THE BUTTERFLY WHISPERER

THE BUTTERFLY WHISPERER by Sara Etgen-Baker

 

I entered Whispering Pines where I found the large French doors of the day room flung wide open; the air—light and fresh—gently blew the long, crisp, white curtains to and fro.  I walked through the doors—the morning sunshine shimmering through the pine trees—and saw Pop sitting on the verandah surrounded by a rabble of butterflies.

He was slumped over in his wheelchair, his limp left arm tied to the chair’s railing.  He looked up and waved with his good hand.  “Sara!” he called with delight.  I caught my breath and fought back the tears. 

 “Re…re…remember?  He flashed me a smile.  “Bu…bu…butterflies!”  Since his stroke, Pop couldn’t form full, flowing sentences—just words and even those came out slowly. 

“Yes, I remember!”   I squeezed his hands.  “When one of your monarchs emerged from its chrysalis, you showed me how to guide it to walk on my finger.  That was my first memorable butterfly encounter!”  I scooted a chair next to him; we held hands, and the hours imperceptibly passed as we watched the butterflies.

I was 35 when my father first introduced me to his butterflies.  “Why are you raising butterflies?” I asked. 

 “I witness grace.”

 “Grace?” I chuckled for even then Pop was a man of few words.  “I don’t understand.” 

“After the chrysalis is formed, the butterfly faithfully waits in its dark cocoon—unable to move, to see, or to care for itself.  But in that mysterious darkness, it’s not afraid.  It bears the unbearable not knowing and trusts in something bigger that’s calling it to change.  That’s grace.” 

We continued watching butterflies on the verandah until the afternoon sun told me it was time to go.  I kissed Pop on the cheek.  “Gra…gra…grace,” he said.  “Stroke is gra…gra…grace.  I not a…a…afraid.”

Pop’s words soothed my broken heart.  Although his stroke had wrapped him in a dark cocoon where he was unable to move, to speak, or care for himself, Pop wasn’t afraid.  He was bearing the unbearable not knowing and trusting in something bigger that was calling him to change.  Grace had strengthened him.   

Skeletons in My Closet

Just sharing a personal narrative about the role of clutter in my life.  Thanks for reading! 

SKELETONS IN MY CLOSET by Sara Etgen-Baker

            When I retired my clothes closet became dormant and insignificant—cluttered with useless fabric skeletons.  For a while, these fabric skeletons remained silent, but there’s something about closets, though, that make skeletons restless.  And these skeletons were no different.  Soon they began haunting me. 

“Set us free!” they moaned from the cluttered darkness. 

“Be quiet!” I shouted whenever I walked by. 

“You’ll never wear us again,” they demanded.  “Besides we’re aging and becoming worthless here in the shadows.”

 “What if I return to the workplace?  I’ll need you then.  You just never know.”  I reassured them.  “Let’s wait and see.”

But in the middle of the night their shrill voices woke me.  “Please, set us free.  We don’t need you anymore.” 

I pulled back the covers, flung open the closet doors, and flipped on the light.  “You don’t understand.  You may not need me,” tears trickled down my face, “but I don’t think I can live without you!” 

“Don’t you see?” The skeletons persisted.  “You don’t need us anymore either!”   Then one of them whispered, “I believe you’re procrastinating and keeping us here out of fear.”

“No I’m not!” I insisted as I turned around, slammed the door, and crawled back into bed.  Unable to sleep, I stood up and paced around the bedroom.  What if the fabric skeletons were right?  Why wouldn’t I let them go?  What was I afraid of?  After a restless, soul-searching night, I realized my retirement frightened me.  But why? 

Let’s face it.  Main stream culture doesn’t necessarily value retirees.  So, my retirement seemed like a one-way ticket to insignificance and disenfranchisement from the culture as a whole.  I was afraid of being useless—like the cluttered fabric skeletons in my closet.  Eliminating them somehow meant I, too, was useless. 

One by one, I freed most of the fabric skeletons and began embracing my retirement.  In the process I learned that clutter is a postponed decision and is always about feelings—whatever those feelings might be.

Runt of the Litter

Here's a story about my family's loving Doxie named Fritz von Etgen.  Some of this is a wee bit fictionalized to capture the essence of the family dachshund who lived with us for about 12 years.

RUNT OF THE LITTER

By Sara Etgen-Baker

I stepped off the back porch and approached Fritz’ house, nestled beneath the shade of a sprawling pecan tree.  Using our shared German language, I commanded Fritz to dinner:   “Fritz!  Kommen Sie hier—Abendessen!” 

            Yet, Fritz didn’t come when called to dinner.    I knelt down, peered inside his doghouse, caught a glimpse of his shiny dark little nose, and found him snuggled in the back corner of his doghouse, shivering and whining.  He tried to stand up but whimpered then immediately collapsed.

            “What’s the matter old boy?  Why are you shaking?”  I reached inside, hoping to pull him into my arms, but he yelped even louder.  His doghouse had no floor, so I lifted up Fritz’ house, placed him in my arms, and put him in the softest blanket I could find.  I sat on the back porch with him in my lap. “Fritz, you’re gonna be okay.”  I gently stroked his back.  “Just go to sleep.  When you wake up, you’ll be okay.”  As I waited for him to drift off to sleep, I remembered the day Fritz came into my life. 

I was lying on the back porch that hot Labor Day afternoon when I heard ol’ man Davis proclaim, “Hilda’s gone into labor!”  I leaped down the back porch steps, ran next door, and watched Hilda strain as each one of her five pups slowly wriggled its way from her belly.  Fritz was a runt and the first of Hilda’s litter of five milk-chocolate colored dachshunds. 

I giggled as I watched five bundles of energy squirming beneath their mother’s tummy, all begging for lunch at the same time.  The magical moment ended all too quickly when Hilda nudged her runt puppy away from her.  Although the runt inched its way back to Hilda’s stomach, she shoved the runt away, growled at it, pouncing on its tiny back and tail.  It yelped. I screeched in horror as ol’ man Davis—the neighborhood dachshund aficionado—ran to my side.   

            “She’s hurting him . . . make her stop!” I waved my hands in front of Hilda’s growling face. 

             Ol’ man Davis scooped up the injured pup away from its snarling mother and placed it in my hands.  “Run, kiddo.  Find a shoe box and put that pup in it!  Hurry back!”

I darted for the Davis’ house, gingerly holding the wounded pup in my hands.  When I placed the pup in the shoe box, it stretched and twisted its tiny body ever so slightly.  Relieved, I returned to ol’ man Davis’ side. 

“Hilda’s a mean dog . . . I don’t like her!” My voice trembled.  “Why would a mama dog kill its own puppy?”

 “Kiddo, ya gotta understand that Hilda’s not mean; she loves her runt but believes that it’s too weak to survive and thinks that killing it is the merciful thing to do.”

Ol’ man Davis patted me on the back. “Hey, kiddo, if ya have a doll blanket and baby bottle back home, go get ‘em. I believe we can save this pup.  Whatcha think about that?”

 I dashed home, found the two items, and returned to ol’ man Davis’ side.  We placed the runt on the blanket, heated some milk, added syrup to it, and poured the mixture into the baby bottle.  The runt sucked on it and wiggled contentedly.  While I caressed its tiny body with my fingers, the runt fell asleep—serene and out of harm’s way.   

 “Ya know, kiddo, many runts die before they ever open their eyes.  If we can keep this runt alive ‘til its eyes open, it’ll prob’ly survive.  Supposin’ it pulls through, you can have this pup. I bet it’ll be the most energetic pup of the litter.”  

So for 14 days we hand-fed the runt, waiting for its eyes to open and watching it develop into an energetic, mischievous but loving, satiny dachshund puppy with a slightly broken tail.   

“Hey, kiddo, at some point ya gotta give your puppy a proper German name,” suggested ol’ man Davis.

“Well, for some reason I like the name Fritz.  It suits him!”

            “Fritz is a right and proper name.   I kinda like it.”

So for 12 years, Fritz and I shared the back porch most afternoons.  Whenever I sat on the porch, Fritz always jumped into my lap. As I petted his elongated back and belly, I’d sometimes share my deepest thoughts, secrets, and fears. 

 “Fritz, I want to go to the dance, but I’m afraid no one will ask me.  Should I go anyway?”  He’d tilt his head side-to-side as if to nod affirmatively and look at me with those encouraging doe-like eyes.  “You know, I’m not very pretty, and I’m not a popular girl.  What if my acne flairs up the day before the dance?  What then?  Should I go?”   He’d lick my face, wag his tail, and bark leaving me to interpret his doxie advice. 

As Fritz matured, he embraced his German heritage, for he loved sausage, sauerkraut, pretzels, and even an occasional beer.  At some point, Fritz even acquired a bit of the German wanderlust—escaping from my yard and roaming the neighborhood.  I never worried about his wanderings, though. I always found Fritz—he was the only neighborhood dachshund whose tail was broken.  As soon as I spotted him, I’d yell in German, “Fritz, kommen Sie hier. Schlechter Hund!”  As commanded, Fritz came to my side with his head down and his broken tail between his legs, pretending to be my bad dog. 

            I suppose his mother’s early rejection made Fritz a bit arrogant, which was all too evident when he haughtily turned his head toward me and trotted home.   Once inside the house, Fritz sounded like Fred Astaire tap dancing—his tiny little toenails clickedy-clicked on mother’s linoleum floor.  However, Fritz was half-a-dog high and a dog-and-a-half long with short stubby legs and tiny feet.  So, he lacked Astaire’s coordination and grace—running down the hallway and sliding out of control with the back of him always going in front of him. 

Today, though, Fritz looked listless, fragile, and feeble.  “What do you need, old boy?”  I stroked his head and muttered to myself.  “What should I do, Fritz?  Please tell me.  I’ll get you whatever you need.” 

Ol’ man Davis must’ve seen us on the back porch and said, “Hey, kiddo.  Looks as if old Fritz is in some pain. Let’s take him to the vet.  How does that sound?” 

            I silently boarded ol’ man Davis’ truck, resting Fritz comfortably in my lap. When we arrived at the vet’s office, he immediately took Fritz from me, disappearing from view.  When the vet reappeared, he said, “Fritz has arthritis and he’s also had a severe heart attack.  He’s an old dog and too weak to survive.”  He took my hand in his and said, “The strong and merciful thing to do would be to put Fritz to sleep.”

 “Are you sure?  Maybe all Fritz needs is some rest.”

“Yes, I’m sure.  I know letting go of your beloved Fritz is a hard decision, but…..” the vet’s voice trailed off. 

I gulped hard and nodded “Okay.”

 “Would you like to see him one last time?” the vet asked.

“Go ahead, kiddo.”  Ol’ man Davis squeezed my hand and stroked my forearm.  “I’ll wait for ya right here.”

I entered the back room and approached the examination table.  Fritz lifted his head and wagged his broken tail.  I stroked Fritz’ belly, patted his head, choking back the tears.  “Fritz, you’re weak and sick, old boy, and not going to get any better.  I don’t want to see you suffer, so, I’m…I’m… putting you to sleep.”

I hugged Fritz one last time. “I’m going to miss you, old boy!”

Fritz looked at me with those familiar doe-like, understanding eyes and nodded his head as if to say, “I’ll be okay.  Thanks for being strong and merciful.” 

The vet handed me a box of tissues and pulled me against his shoulder.   “Putting Fritz to sleep is safe and harmless.  Fritz will receive two shots. The first will render him unconscious.  The second will put him to sleep quickly and painlessly, usually within about 30 seconds.”

After Fritz received the first shot, I waited until unconsciousness washed over him like a soothing rain.  Then, with the second shot, Fritz slipped away quickly and peacefully, just as the vet promised.   I lingered by Fritz’ side for quite some time, remembering what my childhood dog had taught me about tenacity, friendship, loyalty, and now death. 

The next day ol’ man Davis and I buried Fritz in his favorite spot—beneath the cool shade of the pecan tree.  I found myself thinking back to the day Hilda tried to kill her runt puppy.  As I did, my perspective shifted, for I now better understood and even respected Hilda’s instinct to be merciful and strong.   

Just an exciting update for those of you who follow my blog.  The anthology Times They Were a' Changing is available for purchase. Here's the ISBN numbers for those of you who wanted to purchase a copy. If you'll remember my story, "The September Wind" took first place in this contest back in March. I'm pretty excited about this book release! Yeah!
Print ISBN: 978-1-938314-04-9 Price: $16.95
E ISBN: 978-1-938314-10-0 Price: $9.95 - See more at: http://www.timestheywereachanging.com/publicity/

I took a memoir piece, re-vamped it, then fictionalized the characters and events to create this new story.  Fiction is still a bit of a challenge for me.  But I enjoy writing it. 

A GLIMPSE INTO THE HOURGLASS by Sara Etgen-Baker

The autumn winds hurried through the maple trees; their leaves began falling—some fast and some slow—swirling and twirling around Angela’s body until at last the leaves touched the ground.  It was the perfect leaf-kicking day, for the autumn sun burned brightly—like a flaming torch—igniting the colors in all of the leaves.    

So, Angela scurried through her grandfather’s yard—unable to resist crunching all the leaves with their apricot oranges, burgundy reds, tangerine yellows, and chocolate browns.  Then she dove into a soft bed of the dry, colorful maple leaves and lingered there absorbing the warmth of the midday sunshine and inhaling the intoxicating smell of the moist earth and the dried leaves. 

“Angela, stop your dawdlin’!” 

Angela looked up.  Her grandfather was standing over her with a rake in his hand. 

“It’s almost lunchtime.  Those leaves won’t rake themselves, you know.”  He handed Angela the rake.  “I need you to get those leaves raked so I can put them in the incinerator and burn them.”  He turned away and strode toward the back porch.  “I’m guessin’ you’re gettin’ a wee bit hungry by now.”

“Yes, Granddad, I am.”  Angela continued raking the leaves.

“Well then.  Come inside.  I suppose you’ll be needin’ some lunch before you finish rakin’ them leaves.”

  Angela threw down the rake and ran toward the back door, kicking more leaves along the way. 

            “Here’s your peanut butter and jelly sandwich—no jelly, right?”  He placed a plate and glass of milk on the kitchen counter. 

            “Right, Granddad.”  Angela giggled.  “Thanks.  It looks yummy.”

            “Sorry that’s all I have.  I just wasn’t expectin’ you till tomorrow.”  He stood up and grabbed a root beer from his refrigerator.  “You sleep okay last night, darlin’?” 

            Although his silent house had kept her awake, Angela replied, “Yes sir. I did,” followed by, “How ‘bout you?”

            “I’m old—I never sleep well,” he grumbled.  

            The house became still as they struggled with what to say to one another.  So they ate lunch in silence—a silence so thick Angela could feel it drape around her like an old shawl.  After lunch, she pulled it over her shoulders and plopped down into her grandmother’s chair suddenly aware of something else in the house—something different—a faint rustling, a soft presence of some sort.  She didn’t know what it was.     

Perhaps it was the scent of her grandmother’s lavender perfume that lingered in the rich tapestry fabric, stirring memories of when she sat in her grandmother’s lap reading a book or sharing apple cider.  She closed her eyes and remembered when the house was full of noise and her grandmother’s laughter.  Now, though, the house was empty, lifeless, and silent.     

He glanced up from reading his newspaper.  “Your grandmother loved sitting in that chair and watching her grandchildren.”

“I loved sitting in her lap when she sat in this chair.”  Angela watched his face.  “It still smells like her.”

“Yes, it does.”  He adjusted his glasses.  “Her memory kept me awake last night.”

 “The silence last night frightened me and kept me awake.” Angela choked back the tears.

He slowly raised one eyebrow and fumbled for words.  “Why…uh…uh…are you afraid of the silence?”

“Because the silence just makes me miss her more.” Angela wiped at her nose.

“I miss her too.”  He peered over his glasses.  “In the silence I hear her voice and feel her spirit rustling through the house.  In that silence, I don’t miss her as much.”  His chin trembled and his voice cracked.  “I’m terribly afraid I’ll lose her forever if I don’t keep the house silent.” 

He sighed and took a deep breath.  After another moment’s silence he left the room and returned with an hourglass in his hand.  “You know what the infinity symbol looks like, right?”

 

“Yes, Granddad, I do—like an eight lying on its side.”

“Yes.  But if you stand it up, the infinity symbol reminds me of an hourglass—like this one that belonged to your grandmother.”  He pulled his chair close to Angela, leaned forward, and said, “Glimpse into the hourglass at the grains of sand.”  He turned over the hourglass and tapped it. 

Angela stared at the hourglass—mesmerized by the tiny grains of sand as they trickled through the neck of the hourglass.    

“I’d like to think that each grain of sand represents a tiny piece of time—a memory we have of her.  And although the time we had with her was precious and fleeting, each memory brings us pleasure, warms our hearts, and keeps her spirit alive.”  He clutched the hourglass then turned it sideways so it resembled the infinity symbol.  “I’d also like to think that each grain of sand represents her infinite love for us.” 

A smile emerged on his face as he looked in Angela’s eyes.  “I want you to have her hourglass.  Always remember your grandmother’s love for you is imperishable and continues forever—it’s infinite like the infinity symbol.” 

Angela took the hourglass and sniffed back the tears; then they embraced and waited—waited until

the comforting lilt of her grandmother’s spirit surrounded them filling the silence.

Wisdom From An Old Scribe

Just sharing another piece that I submitted to Tiny Lights. http://www.tiny-lights.com/ This piece answers the prompt "Who Controls Your Writing."  Enjoy

WISDOM FROM AN ANCIENT SCRIBE by Sara Etgen-Baker

In a land called Álfheimer, there once lived a young elfin scribe known as Olwȅ Nénharma.  Now it happened one day while walking through the Bodhi Woods that he came upon an old scribe. 

Lord Carnesȉr, some 90+ years old, sat feebly on the stump of an orange blossom tree.  The old scribe didn’t move—he sat with his head down staring at his hands.  Olwȅ sat down beside him, but the old scribe didn’t even acknowledge his presence. 

 

Although Olwȅ didn’t want to disturb the old scribe, he wondered if the old scribe was okay. So he asked, “Be you okay, Lord Carnesȉr?” 

Lord Carnesȉr raised his head, took a sip of lisyul, and smiled.  “I be fine young scribe.  Bless you for asking.”  

“I don’t mean to disturb you, sir.”  The young scribe leaned toward him.  “But I was wondering who controls my writing?  It’s a mystery to me.” 

“Now that’s a bit of a puzzle you see.  For the act of writing is left to you and me.”  Lord Carnesȉr rubbed his chin.  “But there’s really no mystery.  You simply have a responsibility.”  

 “But, sir, my family doesn’t understand.”  Olwȅ kicked a rock with his toe.  “They want me to take up the traditional Elfin ways.  And my friends—well, uh….they just want me to sing and dance.  I feel all alone.

“What you feel is not an uncommon scribal plight.  Do not fret over the ways of the Elfin World.”  Lord Carnesȉr patted Olwȅ’s leg.  “You’ve been given a gift—a talent so rare that you won’t fit in anywhere.”

“What about the villagers, my readers?” Olwȅ clutched his body.  “And what about the Sȇregon Council of Editors?” 

Lord Carnesȉr leaned back and looked Olwȅ straight in the eyes.  “Villagers will criticize you.   Yes, the leaders of the Sȇregon Council will editorialize you.” 

“But take heart.  Love your craft.  Learn how to tell stories.  Love the act of writing.  Don’t let others dissuade you from your path, young scribe.  Write because you want to write.”

So, according to Lord Carnesȉr who controls my writing?  I do.  Anon

Occasionally, you may find Sara Etgen-Baker talking with the wise Lord Carnesȉr while walking through the woods near her home.  If you don’t find her there, you may visit her at http://saraetgenbaker.blogspot.com/

The Magic Pen

I originally wrote this piece in response to one of the monthly prompts at Tiny-Lights--a monthly writer's exchange.  This was a fun piece that I wanted to share. 

THE MAGIC PEN—A FAIRY TALE FOR WRITERS by Sara Etgen-Baker

Once upon a time there lived a gifted princess named Rizan who wrote and spun stories into gold. Now it happened that she opened the mail one day and discovered a rejection letter; she sat at her computer and cried, fearing her gift was gone.

Then Rizan looked out the window of her condo and thought to herself, "The sunset is so beautiful; I think I'll take a stroll along the trails near the creek."

However, darkness quickly fell, and she suddenly found herself lost and alone—deep inside the dark, urban wilderness not knowing what to do. So, Rizan decided to follow the moonlight, hoping it would guide her safely back home. She crossed a small wooden bridge, but all at once an ugly hunchback gnome jumped over the edge, startling poor Rizan.

"Sorry me startled you," the gnome replied, "Yfel's me name. Who might ‘cha be?" he inquired.

"My name's Rizan," the princess answered.

"What brings you out alone into the cold on this wintery evening?" Yfel asked.

"I took a stroll to clear my head hoping to renew my gift of creativity. Now, I seem to have lost my way home."

"Ah, I see…well…tonight's your lucky night, for I have just the thing for you. It's a magic pen. It will bring back your gift. Would ‘cha like to see it?"

"Sure," the princess innocently responded.

Then Yfel handed Rizan the pen, and she ran back to her condo eager to try the new pen. All at once, the point pricked the palm of her hand releasing a paralyzing poison; Rizan fell to the floor where she slumbered until sunrise. The sunbeams woke her.  But, alas, she was still paralyzed.

Soon, a delicately-winged fairy named Gignere slid down a sunbeam onto Rizan's shoulder and said, "I see the evil Yfel tempted you with his magic pen and cast a spell on you."

Then, Gignere waved her magic wand saying, "Be gone paralyzing poison."

With that, the numbness slowly left Rizan's body; she stood up and said, "Thank you, gentle Gignere, for rescuing me from Yfel's evil spell! What about my gift? Is there nothing you can do to rescue it?" Rizan blurted.

Gignere answered, "There's nothing more I can do. Do not let an evil, outside source take it away from you.   Remember writing is your gift and always dwells inside of you."

With that, Gignere smiled and flitted away climbing upon a sunbeam as it floated into the sunrise.

And from that day on, Rizan wrote happily ever after never doubting her gift of creativity.