Borne to Be Wild

I have to confess I name some of my house plants. Elspeth, the cyclamen, has shared my little bungalow for years.  I’m attached to Elspeth’s green and gorgeous self, having nursed her back from many a near-death experience, the most recent an attack of scaly parasites.  But domestic animals like cats? No thanks.  My allergies preclude familiarity.  And ok, ok, I’ll leash up a friend’s dog for a bounce along a breezy boulevard, but don’t expect any cute pet names. Dogs be dogs, cats be cats; rats be rats. In the words of an old polka, “I don’t want ‘em, you can have ‘em, they’re too tame for me.”

But wild things?  A completely different story.   If something pounces, plunges or prances, and can fetch its own supper, sign me up.

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Chapter 1

Every cell in my body leans into her. She reaches for my hand over the flannel sheet. She never reaches for my hand. She kisses my fingers.  She cries.  I’ve only seen her cry once in our 45 years and that was when our kitty Moshe died.   She asks.  Snow falls. The window clots with white.

I say yes. I promise.  “Abby, I will never tell the world what we are or were to each other.”

Yes, I can hear you, yes, yes, all of you who have lives that open and close like sheets on a windy line, who have secrets you hold dear, the rest of you displayed in bold print for the world to see.  Look at me, look at me, you’re saying.  I am Facebook; I am Twitter.  What are you?  What have you got to say for yourself?

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Although this piece has aged a bit, it speaks to me on a new level as I try to sort through my own accumulated clutter and remember Mary’s struggle to determine what to keep and what to let go.

Portrait:  Ralph and Mary—- published in The Seattle Weekly

Drawing by Judy Connor

It’s not that I’m not a supporter of the arts.  Believe me, some of my best friends work for museums.

And I’m glad for the bold move of putting the Seattle Art Museum downtown—for a building that will make art more accessible to the masses, will

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