The Living Pom-Pom

Standing with my father, I watched - as did he - the massive creature barreling out of the field.  

Piles of black and white rising and falling, with each heaving leap and bound.   An enormous living pom-pom {?} was headed our way?! 

I could feel the blood drain from my body... {Dear Lord, there was a face amidst the galloping mass?}  My heart raced and the skin on my chest was now tingling from the confused blood flow... {And a tongue?  Was that a tongue?!}  I moved quickly to my father’s side.

We were here to help the farmer down the road from The Old Place, Bomsey.  {Though at the moment no task mattered...}  Bomsey was also watching this event unfold... and was seemingly unfazed.  

Dad let out a laugh, “Would you look at that?!”  {Uh, yeah Dad... I’m looking!?   Actually, I can’t stop looking... I’d be running if there was somewhere to run to... and that’s assuming my legs would stop wobbling long enough to be functional...}

Bomsey saw me peeking out from behind my fathers legs and chuckled.  As the giant pom-pom mop creature got closer, it - thankfully - slowed its pace.  Those once wildly airborne piles turned out to be hair, attached to what now presented as a dog... Bomsey’s dog.  The dog that went with the farm... the good-natured, curiously shaggy, insanely large, family pet.  

{That’ll be Mr. Pom-Pom to you!}

I had never seen such a shape-shifting phenomenon in action, and I was thankful that the intimidating appearance had settled.  Make no mistake, this was still a big dog... but nowhere near the size he portrayed while in mid-run.  Mounds of Rastafarian style dreadlocks twisted, forming ringlets that hung heavily, like an overgrown mop coat, ALL over his body.  

Bomsey, well aware of the anomaly, was ready to explain, “We have such a problem keeping the cows safe, that we got ‘Mr. Pom-Pom.’  He is actually an Old English Sheepdog, but works great at keeping the fox and big cats from getting to my cows.”  He leaned over and lifted tufts of dreadlocks off Mr. Pom-Pom’s eyes revealing a happily panting puppy face, “With all this matted hair it is really hard - actually impossible - for anything to be able to bite him.”  Mr. Pom-Pom sauntered towards my Dad, as Bomsey continued, “They have to get through all that hair first. On top of that, when he runs he looks really big and intimidating... nothing sticks around long enough to find out what he is.”  {Uh, ya think?!}

Dad laughed at the oddity, reaching down to pet and feel the masses... as I continued to resort to the behavior of my younger years, still hiding behind the safety of my fathers body.  It took me a while to wrap my mind around the notion that this ‘dog’ was not going to tear me apart... just seconds ago he was intimidating beyond capacity... no way anything could transform that quickly into a family pet. 

I looked to the fields, at the mooing cows in the distance, “How are they not afraid?”  Bomsey smiled, “They know.  He’s there to protect them.  They’ve learned that he is not the one to be afraid of.”

Dad lifted the piles off his back, showing me the dog inside the moppy coat.  Mr. Pom-Pom pranced around his legs, enjoying every pet.  I reached out and felt a handful of mop, trying as my father did to get to the dog beneath.  Bomsey was right!  Should something attempt to bite him, they would ne’er get through.  It was a virtual furry coat of armor. 

Dad and Bomsey moved onto the next faze of their conversation...  I stayed stuck, watching every move Mr. Pom-Pom made.  My fixated trance was broken when Dad let out a yell... half in pain... half in aggravation.  My attention was drawn from the dog to Dad... who was now stuck himself... to a nail.  Lifting his foot off the ground, a hefty plank of wood followed his every move.  Firmly attached, the nail went through his shoe and his foot.  Bomsey had to stand on the length of the plank, as Dad - with a wince - yanked his flesh free.  {Geez Louise!  I have had just about enough!?}

The offending plank thrown to the side... a brief shoe damage inspection took place, “Would you look at that!?”   He pointed out - annoyed - the hole the nail had left in his good work boot’s... {Uh, yeah Dad... I’m looking!?  Actually, I can’t stop looking...}

The flesh inspection waited till evening.  Too much 'manly' work to do for now...  

That night, sitting in the back room of The Old Place, Dad carefully cleaned the two holes in his foot.  Yup, I said two - one on the bottom of his foot, one on the top.  Aw heck!  Nothing a good soak with peroxide, an updated tetanus shot, and a please-don’t-let-it-get-infected prayer can’t handle...

"So... What did you think of Bomsey's dog?"

Looking at his foot, I thought about the events of the day... "I think it's too bad you didn't have some of that protective coat for your foot!"

I can't help but think ~ if Cousin It had a dog... ;)

"Ha!  Yeah, that would have been nice...."

The Old Place

The little white house on the rivers edge.  A rumbling roar 24/7.  Shiny rocks, glisten from the wetness.  Ebbs spiral endlessly, swirling designs around each protruding rock.  The water gives way, weaving a path onward down the river.

(48 years old, and I think it’s safe to say that ‘The Old Place’ still tops my ‘favorite place list.’)

Driving by ‘The Old Place’ stirred a mixture of emotions.  It is hard to believe that it has been 31 years since my parents sold it for the new place... aka‘The Barn.’  To my surprise, 'The Old Place' had been modernized into the present day... and was up for sale.   I turned around and decided to sit for a while.... 

The bedroom window, just behind the chimney, is gone.

A porch... a fitting new addition. 

The water is much lower than years ago... evident by the hovering tree trunk.

I so remember running around on those grounds as a child.  The river drowned out any insulting noises - though there really were none.  I sat there for an hour and only 5 cars drove by.  Can you imagine?!  I could see my childhood flash before me.  My sisters and I spent so many hours in that creek... creating dams to have deeper water to swim in, to corral and catch fish, to build our own river forts.  Lisa must have been about 7 or 8 years old when she reached into the ripples and came up with a whopper of a trout!  Dad had been working by the waters edge and heard her call out, “Hey, Dad, look at this!”  I don’t think she really realized the improbability of her catch.  He laughed and asked her to hold it higher so he could get a better look, in sheer disbelief that his little girl had just caught the massive trout he had so many times tried to nab via fishing pole.  The fish twisted and arched in her hands as she held it overhead.  Her bleached blond hair sticking together in drenched bunches, framing her proud smiling face... all while proud PaPa looked on and laughed out loud.  She could hold it no more, bending to the rivers bed she let the fish go.  

Lisa (5 yrs old) and Barbara (7 yrs old) - 1972

Lisa & our friends Randy & Lori ~ 1977

The pine tree is gone... and the 'coffee bush is oh so tiny...

Then there was the ‘Coffee Bush.’  Every morning Mom would take the used grounds out and dump them under the bush.  I’m not sure why this routine started, but the bush apparently loved, loved, loved this and responded by growing into a beautiful 'full-bodied' bush!  The ‘Coffee Bush’ still exists, but not with the vigor of my childhood days.  No doubt the new owners are unaware of the coffee grind rules.

The edge of the 'coffee bush'(rt) & our infamous fire pit.

The fire pit is no more.  Not to say I don’t know where it was.... We sat for hours upon hours listening to the crackling blaze, amidst the steadfast, surround sound lull of the rippling river.  No sooner were the logs lit, and Mom would walk out of that rickety old kitchen with two cups of coffee in hand... and maybe even some hot chocolate.  Using big old logs for our seats, we nestled as close as we safely could to the flames.  From time to time a bat would swoop over head, and we would squeal in horror and delight.  Sparks from the embers floated up on the heat waves, setting our sights to the starlit sky... More than our hands were warmed by those fire pit nights.

The apple tree in the corner is gone, as is the old dog house.  It is safe to say the woodchuck has probably also gone.  He graced our mornings everyday.  Many of his cousins were target practice, and met speedy ends.  But this guy was Officially off limits per my Mom.  She loved to watch him out the kitchen window, him and his brother up the street... the one that sat on the crest of the hill in front of the waterfall entry...  any other family members were fair game.  But not them.  

The outhouse was gone too.  Only a sink hole in the area it used to be.  The field above, the one with the grazing cows, was now overgrown.  So overgrown you could no longer see a field.  No way cows were anywhere in the area.

Looking back to the river, at this moment in time, I wondered how many of the rocks were still there from my childhood. The big ones of course.  The ones that nature was hard pressed to move.  But what about the little ones?  The ones we used to build the dams.  Did those still sit where we left them?

Did it really matter?  Right now.... right this second... The best thing of all, was the tranquility was as I remembered.  True.  Unwavering.   Unblemished.  

Mom and Heidi

Heidi sitting watch

June 1972... me in my 'cool' red shorts... 8 years old.