If you have to ask, you're probably in the wrong place. And if you like unicorns and rainbows and skipping through dewy meadows, I'd advise you to leave, before you get traumatized too much. For the brave few that remain, every now and then Mojo's Craptacular is that thin ray of sunshine in your otherwise drab and pathetic life.
So the Favorite Husband decides to burn some old firewood in the firepit last weekend. Being the Favorite Husband, he piles everything up all at once, all willy-nilly, and sets it ablaze. He really enjoys fires. Before long there are ten-foot flames reaching for the sky. He has the garden hose out and ready Just In Case, but he is in his glory.
While Mojo does not personally think Bigfoot actually exists--despite advanced technology, ubiquitous cameras, etc., there has yet to be any real, concrete evidence of large animals living among us other than the usual suspects--I remain open to the possibility. The wee little Mojo inside of me--who grew up in the late 60s and early 70s, when cryptozoology and ghosts and the paranormal in general enjoyed a resurgence of unquestioned, uncritical popularity--kinda wants people to find one, even though adult Mojo is pretty sure it will not happen. Having said that, I have all the sympathy in the world for those who claim to have seen them. Because I once did, as well.
The place was a friend's grandfather's snowmobile cabin, deep in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, up a mountain, out in the middle of the woods. We weren't actually living *IN* the cabin, since it was pretty much overrun with red squirrels and mice living in holes in the mattresses. We set up a tent in the ancient, overgrown apple orchard just outside the cabin. So you will have to imagine: a clearing in the woods on the side of a Vermont mountain of maybe six or seven acres, with a handful of very old, gnarled apple trees. The cabin was situated on the upper edge, near the trees, overlooking the clearing, and the orchard and the dirt road sloped down the side with long, uncut meadow grass. It was a pretty place.
The Favorite Husband and I are long, long, experienced campers; this setup was particularly luxurious by our standards since we could take refuge in the cabin if it poured rain all day, we could cook on the propane stove in the cabin, AND we could use the outhouse. Whoohoo! There was a fire pit maybe ten feet from the cabin's porch, and most evenings we sat on logs and stared at the fire with our dog at the time, a rather small, rather cowardly German Shepherd cross named George.
So late one night we were thus employed, staring at the fire, not saying much. It was pretty dark out. And all of a sudden George went NUTS. Hackles raised, he started bellowing in the direction of the meadow that told us something was out there. (Naturally, he did not confront or give chase; like I said, he was always a coward.) I got up and walked in the direction, away from the fire, expecting to catch the white flags of a retreating whitetailed deer or two. Because, um, Vermont.
It is now officially spring, and as I drive through the mud bogs that used to be our road and I see the roadside ditches now filled with spring runoff of the snow (there is still half a foot or so on the ground; snow does not give up easily) I am reminded, of all things, of the Cooper's hawk that claimed a section of our road one year, m
From the outset, let me say: EMILY was always *MY* book.
One thing a proudly Canadian grandparent ensured was, we kids (at least the girls) were introduced to L. M. Montgomery as few of my American counterparts could claim. Other girls hear of ANNE OF GREEN GABLES and read it and are suitably charmed or whatever, but growing up we girls were pretty much FLOGGED with all things LMM. My Favorite Older Sister, when the time was right, was gifted the entire ANNE OF GREEN GABLES series in hardback. When my turn came around, Grandma and/or Aunt Mary (her sister) gave me the “EMILY” books, so Emily Starr became my first introduction to Lucy Maud. Amusingly, I ended up not reading any of the ANNE books until I was in my 20s. I was living with Aunt Mary up in Canada for several months (I was bored to tears much of the time while she was recuperating from a broken hip at the age of 80-something), and read pretty much every book and magazine poor Aunt Mary owned. My first impression was: Anne was a TOTAL RIP OFF of Emily.
One time, AGES ago, in the glowing dawn of this technological marvel we now call the innertubes, I was asked to attend some vaguely secret introductory meeting with someone's potential client as a technological consultant. Which is a bunch of highfalutin multisyllabic words to convince you just how important Mojo is. My point is, the person who invited me had no REAL idea where the meeting was heading since they were called out of the blue by this person, but I was being brought in just in case there were some serious techie questions they couldn't answer themselves. Oh, and in retrospect, I have my lingering suspicions I was also brought in to be a sort of bodyguard/witness should things go way south, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Anyway, the meeting was arranged, and I showed up at the designated point in time and space (Mojo likes to be punctual), only to be greeted by the angriest face I have ever faced and the kinda rude greeting, "WHO the HELL is THIS?" (I kid you not. I don't really believe in psychic abilities, but I can't help but suspect--when you are greeted in this fashion--that Things Are Not Going To Go Well. But again, I am getting ahead of myself.)