adrenaline on guard. “What the hell again?? grappling for her gun. The animals were barking in a chaotic choir, with Beauty growling, nose pressed against the lower door crack. She could see the shadow of a body moving.

Susana had to scream through the door, “Who is it?!! I’m warning you. I’m locked and loaded.”

“It’s me, Mark! I’m so sorry. I know you don’t want to see me, but I found my dad and he’s asking for you. He won’t stop asking for you. I don’t know why, but he kept saying you came back? Did you come back or go there a lot?” Groggy, Susana said, “no. what? I just met your dad, what?” Mark continued, “the nurse told me I might try and talk to you. Can you come with me? He’s at Tehachapi Valley. They told me he can’t stay much longer and he needs memory care. I can’t even, I don’t know, but I think they found a bed, whatever that means. They said something about signing his estate over to cover costs but oh my God Susana I realize I have no one at this point. I don’t know why he wants to see you. I know I don’t deserve your help, but can you come with me now, or can you just come?” he said with a mix of honesty in his face and absolute despair in his tone.

Susana opened the trailer door to a peek, peered out and answered loudly, “Look, Mark. Would you stop it Beauty! Stop it!! Everyone!! stop it!” she grabbed a whistle, blowing violently, as Mark covered his ears. Sniffing and shoving, the crew backed off cowering around her legs, still trying to get a whiff of Mark. “Okay, okay, can you go now, pushing them back with her foot.” Truly, they were a good lot to protect her the way they did. Starting over, she said, “look, Mark, I obviously have some duties here. I still need to call in sick. Gotta wait another hour. Then I’ll come. Okay?”

Staring at her in the same dirty clothes he was wearing just a few hours ago, he said a relieved, “thank you,” and began to walk back to his truck. “Hey! where’s Sarge?” Susana yelled, still standing with the door cracked half open. “Oh, I found a 24 hour emergency vet in Bakersfield. They’re keeping him on fluids, running some bloodwork, til tonight,” Mark answered. “They said he’s a strong dog. The wolf in him kept him alive.”

Susana nodded and slowly shut the door pretending this was not her life. Nope, this is not happening, she thought. “I need a hot shower,” she said to the seven pairs of eyes staring at her. Someday. For now, hot coffee and an ice cold wash.

A few hours later Susana made her way 40 minutes to the hospital. She found Mark sitting by Jefferson’s side, staring at the frail old man sleeping. A nurse brushed by her, “Sorry,” Susana said, walking in. Standing awkwardly, her tiny figure wished she was with her Papa and her brothers. It’s where she belonged.

“You know my mom put up with a lot,” Mark’s voice so quiet Susana could barely hear him. “She really tried. I loved her so much,” tears streaming down his face. Susana took a seat on the opposite side of the bed. “Dad suffered with PTSD after Nam. We didn’t know a lot, but mom said he lost his best friend. Couldn’t save him, although he tried,” Mark continued staring at Jefferson now. “Dad refused to leave him behind in the jungle to rot. They were in the middle of a fire fight. He carried his best,” shaking his head. “His best friend’s body over his shoulder to a helicopter and the medivac refused him. He was dead. Can you imagine?” Mark went on as if all of this was penetrating his soul for the first time. “Dad stayed behind, got hit in the shoulder and taken prisoner by the Viet Cong. They held him and a bunch of other guys for eight years Susana. Eight years. Til something called Operation Homecoming in 1973. Can you believe?” now sucking up his runny nose. Taking his dad’s old hand, all hooked up to i.v.’s, Mark said, “They tortured him. And when he came home, a few years later, him and mom had me. They said I was a miracle. A gift that would heal everything,” now barely able to talk, Mark apologized and just cried over Jefferson. “Mom and Kathy waited all those years.”

“I’m sorry,” Susana said staring down the scene before her. Am I hallucinating? Who’s Kathy? He’s 16 years younger than me. Why am I here? ..she thought. Mark got up and paced, “You know, I tried. I really tried. My sister. My older sister couldn’t take it. She left one day and never came back. Kathy was their honeymoon baby. God, I loved her. She was funny. She’d collect strays,” he laughed. “I remember Kathy had a basket full of kittens and their mama under her bed. Dad had bad allergies but she didn’t care. I remember being five laying on my belly watching the mama cat feed her babies. Kathy was 15. I never realized how much responsibility they put on her. All she wanted to do was go to college. Think I was maybe 12 when she left, saying she’d never come back. And she didn’t. At that point, I felt the weight of it. You know?” Mark stopped and looked out the window. “I guess I became the rock between mom and dad. It was a lot,” his voice trailed off.

“Excuse me,” Susana said, “I need to make a phone call.” She went out to the hallway near the vending machine. Good God she was starving. “Hello. yeah, this is Susana Clemente. I’m checking in on the incident at Jefferson Smith’s farm last night. In fact, I’m at the hospital with him. Is anyone. Has anyone gone out to get the deceased animals? thank you,” she said, “yeah, I’ll hold.” Everything was recorded.

“Ma’am, looks like there’s a hazmat team scheduled for early tomorrow morning,” said the dispatch operator.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” said Susana.

The dispatch operator was an old friend. “One more thing ma’am… Susana,” her friend’s voice lowered, “they’re sending investigators over too. Mark knows.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you,” Susana was looking at Mark and Jefferson through the observation window. She walked back in and sat down again. Jefferson was still asleep. “Where’s Kathy now?” Susana asked Mark. He looked so beaten down. “Haven’t seen her since the day she left.”

The room fell silent, except for the beep from the cardiac monitor and a very quiet nurse taking vitals, cleaning the bathroom.

Mark looked straight at Susana. “You know, I hired someone to take care of their farm. Care for the animals.” “What? I don’t understand. How could,” she didn’t finish, before Mark said, “how could he do this? Good question. A few months ago, the last time I checked in on them, before dad lost it again, things looked okay. Maybe it could have looked better? but everything was alive. God, I don’t know, I believed this guy. Called him every other day, had him screened before I hired him. A veteran too. I’d bring groceries every week, but dad wouldn’t open the door. He was mad I didn’t want that life,” shaking his head he got up and went out to the hallway, saying, “He never let it go.” Susana followed him. “You know, I had no idea mom was dying and he was trying to handle it. He’d say they were fine. Just couldn’t get to the store. Did some local dial-a-ride for appointments. Everything was fine, blah blah blah,” squeezing his face, “I should have busted in there.”

“And Sarge? what was that all… why? is he your dog?” Susana said, her face a blank. Mark smiled through his red eyes, “He was hanging out near my shop a few months ago,” Susana interrupted, “a dump?” “I think. yeah,” Mark said. “why didn’t you say anything about him to me? I mean, I am the town animal savior.” Mark looked at her and said, “that’s why Susana. He was either dumped or got away from someone. Never seen him before. Special. You know? I know, they’re all special,” he went on, “I couldn’t keep him at the shop. You know I live upstairs, kinda rag tag. Anyways, I knew Obadiah was getting old and this guy I hired said he’d be glad to take Sarge on,” Mark was shaking his head and put his hands over his face. “Jesus Susana. What have I done.”

A nurse came out and told them Jefferson was awake. She warned them he didn’t really know where he was. Mark whispered to Susana, before they went in, “that’s another thing? I didn’t see the signs.”

They took a seat by Jefferson’s bedside and asked him how he was feeling.

His voice was so dry, Susana poured him some water. As he sipped through the straw, he looked at her for the longest time. “Kathy? Where’s my Maggie? She needs her tea. Have you seen Obadiah?” Jefferson, slowly moved his head toward Mark, and suddenly shook with all the strength he had, his face turning bright red, “I told you I don’t need anything from you boy!!” he grabbed Susana’s hand, holding the cup, spilling water everywhere, “Kathy, take me home.” Weeping now, Jefferson said, “I just want to go home.”

So did Susana. She wanted to go home. To McFarland. Where life blossomed in the quiet work of passion. And love was never disturbed by war.

THE JACKET - Chapter 6

Step Outside

“When I can no more stir my soul to move, and life is but the ashes of a fire; when I can but remember that my heart once used to live and love, long and aspire — O, be thou then the first, the One thou art; be thou the calling, before all answering love, and in me wake hope, fear, boundless desire.” ― George MacDonald

He appeared on the family farm in 1979 the way a young cowboy appears to want to ride a bull with no experience. He was wild, too confident and extraordinarily handsome. Susana was helping her mom hang laundry one afternoon when she first caught sight of Tony. The way he leaned on his truck, his cowboy boots, the firm handshake, the gorgeous smile when her dad called them over to meet him.

It began with a lot of staring and grinning. He was like a Tom cat. She, was just shy, awkward and naive.

Then one day, after a painful month of flirting, just as the sun was setting over the farm, he asked her if she’d like to go line dancing. “Sure, why not,” Susana said as if she had nothing better to do. He was on his way home, wherever that was, and she was walking past him with the folded laundry. And that. Well. That was it. The flame that ignited everything. Spinning into a life she never saw coming.

Rinsing her coffee cup, watching the cats enjoy the last fall days of hunting, from the small kitchen window, Susana wondered whatever happened to Tony. She honestly hadn’t allowed herself to think about him. Not ever. Not until Mark. I better figure out how to warm up the shed for them before winter hits. They were all living inside when they were young, and although she was responsible with them, they still carried a feral sense that made them want out more than in. Reminded her of herself. Fiercely independent like the man she fell in love with all those years ago.

Susana had spent 43 years perfecting her pride. Not even remotely interested in computers or googling, whatever you call it, she decided to look Tony up. Feeling her chest tighten, she got her phone, opened the search app and typed his name.

Tony Castillo.

A man whose last name means “castle.” He was no prince. Looks like he lives in California still. Blurry pictures that kind of look like him, if he was older, she thought. What’s he up to. She kept digging. Dog pictures, puppies, Goldens, Doodles. There he is. Smiling with Doodle puppies as if she was seeing him in 1979. Hummm, Antonio Elias Castillo, looks just like Tony. His dad. So sad, he died when Tony was a boy. Susana really didn’t know his mom, although she was at the wedding. Sweet enough. Susana remembered her face when she put the corsage on her wrist. It was as if she had never received flowers in her life. Apparently they struggled to make ends meet after she lost her husband. Tony had a few sisters. Susana never met them. Couldn’t be bothered to come to the wedding. They were much older than Tony when Antonio died. They moved on quickly, married, and left him to care for his mom. That was — at least, the story he told her.

“Would you look at that,” Susana stared. There’s Tony, looking close to her age, wearing the same kind of plaid shirt he always wore, holding puppies. Some woman sitting next to him, in a grassy area, looked completely out of place. Like the eighties called and wanted their perm back. Pelo Chinito. Guess she matched the doodles, Susana was laughing. Internet was so shoddy in her area. “No no, don’t do that roaming thing. Ugh. This is why I don’t do the internet Beauty. I end up at the library. Do we have time for the library? Nah. Gotta get to work,” she said out loud. And why so many puppies? huh. What did that blurry picture say? Something like Golden Acres, the best bred? Figured he’d end up doing something completely opposite to her, Susana thought. Dog breeding, designer dogs, even cats, bunnies, you name it. It’s big business. Big money. Big dumping. She despised the thought. “Glad he’s been out of my life girl,” she said, Beauty looking up at her knowing Susana was headed out the door. “Okay mija, you know the routine. I’ll come check on you and the gang during my break.”

Mark helped her rebuild a sturdy fence, entry gate and lock, around the grass area of her trailer. With everything that happened, he was offering olive branches as if he owed her his life. Between mourning his mom, a quiet service at the family cemetery, visiting Jefferson in a memory care facility, not far from the hospital, and work, he was antsy. Unable to get the farm cleaned up to sell, due to the investigation, he was desperate to stay busy. For now, he’d saved enough money for several months of dad’s care.

“Adios Amigos, Amigas. Don’t make a fuss,” Susana said, “I don’t want the neighbors to complain you hear?” The trailer garden was very small, but for the most part they were trained well and she left many busy things to play with. They were a good bunch, looking after each other — lazy as could be.

The auto shop was a nine to fiver four days a week. Susana had just enough time to use the small library before closing. She couldn’t help but see if their one computer was available. There seemed to be a lot of pictures of Tony. He looked like a womanizer. Lots of pictures dancing at events with various women over the years. What was he? a professional line dancer? Weird, she thought. But that 80s woman kept appearing in pictures too. Why did she look so familiar? Her skin was stunningly beautiful. Holding a puppy, Susana noticed her nails were long and manicured fancy, with white tips, plus she wore a big diamond, encased in a gold cocktail style monstrosity on her wedding finger. Must be a good business, thinking about how Tony was left to earn all the money, while his mom mourned and cleaned for a living. Desperate people do desperate things, or at least that’s how she saw breeding in today’s world.

Money corrupts. Susana didn’t see a lot of good coming from the money makers. Especially in government. Everyday, it seemed the news uncovered scams. But no one cared. They were hooked on the same outcome. Happy with leaders who preached but did nothing. The evidence of suffering was hard to ignore, but she guessed most people did. They ignored. Phones replaced heads. Stardom replaced humility. Ambivalence replaced doing the right thing. She wondered who the monsters were. Good intentions get the best of us too. Yeah, she thought.

The weekend was upon her and it was time to make the monthly trip to see Papa and her brothers. Their families. She always wanted to be an auntie. Rescue, plus work, limited her time and although she had no regrets, Susana realized deep down, the animals were her family. She couldn’t travel with them all. Her brothers used to visit her before Papa needed memory care.

When Mark found out, he offered to watch the pets, “No matter what.” Anytime you need me.” “Okay, thanks. But you know you really don’t have to volunteer to do everything for me?” said Susana. “I forgive you, as much as I need to forgive myself,” she said. “You? What is it that you could possibly need to forgive yourself for Susana?” Mark said, as she was closing the gate behind her, “forgive myself for staying away too. I’ve kept a distance from everyone and everything for well over 40 years. God knows I tried too. Maybe we are more alike than I thought.”

“Really? you know you’re going to have to explain this a bit better, right?” he said slightly yelling. “Drive safe. See you tonight. I’ll have your back as long as you let me.” Mark closed the gate.

Two hours later Susana made it to Clovis. It was noon with a late day apricity. Winter was coming. Parking was the same. The free one. People on the street were the same. Maybe worse. Smell? Definitely worse. Carrying some extra clothes she had been collecting, Susana began the 10 minute walk to the facility where Papa was. There were more ramshackle RV’s parked where she couldn’t, more dirty children running around and more dogs in cages this time. Susana noticed most of them were puppies. Mom tied up outside of the cage. Studs dangerously wandering around digging through trash. She had an immediate flashback to her first rescue, which to this day holds the voice of a heavenly mother, saying, “you can.” When she thinks she can’t.

It sent her spiraling into a depression and eventually back to church.

Not long after she decided to stay in Keene, she was out looking for an apartment to rent. At 21, Susana was proud of her little savings. Not knowing the area, she decided to explore. Her brothers were kind to bring Papa’s truck to her and some belongings, until she felt like getting more. But they really wanted her to come home.

Somewhat of a history buff, curious, she stopped at the original site of the first Keene Café which sat sunken in a broken parking lot, a field of Witches Shoelaces out back stretching for miles. Nothing had been built around it. It had been a landmark “pitstop” since the dustbowl days. Been closed and boarded up several decades. The new, still ancient café, was in downtown. Susana noticed a half hung faded sign saying “museum coming soon.”

She got out of the truck to stretch her legs and take some pictures with an old 110 pocket camera. She was still on the same roll of film for six months.

Susana remembered looking at the long stretch of highway and hearing what sounded like cries between the occasional cars racing by. Snapping a picture from the side, she could see old chainlink fencing out back glistening in the bright sun. With her cowboy boots on, the ones she was wearing when Tony left her, she walked around back. As she got closer she saw a white jiggly blob, of what looked like cats at first, huddled on broken concrete between old kitchen junk and weeds. Bent down, one hand clinging to the chainlink, Susana saw several puppies clamoring on top of each other whimpering their little heads off. She noticed a tipped over basket nearby.

Looking for a way inside to save the puppies, the blazing sun reflected a silhouette of a large object hanging against the fence like a white tattered sheet

Their nursing mother had been tied up on the other side of the enclosed back patio. Roped in a field of witches. With every natural instinct and strength given, she jumped and jumped to reach her babies. She made it. The rope was too short. She wanted to nourish them. Keep them alive. As God calls all mother’s to do.

What kind of sadistic human did this?

Lenticular clouds had spread over the Clovis sky the same as that fateful day in Keene. Scattered all around her like alien ships, Susana, wrenching, dialed 911. The mother dog looked to be a shrunken Great Pyrenees, a discarded working dog. One of her babies was dead too. It was a miracle the others were alive. Sheriff arrived quickly, went out back, and threw up.

In that moment, a light switch of purpose went off. She had to do something. It took entering the church again, a lot of prayer, older women of faith, that would remind her of her mother’s resilience, and a mission to buy a home with a yard. The best she could do was a trailer. Her second one is her favorite, due to the bigger garden.

Scattering useful long sleeve t-shirts, all sizes, men, women, children, a few sweatshirts, women’s black leggings, men’s jeans, a handful of children’s shoes, various sizes, etc., so many barefoot children bouncing in and out of tents, Susana’s eyes suddenly met the same familiar woman with her mouth dangling open. She was talking jiberish to a man leaning over her, in a corridor building, within a few hundred feet of Papa’s facility. Noticing the filthy old jacket draped around her, the man was pulling at it saying something like, “everything you ever touched turned to shit. Where did you find this?” pulling at her jacket, “I don’t got no more money for you to waste on your problems. Me escuchas, mamá?” Do you hear me?

Susana stopped to listen, looking up at the ships in the sky. “Jesus come,” she whispered, as a young teen on an e-bike brushed her shoulder, cursing her. Yeah, I know what you’re doing. Robbing the weak. Hurting them for fun. I see you, shaking her head.

She made her way to Papa’s room, had a wonderful visit with him and a catchup with her brothers and Papa’s main nurse. Sadly, they were all used to Papa not really knowing them, but he sure enjoyed sharing stories and rude jokes. Afterward, she’d follow them to Juan’s (“Carlos”) house for Ana’s cooking and a visit with the nieces and nephews. Francisco Jr. and Carlos each had a boy and a girl. They were all teens now. So interesting to hear what they were up to. Not one was trouble. An artist, athlete, math whiz and auto mechanic. “You mean none of you are interested in citrus farming?” she grinned.

As Susana said her goodbyes, she thought about that woman again, and the man bothering her. The nasty teen. It was hard to get their faces off her mind. Even harder to get the dogs off her mind. The RV with the sad goat living in a pen no bigger than itself. All the reasons. Childhood trauma, addiction, mental illness, domestic abuse, job loss, bad choices.

Entering downtown Clovis, she slowly drove past the corridor.

What Susana saw was the man in the pictures, on the library computer, staring straight ahead. Leaning on the wall, smoking a cigarette, he was watching the woman now lying on the curb clutching her dirty jacket against her belly.

Like an unresolved 43 year mystery she had no intention of uncovering, Susana, completely overwhelmed, hit the gas and headed for home.

In the end, she realized the earth was a profound place. Profoundly beautiful, profoundly spiritless, and somewhere in-between was an even deeper profound sense of longing. Stuck in time. She likened it to staring out the window on a rainy day wishing it would cleanse all the imperfection of the past away.

But too afraid to step outside.

THE JACKET - Chapter 7

Aliens

“Old sins have long shadows.” – Agatha Christie

Sarge had a presence like a King. He loved being with Mark at the wood shop but once they caught sight of him, new customers were apprehensive. Some would immediately turn back towards the door. “Come on in. Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you,” Mark would say, waving them over. “He’s huge, I know, but he’s a big softy. His name is Sarge.” Most asked if he was part wolf? “He is,” said Mark, “but that makes him all the more devoted to family. Once he knows you’re family, he’ll go to great lengths to protect you.” Laying cross-pawed next to Mark, Sarge would look up at him, then at the customer, “go on my beautiful boy, show ‘em a proper greeting.” He’d get up, grab his red Kong ball, and sit before them, looking a little less regal and a bit more dopey like a court gesture with his tongue hanging sideways. Ever so slowly he’d gently lift his paw for a handshake. It was quite the grand gesture, a little comical, and worked. every. single. time.

Sarge loved to hang out at Susana’s when Mark was busy outside of work. He was madly in love with Beauty, followed her everywhere hunting for lizards in the garden, smelling the fresh air, appreciating the outdoor time. When Mark came to get him it was almost impossible to drag Sarge away from an upside down, legs in the air slumber. Mark would bring Sarge’s food, treats, and tons of extra. Pretty much, Mark was providing all of the pet food without Susana asking and it got to the point where she had to stop buying it. There was almost too much. He also managed to figure out all the varying diets. And right before winter hit, Mark helped her hook up a water purification system and a new dedicated water heater. Hers had broken a year ago. She had finally saved enough money to replace it. He wouldn’t have it. So one day she stopped by his shop with coffee and donuts. While he was with a customer, she snuck into the office and placed the money in his desk drawer.

Their friendship was simpatico. Susana was older and she was stuck, not only on that, but on the fact she’d lived alone and had her rescue responsibilities. It was a cozy life. And one that most people didn’t understand. They were too busy not noticing to notice the need all around them. Mark didn’t care though. Despite their 16 year age gap, he looked and acted more mature. Probably due to his past. But mostly, he was an old soul and appreciated Susana’s deeply caring spirit. He decided to devote himself to her cause. It was a pure and generous friendship.

Every inadequacy she had expressed that horrible evening, on his parent’s ranch, she held as her own. Forgiveness, she believed, needed to come to oneself first. Even Mark’s dad, Jefferson, had come round. He became softer in his grief, was finally getting help from the Veterans Administration, and his memory was stable. Mostly short term. It was the old memories that stuck like landmines. The meds were helping. But it was forgiveness that lead the way home.

Susana couldn’t get the image of the woman lying on the curb out of her mind. As much as she tried to erase it, she wanted to know if Tony was abusing her. It pressed on her heart so she called Sherif Harold, who had recently retired from his desk duty handling all the “minor” crimes in her small town. Much of it was animal abuse.

Susana hung onto justice. The comfort in knowing it comes at the end. Made her stare long and hard in the mirror some days. Like the day in the tire field. For everyone will be questioned.

Harold told Susana to call him anytime. Not sure what good it would do, she asked if he knew anyone in the Clovis Police Department. Turned out Harold gave her the number of a detective who owed him a favor. Strange, she thought. She placed a call to Detective James Villalobos. She gave him all the information she had and told him Harold sent her. James and Harold met when someone in Harold’s family was going through a crisis. A terrible accident in Clovis. Harold’s family was attacking the police department, for what they considered a poor investigation, and Harold made it right. Detective Villalobos’ job was on the line.

“Susana?” “yeah. listen, I found a few things on Tony.” “Is this a good time?” “Detective Villalobos here.” She stepped out back on a break. The guys could handle the phones for a few minutes. “Thank you. That was fast,” Susana said. “Okay, yeah,” the detective went on. “Tony is married to a woman named Melanie.” “But, there’s one thing Susana,” he said. “I looked into her.” “She’s been in and out of institutions for most of their marriage.” “Institutions?” she said. “Yes. Can’t get her records without a court order, but they are mental health specific and often combined with a drug problem,” he went on, “took a drive round town and recognized her. You mentioned a jacket she was holding. Not hard to miss. It’s gross. I’ve mistaken it for an animal before. She’s a familiar face out on the streets,” he went on to say “she’s been on and off the streets for several years, usually living in a nicer car of some sort.”

“Yeah, okay, humm. Have you ever seen Tony with her?” Susana asked. “Never seen him before. He wasn’t with her when I found her. Look, I can’t really give you his address, but he lives in Prather, bout 25 or so miles from here. Not hard to find. He’s a dog breeder. Can’t find anything negative, no arrests, nothing on him. Good reputation, from what I’m seeing. But I’d have to dig deeper,” he told her. “No, that’s okay Detective. I don’t need anymore information.” Hanging up she felt sad, yet satisfied to know that he still seemed to be a halfway decent man — with a troubled wife. He was so mean to her. How many trips to rehab? she thought.

It was the dead of winter, Christmas was fast coming, and the investigation was wrapping up on the Smith farm.

His name was Luke Bauer. Funny. Actually cruel in a way. His last name meant “farmer.” He didn’t meet up to the name brand nor the vision Mark had for a “responsible former young vet that had served on a nuclear Columbia-class submarine for four years.” Luke was also originally from Missouri and had worked on his family farm for several years before entering the Naval Academy out of high school. Wow, Mark will never forget thinking this was a perfect situation.

The investigation uncovered the real Luke Bauer, from McFarland, who didn’t graduate from the famous high school. He was 28 when Mark hired him and presented his stolen identity well. But the investigation lead to multiple complaints from different employers around town who fired him for excessive pot smoking during lunch breaks. The last job, at a local diner, caught him stealing cash from the register. He was often too stoned to work and was becoming increasingly paranoid. His records showed he had entered some kind of privileged private detox retreat hidden in the Redwoods, 11 years ago, but was obviously using again and had managed to swindle a new beginning. There was evidence of illegal growing and selling, on the Smith farm, for the year Luke was supposedly managing it, and in the last three months he was spiraling into a pre-schizophrenic condition called the “prodromal phase.”

During many interviews and psych evaluations, after the Sheriff caught him living in his car in Bakersfield, he was under the firm belief that every innocent creature should die because living in this world was not worth it. They’d be better off dead, he told intake, “aliens are coming you know?” Luke Bauer’s exact words. He’s getting three years in state and mandatory detox/psych treatment while serving.

Maybe an alien will take him before he’s released, Mark thought.

“Can you believe this Susana? I feel so duped. No. I feel sick. I want to kill the dude. “I know how you feel. Trust me,” Susana sighed.

At least justice moved swiftly. The case was closed. Mark could finally move forward and sell the farm.

The farm sat through the New Year with a sale sign out front. February arrived and not a single inquiry. Not the best time of year to buy a farm. Actually, no one was buying anything in California. Most people were either leaving, dreaming about leaving or hanging on. They had family in California, grew up with the Dodgers, hung out on clean beaches, walked the streets safely, thrived in business, and ate at local landmarks that no longer exist. People in California, who stayed after every single fire, were hanging onto those memories. California was their birth home or the place they landed fifty years ago and never wanted to leave. Farming was a thing of the past. Sacramento won the dreamer’s battle years ago. They hated private farmers. Mark knew all about it. He saw the envelopes, read the letters. The ever changing regulations, unnecessary stress worn all over his dad’s face which added to an already hard fought mental battle.

April arrived with showers and one interested developer. Mark called Susana to get her opinion. The guy was with Samaritan Health Services. They were offering full price. With the majority of Keene’s 400 or so residents averaging 40 to 80 years old, Samaritans had been doing small town assessments in recent years around the country. Keene needed basic medical services closer than Bakersfield. They also needed an eye clinic and elderly care placement services. Everything would be knocked down and something good for the small community would go in it’s place.

Susana said, “seems like a no brainer to me.” “Now if only they’d build a vet clinic in town.”

So that was that. A chapter closed in an ironically healthy way.

Flowers arrived with May, as promised. It was Susana’s favorite time of year. She loved seeing her flower pots come alive, and of course, the animals. They woke up as if they had lived in a barn all winter in Saskatchewan. Happy to be outside.

Everything felt cleaner once the rainy season passed.

Standing in the garden, her phone rang. “Hello. Susana Clemente.” “Hi Susana, it’s Detective Villalobos here.” “Oh, hi. Is everything okay?” she said. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Thought you should know I did a little digging.” “But I said I was done,” Susana answered. “Yeah. okay, but you’d probably want to know this. Not sure why, I know you mentioned you were a dog rescuer, but there’s an abuse case tied to Tony,” said the detective. “Abuse?” she questioned. “No, not on Tony’s part.” “Let me explain.” “About 10 years ago he filed a huge lawsuit against a woman who had purchased one of his dogs.” “Tony later found out…” the detective went onto say, “she was breeding like a madwoman, dumping and killing dogs when she was done with them. It actually made the local news and then went national,” the detective continued.. “Tony had signed contracts with all buyers that his dogs were not for breeding. They were sold as pets. Written formally , they must be spayed or neutered within one year. He required proof or the dog was to be returned. Signed on the dotted line. It was his business motto. The best family pets or something like that.” Detective Villalobos went onto say, “Tony sued her for breaking the contract and basically being a scumbag dog killer. Unfortunately, she was only fined a few thousand by some breeder association, and fortunately shut down. She had to pay Tony a few thousand too for breach of contract. Big media case. Slap on the hand. Poor dogs.”

Susana was quiet. “Hello, are you still there?” Detective Villalobos asked. “Yeah, I’m here.” She had visions of the library computer screen and all the pictures, the 80s woman in them. That must have been Melanie. The one she saw with Tony. In Clovis.

“Oh and Susana. Another thing. Apparently this woman and Tony went way back. They went to high school together.” Susana went cold. “I fished around. Clovis High. 1976 Prom King and Queen” “Can you stop?” Susana said exasperated. “Oh sorry. I can get carried away. It’s my…” “Please stop” she said. “job…”.

All these years later. He never let go of a high school girlfriend? and I didn’t know this? I married him? without even knowing this? Talk about feeling duped, Susana had more thoughts than her tiny stature could hold. “Thanks James. I’m sorry. It’s a lot. I appreciate you calling,” she hung up.

Later that day, while pottering around the trailer, still trying to wrap her head around the fact she must have been a rebound girlfriend all those years ago, Mark stopped by with Sarge — and dinner. He and Susana usually shared a weekly meal.

While they were eating, he said, “there’s something I need to tell you.” Oh not again, she thought. What could he know now?

I might have found out some stuff about my sister Kathy. I’ve been looking for her for years and finally hired a private detective.” Susana almost spit her food out. “Wait what?” she said. He knows nothing about my past with Tony, but somehow we are both searching for people. With detectives.

“Anyway, the guy I hired wants me to take a look at some pictures. Not sure I’m ready, but he said he’ll send them email. I wouldn’t know what she looked like now? Susana, she’s in a Federal lockup. Women’s prison in Chowchilla.”

“What? that’s crazy,” Susana said while finishing up dinner. “I’m so sorry Mark. Wonder what she did to land there?”

Mark looked up at her, shaking his head, “I don’t know. The detective filed some paperwork, trying to get sealed court records from the case. I googled. Nothing.”

It was strange. This life. Susana thought. Hoping for the best in people. Her childhood never let her down. Hope was the key to home. It kept her close to it.

She remembered walking into the tiny Keene church searching for an anchor. That hope. A lot of the elders had passed away since she first attended. And now?… she’s an elder. An anchor. Helps with the handful of young teens.

Watering her flowers, she looked over at Mark and for some reason said, “You know? faith is a slow thing. It’s all timing. Not our timing. It’s His. God’s. You know? Sometimes it depends on how low one can go. How much it affects the mind, body and soul. If we’re listening.” He was watching her.

“Most of us are stubborn to it. We’re the paint. Slowly peeling. Or the poor, starved innocent creatures who only see a rainbow behind the wall. Like them, some of us keep a child-like innocent demeanor, hoping, but are wholly unprepared for the fall,” Susana was looking straight at Sarge, sitting next to Mark.

“Villalobos,” she said. “Village of wolves,” Sarge tilted his head, listening to her intently.

“We survived. Didn’t we boy? I guess it just depends on how each of us goes about it. Aliens might be coming. But they better get ready to deal with us.”

THE JACKET - Chapter 8

The sound of my own name.

“If today was not a crooked highway
If tonight was not a crooked trail
If tomorrow wasn’t such a long time
Then lonesome would mean nothing to you at all”

Tomorrow Is a Long Time — Bob Dylan

The jacket, tattered in shades of dirty whites and brown peppered grays, like her own hair, had been a gift, or so she thought, from Tony. Susana suspected he’d been having an affair and she knew it when the jacket swallowed her like a thrift store bargain. There was a washed-out price tag, like her, still hanging on. The deeper she reflected, the more she realized he never paid any attention to the details that made her her. Having Mark around, Susana realized, in the most unassuming way, what it actually felt like to be seen. It was just there gnawing at her tough exterior. With every day that passed, she slowly eased away from the wall.

“She’s no longer the forgotten dog in the corner. She’s my shadow, my joy, my friend.”

— unknown

Tony’s past was obviously blurred by their whirlwind romance. Why didn’t I question it. Get to know him better? she thought. The high school prom Queen to Tony’s King. Was she the woman who Tony sued? Who was this Queen? she thought. They obviously got back together, or never really broke apart, as high school sweethearts tend to do.

And Melanie. His wife? Susana couldn’t shake the image of the pathetic woman with Tony — or five years ago, when she picked up that damn jacket, dumped on the street in front of her home, wondering where the Amazon woman in the tire pile went? Susana wanted her to be Tony’s lover. It justified her anger toward the hoards of animal abusers. And Tony.

She remembered throwing the dirty jacket in the back of her truck, with some other giveaways — then driving them to the Goodwill in Bakersfield.

And what about Mark’s sister? Or the young man he hired to watch over the family farm? Susana lived halfway between believing in goodness and constant suspicion.

Mark once described Susana to Jake (the kid who worked for him) as a person who truly believed that a famous animal advocate or movie star, would actually write her back, or pick up the phone. She spent countless hours reaching out for animal placement, once telling Mark about an equine rescue she was on, where a famous actor showed up to help transport these tortured horses to his ranch in Malibu. “She did that. With the worst internet service too. Ran back and forth to the library when she got a lead. Wrote emails. Filled out forms. Susana bugs everyone she can get her hands on. She believes in goodness you know?”

“She’s a real life heroine Jake. She’s the real deal,” Mark said, furiously sanding his latest creation.

“Absorbed in this world, you’ve made it your burden. Rise above this world.

There is another vision.” — Rumi

Susana’s trips to Clovis were weekly now, as her brothers called more often to say Papa was getting worse. Her beloved animals were also aging it seemed. Just like me, Susana thought, with an all too depleting wave sweeping over her again. More grief on the horizon. She was grateful Mark was there to watch over her beloved rescues, otherwise she wouldn’t know what to do? It’s not easy caring for discarded souls. She wasn’t easy either. She had become a tool, an audience to every thing and every one. Endless calls for an animal in need of placement kept her awake at night. Single handedly Susana worked to get fosters, mostly from her church, where she started a program that worked with the local shelters. Some fosters turned into foster fails, while others were adopted or sent back to the shelter to live out whatever days they had left. High kill was an understatement. Historical, in fact. It just about broke Susana’s already troubled mind, but she never gave up.

But like anything, that gets generalized, the entire pet industrial complex has been a mix of many failures. From lack of due diligence by authorities not adhering to laws on the books for illegal breeding, over breeding, licensing, abuse, etc., social media fame/influence. The price of standard healthy pet care, on top of an animal industrial drug and food complex, has skyrocketed. Supply and demand. Pet grooming costs are now akin to human grooming costs as well. Fluffy must look good for his million likes and rep all those expensive products. You can’t just fall in love with a shelter animal, take it home and expect to be able to afford it’s care. In many cases this leads to dumping or shelter returns.

Used to be a teenager could adopt a “first” pet and work a paper route to care for it.

She often remembered her favorite old vet, when she was growing up in the 70s. Dr. Ray, as he was known. His office remained untouched until the day he was forced to retire, 55 years after he came back from Vietnam — where he served as a veterinarian, and dog handler of over 70 working labradors. A museum time capsule of musty smells, spindled antique chairs, wood paneling, an artifact table with bones, rocks and gem collections scattered in dust under lights. The walls were layered with yellowing articles and faded black and whites of him walking waist high through murky water, an M60 and ammunition belt strapped over his shoulder — dogs treading neck deep by his side. At home with old buddies, proudly showing off the latest catch on the river, or delivering calves and foals, out on the local farms, his office was loaded with life.

You could have stayed in Dr. Ray’s office all day and not seen enough interesting things. His old secretary would write up an invoice, ripped from a small pad, and you’d never leave that office over 50 bucks, medicine and all, usually bottled by the doc himself — straight from his supply. Before he closed shop, the most anyone had ever paid was 85 bucks. Spay or neuter? 20 bucks. He would always give you a good, healthy talking to, while staring long and hard at your dog — or whatever animal you’d bring him. Farm stops? $40. Susana knew this because Mama had called Dr. Ray one day when a young, pregnant, stray dog had wandered onto their citrus farm right in the middle of birth complications. Poor thing. Luckily mama was outside hanging laundry. Doc came right away, saved the mom and most of the babies. In fact, this is where Susana remembered the idea of getting dogs fostered or adopted. Mama called all the ladies at church and talked most of them into taking a puppy — once they were ready.

Susana was digging through a shoe box of memories. Holding a hand-typed note, it read, “I am sorry for your loss. Rudy was a beautiful cat and very loved by your family. May you rest knowing he is now at peace,” With sympathy, Dr. Ray.

“We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.” — George Carlin

Then there’s the illegal street breeders. Cities, like Clovis, riddled with puppies for sale in cardboard boxes, or lying helpless on the sidewalk, mothers tied-up or living in cages too small, separated from their babies, ready to be force-bred again, while their homeless people are splayed out convulsing over their drug of choice. Or the backyard unlicensed breeders who pile puppies into crates and drive them to the public shelters, in the back of their open trucks. Unwanted. Bad batch. No sales. No bueno. Goodbye. Many ripped from their mothers before being fully weaned. Ask a local rescue how many of these babies, and often their used up parents, are dumped at their gates late at night? — while the law abiding, inspected, license paying professional breeders continue to supply brand new easy pets. $5k? $10K? No problemo. Plenty of money for their food, outfits, care, and “spaw” treatments.

Vet schools are full of wide-eyed students, hoping for a medical doctor’s lifestyle, and many a wise business person has caught on, leaving the average Joe unable to afford anything but a goldfish. “Think about it. How easy and affordable is this?” Susana advocates to local veterinarians, and city shelter staffs, to offer inexpensive wellness checks and free spay/neuter clinics once a month — and a shelter catch and release program for wild cats. “The good you could be contributing to — to protect so many animals from more abuse, more dumping, more euthanasia.”

Lately, she was reading about the wild horses. More anguish. Couldn’t there be a spay and neuter program for them too? is this rocket science? she thought. Dart guns vs. sickening overly expensive helicopter chases and the nefarious obliteration of our most treasured. Our most free. A few at a time? Probably impossible, but it was a thought. Or just leave them be. Wild horses and burros are restricted to 11% or 27 million acres out of 245 million acres of government land — and they are paying the heaviest price.

“How did we get to a place where we are this desensitized? this void? this sick, this evil?” Susana asked Mark, upon returning home from her walk. She was getting ready to head out to Clovis again. “Whoa, that’s a lot,” he said. “Lack of faith? the spirit of goodness? I mean, you said it Susana. I don’t know. Life isn’t different. History keeps repeating. But there’s something so hollow about people today — you know?” he said. “It’s like their souls have been torn out.”

“Yeah, I spend so much time talking or thinking about what I actually see, and you know? it’s the stuff that goes on behind closed doors that I have to stop seeing. I have to pray more at night to shut down the nightmares,” she said. “Like what,” Mark shouldn’t have asked. “Remember that house in Caliente? the one where over 100 dogs and cats were found dead a few years ago” she went on. “God rest their souls. Starved to death, mostly in cages, all tucked inside a small house, way out on some huge property, nothing around it. It took a delivery worker to call the police. The guy was so overcome, when the owner opened the front door, he told the news outlet he got in his truck and lost his stomach” Susana was shaking her head. Mark went silent.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she caught herself. “I know, I know. I could have done better. I didn’t need to stay away for such long periods of time. I should never have been so trusting. It hurts bad Susana,” Mark’s face was staring down at Sarge.

“Make it make sense Beauty?” she said, not looking at Mark, but at Beauty’s blue eyes staring back at her. “Miha, with the most loving, gentle eyes.” Susana wishing she had had a child of her own. She wished she was a better domestic person. A better cook. She wished she had someone to surprise. Her mind trailed off. “Oh how I adore you,” rubbing Beauty’s soft ears. “And you know I appreciate our friendship Mark. I really do. I don’t know how I’d see my family, my Papa, without you. Thank you. I mean it.”

The cats were wandering in, one by one, after their usual mouse chase following Susana and the dogs through the neighborhood.

Heading to the car, she looked back at Mark and shouted, “you know I’d love you if I weren’t so old!” He turned towards her trailer with the glint of a smile. He knew what she meant.

If only he could feel the flush of her face. What on earth did I just say? driving away as fast as she could.

Papa wasn’t so good. Francisco Jr. and Carlos came to meet Susana and told her that his heart was giving out. The possibility of a stroke or heart attack was imminent. They warned her he was saying little to nothing anymore. She hugged them tight, took a seat by Papa’s bed and held his hand.

Her brothers stayed awhile, sorting through some of the c.d.s piled up on Papa’s nightstand. Carlos popped in Lucho Gatica. El Reloj began to play. The room fell extra silent. Susana saw Papa’s big smile when she gave the music player to him one Christmas. She had saved and saved for it. The first thing he did was play Lucho, reaching for Mama’s hand. She remembered how tightly they held each other. The twinkling lights. The tree, too chubby for the room. She laughed inside. He was so proud. Looking at him now, staring ahead — her heart collapsed into a million pieces.

On the drive home Susana knew she had to accept whatever was going to happen. Wolves, aliens appeared in her head. They come for you don’t they. To steal your mind. Your body. She turned on the radio. Her favorite song from high school was blaring. Turning it down, she made up her mind to go back to the library. Do a little research.

Hands on the wheel at a perfect 10 and 2. You know you’re an idiot right? But I’m tired of the pain. Where did I go wrong? Susana clutched the steering wheel knowing she needed some answers. Just breathe. It was still Sunday.

She’d begin tomorrow.

“Susana, hey, how’s your dad? all good here, but I noticed Chuck is very lethargic.” Mark was looking at Susana like he wanted to hold her. “I see the clock ticking. Papa says nothing now,” staring past Mark at Chuck, “and I find it,” she winced up, mouth crunched, eyes filling, “Really painful. So very, very painful. Mark.”

He reached out to hold her and for the first time since Tony left her, she began to sob in the arms of a man who only wanted to be kind.

Pushing back, wiping the tears from her eyes, Susana looked over at Chuck and said, “I don’t know how to live without both of my parents here — on earth. I just don’t Mark.”

The animals fell to slumber, bird chatter hushed, the drone of the highway paused, and the sun dipped. They sat together on the glider Mark assembled for her last summer. Time expanded. “I feel the same,” he said. She took his hand.

Morning came, as it always did, with Susana squished between the tiniest crew on the pullout table bed, and louder than normal snoring came from the floor on the other side of the trailer. Coffee in hand, she completed the tasks and headed to work. She’d take her lunch at the library and go back after work. Mark said he’d stop by her place for lunch and leave Sarge to hang out with her crew — then check in again later so she could stay at the library til closing at 7p.m.

A delightful spring breeze was still holding in early summer.

First thing Susana did on her lunch break was look up the dog breeding case with Tony and “the woman” he sued. She went cold. Right there before her was the Amazon woman in the tire field with the poor old mama dog. The one she threw the jacket at. “Oh my” she said. “It was her” looking around the library. “Era ella!” she cupped her hand over her loud mouth. It was her. “Dios mio.”

Next —> CLOVIS HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATING CLASS OF 1976, YEARBOOK PICTURES.

I told the village of wolves to stop. And look at me now. I’m on the hunt. Susana could hear the buzzing in her brain.

Next —> a pdf. Classmates.com

She had to buy it.

And there they were, Tony Castillo, Prom King, and the lady he sued, Silvia Inés Vega.

Queen.

Next —> vegadoodles.com

Silvia Vega was all over the local news. Pictures of her with doodle puppies, pictures of her with Tony with doodle puppies, Olin Mills pictures with big hair, those ridiculous plaid sweaters, and a fake Christmas tree, sitting cross-legged with doodle puppies in stockings. Susana began to giggle. FLASH: pictures with Silvia’s mouth open over a mic on the courthouse steps. FLASH: pictures with Tony looking vindicated, fist up, in a plaid shirt. As she kept scrolling, the same pictures Susana found on Tony’s website, goldendoodleacres.com, appeared with a different woman all together.

A smaller version of Silvia Vega.

Vega Doodles website stated “closed for business permanently.”

Silvia was tall and glamorous, in a strange time capsule kind of way, too. She was absolutely the woman in the tire field. Susana never forgot her face, although older — same as high school.

Trying to piece this together. Silvia had been Tony’s high school sweetheart. They must have started a business together. Never married ? lovers. So when their partnership, or whatever it was, was over, Silvia went out on her own. Then one day she bought a dog from Tony and bred it. It all made sense now, she thought. Even though her business was shut down, she continued to backyard breed. It was five years ago Susana encountered that woman. He was with her the whole time he was with me. Scrolling faster, eyes scanning. And look at him now — yelling at that poor woman in Clovis — drowning in that disgusting jacket.

Susana kept digging, looking at the clock.

There she was again with Tony. This time, her name under the picture with his: MELANIE CASTILLO. They were at some fancy black-tie event. It was her. The 80s woman with Tony the first time she researched him in the library. The woman Detective Villalobos said was Tony’s disturbed wife. The “gross” jacket. How can this be? What is happening?

Susana was so confused. But she had to get back to work.

Several hours later…

“Hello, yeah. Mark. What? No. I mean thank you,” she hung up, jumped out of the car, ran into the library and slid into the computer seat. Thank God it’s open, she thought, But if it was “thee jacket?” Tony definitely gave it to Silvia. Then to me when she rejected it. Pathetic. Susana was shaking. Silvia was tall, big boned. In a good way. Oh this is nonsense, she was rubbing her temples.

Scrolling faster —> News article: Wife of Tony Castillo. Arrested. Bakersfield. Bakersfield? Disorderly conduct and theft. Found passed out in the alley behind the Good Will. Pictured: intoxicated, pulling at a jacket with an officer tugging back. Just underneath this story is another headline “Patient goes missing from Bakersfield Behavioral.” Picture: Oh my God. Tony’s wife Melanie. The jacket. She stole it. From the Good Will?? Where I dropped all that stuff off five years ago?

“How was your library adventure?” Mark greeted her at the gate. He had Sarge and was ready to go home. They were finally in the heat of summer where orders were stacking up, but he never minded helping Susana.

Breathless, forgetting she was zipped tight like a clam, “Mark, you’d never believe it. About five years ago, I took a bunch of clothes to the Good Will, in Bakersfield, including this ridiculously huge fur jacket. I don’t have the el coco…” Rubbing her temples again, “oh man my head hurts. What I discovered. The story behind it. It’s honestly shocking. “Wait. What?” Mark was so confused. Out of breath, talking way too fast, Susana continued, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, I know. And I don’t know if you ever will. But I can tell you we are all, how you say it, Seis grados de separación.” “Wait. Susana. What? I don’t understand. You always speak in Spanish when you’re excited” he said, slightly amused.

“We are six degrees of separation Mark. Our stories are more connected than we know,” Susana knew he was going to need a better explanation and she knew that she wanted to know more about him.

For the first time in decades — they were both vulnerable.

Smiling at her, Mark said, “Okay Susana. I look forward to hearing more about all this small world stuff tomorrow. Maybe. If you want to talk about it I mean,” walking slowly to his car as she followed him.

You know,” he said shyly, turning around, “I’ve thought of you all day today. I mean I know we’ve been getting a little closer and I don’t know what it means or where it’s…” “going?” she filled in the word.

“Going,” he continued. “All I know is tomorrow is a long time.”

In good shape, standing taller than usual in her Levis, long refined hair in a braid, fingers donned in vintage turquoise rings, “and all I know,” she paused, looking straight at him, her head tilted with a sideways smile. “I like hearing the sound of my own name.”

She watched him drive away until his car disappeared.

“I can’t see my reflection in the waters
I can’t speak the sounds that show no pain
I can’t hear the echo of my footsteps
Or remember the sound of my own name”

Tomorrow Is a Long Time — Bob Dylan

THE JACKET - Chapter 9

La Cigarra

Susana couldn’t wait for summer to end, mostly due to the one lone cicada who droned on so long she wondered if it would ever die. Sleepless, it didn’t help she was trapped in her own love sorrows at 65 point 5, heading like a freight train on the loose for another New Year’s Day birthday.

Fortunately, Papa was still hanging on, Mark’s dad, Jefferson, was the star of Ivy Park, telling stories, delighting staff, other vets, ladies and gentlemen, living full time in memory care. The local VA was very helpful in getting him placed. The sale of Jefferson’s farm went so smooth it was a relief for Mark to be able to turn the estate into the kind of care his dad needed. Both their dads worked hard enough to be able to have good quality nursing. A blessing to say the least.

“I’ve got some crazy news Susana,” Mark said.

It was mid September and the summer rush had slowed at the local café. They met for an informal breakfast. Mark had been dragging his feet to open the email the private detective had sent him a few months ago. When he finally opened it, his sister’s mugshot was staring back at him along with the mugshot of a man he didn’t recognize. Of course, he needed to talk to Susana about it.

FLASH: KATHY BAUER. FLASH: DERRICK BAUER.

EMAIL:

Hi Mark,

Unsure if this is the Kathy you’re looking for, but she matches the information you gave me and the picture — which we had digitally aged. Looks like it could be her. She married Derrick Bauer about 30 years ago. I’m not supposed to have these pictures, but I have contacts on the inside. Don’t know much about them, but they had an address in McFarland. Their only child, Luke, seemed troubled, but then his parents were mules for a well known cartel for many years. Looks like we found your Luke. At 17, he was sent by Kathy and Derrick to some hoity rehab in the Redwoods — paid for courtesy of drug money. Another contact/favor. When he got out, his parents, who had gone through a swift trial, received life in prison. It was the only way the judge saw fit to protect them from death by Cartel. Apparently they’ve had a rough time of it in lockup.

As a result, Luke was officially on his own at 18. He flailed, in and out of trouble for years, got good at aliases — and eventually made his way to you.

Link: McFarland Today below.

Police Blotter: Luke Bauer, minor, 17, McFarland, California, arrested for stealing from the Idle Spur Café, McFarland, Ca.

There’s some proof that Luke struggled through Jr. High, constantly absent. I called the school. Spoke with the same principal. He remembered all the wellness check calls made to the Bauer’s. He even showed up at their house himself. Apparently, Luke did a bit better in high school. Graduated. That’s positive. But the kid never got help. Lost his parents after high school to prison. Kid’s lucky he got the sentence he did.

It’s never what we expect Mark. You’re not alone.

Please call me if you have any questions. I’ll be forwarding an invoice.

Respectfully,

Joe A. Gauci, PI

“No way in hell,” Susana looked at Mark across the table holding a copy of the email. She followed with a long full sentence in Spanish, something ending with an apology to God, and the word hell again.

“The kid came looking to use us,” Mark looked around. “That’s all he knew Mark,” said Susana as she reached for his hand on the table. She didn’t care who was looking at this point. Small towns. “What a messed up person my sister turned out to be Susana,” Mark waited a minute, “Luke had grandparents. Me? Honestly Susana? I feel nothing but sadness. It’s too late. I gotta let it go. Wish the kid well. I don’t know if I could ever see my sister again at this point.” “Obviously, it’s too dangerous Mark — and I doubt the prison would allow it. Best to ride low,” Susana said.

Susana began to mumble again, at breakneck speed in Spanish, shoveling in more food than she weighed, while Mark stared around the café, poking a fork at his.

Tuning out, he looked up at the old ceiling fans, whizzing helicopter blades, ready to split away from their wobbly bases, as Brenda, probably in her 90s now, shuffled by, yelling toward the kitchen, “I told ya’ll no egg in the qui-sont sandwich,” TING, she slammed the plate on the metal ledge. “Ya, ya, lo siento!!! Calm down boss,” screamed Victor, the recent hire. Man, that little lady was no nonsense. She epitomized a vintage throwback, still wearing her original apron and café shirt, adorned in sparkles, plastic food pins, fake flowers, a few scout patches, anything a customer gave her or a treasure she carried from home. Brenda had pearly cat-eyed frames, with lenses that accentuated her sharp blue eyes, like a magnifying glass, when she looked at you. A beaten down silvery chain hung around her bright orangey hair with shades of yellow where the gray was supposed to be. An enormous pair of Hokas were attached to her boney legs. She knew where to put the money. He wondered if Brenda had to work? or if she worked to stay upright.

There were two war vets, sitting one booth away from each other, engrossed in banter about their experiences. Each one talking louder and prouder absorbing the sound of Susana’s Spanish inquisition. One donned a cowboy hat full of military insignias, the other a ball-cap just the same. Between Brenda and these men you would have thought the place was made for deaf people. There were Christmas lights strewn everywhere, even draped over the lopsided gold framed Native American paintings on the wood paneling — which was closing in from all sides. A grandmother brought her grandkids in for some ice-cream and by the time it got to their table, Mark noticed, one small child leaning into grandma’s waist. She was saying a little riddle, as they scooped ice-cream together, while the other three older kids were engrossed in their phones. Ugh, he thought. They were missing out on something good. Something real good.

Just then - SQUEAK!!!

Suddenly, Susana was cut-off from her passionate ramble, as Mark jumped to the rescue, before she slid under the table. Seemed the red pleather booth seat had detached itself from the wood box, tilted her upwards, then downwards like a cheap county fair ride.

“Ay, mi madre!,” Susana was red as the seat.

“Cash only,” said Brenda, the register was glued down, hemmed in by tiny donation containers, like March of Dimes, Salvation Army, Children’s Miracle Network, and a few local pet rescues. Snow globes made of pennies and bugs. Folks usually chose from the array of lotto offerings sitting right next to them. “Have a nice day,” Brenda said, walking away tuckin’ a ten, Mark handed her — with a wink — into her apron pocket. “Thank you.” She had a pen in her mouth with a plastic spoon taped to it.

As they walked outside, Susana said, “I still don’t understand how these events in our lives are coming together in an almost sci-fi-like way? It’s surreal. How can we be so close to it and know nothing at all ? “We asked questions. We investigated. That’s how,” Mark responded confidently, “and I know it seems surreal Susana, but our people stuck around. We imagined them to be far away. Like you said, six degrees of separation. I looked into it. It’s global too.” “Guess our lives are absorbed in our own grief. We miss things,” she said, looking down at a June bug walking along the gravel. Shouldn’t you be moving on too.

They both had things to do on the weekend. Mark’s business was blooming, which kept his mind off the tragedy that became his family.

Susana decided to look up Dr. Ray to see how he was doing. She had heard he was still living in McFarland with his wife. 80 going on 81, in relatively good health, his eyes were going, his hands were shaking and the old legs were ordered to wear compression socks. His patient’s families were concerned. His wife just wanted him home. They had a little place on an acre that took care of itself. Just a few sweet cats. Susana knew that Dr. Ray had a catch and release program for many years.

She’d been sad hearing about another recent suicide — this time, close to home, in Clovis. Another veterinarian. The story disappeared, but Susana discovered there was far more to it.

Veterinarians actually face a much higher rate of suicide compared to the general population and other professions. It shocked her, but it didn’t. Looking around at the elevated state of humanity, she saw a cocktail of arsenic and old lace. Except who-and-or-what? was responsible?

“A man is ethical only when life, as such, is sacred to him, that of plants and animals as that of his fellow men, and when he devotes himself helpfully to all life that is in need of help.”

— Albert Schweitzer

“Dr. Ray?, I don’t know if you remember me or the Clemente Farm?, but I wanted to check in — see how you’re doing these days?” “Oh hello there — Isabel?” his voice a bit shaky. “No, it’s me, her daughter, Susana. Mama passed away in her mid 60s, sadly. And I am in my mid 60s now. Papa is in memory care in Clovis.” “Oh, I am so sorry to hear that Susana. Yes, I remember you as a kid. What are you doing now?,” he said. “I live and work in Keene, California. I also advocate for dogs and cats that need rescuing, plus I have my own crew of rescues,” Susana said proudly. “Wonderful. Wonderful. How can I help you?” the doc said. “Well, I was wondering if you might be interested in speaking with some of the younger vets in Kern County? “What would that be about Susana?” he said with interest.

“Not sure if you realize how bad it is right now, Dr. Ray, with costs to vets, patient costs, mass euthanasia, abuse of animals, and then the array of people who really love their dogs and cats? and can either afford the high care and want more, or can’t afford the care at all. It’s been making for a boiling pot of emotional and financial strain on veterinarians and their staffs. Many of them go from one hard situation to the next and are often publicly shamed for things that are out of their control. Anything from treating an abused animal, then legally having to return it to the owner, when they are aware it’s a horrible situation, or just the rescues being brought in, in bad shape, high euthanasia from breeders, euthanasia requests for perfectly fine, yet unaffordable pets, and the private/public shame they take for high costs. The list goes on, but I thought it might be a good clinic to offer to this generation. One that inspires them to keep going, any advice you might have, etc. would be appreciated.”

There was a long silence. She spoke a mouthful as usual.

“Sounds like they need love Susana,” he sighed. Then coughed. “I can do that, but I should probably check with the wife. She likes having me home. Tell you what, you arrange it, perhaps pick a few dates and I will make it happen. The wife has to drive me anyways,” he chuckled. “They took my license away a few months ago. Damn macular low vision.”

“Oh, thank you Dr. Ray,” Susana was beaming, “just call me Ray, Susana. I’d be happy to get my old arse off the couch. You were always sunshine.” Susana blushed, “Do you have an email Dr., I mean Ray, where I can send you some information?” “Yes, my wife takes care of that. It’s my eyes,” he said, “oh I apologize, you did say that. So very sorry for what you’re going through.” “It was great to hear from you Susana. I will never forget your parents. Good people,” Dr. Ray never changed. He was kind. “Thank you. They really were, are, I mean, okay. Bye for now,” Susana hung up.

Of course, she checked in with Mark and wondered what he was doing in the evening.. They decided to make the best of the rest of summer. She’d get stuff for barbecue. He’d get ice-cream.

After dinner they played cards, chatted about the day and laughed over Chuck’s snores. Nothing was wrong with him. He was just very old. Didn’t want to do much. He was still eating, drinking. How Susana loved that boy.

They had a good time just being. Forgetting.

As Susana walked Mark and Sarge outside to his car, the lone cicada began to screech his love song again.

“I wonder if he’ll win her over. If she’s there?” she said.

“Where? Who?” Mark was looking straight at Susana smiling.

“La Cigarra,” she smiled back.

THE JACKET - Chapter 10 - the end.

Tumbling tumbleweeds

Salmo de David.
23

Jehová es mi pastor; nada me faltará.

En lugares de delicados pastos me hará descansar;

Junto a aguas de reposo me pastoreará.

Confortará mi alma;

Me guiará por sendas de justicia por amor de su nombre.

Aunque ande en valle de sombra de muerte,

No temeré mal alguno, porque tú estarás conmigo;

Tu vara y tu cayado me infundirán aliento.

Aderezas mesa delante de mí en presencia de mis angustiadores;

Unges mi cabeza con aceite; mi copa está rebosando.

Ciertamente el bien y la misericordia me seguirán todos los días de mi vida,

Y en la casa de Jehová moraré por largos días.

“Yea, though I should walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me: thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

Born Saturday, December 6th, 1941, 84 year old Francisco Mateo Clemente passed over the earth entering heaven on Saturday September 20th, 2025. He was born deep in the citrus valley of Mexico one day shy of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Papa was a true Saturday child. Worked hard for a living. Old farmers and friends gathered from all over the valley to celebrate his life.

Christmas was Francisco’s favorite time of year, so Susana, Carlos, Ana, Francisco Jr., and his wife Elena created a Christmas themed memorial. Red and white roses adorned the family church, Iglesia de Santa Isabel, in McFarland. Afterward, they wove their way throughout the tables full of holiday food, with Christmas pictures of the family dotted among decorations of matted white and silvery snowflakes. They bought a beautiful chubby fake Christmas tree and strung it with twinkling lights and old family ornaments. In the corner of the reception room sat a turntable where they took turns playing Papa’s oldies. Ana baked dozens of his favorite Polvorones in the colors of Christmas and Mexico. His grandchildren concluded the memorial singing “Jesús” by Carla Morrison. There wasn’t a dry eye in the sanctuary. A place Susana had not attended since she was with Tony.

“One last Christmas with you Papa,” clasping her hands together. It was really something.

After the poignant farewells, Susana found herself in an empty church parking lot fumbling for her keys. Balancing cookies and flowers, a gentleman with flecks of white hair sticking out of his tejana approached her. She noticed the expensive boots almost immediately, looked up past his dark jeans — and recognized the plaid.

“Susana? I wanted….”

She felt a weight over her body. It was him. He was still wearing the turquoise ring she gave him when they were dating.

“You wanted to pay your respects now that he’s gone?” aged, but lovely, in her tiny holiday dress and shoes.

Tony removed his hat to his chest. Looking down, almost embarrassed, he said, “I saw Papa passed in the obituaries and wanted… Si. I wanted to pay my respects. Lo lamento.

“Cuarenta y seis. I was 20. You come here to this place. A este lugar? here? at my. not your. Papa’s memorial. MI PAPA!! You expect me to… no sé — to be what? happy? to see you Antonio? Susana’s eyes could not hold the moisture.

“No. I lit a candle when the church was empty. Guess I wanted to see you before I left. Susana, I realize what I did. There’s no going back. Papa was the closest to a father I ever had. I blew it.”

“You loved him more than you loved me. I get it. You know, Antonio. Tony. I forgive you seeing you standing here. I know about your life, your wife. I saw you on the street with her. In Clovis. Last year. I’ve seen her in the camps.”

Tony’s face weakened. “Si,” he looked away nodding.

“Hey! hey! what’s up?” Mark yelled, dropping the Christmas tree box, now running toward Susana — and the man facing her.

Out of breath, “You okay Susana?” looking directly at this man, then back at her face.

One look and he knew he was staring at her past.

“Estoy bien. Mark, I’m okay. Meet Tony. Mi ex que apareció como un fantasma. FORTY SIX YEARS AGO. The ghost of Tony Castillo appears. Bueno, tengo que irme ya. Vámonos ya,” looking at Mark, she walked slowly to the passenger side of his truck.

Tony stood there watching Susana, as if there was more to say. Mark went back for the Christmas tree. Tossing it in the back of the truck, he reached out in an awkward gesture to shake Tony’s hand. “Um, nice to meet you. I’m Mark, um, Susana’s friend.” Tony put his hat back on, then tipped it towards them.

“He looks beaten down. Triste,” looking back at what was once the love of her life — or so she thought. Sad. They drove home remembering Papa. And Christmas.

“Today I want to remember
all the good things you give me,
to help me grow and value myself,
to understand you and not forget you.”

— Jesus, by Carla Morrison

Burning Season was upon the land — and Russian Thistle. Tumbleweeds, free and unpredictable, filled the valley floor. “If only they’d tumble up the witches who harm animals mis dolces.” Susana pulled and trimmed for the approaching weather with a vengeance as Beauty lay solemn near the garden gate.

She had five cats now. Two had passed in recent years. So she rescued two more. Sno Cone was three — on duty 24/7. Dolly, Scruffy, Mighty and Sweet One were hanging in there. Still young, but had aged before their time. Cruel beginnings. Susana got one of those baby front packs for Dolly. On her bad days, Susana took her everywhere. Work, library, home to family. No one minded. Her tiny bones were riddled with arthritis. Thrown from a car.

“How can I look at you and not see that?” her curled tail wagging by Susana’s side. “Te amo Sweet One.”

A week after Papa’s memorial, she walked the shelter rows. Kennels dripping with the smell of fear and helplessness. Oh how they wanted. Begged. Frantic, clamoring, long nails, panting on chainlink. Smelling under the gap for freedom. A few dogs stood facing the back corner. Bypassed over and over. Shamed. Others caved, curled up on an old dog bed, nasty blanket, or in their own excrement, into such a tight ball you could tell they wished themselves gone. One last shred of dignity had died before death.

Is he my ride or die? staring down the prison walls echoing with the moaning and wailing of desperation. “Her. I’ll take her,” pointing to a dirty, thin little Frenchie whose teeth were filed down so low Susana wasn’t sure how she would feed her. “Soft food,” the kennel worker said. “She was probably given hard food, which is why she’s so painfully thin. But she laps up canned, no trouble. I’ve been sneaking it in.”

“No more cruelty mi amiguita.”

There was always a hole to fill. Susana carried the frail mama to freedom.

She remembered childhood. Screen doors, hollow trees, the smell of citrus, busy father, happy mother. Idealistic. When she was a teenager she didn’t remember Papa asking her what she wanted to do with her life. Once, she tried to ask him about going to college, study business, help out on the farm maybe? It was never a good time to talk. Dogs were his best friends. Mama filled voids. She talked too much. Nobody listened. Susana often found her alone sleeping upright in a chair, table set, kettle boiled down to nothing. A cold full plate. Waiting.

She loved them.

“Beware the barrenness of a busy life” — Socrates 400 BC

Mark remembered childhood angst against out of tune piano keys — screams pounding in his chest. He bled inside for normal — tried to make his life that way. Chased avoidance like any kid would. Left home. Like any grown kid would. Drank. Nothing got him anywhere in his head except a full circle back to where he began. Irony is? he managed to get his business degree, but their was no helping is father. His mom was weak. Cried a lot. His dad a rollercoaster. Some days felt steady, others terrifying. He and Kathy were left on the edge. One time, he asked if he could just live with his second grade teacher. He was eight. It didn’t go over well.

It seemed he and Susana, despite their age difference, had found something special in each other. Similarities of the heart. She, a warrior, defined by saving dad’s best friends. He, a gentle soul carving wood in three dimension, while living in one.

So they went along as “close friends” never really naming what they had.

Leaves were transforming late summer grief to vibrant hues of autumn. Before Papa’s passing, Susana woke Labor Day morning to find Chuck had passed quietly in the night. There was never a time she wasn’t completely heartbroken over the loss of a pet. Tears fell as she held him one last time. He loved her and his Beauty so well. A gentleman with the rest of the pack, Susana’s “best boy” lent a calming demeanor, a soft rhythm. He didn’t seem to mind Sarge’s attraction to Beauty, aware his time was near. “How do I say goodbye Mark.” “I’ll come right now so you don’t have to agonize looking at him any longer. I’ll take him to Bakersfield — to that pet crematorium, if you want,” Mark’s voice was soothing to her. “No… could you help me bury him by Obadiah?”

“We can do that. It’s perfect Susana.”

Mark was carrying the most beautiful blanket. Susana greeted him, her hands outstretched to touch the heavy hand-spun wool of cream, browns, blacks with bright red diamonds. “Para el mejor chico. Tan magnífico. For the best boy. So magnificent. Thank you Mark. I owe you.” “You owe me nothing. I’ll never be able to overcome what happened on the farm Susana. I think about it every day. I’m amazed I’m sober.” “You will overcome. You will,” she said, as they lifted the old boy onto the blanket.

Chuck was laid to rest next to Obadiah under a full moon. “From now on, they will all rest here.” Mark lifted her onto the tailgate. They watched the old oak tree turn to silhouette — its thick sunken trunk staring over a valley of parables.

“All that you touch you change. All that you change changes you...God is change.”

— Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Sower

Priscilla, as Susana had named her, was a docile eight year old backyard bred reject. Her teeth were the result of a barbaric procedure, filed down to prevent her from biting during her enslavement to whatever poor stud was put in her tiny cage. This was also very common in dog fighting. “A full blown supposed illegal industry in plain site with many of these dogs bred right there on the streets Mark. Bait dogs suffer this the most.” He could barely stand to hear it. “God Susana, I had no idea.” I’ve seen spray painted survivors come into the shelter, with so many wounds, it was only fair to put them out of their misery. How they survived I’ll never know, but I have also seen survivors thrive under the right adopter. Both fighter and bait.” Mark looked pale. Each time she spoke of her life in rescue, it reminded him of the farm. The pain and guilt.

Priscilla adored Susana and got along with the pack well, although, at bedtime, she did like to press her whole body up against Susana curled like an infant. The cats didn’t seem to mind and stayed near her feet. Priscilla made best friends with one particular cat named Gus, which lead Susana to believe that Priscilla had a cat-mate when she was let out of her cage. Or maybe a had a cat visitor? So Gus fit the bill. Best friends. Eventually, they were found snuggling together, playing outside with the big dogs until Gus dipped under the garden fence to explore. Priscilla would wait patiently until he returned. Susana related.

“They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other Nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.”

— Henry Beston, The Outermost House

They rose to a gentle Sunday breeze, Susana’s eyes wet and sealed shut. There was an emptiness in the trailer as Beauty lay still, head pressed to the ground, not moving for hours, even when Susana came home on break during the week. “I miss Papa. I miss my brothers. It’s time to go home again. Mark? do you think you might bring Sarge over today? Beauty needs a friend. I’ll be moving all my pots under the awning.” “Sure” he went on. They hadn’t seen each other much, in the last several weeks, since Papa’s memorial. Susana needed space to mourn, Mark needed to catchup with work. “I’m all caught up with orders.” “That’s a good feeling,” she said. “Those pots are heavy. I’ll bring Sarge. And lunch.”

Susana’s quaint potted garden, now dormant, had been rich in plants, flowers, and small vegetables for summer’s bounty of salads. Any more pots there’d be no room for lazy pets. Mark helped her get them under the awning, and although she didn’t feel she had to, they sat for hours and shared their pasts. In the end, it didn’t matter anymore. They were as content as the surrounding wilderness and all that was broken and tamed.

“Orange. Everything is orange.” Susana wandered around the store displaying aisles of packaged candy, pumpkins, witches and junk. One more week until the town’s 31 kids show up asking for treats. Ay!!

“We came into a land where there were no roads, no neighbors, and no law but what we made ourselves.” — 1854 *Amanda Brite, with husband John Moore were the first recorded permanent American settlers, building a log home, in the western part of Tehachapi. *they would eventually move and settle an area on the west side, naming it Brite Valley.

There are four traditional seasons in the sleepy town of Keene nestled into the Tehachapi Mountains.

A rain shadow divide — the east/southern side, oak and grassland. The west/northern side — desert. Keene stared back at rugged golden hills and grasslands, that in the Spring, turned a vibrant green with large patches of wildflowers. On the other side, the mountain dropped down to an arid windswept eastern slope with massive wind turbines for miles, leaving one to feel a certain kind of desolation.

“You must begin to master the art of the spectrum of care,” Dr. Ray spoke at what was a very full and successful first gathering of valley veterinarians. The old Padre Hotel, in Bakersfield, gave Susana a two hour free meeting space, every month, for as long as the doctors and techs wanted to meet with Dr. Ray. Although she doesn’t talk about it much, her work in rescue is known throughout the valley. The little lady whose always saving an animal. She’s even been on the local news. Once. It was a cat. In a tree. Susana climbed it.

“Modern medicine teaches you there is only one expensive diagnostic plan. Only one path. But remember Voltaire, perfection is the enemy of the good. If a client cannot afford this, you haven’t failed. You must then offer varying levels of plans. Go back to basics. Using your ears, hands, eyes, costs you nothing but your time. A “good enough” treatment is infinitely better than recommending top notch care “only” — which ends up in economic euthanasia. We have to master the art of intuition once again.”

Every month got better, with more guest speakers, more support. More love.

“You know what I just found out Susana?” it was mid November and Samaritan’s had made quite a bit of progress on the old farmland where Mark grew up. “The medical and eye clinics just opened, and next month Samaritan’s will open an elder support clinic, plus they have plans for a small live-in home, about 12 beds, for mental healthcare that is slated for next summer.” “That’s incredible. Truly. We need it here. Everywhere. So much good has come of that tragedy Mark. I told you, you would overcome. Me encanta verte sonreír. Look at you! Smiling!” Susana wondered what happened to Melanie. Tony was just someone she felt sorry for now. But she hoped.

Maybe it will all turn out in the end.

They were sitting in her trailer on a Sunday after church where Mark had started to join her here and there. Loudly, over the snoring fluffballs, he had one more thing to share. “I got a letter from Kathy.” Susana just about spit her tea out. “What? What does it say. I mean you don’t have to tell me.” “I’m telling you now, tonta!” “Oh, I see you have caught onto my silly, eh?” He laughed, “but seriously, she wants me to consider meeting Luke when he gets out of prison. He’s still got a few years. She wants me to give him a chance. She went on with all these apologies. Told me she’s got a lot of health problems and her husband is dying of cancer in prison. Susana, it’s terrible.”

“What are you going to do?” Susana reached for his hand, which was their way of touching something they still didn’t know how to have. “Maybe I could meet him, see if he had a plan, I mean I’m not sure, I think about what he did and I…” “You want to forgive him but you don’t know if you can trust him again.” “Yeah Susana,” Mark was shaking his head. “Maybe there’s something there for the kid. He’s my sister’s son. I….” “You want to give him a chance.” “Yeah. I think. No. I don’t know. He’s my only real tie to family. This whole church thing is getting to my head.” Susana smiled.

They took a drive with Sarge and Beauty, to the scenic overlook, to watch the trains pass over themselves on the Tehachapi Loop.

From this spot may be seen a portion of the world-renowned Loop completed in 1876... In gaining elevation around the central hill of the Loop, a 4,000-foot train will cross 77 feet above its rear cars in the tunnel below. — Inscription on California Historical Landmark #508.

That the Tehachapi Loop is still in constant use almost 150 years later attests to the superior job of both engineering and construction done by the two civil engineers and the Chinese laborers. — Inscription from the 1998 ASCE National Historic Civil Engineering Landmark plaque.

The four of them sat together on the tailgate. “And I think rescue is hard? Do you know that 300 Chinese immigrant workers died building that, and were buried in a basin, near Caliente, before they were returned to China?” A proud immigrant herself, Susana absorbed history. “Yeah, we can do hard things Susana,” Mark answered putting his arm around her.

As the sun climbed over the mountain and put itself to sleep on the back of the last train, Susana reflected upon the human condition. Our connection to one another. A coat of many colors. Underneath is a universal longing for profound love. The warmth of a family. For animals, it’s natural protection from the elements. Only man interferes with their colors.

There was an early winter chill in the air. Beauty was alive again, curled up next to Sarge. “You know what I think Mark? We’re like tumbling tumbleweeds moving on under the light of heaven. We’ll be okay,” she shivered.

“Here Susana. Take my jacket.”

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"Forgiveness is the final form of love." — Reinhold Niebuhr

Matthew 22:37

"It hurts me that it’s going to be so much harder for you all than it is for me. I have to go. They’re breaking into the cockpit. I love you." — Honor Elizabeth Wainio (Passenger, speaking to her stepmother on a final phone call)

“America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.”– Abraham Lincoln

"I just want you to know I absolutely love you... I'll see you when you get there. Bye, babe." — Brian David Sweeney (Passenger on United Flight 175, leaving a voicemail for his wife Julie just minutes before the plane struck the South Tower)

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“The coyote is a living, breathing allegory of Want. He is always hungry. He is always poor, out of luck and friendless. The meanest creatures despise him, and even the fleas would desert him for a velocipede. He is so spiritless and cowardly that even while his exposed teeth are pretending a threat, the rest of his face is apologizing for it.”

— Mark Twain, Roughing It | Chapter 3

I remember when we moved to San Dimas we had a young coyote wandering our neighborhood with horrific mange. I’d see it lying, panting heavily, skin and bone tucked into a bush for shade. Surviving. I felt helpless looking at how painfully sick and parched it was. Not a cowardly creature — in any fashion. We had come from the hills where they ran in wild packs. Their howls were a reminder of the exquisite landscape above — and respect. In 2003, The Grand Prix Fire left excruciating silence for the three years that followed it. I wrote about it. Whatever survived - traveled. To the cities nearby. As they do.

I called the wildlife people for the mangey coyote a few times to no avail. Many of us did. I left water bowls outside. Still do. The old adage, “they were here before us,” always lingering in the back of my mind.

It’s 103 Faranheit today. And today, Southern California lost a living, breathing representation of humanity. Some low-life with a pellet gun, probably for fun, left Wendy, the coyote, to suffer. She spent over 365 days with bullets in her face that caused such extreme swelling and pain — it had destroyed her jaw on the left side. She was past the point of fixing — yet somehow she survived in the same manner many of our homeless humans and innocent pets are surviving, while burning up in the extreme of everything — as I type.

It took a year for wildlife “officials” to ignore the cries of a few good people — and finally a non-profit, Wildlife Care of Southern California, stepped in to rescue Wendy on August 31st.

It’s been a few decades of cries to our city officials to set into place “real help,” “infrastructure,” proper facilities — to help humans, including many homeless children on the streets. To finally eliminate the merry-go-round. But government and most nonprofits are now intrinsically linked. Together, they look away while profiting off despair.

“Daily Average: About 6 to 7 unhoused individuals die on the streets or in shelters daily across the county (Los Angeles). This equals roughly 42 to 48 deaths per week countywide.” —L.A. Times and KFI 640 Radio reports, as of August 2026

So I ask? is Wendy’s case different from the dystopian scenes we are witnessing in our large cities across America?

Today, like a scene out of a Cyberpunk movie, a woman was mauled in the middle of the street, in broad daylight, by a large, psychotic Pitbull. This happened in the Tenderloin District, of San Francisco, where my youngest son tries, to no avail, to help the homeless. As she was being rushed to the hospital, the dog collapsed and died. I pray she will be okay. I do not blame the dog. They will test it for drugs.

In Los Angeles today, on Skid Row, someone filmed young boys torturing the homeless. These aren’t shocking events. They are everyday scenarios. The abuse and illegal breeding, for drug testing and dog fighting, of homeless animals in these cities, is out of control. Slow death and despair of living beings is unchecked.

Our youngest son has a heart of gold. He’s realized he is up against a Goliath. In all my years, I never thought I’d hear him so brutally honest. The saving grace? the life lesson we don’t want — but need — is how these last five years has grown him back to the Spirit. While he was in college, we would walk New York City streets, witnessing a few terrible scenes of homelessness. He’d speak textbook, political dogma — until he was working within it. It’s hard to sleep with your hands tied behind your back.

There is now a $10,000 dollar reward for information leading to the person that shot Wendy — pledged by a private organization.

The reason? Because Mark Twain was wrong. The meanest creatures of all are human.

And when you are doing the hard work, day in and day out, that our leaders should be doing, you get mad. You fight on principle’s sake, perhaps because animals offer an innocent, uncomplicated connection to God’s earth that surpasses political systems, judgement, and the guilt of human conflict. They emphasize our own fragile nature — our brokenness — our desire to be loved.

We don’t deserve them. Nor much of what God gave us.

Wendy represents humanity’s silent allegory of Want.

It’s all about Love.

RIP Wendy.

Ephesians 6:12

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The walls are closing in

No voice to wail my plea

The children play and scream

I cannot hide nor flee

what was above the din

of rapid moving mouths

where spit lay on transmitters

newspeak among the crowds

My sentiments do differ

through a speck of Light I see

crawling on the ground

to thwart this killing spree

bleak truth of absolute

I float the narrow gate

never to salute

the protocol they dictate

My cubicle unbound

It’s You, them. Or me

A quiet resound

I AM.

I — am — free

There is no other way

to

make

it

past

the

fray..

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There we were, all 13 of us, with another grandchild on the way, and a few dear friends. My brother’s best friends, who came down to camp, a dear family friend of mom’s, who also rented a place, and a longtime friend and resident of Road’s End. To say it was special…. well. It was more than special, full of love, laughter, good food — and very down to earth — like we are. We pulled off something we had been dreaming about for years. Dad would have been very proud.

I put a few pictures on my Substack social feed, but I never published anything about it. I didn’t really have to — but it’s been on my mind. When we got home, from four blessed days, I noticed that mom didn’t remember a lot. So I scrambled to make a movie. Previous to the trip, while we loaded food, gathered our piles of things and stuffed the van full — I told myself to soak in every minute — just take a few special snaps. But I began to feel like I needed to document this big occasion in time with video clips. They are easy to take, completely imperfect real life snippets. I wanted to feel everything forever. But mostly? I wanted mom to feel it again.

It’s long. 20ish minutes. It’s personal. It means the world to me, as it would if it was your family. I don’t expect anyone to invest in it — but I made the decision to put it here anyways — collectively, to include it with all my work. I know I have some friends, and dear family overseas, that might like to see it. So it’s here buttoned and zipped up, ready to backup with everything else.

Also, I highly recommend the gift our youngest son, Ian, put together. He got all of us to individually record (including the grandkids) our favorite memories with mom. We sent them to him and he put together a 15 minute audio — surprising mum during cake/gift time. With her poor eyes, from macular degeneration — she has played it over and over. A little of that is included in the video. He also added some audio of her answering some questions. It was a gift he gave mum a few years ago. Every Sunday, she would get a phone call, from Storyworth — and one question. They are all recorded for us.

As a photographer, I can forget. So this is something I encourage you all to do more of — tell more stories by pushing that video button too.

Make more movies of your life.

Store away more “moving” proof of life.

Gratitude, for the time we get with our people, is everything.

Happy 90th Birthday mom, mum, mama, grandma, grandnana.

We love you so.

I love my family so.

Hallelujah.

ox

(Play it loud. The music is good)

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This truly is “a time to love.”

“The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.”

— Blaise Pascal | Pensées (1670)

Due to the many images —> if you are reading “in email” please click “view entire message,” to see them.

Last Friday evening I opened an email from a couple who I worked with 18 years ago. It was a submission form from my photography website. It went like this:

Subject: Wedding pictures

Message: Deborah, you took our wedding pictures for our wedding on Sept 20, 2008. We lost all our photos as well as everything else in the Eaton/Altadena wildfire on January 8, 2025. We were wondering if you still had those photos saved. We will gladly pay you whatever fee necessary. You can contact us through…

I have spent ages in the photography world — perused photography social sites, opinions, spinning wheels on working in the industry vs. just taking pictures for the love of it. People vs. landscape or street. Straight-up portraits vs. editorial or environmental. Studio, flash, natural light. The opinion/preferred photography genre list goes on and on.

And weddings provide almost all of it, despite many photography social sites shunning the idea, rather showing a series of industrial buildings or beautiful nature scenes, expressing the sheer horror of working with people. And if they do? Work with people? It has to be cool. Weddings aren’t cool for many people with cameras. I get it. I only took up to a dozen weddings a year — because they aren’t for the faint of heart. Weddings and most people-based events require extremely long work day stamina, physical and memory muscle, high organizational skills, and the ability to technically cover all the above. Most of all, it requires love. Love of people and love of documenting life’s celebrations.

In the end, what you savor and save can become “home again,” for those who have suffered the most extreme tragedies.

I received this message just before we began to watch a new movie called, “Don’t Say Good Luck.” To say we were full of all the feels was an understatement — the memories of being theater parents, my best friend slowly dying of cancer, while our sons performed in theater together, getting her to a rehearsal performance in a wheelchair, the recent loss of another theater mom (and dear friend)— and the absolute heart of a teenager and her young family coping with this type of tragedy.

Less judging. More Love. Always a winning cause.

I still see the pictures I was asked to take of my friend with her family a few months before she passed away.

After the movie, I cried while looking through my hard drives. Remembering the big fire we went through as a family in 2003. Except, our home survived. I saw myself throwing memories and the contents of my office in boxes. We had time.

They ran in the middle of the night with the clothes on their backs.

And there it was. The engagement and the wedding. All organized, numbered and ready for me to upload to my online photo proofing service, which I had started to use in 2009. Before this, the work was backed up on cd/dvd and hard drive. Back then, most of my clients purchased all the files with their wedding package, with some still ordering professional prints and custom albums, at an extra charge, directly through me. When I went online, clients loved having the independent and personal proof site for the same thing, as well as their own hard copy. Thankfully, I still backup on hard drives, despite being able to get an entire job delivered back to me from my proof-site.

And thank God I didn’t throw my work away from that time. I had not one, but two different places to look. I could have thrown away all the cds/dvds and found that my hard drives were no longer working. Or vice-versa. Newer computers do not have those slots anymore and many can’t be read by cheap plug-in disc readers.

I will also pay yearly for online storage until I can’t — proving proof of life in unrelenting circumstances — or any kind of loss — at no charge to my clients.

What made this wedding so very special — was the hope of second chances. A love story that began later in life. I remember smiling the whole time, looking at the many faces of genuine love, joy and support. Some who are no longer with us.

By yesterday, nearly 2k pictures were ready to be viewed by a couple who lost everything, but each other thankfully, and are finally beginning the process of rebuilding their home. Sadly, the red tape, from our Los Angeles fires, is still an ongoing part of the tragedy — as they forge ahead 18 years older.

Cheers to you Holly and Don. I can’t begin to express the immense gratitude I have that you both survived such a terrible tragedy in history — and for the blessing of “people photography.”

Thank you for reaching out to me.

oxox

Here’s some black and white galleries of the many precious faces from that day —from Pasadena to Long Beach…

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Great is thy faithfulness…

Monday night, while unpacking from three long weeks away, the rooms were spinning. As I leaned into a wall — every speck of flooring was in circular motion of liquid marble grey, scanning for cat puke, wondering why I was home — and not with my precious mom. Unsettled sleep, I dreamt a dear friend, and our little rescue dog, were chasing my car, hot pavement under their bare feet, running helplessly, until their skin was crisp and black. Don’t ask. Scrambled stories. The road. Can’t unsee scenes.

And my wailing-all-night-long-cat who hated her company.

Morning sun, in the bathroom window, debuted Mabel the maple tree. “Hello, I’ve missed you.” From the porcelain shrine, the shower tile looked oddly slanted, although perfectly set, clear glass reflected my drawn face.

Coffee in hand, I stepped outside. Barefoot and disheveled. Creeping fig had wrapped it’s spindly arms around the garden gates — and everywhere I sat — wild flowery fingers, seemed to beckon my body in shrouds of comfort and suffocation —simultaneously.

Dear Gracious God, I am in resistance — and You know it. There is a jumble of ingredients spread all over the tabletops of my mind with no instructions to follow. But You say you are the bread of life. The part that holds it all together, forcing my overwhelm into submissions of gratitude over panic, joy over worry, steady over dizzying realities. Clamoring for answers and tastes of what’s to come, I am hindrance, idling in thresholds, carefully heeding space-bending doors, holding heaviness at a crack. Pushing back, with all my might, the entryways to lost portals, before they slam shut. Forever.

Remember me. Remember us. Remember them. The vines wrap tighter. Remember this present and past time. Love, war, peace, flight, ocean, pastures, family, friends, dog, deer and crow. Rich existence. Years of clarity — now moments tossed into unfair waves of bewilderment.

I am here, there, everywhere and nowhere. The pull and tug of two points. North and south. Timorous third act. Won’t You — reveal it’s ending to me? The one where she married the boy and lived happily ever after? despite.

Extend this beautiful novel as we wander into seasons of feeling less like children and more like guardians of everything we have ever held respectfully dear. Write it clearly for me God. And lovingly. Squeeze me bad — in my stubborn seat.

Prepare my intrepid heart to be patient and strong. Lend me verse, song — Your cooling balms, forward peace. As one by one we watch the star above blossom and fade into the sun — forever twinkling.

Let me feel You on both sides of the middle.

And everything in between…

“The lines of love cross time and space.”
― Madeleine L'Engle, An Acceptable Time

"But I pray to you, Lord, in the time of your favor; in your great love, O God, answer me with your sure salvation." — Psalm 69:13

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