I put aside the snake-eating image. Surely my ancestors wouldn’t have done that?
“I feel better,” my mother said. “But the good doctor, Brenda, told me I have to rest. I told her, ‘Good Dr. Brenda, you know I have the coat drive at the bar to organize for the kids, and you know I have Lady Whiskey’s Christmas show coming up, too,’ and she said, ‘I know you do, Whiskey, and Brad and I are participating again this year. We’re going to sing a song about the importance of checkups and colonoscopies and mammograms, but you’re going to have to have someone else handle the show for you because you can’t do it. Doctor’s orders,’and I said, ‘I’ll have Bellini come home,’ and she said, ‘That is the perfect idea. She has a temper when people get out of line, so she can handle the bar. Plus, she’s so organized that the show will go off without a wrinkle!’”
“I do not have a temper,” I said yet again, and she ignored me. Honestly, you grow up in a small town with a bunch of aunts and uncles and cousins and family friends that go back generations, and once you get a label, it would be easier to pull the moon out of the sky and hide it under your bed. Even Dr. Brenda has labeled me. Now and then, I do turn into a whirling she-devil—I have since I was a kid—but almost every time, it’s to protect someone who’s getting beaten up or bullied.
“Don’t be embarrassed about that temper,” Mom said. “I’ve told you that a hundred times. It’s something to be proud of, sugar. You always want to help others. Now, listen. Emmie and I are going to watch that reality dating showMarry Menow, for the older folks. Remember that show? A seventy-year-old woman named Ruthie Deschutes O’Hara won it last time and fell in love and lust with a man named Tony. He looked like Robert Redford but had that Jimmy Smits smoldering sexiness and the coolness of Denzel Washington. She’s part of that Deschutes family—we buy their tequila. It’s a very educational show. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“What? Tomorrow?” Petunia, my tabby, jumped up for a hug. I almost dropped her, and she meowed in protest as she hung down my body like a stretched-out Gumby doll.“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, sugar. And you’ll need to be here through mid-January. The good doctor said so.”
“I can’t,” I said, my voice pitching up and down. “I’ll come and visit you. I’ll help you, Mom, but then I’m coming home.” No, I would not go back to Kalulell for seven weeks. I go and visit for major family events and Christmas, although I have notalways been there on Christmas, which caused my mother to guilt-trip me like no other.
There are always family parties, anniversaries, dinners, baby showers, and bridal parties—disorganized chaos, as half my cousins are as crazy and unhinged as their mothers. I need peace and quiet. I need to be a hermit. I need my pink and white cottage so I can stay sane. Plus, I’m proud to be a cat lady.
I rolled my eyes at myself.Excuses.My heart did a somersault into a well of pain and loneliness. Who was I kidding?It’s him. That’s why I don’t live in Kalulell.That’s why I didn’t visit for long periods of time. I couldn’t live there because I would see him, and I would end up crying like a cow every time I saw him if cows could cry.
I sniffled—at the thought of him, not at the thought of cows crying, although that was a miserable thought, too. I wiped my tears. The worst part: What if I saw him and embarrassingly lost control of my mouth and told him the truth? It would flip his life upside down and then blow it apart.
“Mom, I can’t stay for seven weeks. My anxiety would flair. My nerves would shriek. My equilibrium would become, uh, unequal.” Those weren’t the only worries. I thought I was going to cry, as dread mixed with heartache wrapped itself around me. “I have a Roxy Belle book due. I’m a wee bit stressed.” I was more than a wee bit stressed. I’d missed a deadline. Maybe two.
“Love dove,” my mother said, her voice gentling, “You have the spirit of a lion, the courage of a goddess, and the heart of a warrior. You can handle seeing Logan. The sight of him will not smite you. Besides, I think Mrs. Claus has a miracle ready for you this Christmas. She’s wrapping it up now.”
“I do not believe in miracles, Mom.” I needed one, though. Doesn’t everyone?
“I do. I’m depending on Mrs. Claus! I am sure she is a feminist and a romantic, and all will turn out merry and bright.”Her voice rose in victory. “I’ll let you go to ready your sweet self. Pack the cats in suitcases, grab your notebooks and drawing paper, steel your loins, and come to Montana!”
“What do you mean ‘steel my loins’? How am I to do that?”
“I mean, dearest daughter, favorite daughter…”
“I am your only daughter and your only child.”
“Be brave! Like an elf! Like Rudolph! Bring your red nose home, and thank you, and I love you, and everyone at the bar misses you.” She hung up.
“Mom! Mom!” It was useless.Useless.
My mind was now a swirling mess of Christmas songs and bar rumbles. “Let’s go, cats. Garden walk.” I grabbed my red coat, shoved my feet into red boots, and shuffled the four cats out the door. Walking my five acres calms me down.
My cats and I take long walks every day around the property, inspecting the meadow, the pond, and the fir, pine, willow, and pink cherry trees. I had the twelve pink cherry trees planted along the road leading to my house. I love when they bloom each spring.
I named my sweet white cottage with a pink door Honeysuckle Pink. It was run-down and unloved when I moved in over five years ago. It’s about twenty miles from Portland, Oregon, and it came with a view of the sunset over the mountain range on the coast.
Original, wide, wood-plank floors contrast well with pure white walls and trim, three wood beams across the ceiling, and plush, comfy furniture. My couch is pink, as is a love seat. Pink-and-white embroidered pillows, several by designer Ellie Kozlovsky, are scattered about.
The house is small and cozy, two bedrooms. I had the wall taken down between the kitchen and family room to open it up and let the sunshine in. I gutted the kitchen because it was so ancient I feared it would burn the house down. Cabinets that arelight sage green on the bottom and white at the top are separated by white quartz counters. The island, made with wood from a fallen old barn, is topped with butcher block.
I brought in a wood kitchen table and four pink chairs I found at a garage sale and set them in front of the window in the kitchen nook. I set up my worktable right in front of the windows of the family room so I can look past my white porch and out to nature as I write and illustrate my Roxy Belle chapter books for girls and boys.
I am lucky—the books sell well. Apparently, there is a huge market for a precocious, curious, awkward, nine-year-old fourth grader who lives on a farm with two parents and five odd siblings and many personable animals.
My bedroom is light pink—light pink walls, white bedspread with tiny pink rosebuds, and a pile of pink and white pillows. It’s a haven of pink and white. Serene. Romantic. Not that I have any romance in my life anymore. Haven’t in years.
To practice “self-romancing”—I made that term up—I light candles, listen to classical music, pick myself bouquets of flowers on my property, run up and down country roads to get my anxieties out, and read books at night, often romances. I play chess online with other anonymous people who probably have no romance in their lives either. Other than that, I am a hermit.
A house hermit.
A lonely house hermit. I sound pathetic, but I am not.
