What is to give light must endure burning

Driver pulled the white Suburban to a stop. The rain had stopped, two tiny golden-headed women burst from the double doors of the brick building. Maydene and Fairy Lady were of equal height and the shimmer of them would have stopped rain simply because they burned so brightly together. The man behind the wheel paused, his head turned appreciatively as he thought of Maydene's tattoo, the one he had caressed so often. What is to give light must endure burning. 

"Please make yourselves be welcomed by the Ladies. They have waited a long time for this today. I will drive around with the chattel and bundles." Driver had a lovely way with his speech. Shine was taken to wondrous places when she tuned to his lilting sentences. These were the sorts of sounds her ears absorbed deeply. Music would come of it. She counted on the outcome. It was her clockworks.

"If you don't mind," said Stan "I would like to help with the bags and my bass. She, this bass and I have a long standing agreement that it will be me and me alone who moves her."

"I get your meaning perfectly Bass Man. This carriage and I have a similar arrangement." Driver helped everyone else from their seats, waved cheerfully to the hostesses literally fluttering from the landing. Stan walked to the carriage door and held two hands out for Dumpling. "You my darlin', are my ..." Dumpling slid in the words, "Primary Bass. I will follow you anywhere." The couple was now well into their eighties and it was a beautiful thing to see how perfectly they continued to fit. "There are four steps and then a wide landing. Then four more steps. The handrail is just here." Dumpling felt for it. The wood smooth and sturdy.

Raven observed the procession of young and old and inter-species company climb the deep brick and concrete stairs. Seven guests walked toward the doors ahead of the bird-man. The glimmer of light that could easily be mistaken for drizzles circled him. Whispering he said,"This is an event not limited by time Border Witch. Let them know you have come." Once up the stairs and onto the landing, in deference to the tiny women's stature it was a silver-haired Raven dressed in elegant garb who leaned toward his hostesses. Feathered wings embraced them, and a hibiscus -- one purple and one red appeared from each his wings. "Pale's gifts," he said. Fairy Lady was given the red, and Maydene the purple.

Transforming the Capital

Maydene Short was more city than Salish Islander. Her friendship with Calypso connected her to the island and the community of women who cared for women. Birthing, nursing and making room for families to thrive. Those three things kept May and Calypso woven. Midwifery in 1960's America was a Border Town more hippy than mainstream medicine. Maydene Short came from an England which had just moved from a firm and committed esteem for midwives who delivered babies at home. Hospitalization and the role of the M.D. would displace the home-based midwife soon enough. But May was on a ride ahead of the curve. Calypso had the blood of kahuna who cared for woman and her family as a whole. The natural process of birthing at home was almost as natural as surfing ocean waves. Two women rode the same wave, but started from opposite sides of the Planet.
The five hour plane ride from Honolulu to Seattle those decades earlier opened a potential neither woman could have imagined.

"Do you really believe we can do this. Are you crazy, May." Calypso was not convinced she wasn't crazy, so the expletive was just her way to sputter through the proposal. The idea of creating a birthing center in the middle of Seattle was more than Calypso was prepared for. Midwifery was no doubt her calling, she was not questioning that.

"I have made very powerful connections in this city Calypso. People who not only have money, but people who believe in women. They believe in creation. Thanks to my Mum and Dad the Capital Street Apartments has no mortgage. And, as of today I am twenty-two. I own this place and the land upon which these brick are built ... well, it's what you folks call 'aina. This land feeds me. I feed it. I want to share it with you and your family. Forever! That's what this paperwork says." The parcel of paperwork May held bound in plain brown wrapping was a trust fund that held into perpetuity this building and the half block of land upon which it rose.

"You will never need to move from your beloved woods on the Island, but. But, this place this building of bricks will always be here for birthing and caring for people. How we do this may change as we change. What cannot change is this line "Care for children, women and their families is fundamental."

In 1972 The Capital Street Apartments quietly transformed into a birthing center for low-income families. Maydene's east-facing second floor apartment remained her personal residence. Early into the process of conversion, one of the downstairs apartments became a fully functioning kitchen equipped with a natural gas Rayburn with enough heat equivalent to 20 radiators. Plenty of hot water, cozy heat, and cast iron cook tops for meals became the heart of The Capital Street Apartments.

If you counted, the beautiful Mahealani Moon of December 25, 2015 and all her many cycles since 1972, the 'iewe, the afterbirth of more than twelve hundred newborns were buried in the rich and sustaining gardens that surrounded a stout brick building on Capital Street. A gala party was traveling by ferry and carriage to welcome a new sort of birthing on this Full Moon. But what did not change was this line "Care for children, women and their families is fundamental."

It was gingerbread

There were nine passengers aboard the Suburban Carriage that Christmas morning. The seams of story were unzipped to allow common boundaries and generations to meet, revisit, and gather the momentum on the Full Moon in Cancer. Mothering was getting a boost, and the slipstream and illusion of Time consented ... to what you wonder? Well, to loosen any regulation for a start.

The guests were prompt, and in the merriest of spirits. Each was blessed with the gift of wonderfully keen olfactory sense. Without exception it was gingerbread all nine smelled.

Once the bass guitar safely encased was stowed and anchored with a seat belt of her own, Stan Costa finally reached his arms across the last row and embraced Jacob. "Oh it has been too long. Buff." Jacob the Surveyor could not remember the last person who called him by that nickname. A name from times when he was a young man and brother to twins who only ever called him Buff. Rabbit was sharp to the encounter that was just one of several conversations going at the same time in the large carriage. "I cannot remember when we last spoke," Jacob shook his head. Rabbit saw water drop from the surveyors eyes. Oh my, oh my. 

Dumpling Woman filled in the seat next to Stan. Her hair was now as white as a winter moon. Her still round face beamed as she listened to the words and the laughter. "Just because I can't see doesn't mean I get no kisses." Dumpling pursed her lips and waited for a peck from Jacob.

"Dear merry riders, I do apologize for the interruption but we must be off." Driver checked his pocket watch and hit a key on the dash-installed cellphone, and put it on speaker. When she answered he simply said, "We are present, and jolly well ready for the journey south. May, have you any words for your company?"

"Welcome sweet friends. I know from the sound of your voices you are all there. Driver has prepared treats for the ride. Reach under her seats, and unwrap your surprises. We are making the finishing touches to our weekend of festivities. See you soon!" The chatter and giggling escalated as each guest in turn bent forward. Their seat belts held them back.

"No fair!" Larkin chimed.

"Right you are," Driver turned the ignition off and gave them all the green light before starting the engine back up. From under each seat was a beautifully wrapped bunting of colorful cloth. Still warm and definitely fragrant, the smell of gingerbread exploded in earnest. "Now then, is it time to get this show on the road?"

Along with the bunting filled with freshly baked gingerbread, thermos of hot cocoa, boiling hot water and assorted tea bags, tiny bottles of cream and peppermint schnapps filled wicker baskets. Cloth napkins and pats of butter and cream cheese added to the breakfast treat. Yes, thought Rabbit this is going to be a very delightful time.

Beautiful Shine and the silver-hair of an aging but no less handsome Raven enjoyed the bird's attempt to bend forward in a seat that was nearly large enough to hold his formidable size.  Transformed from his feathered self, the man was a full seven feet tall. "Let me," Shine offered. The being who had served and toasted cinnamon breads a thousand times ten smiled at the smell of the spicy gingerbread. His thoughts went to another morning like this. A morning only ducks could love. He thought of a woman dressed in sensible black boots and a paisley shawl. The image of her was so sharp Shine could hear the boots splash in puddles. "You are missing her this morning, Raven." It was not a question. The woman handed a bundle of paisley to the silver-haired man. "She would have enjoyed this carriage ride."

"Yes, I am sure she would have." Though her eyes were milk cloudy, her hearing was trebled in facility. Dumpling whispered, "I'm sure she will."

Maydene's Driver

His coat was a wash of old tanned leather with stitches of gold silk patterned to match the invitations. It was ankle length and buttoned from collarbone to knee, the soft skin cut away at the sides to allow his long legs a freedom should he choose to stride. There were cuffs held with garnets. He wore gloves that could have been a second skin they fit so close. The rain was not stopping, even for the arrival of all the chosen guests. A huge black umbrella dangled with Pine Needles, Pine Needle Dancers fit with costumes of red floss. A top hat and red silk and wool scarf wrapped twice round his neck and Mandarin collar, punctuating his look.

The white Suburban specially built for Maydene's galas served her many and surprising ventures. Her driver wore a somehow familiar face. People stared, at first, but within a breath this was good cheer and friendly chatter that enfolded them. The rain's heavy thrumping made it difficult to notice his footwear but let me say to you readers, the driver wore circled toes and an almost sleigh like shape to it's heels. A handy pouch attached to the heavy button at his waist carried coins and dollar bills. When he spotted one of the gala's guests the Driver sprinted for the car, beamed at the arrival and held the huge umbrella over the door without letting rain on himself, or his charge.

"Hello, Happy Christmas. My name is Driver. Maydene's Driver." His voice and joyful demeanor could not have been more like a kitchen filled with gingerbread cookies. "I will take you across to the carriage, and return for your bags." Shaking his pouch he concluded, "Then, fill those slots with coins and bills enough for the weekend."

Larkin and Caitlin were the first to arrive. Caitlin drove Olympia and between them the two women carried a bag of gifts (that rode between them on the seat) and a pack back a piece stored behind the seat. Caitlin could not resist the urge to clap at the sight of Maydene's Driver and did just that as the two made the short trek across the commuter lot. Inhaling and laughing all the way, the sound of bells seem to be keeping time with their jogging. "Would you like the front seat?" Driver hesitated skillfully before sliding the Suburban's side door. "You mean ride shotgun, with you?" She was liking this so much. "A kind of Christmas treat adventure. Four eyes on the way ... and I have been informed of your particular way with lightning. Not that I'm asking for it you understand." There was that smell again. And that sound. Cookies and bells. Caitlin pointed to the passenger seat. Driver nodded and held the umbrella as the tiny woman climbed aboard.

As she waited for Driver to return Larkin spotted Jacob's van. He parked near-by. The lot was more than half-full, though many of the regular workers who commuted had already begun their holidays. Olympia was easy to spot. Jacob waved from behind the fogged windshield of his surveyor's van. Larkin motioned Jacob over to the truck. Covered from head to ankle in rain gear and rubber boots, Jacob angled over both his hands heavy with bags. Driver was already sprinting toward Olympia.

Since Jacob the Surveyor was aptly clothed against the rain and both his hands were full Driver reached a hand out to Larkin and deftly tucked her under the umbrella. "Shall we?" Off the two went. Jacob assured them he would make his way on his own. Driver pointed to the carriage. "We're just there!"

Jacob felt the large bag in his right hand rearrange. "I smell cookies," came the voice of Rabbit who had not yet had enough for breakfast. "I believe you smell gingerbread. And the size of those cookies will surprise even yourself old friend." Jacob laughed jostling the hare as his side-winding gait took them across that wobbly space reserved for magic.

All planets direct

The Christmas of 2015 was a special one. The calligraphy on the invitations was May's inimitably quick hand. Her pen still obeyed. The ink was a rusty brown with gold leaf rubbed into a flow of spirals a maze, or a labyrinth? Both, or neither it was to speak of journeys and to name them and hold them fast is like holding a proper name in place. Is that Kaitlin with a K, or Caitlin with a C. People never agreed on it so, as with many of us we stood our ground with feet firmly planted like the K. But. On occasion and by transits as the heavenly bodies proceeded we might rock on my heels willing to appear as mutable as Uranus.

"All planets direct! And, the first full moon for more than forty years. You are invited to a gala celebration and occasion of jolly. As we toast Larkin's journey across the Green Planet, come prepared to be costumed and dressed for a night and weekend of merriment. Come for a party in the city!"  

A small insert of onionskin explained ... 

A carriage will pick you up at the usual ferry-riding lot at 10 AM, Friday, December 25, 2015. The driver has instructions and ferry fare for all.There will be plenty of room for your duffles or parcels. The Capital Street Apartments have been cleaned and dusted with magic in anticipation of your arrival. Please say you'll come, and stay the week-end.

The calligraphy went on ...

No need to RSVP. I will know you will come, and plan for it with all my heart.

Much Love,

May

Shell collection

Maydene Short still lived in and owned a beautiful old apartment building in Capitol Hill. Funky and affordable in the 1960's her two-bedroom residence was "an investment into the future." The Drs. Short put their money into their daughter's choice to study and live in America. Cornish College was within blocks of the apartment building, and while May studied art, she was also studying midwifery. At the same time.

"It's an odd cobble of your talents dear, but all that energy must go somewhere."
"Couldn't you do the one first and then the other?" This was a three-way conversation well ahead of the techno wizardry of Skype or cellphones. May stood looking out her second floor kitchen window to the alley below. The two floored brick building housed four apartments, two up and two on the ground floor. May's apartment faced east. She held the handset to her closely cropped blond head, and listened first to one parent, and then the other.

"Thing is mother, the Goldmans are starting the midwifery training in October. Cornish starts up in September. I'm enrolled in the Fine Arts program with great instructors and a schedule that will free me up all weekends, and two nights a week. I could begin with both, at least for the first year and see how I get along." Both parents knew the determination in their daughter, and capacity to spread paint with efficacy applied to May Short's youthful vigor. They listened, both silent as they waited for more.

"Are you fretting the investment. The money Dad?"

"No May! I am not." He knew the rent from the three apartments would easily pay the mortgage. This was 1967, and this apartment building had a consistent history of occupancy. "What I'm concerned with is not lighting those wicks from all ends at once. Sizzlin' your firecrackers." That made them all laugh with understanding. The imagery was perfect. Young Maydene was a firecracker fully lit at any given moment.

"I won't disappoint you Mum, and we'll have this chat again next year to see how we all get on with this master plan."

"They won't know what hit them, will they darling?" It was the Mister Short.

"No dad. They won't."

There was a solid and supportive foundation to the Americanization of Maydene Short that could have gone unread if the story did not pick up some old threads seemingly tied good. The Maydene Short who once drove an old Dodge truck she named Olympia in the middle of a lightning storm remains the owner of the Capital Street Apartments. Buy outs and die off have left her unfazed even as Amazon and Google replaced Seattle's flannel shirts for APPS and 'clouds.' She has a Masters in Fine Art Degree specializing in costuming and head dressing. Her particular focus was that of Shell Collecting. More than a hundred costumes featured variations of shells and spirals that replicated the sea world's labyrinths for moving sound.

And the midwifery? There's another good bit of chatter worth your investment. I won't disappoint you. Promise. But it's late, or early morning and this writer needs some sleep. Good night then dear reader. Pleasant dreams.

Sound traveler

"Anatomists long ago named the windings of the inner ear, whose channels provide both hearing and balance, the labyrinth. The name suggests that if the labyrinth is the passage through which sound enters the mind, then we ourselves bodily enter labyrinths as though we were sounds on the way to being heard by some great unknown presence. To walk this path is to be heard, and to be heard is a great desire of a majority of us, but to be heard by whom, by what? To be a sound traveling toward the mind -- is that another way to imagine this path, this journey, the unwinding of this thread?" - a passage from "Wandering the labyrinth ..."  a post by Terri Windling

A step back ...

There was a point when a prosthesis, an artificial ear lobe or reconstruction using natural cartilage of the external ear would have been the solution. It was not uncommon. Microtia was the name of the condition the doctor gave Calypso and Maydene. In Larkin's case the smaller left outer ear was the only part of her ear that did not come with her. While Maydene took Larkin downstairs and into the tiny courtyard of the very large city hospital building, Calypso sat with the surgeon.  Her kind and gentle voice balanced her skillful examination of young Larkin, aged four at the time. The options and procedures were laid out. "She's actually a very lucky girl," concluded the young surgeon.

The experience was both unsettling and surreal. There sat a witch blessed ten-fold with the quality of a Magnificent Capacity as Sound Traveler being told how her grandchild, her only grandchild was a lucky girl. Of course, she was a lucky girl. As all Grandmothers knew it was luck that made birth even possible. Between them Calypso and May had assessed and consulted with oracle, intuition and the bowls of still and swirling water. They knew the reasons and they knew the pulses that beat in Larkin's physical and astral bodies. This visit to the surgeon was not their first choice. "We must give her a third opinion." That's how May put it. But never once did the physician ever stop for two minutes to ask who Calypso was, who this girl was, and how she could help. If every doctor did that, it would change medicine.

Instead Calypso listened and thanked the surgeon for her time, and took the brochures and paperwork with her. The evaluation lasted exactly forty minutes and cost four hundred dollars. A children's fund would help pay. Before leaving the building Calypso went to the women's bathroom. She opened the stall to one of the toilets, lifted the seat and wrenched the contents of her stomach into the bowl. Her head spun. She braced herself. From her purse she pulled a small blue bottle. A squirt of the pale yellow liquid filled her palm. Usnea, Old man's beard, clear the way for me. Under her breath the words helped to refocus her. Calypso rubbed the tincture into her hands. She pushed the handle to the toilet, then added another drop of Old Man's Beard to her other palm, rubbed the liquid into her hands, and quickly ran a finger under her nose.

Inhaling, then exhaling the Sound Traveler left the building.

Wet Solstice, Dry Wood

A town like Salish was a sack filled with memories that bulged in irregular shapes against a common skin. How many generations still carried active recall of the old baseball field overgrown with thick grasses, and dangerous tunnels made by the vole families? Did it matter to anyone alive in 2016 that the musty halls that once played music of original R & B in the 1960's were too often empty of footfall let alone rhythm? The village still wore its original backbones though asphalt and concrete had indeed added much weight allowing more vehicle traffic up and down the two main streets of downtown.

"Houses have long memories. Do you believe that?" Larkin was digging into old letters and yellowed newspaper. A copy of an essay written by her grandmother's cousin had stirred the conversation. She held the book of women's essays written at the start of this century. Jacob sat across from her at one end of the faded corduroy couch, his graying beard wet with a long sip from one of the amber bottles of his ale. Larkin had one of the solid maple kitchen chairs facing him with her gran's metal box open between them. The smell of lavender had kept the paper and books from molding. The glamour of something else had kept the sprigs of herb fresh. She wondered what the magic might be, as old blossoms scattered from between the books and letters.

"I do believe a house remembers." His answer was spare. Of course those sorts of answers left so much room. The young woman loved that the wizard who did not advertise his facility with crossing between the layers of realities, and answered honestly with so few words. "My friend Rabbit has lived in, and lost, more houses than he can remember. Whether his houses remember him is another question all together."

"So do you think a house will remember everything that has ever happened as long as it remains?" The story Larkin was reading told about a woman who had returned to the house she was born in. Termites had eaten much of the house, but her grandmother's cousin had come with plans and a strong man who would rebuild the house. "When a house is changed, remodeled, does it keep the old memories and build new ones just as a wall has some old boards next to new?"

"I think a house, or even, a common house, like a much loved and long-standing gathering place will retain the old and also have room in its character to grow new memories. It matters of course, that in the creation or changing of walls, a conscious respectfulness leads the hands, and hearts of the ones making change. Take for example, this time right now. You and I are sitting together while rains soak the forest around us. Tall Ones soak as well. They know there is more light coming. Their timing, their calendars are precise. Internal you see." Jacob's smile not common but oh so generous lit his face. It was Winter Solstice. "The promise of more light comes because we trust it will come."

"For a house, like this one," Jacob paused to look at the open beams and simple structure of Calypso's two story cottage. "Made from the wood of ones that once stood rooted with heads up into the sky they have memory for keeping the heartwood dry ... protected in all the most meaningful ways. That is a memory that sustains the house."

Larkin nodded.
"Yes," Jacob took another sip. The two toasted to "Wet Solstice, dry wood." 

Simple

What is a Simple?A "simple" is one herb used at a time. A "simpler" is an herbalist who generally uses herbs one at a time, rather than in combinations. - Susun Weed

The lightning storm passed. Golden dog and golden woman sat in the cab of the old Dodge truck. Both wet from the rain, Kaitlin shed her rain gear and deposited it behind the seat. A big dry blanket was enough to nestle Golden until they were home.

"Good work!" Kaitlin clapped her hands, and nuzzled her help mate. Golden waited for these nights and though wet the excitement and energy of catching lightning would rev both females through the night. Kaitlin would not sleep tonight. There was work to do before sleep. The four glass carboys filled with spring water now charged with the heat of lightning would need to be converted to usable energy. There wasn't a lot of it, but her experiments were paying off slowly, satisfying her curiosity and saving her a little change. Olympia the Dodge was truly a Storm Catcher, operating whenever the conditions were right, on lightning. A pinch or more of magic helped, and now that Larkin was leaving for France somethings would change again.

A metal roof stood on stout beams along side one side of Kaitlin's movable home. Rather than walls, all sides were fit with heavy canvas that could be rolled up or down and zipped to hold them in place. Net windows could be opened to let air through. The young witch complimented herself on planning ahead. The canvas sides on three sides had been rolled down before she left. Backing into the shelter Olympia's full length left a generous four-feet of space to complete her conversion.

"Stay here, Gold, we'll have some hot milk and biscuits. We deserve them!" She made sure the blanket was still dry enough to make a cozy nest, kissed the dark wet nose and climbed from the truck. The conversion was possible because a few simple modifications were made to a pulley system and generator that stored a small amount of electricity in a battery. A lot of detail would lose the flow of the tale I think, but, dear reader, the idea here is ... small changes to systems like electrically charged batteries satisfied the needs of young woman who knew its VALUE. She didn't have the money to buy a $40,000 hybrid vehicle, but she did understand how the engine worked. She modified Olympia the Dodge with her skill-set (She is a witch, intelligent and element wise, and dreams chemical formula instead of conversation when she consults with Guides.). She didn't want more than her share. She was living the application of Simple. Kaitlin was a Simpler.

See how the application might work in your life?

Stepping back

Dear Reader, as the rain visits most of the day and night I lie under the covers and considered the flow of this tale. In particular I imagined the character Larkin as she prepared for her journey to Paris. What DOES she look like? And most valuable to the telling, I wondered what it was like to discover the gifts of being 'one eared' rather than two. What sort of adventures with her specialness has prepared her? The daydreaming of a writer of myth can go in many directions, for now, it seems stepping back is the way to go and perhaps you know this about 'going backward', one can never predict what was unnoticed in time seemingly done with...

In this form of storytelling, Readers, this stepping backward includes a plethora of clues for the adept. Ferret them out if you can, and make a kind of collection you view again as the story unfurls, that is moves forward and then sometimes backward.  

Her birth was a most welcomed event. Larkin was dreamt of, and her name given as an agreement. She would be a brave and adventurous one. Both Calypso, her Gram, and Maydene her Great-Aunt were present for her birth. Both women were trained in the arts of birthing and though they were not biological sisters their connections literally threw them together in 1968.

"There'd been a mix-up with booking too many people for the number of seats on this aeroplane," Maydene explained. "I volunteered to be 'bumped off' ... it sounds such a gangsterous condition. But harmless really. I am as loose as a goose you see. No tight shedules for me. A day late will make no never mind to me, nor my hosts awaiting me."

The stranger on the receiving end of this long ramble nodded and beamed at the tumble of words from this obviously British speech. It was that 'make no never mind' bit that tweaked Calypso's interest. "Anyway, I have been upgraded to First-Class. I think it was my charming demeanor that did it. At any rate, for whatever reason ... I am Maydene Short," she extended her many-ringed hands to her travel mate. "Calypso. Just Calypso." Unlike the blonde bomb shell, Calypso was not then, and would remain so until her final days, a person of many words. What Calypso was very good at was listening. She was observant. Though this talkative woman would learn the many details of Calypso's life in the years to come, it was important to remain in the dark (in a manner of speaking) about the fullness, the birth name that included Lena M. on legal documents. Some secrets aren't really, but, that's a story for another time.

The Hawaiian Airlines DC-10 was headed for Seattle. Calypso freshly graduated from high school, was enrolled at Cornish College of the Arts. Back then, it was called the Cornish School of Allied Arts. Music was a family tradition. Traditional Hawaiian music and, classical piano. There was plenty of financial support to groom the young Calypso, and as history would have its way with her Cornish provided a ground level from which she would become something all together new. The first-class seat B2 was a graduation gift from her grandmother.

Maydene Short, London born, was freshly tanned after a three-week holiday on the Island of O'ahu. She'd gotten to know the Northshore of the island very well. She swam, snorkeled and ate papaya and apple bananas drizzled freshly speared and grilled fish with fresh limes; or ate the fish raw with roasted kukui nuts chopped and fragrant with red salt from the island of Kaui. The locals embraced her, and welcomed her into their homes. It was that accent, and her unpretentious warmth. Plus, she could take care of herself. No push over or easy meat, Maydene was not after sex, though she enjoyed the company of men. There was a brain under those blonde waves, and a healthy understanding about childbirth, and all the reasons for having and raising children.

She was the youngest of six children. Both her parents were doctors, her father in General Practice, her mother a pioneer as Professor of Nursing. Deanna Short, R.N. and Ph.D of Nursing had five difficult hospital births. It was Maydene who was the only Short to be delivered by a midwife. Seated next to Calypso Maydene Short was on her way to a small town just north of Seattle to live with Stella Goldman and her husband Mathew Goldman M.D. Maydene was beginning her training as a midwife. It was her choice to study with the Childbirth Pioneers and founders of the La Lache League.

While the jet burned diesel fuel over the Pacific Calypso and Maydene Short learned a lot about one another. Rum and pineapple juice cocktails loosened the normally quiet part-Hawaiian maiden, and the unexpected lightning storm ignited the imagination of both these women. Some things would embroider themselves with familiar patterns, other art was just beginning to have a name. Between then and now, some memories would need to be forgotten to make space for different futures. Have you ever wondered where a forgotten memory goes?

Proper conditions

Larkin watched from the window as she finished washing and rinsing the tea cups. The warm air was mixing with the cold, the first flash lit the forest. She waited for the thunder, counting aloud. Nothing. The dish water had fogged the window, she wiped it clear with the sleeve of her sweat shirt. "Darn her!" There was no use trying to get Caitlin inside, the storm was her element and Olympia? Well, that truck was more a storm cloud than an old Dodge. The sound of the truck starting up meant Caitlin was moving. The Golden Retriever scratched at the door, whimpered to go out. "Are you her Rabbit?" Larkin knew the answer to that, and opened the front door.

Caitlin stopped long enough to open the passenger side door to let the Golden dog into the truck. She waved and blew a kiss through the steamy truck cab windows. "Be careful," Larkin said knowing her friend would be what she always was. Risks were fuel for Caitlin O'Neil. Lightning didn't crackle often in Salish, but never went untended for a Keeper like she was. She would draw it down. For the power that surrounds the everyday in the twenty-first century, the first experiments with electricity were the most interesting to Caitlin. Books about Benjamin Franklin, in large copy, were on bookshelves in her tidy but eclectic studio apartment. Originally an old potting shed the eight foot wide by twenty foot long space was easily moved off its foundation, onto a sturdy double axle trailer. It remained on wheels, could be transported whenever the need arose (often) and had the essential ingredient of being grounded by rubber wheels.

"There's no time to move Baba now," she spoke to the Golden making sure the plan was clear to each of them. "We'll set up the kite just outside town." A clearing, one of the few good things about the monstrous practice of clear cutting trees for profit, would allow her to get the Rainbow Works Kite into the sky. A modern day lightning rod in the hands of a Keeping Witch kept life interesting in this part of Salish Country. Somehow the politically correct and ecologically right-minded had forgotten how power was brought down.

The carboys always rode in their carriers in the bed of Olympia. Harnessed to the insulated steel and wood boxes, four glass carboys used most often for brewing wine or beer served Caitlin O'Neil differently. Caitlin's carboys were filled with spring water and capped with a special receptor to welcome the fresh lightning. It was the carboy that made for a common link between Jacob the Surveyor and this young witch. They shared supplies, exchanged recipes, and made magic to benefit many. It was no secret this magic, but, they did not advertise their process. Or maybe it was the small amount of electricity harvested from lightning that left Keepers like Caitlin to tinker.

Larkin wiped the table to clear the remnant crumbs. The center piece that stayed on her kitchen table season in and season out were a collection of eleven White Pine figures, Pine Needle Dancers decorated in colorful embroider floss. "I remember you fondly, and take you never for granted. Dancers, dancers of Pine. Move with the wind. Sing with the tales that wind through the tree tops. Remember me to the people who have gone before me. Praise their memories. Dance Pine Needle Dancers. Dance." 

This was the part Caitlin O'Neil could not do for herself. Larkin's chants, and her sharp memory would call the Lightning down. The Keeper could not do all of it herself. The Elements were the only ones who could live with that. There are few rules, but there are at least two: Be prepared for company was Number One. Always give thanks was the second rule. At the edge of the clearing Caitlin stopped, pulled the handbrake stoutly. "Ready Golden?" The dog barked. "You will have to run very fast and listen for my whistle when it's time to stop." The dog barked twice.

The kite and carboys were unhitched quickly. She was expert at the movements. Even in the downpour Caitlin heard Larkin's chanting in her head. "Dance Pine Needle Dancers. Dance..." Thunder roared above her. She counted. One, two, three. Lightning struck at the far end of the clearing. She pulled her rubber gloves up and over her fingers and wrists. Thank you, she said as she pulled the carboys off the back of the truck and onto the soggy ground. The kite snapped into place creating a stiff, but flexible 'T.' A lightning rod with the colors of the rainbow made of nylon, a double specially spun copper wire was the conduit.

The golden dog had a specially designed collar and harness with rubber ring. The kite's string would attach there. "Now Golden!" Without a second thought the dog sprinted. Thunder. One, two. The lightning was fully formed and brilliant. As silent as the dead, it makes no sound the yin to the yang or yang to the yin lightning and thunder were two ends of the story.

Life's costumes

Rabbit nibbled gratefully from the napkin wrapped packet while Jacob went in to buy a set of new windshield wrapper blades. Night comes early during the Kaloa Moon of December. There'd be no sight of her light tonight, but it was surely the beginning of sacred times, and the Watchful One was glad he and his friend sat for tea with the young.

"I could use a hand with this," Jacob had the replacement blades out of the box. "If you reach for the umbrella and hold it over us I can get these changed-out without drowning." The cell of south eastern wind was blowing the rain into the truck. A small piece of magic would be necessary to allow Rabbit to be in public. It was near dark, but two other customers were in the lot. Rabbit and Jacob started to hum. Low and steady the two created a cell of their own. Long enough to encase the simple transaction, the wizard and his assistant made sure the van would be safe to drive in the downpours.

It was December, but winter had barely begun and rain would be more than not.

Jacob the Surveyor thanked his friend for this part in the ordinary necessity that bordered their world of magic. "I was wondering about Calypso's grandchild," Rabbit had the umbrella tucked behind the seat. With some quick shakes and a little muttering the rain catcher was dry enough. "She was born with just the one ear, but the slits. Are they as useful to her if she were still water worthy?"

Jacob started up the van, tried the blades. Assured they were properly fit he checked his mirrors and backed out of the parking lot concentrated on maneuvering. Parking lots are notoriously dangerous places. Once on the road Jacob answered, "Larkin was born with ear slits that would have closed completely by the time she began to walk. It was Calypso who knew how to raise the child and teach her to keep the openings from closing up. The costumes and caps the girl and her grandmother have worn all these years ... they are part of the whole process of upbringing."

Rabbit the Watchful was never invasive with curiosity. His concern for humans stemmed from his own physicality. Hares were gifted with exceptionally grand hearing, but, it was their sense of smell that saved their lives in times of greatest danger. "This girl has a very well developed nose. Those slits she keeps concealed with headgear, do they present an especially ... hmm, what's the word I'm after Jacob?"

"Is travel a thing that will draw more attention to an already brightly lit being as herself?" Jacob offered that as an answer. The rain was a torrent by this time. The two questions sparkled the inside of the cab. Silence rather than more talk accompanied them. It wasn't far to the water's edge and there was still more sandwich. Rabbit nibbled. Yes, Larkin was a brightly lit young woman preparing for the Long Journey. The first of many.

Jacob parked. The smell of the wetlands calmed them both. The Surveyor said, "There's more than the heart of lion in those bottles of amber glass. With her directions, Larkin's guardian has helped concoct a series of remedies. If the girl drinks them all with company, the remedy will position her with good balance. She and I need to share the final bottle. Stories that need telling will give us both what calls. 2016 is a year of endings."

Without speaking Rabbit finished the cheese sandwich. And something new begins.

Catch the lightning

The rain had started to thicken up. "My windshield wipers should have been replaced before today. If I leave now, I can pick up some new blades before dark. Time to go." Even a wizard had to be practical about maintenance. Magic had its place and Jacob was always careful to use the power respectfully. Others, especially the young ones, noticed.

"They're predicting big winds later," Kaitlin was particularly observant of winds, and lightning. She stood to give Jacob a strong hug at the door, waited while Larkin did her thank you and kissed the special man on both cheeks. "Practicing to be French!" She giggled. Jacob nodded at the pleasure of the sound. Kaitlin pulled a raincoat off the hook, and walked with Jacob to his van. "She'll be alright won't she?" Asking the question wasn't so much a doubtful inquiry as much as connecting with an uncle you trust. Remember, this was a girl raised without a father. There is Daniel and he is a good man. But Jacob? Jacob counted among the Uncles with a capital for many young people in Salish Country.

"She has a good mind, and a keen ear. It matters that she practice using it. That one ear. Teaching and learning language will give her confidence." From his truck's seat Jacob was looking eye-to-eye with the young blonde witch. She was a thoughtful alchemist with buoyancy for life and questions fed her curiosity."Does it matter that she will be so close to so much ... war?" The wizard thought about this and considered how much war was woven into history of humankind. "It matters greatly that Larkin finds the meanings, the many meanings, of her name. It comes from that land. Her Gran knows that. Worry will water down her resolve." He paused at this point. The rain was heavier. "Direct it somewhere else. If you must, catch the lightning. Ground it where it will do some good."

"Thank you Jacob." She squeezed Jacob's hand before he shut the van door, and stood in the rain till his van was out of sight then she opened Olympia's passenger side door, opened the glove box, checked to see if her flashlight worked. Yes, the batteries were fresh. Behind the seat the small woman looked for the other supplies: jumper cable, rain gear, rubber boots and rubber lined gloves; a spare wool blanket. If she was going to catch lightning it would be good to be wearing rubber boots.

Shuffling the deck

"I've accepted my first teaching job, over seas. Teaching English in Paris. It's weird timing, the violence, the politics, immigrants, war. Something Gram would ... I don't know exactly what Gram would say. Dad's freak'n out about it. Won't hardly talk to me." Larkin looked at Kaitlin. Since Kaitlin was technically her half-sister now, their already tight bond was tighter yet.

"When I leave, this cottage will be empty, unless Dad decides to move back. He won't though." The sugar and salt overdose was showing up. Her pivot was slipping, somewhere between depression and anxiety Larkin wished someone would just point her in the right direction. Like proper tea, she was hoping life would just stay still for awhile longer. Calypso's cottage would always be Calypso's cottage, then Larkin's cottage when she turned twenty-one. "I'll be gone a year, three months in Paris then I have to leave and re-enter the country."

Jacob's world as keeper of the water's edge was not without a keen awareness of the way boundaries were kept in other places on the Planet. "My sister has two children. Both of them live in Europe, one of them lives just outside of Paris. I remember how she zigzagged back and forth between Belgium and France for a couple years before she met her partner." The tea pot was empty, the sandwiches were eaten and the rest of the cookies would go home with Jacob. "I'll split a beer with you if you'd like, Jacob. I've never tasted your famous brew and seems a shame to leave for France and never taste  it." Caitlin didn't drink alcohol.

The drink was powerful, bitter with a warm linger to it. "Did you stir a glamour into it Jacob? A bit of magic with the hops." The man with the deeply angled gait would never lie when asked a question straight on the way Larkin put it to him. Shy again, Jacob the Surveyor simply nodded. "Nothing to hurt you in the slightest. This batch has a small memory of summer yellow. A crush of the heart of the lion mixed into the bubbling."

Larkin understood his riddle to mean a little bit of Dandelion was making its way into her. She liked the image. "A small batch of the heart of the lion is just what I need. I'll be leaving after the first of the year, before my birthday."

"There are four more bottles in there. Share them with good company, and it won't hurt to make a platter of them cheese sandwiches while you're at it." The pivot to the young woman's life would be re-positioned without a doubt. Rebellion is what keeps the human race honest. Youthful rebellion would open doors where elders might not go. Jacob approved of revolution, even as he maintained the protocol of ancient ways. "If you think of it during the drinking of those brews in the amber bottles, call me before you open that last one. Join me down at the water's edge we could share it, tell a few lies over a toast for your good voyage, call on some stories that want telling."

"That's a promise. Expect my call." Rabbit's long ears twitched for wanting to sip a little of summer's yellow. Short of that wish he repeated his request for the snip of sandwich still on the plates, and noticed an old woman watching. Tears strained to keep from falling from the woman's eyes. Rabbit offered the tips of his ears to catch the stream that would not wait. Like long thin cups ... her tears flowed into them. Thank you Rabbit the Watchful. You are very kind.

"Uranus square Uranus: On a pivot Beginning of June 2015 until mid-February 2017: The first time this influence occurs it signifies that you are no longer an adolescent and must take your position as an adult. It signifies rebellion against established standards, which is the reason so many young people go through a period of rejecting everything that they have been taught. It is necessary for you to experience your own individuality by asserting it against someone else's. There is nothing wrong in this, and the constant challenges of youth help keep society alive. It also helps you, because you need to be on your own and find your own ways of doing things, unhampered by the ways of the past, which may no longer be appropriate.Even if you do not go through an especially rebellious phase, this will still be a time of intense and rapid change, when you go out into the world and pursue your own goals without the comfort and security of doing what your elders tell you. Doing what you are told may not always have been pleasant, but it did allow you to avoid responsibility, which you will have to take on now." - A bit of horoscope for Larkin to inspire the flow of this tale 

Not necessarily

"The cheese is melted to a degree of perfection not common in ordinary times," Jacob was still appreciating the way the salt from the cheeses and butter combined with the crunch of the toast. He took a good sip from the amber bottle only after the last bite of sandwich made its way to his belly. "You make a great tea party, Larkin." Rabbit clambered from his side of reality knowing it was not a time to become solid ... the Golden Retriever could not be expected to be civil. Instead the hare simply kept his thoughts to himself, and hoped his friend would consider saving some of that crispy toast for later. When was it Jacob had been for tea before this present moment?

"I had a dream about you Jacob. But I was still surprised to see you and your van. That's kinda crazy. Why wouldn't you come for tea if we've just been together in dreams." Larkin was pouring a stream of coconut milk into her tea, leaving room for a drizzle of maple syrup. "My Gram and Aunt May used to begin every day with sorting out dreams. Over tea the night times and day would come together. I miss that, and it seems kinda backward to be sitting here just before dark to talk dreams."

"Oh I don't know that there's an only one good time for sorting dreams. There's not much difference between what we do in dreams and do in our daytime clothes." Jacob set his bottle down. Took another bite of his sandwich.

"That's funny how you put it "in our daytime clothes." Kaitlin nibbled at the almond cookie in her hand skillful at the dunk and nibble. "A lot of time my dreams are about the clothes I'm choosing. Moving an outfit over the racks, looking for the one I'm after. The right one. Trying one and then another on. Looking in the tall mirrors at what I'm like ..."

The Salmon Candy was a surprising combination with Wild Forest Black Tea. "I love this Jacob!" The sweet-salty brine sparked the sides of her mouth. Caffeine and sugar, probably more than she needed would have its effects later. But then a proper tea has never been a source of moderation. It can be addicting. Rabbit was talking to the dog again, knowing full well dogs have no built-in meters for moderation.

"In my dream last night I was painting. Painting the side of a paint can. I was taking a very long time with it making sure the coats were even. The paint kept sliding down not covering the sides. It was like I didn't realize I was painting a can! But then it dawned on me ... 'I don't paint. Can't be around paint.' In the dream I felt the headache. You watched me Jacob. You took the can and the paint from me. When I woke up I had to get outside to clear my head. It had rained all night. The wet dark air felt good. I asked myself, "Why would I do something like that in my dreams when I definitely DON'T do it for real."

"What did you come up with for an answer to your question?" Jacob took another sip from the amber bottle, reached for a chunk of Salmon Candy and took a bite.

"I'm thinking that dream was practice. Practice with trying things out. Like Caitlin's dream about trying clothes on. I never had dreams about trying clothes on ... But that paint dream was so real. My sensing brain was trying something out. Pushing the limits to see how far I could go."

"When I was ... about your age I dreamed a dream about being perfect. This is a dream I don't share with many people. In fact, it was your Gram that is the only other person whose heard this. You know I was born this way." Jacob swayed to define his meaning. "I was born with one leg shorter than the other. My left leg. Now there were many solutions to that even for a man as old as me." The Surveyor's uncommon smile filled the cottage with a feeling not necessarily magic but of course ... magic it was. "But I was born to a family that looked at oddity as a gift. Some of us were 'odd' on the outside: birthmarks and missing parts are common in our lineage. It's the inside oddities that are a little more difficult to spot though and that includes the special sensitivities that made many of us Surveyors most sought after."

Larkin was wishing her Gram was still here, in the flesh. She was twenty-two and nearing the time of the Long Travel. She would need to be comfortable with the discomfort of dreams that tested her. Instead of her grandmother, the Gatekeeper of the Water's Edge was here.  Drinking home brew and chewing on grilled cheese and Salmon Candy, Jacob the Surveyor was reminding her of the many ways to define life. "In this dream," Jacob continued "I had two legs exactly the same length. First thing I did when my legs were perfect was to run, run, run as fast as those two perfect legs could manage. And. In the dream time fast is very very fast. I ended up making myself sick to my stomach. Retched and puked myself, so's I could smell the awful stuff on me when I woke up."

Kaitlin handed Jacob another half of grilled cheese sandwich. The lesson of dreams is not necessarily magic, but it could be.

Giving life

There were two trucks pulled into the front of the garage. A large golden dog sat next to Kaitlin. Polly was always with Kaitlin. The truck next to Olympia was really a panel truck, faded gray with red lettering. It was familiar, but the details of who it belonged to would not come until the man climbed from behind the wheel. His side-winding gait leaned him at a forty-five degree angle. His broad smile reached through the window at her. Jacob. He'd forgotten something, signaled with his pointing finger and reached for a carrier of dark amber glass bottles, and then continued toward the house.

Kaitlin pulled the emergency brake taunt, and climbed down. She checked the brake a second time just to be reassured. "We've been to the water's edge. Polly wouldn't let Jacob go, but of course, she wouldn't leave my side. So ... Jacob brought himself." That wasn't entirely true Jacob was not completely alone. The slight ripple of Being collected on the space outside his van. Rabbit had come as well, and for the next little while the tea ceremony was to include parts of a story that was thought complete but isn't. Jacob the Surveyor and Rabbit the Watchful had something to offer and even I, the storyteller couldn't have known. Till now.

So often people who say they know a lot about books, and stories will say the most unkind things about a simple tale. I was there just the other day. Flipping through the wobbly reality of the cybernetic library, I was on the sniff. There was a story I longed for, and my local library would not allow me access. In fact, their search engine did not recognize the title. Should have been a clue to how favorites become such. But it made no never mind. I found something about the story, and came to the doorstep of this idea: Anthropomorphism, giving life to inanimate objects. The book expert, the reviewer, was addled by the annoying habit of an author who was giving life to wine bottles. The very thing that had endeared me to the story was an annoyance to an expert. Just so you know I am partial to anthropomorphism and in practice it's what I love most about this brand of storytelling.

"Never arrive empty-handed!" Jacob said shyly. "Kaitlin said you'd be pouring tea. Hope you don't mind. Not much of a tea-drinker, but I've not seen you all summer. Freshly tapped."

"Come in. There's room for a mixed treat of brews. My Gran would be proud of me for taking the broad view of things, and if Aunt May decides to show up ... well. You know she'd approve of some of your beer." Larkin shook her head, hugged the leaning man and rolled her eyes at her friend who was smothering a laugh with little success.

The table was laid with a proper 5 o'clock tea. China tea cups and saucers. A platter of still-warm almond cookies, and plates waiting for the grilled cheese sandwiches still sizzling on the not griddle. A combination of thinly sliced old cheddar and Swiss melted on the olive oil and butter-smeared homemade white. A small clear jug of half-and-half. Lumps of sugar cubes. And the oddly quirky second jug of golden liquid that was Larkin's personal sweetener of choice. Maple syrup.

"I brought along a packet of my own personal tea-time favorite. Salmon Candy. Goes well with beer, and who could tell? Maybe your tea will enjoy a little brown-sugar and salt brine on Brother Salmon." Jacob had never been to Calypso's cottage. He still called it that, though Calypso had not lived in it for a half dozen years now. That, the time, he was sure of and as he sniffed the air in the cottage he was reminded of the approaching Winter's Solstice. By one calendar this was December 1st. Normally, it was Calypso would come for a Solstice drink at the Muli Wai.

"Here's a bowl for the Salmon Candy. Smells great!" Polly willed a piece from the package, waited for it to hit the smooth worn floor and snapped it up with appreciation. Rabbit spoke clearly into the Retriever's ear. "No more than two!"

The Tea Ceremony

" I still encourage anyone who feels at all compelled to write to do so. I just try to warn people who hope to get published that publication is not all that it is cracked up to be. But writing is. Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. That thing you had to force yourself to do -- the actual act of writing -- turns out to be the best part. It's like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony..." - Ray Bradbury

It really was the ceremony she loved. Tea bags individually packeted in paper (not environmentally kind, but she made up for it in lots of other ways) gave off a promise that never failed. The smell of it went to places unreachable by other means. She loved that she could count on that! Just enough information. Tea is an herb. Really. Made from the picked tips of the Camellia Senesis plant a native of China. Picked fresh the tea is dried. Boil water to bring it back to life. Connection. Her grandmother told Larkin of her Chinese pirate ancestors. Story fed her. Every time she needed the tea ceremony she said to her self:

"I'm sitting down with Gran 

Gran brings Mom. 

Gran. Mom. Me. 

Tea Ceremony for three."

"Simple thing really. The magic of story and tea go together exactly like that." 

"Does that mean I can make up stories and tell other people what I see even when they don't see what I see?"

"Well of course you can. Make up stories because you do see them. What your ears ear, well in your case, what your right ear hears, will make for a story that is slightly wobbled. But. That is what great stories are."

"What do you mean, Gran? Wobbled."

Calypso let the question travel. It was a pivot wasn't it. She could see how many sprouts might come from her grand-daughter's question. From her stool in the kitchen Calypso spied the Tall Pine. She could see only the lower quarter of the barked trunk. 

"Come with me dearie. Put a pair of socks on, maybe two. It's turned cold." Larkin was always the last to wear socks when the weather turned. She loved the freedom of toes that could wiggle. 

Larkin recalled the memory as clearly as if it were happening now. The Wild Forest Black tea was steeping. The smell was every where. Still light outside the young woman pulled on a second pair of socks, dragged her boots off the low rack, stepped in, slipped into the hoodie of gray fleece lined with red wool. Outside the ground crunched with needles and alder leaves frozen with the moisture of late November.

One, two, three, four, five... A dozen steps from the cottage porch would be enough. The sun was still caught in the top of the watchful Pine. More than a hundred feet tall, the kink was barely visible.

"Most people would never know how something, sometime caused this Pine to wobble. For an instant? For a season? For whatever length of time that mattered to Pine, its story changed."

"And, Pine kept on didn't she!" Larkin was speaking aloud when the splinter of truck wheels crossed the gravel turn-around. Another tea ceremony, and company. Simple thing really. Pine smiled with the last of Sun's warming rays, exhaling the last of the day's oxygen.

Now for the in-breath.

Larkin

Strong black tea was her favorite drink. She carried an old-fashioned for a young woman of twenty-two, electric kettle. "Boiling water! Tea is a herb, a dried herb. To bring it back to life you must infuse it, dunk the tea bag up and down." A line from a movie had stuck with her. The kettle and a copy of that movie about old English people retiring to India was Aunt May's idea of medicine. Crazy tiny Aunt May was a Brit who never forgot the reason for the Spice Route to China. The medicine had worked. Larkin made her own 'biscuits', cookies, and replicated tea time wherever she traveled.

Time had moved oddly since that Halloween when Maydene's truck disappeared into the Horizontal. But children don't realize, yet, how time can move at different speeds. Even as young witches Larkin and her best friend Caitlin made such magic with the time they had. This story is about endings and beginnings. The kettle howled as Larkin reached for the door to the large stainless oven door. She couldn't do both, so she quickly pulled on the oven's rack with a padded mitt, slid the cookie trays onto the cooling racks. The smell of almond cookies filled her head.

Then, the kettle. 'Thought I'd forgotten you. Patience never been one of your kinds virtues.' Talking to the kettle wasn't something she was ashamed of, but, some people believed she should consider other company. Her phone vibrated in her apron pocket. It was Caitlin. The text: 'Save me some. Don't start tea without me. Bringing company.' Instead of a mug, Larkin reached for one of her mother's teapots. The orange one with a double handle. She'd splurge. Four tea bags. Two tea cozies had come with. She chose the quilted one made from scraps of purple.

Once upon a time being a witch would have been an exception to the rule. There were other things a girl could be trained for unless the lineage was thinning. 
Thinning? 
No baby girls darling. If there were no girls being born. If the lineage was thinning, the girls who were alive simply continued learning the ways. Most loved Witch...

The sound of the old truck's engine was inimitable. Even with one good ear, Larkin knew the sound of Olympia, the truck with a mind of her own.

Next.