The print., May 11, 1988, Image 7

“Foggy Mountain Morning”
I wake up very, very early,
before the rest of the world
stirs. I am reluctant to leave
the dreamy comfort of my
warm bed-nest, but I am in a
hurry to be out and quickly
pull on sweats and boots.
Gloves complete the outfit
and I pull my hood up for
protection. I am ready now to
face the chilly dampness of
the unreal half-world at that
magical time between night
and morning.
Hurriedly I enter the new
dawn, leaving the smolder­
ing wood fire behind me
sleeping in its own heat,
foregoing even my ritual pot
of vitalizing coffee in my
eagerness to be first witness
to the transformed fairyland
of my high mountain
meadow.
Carefully, quietly, I steal
softly away along the
familiar, silent trail. The fog
closes a curtain on the center
stage around me and I am
unable to make out anything
more than the few feet of
path ahead of me. I am sur­
rounded by eerie outlines of
imagined creatures, jostling
for character parts as the play
unfolds.
I can hear the tinkling
brook singing a merry tune
as I enter the meadow, but I
know I will have to pass
through the unseen forest at
the far end of the clearing to
find the author of the bubbl­
ing song. Teasingly, it
beckons me on towards its
happy music.
Continuing slowly, I hear
an angry Robin squawking at
my early morning intrusion,
threatening me with a fly-out
if I cross his picket line. He
shrilly warns me that I will be
reported to the Robin Union
for doing his job of waking
up the world.
My feet stir up the damp
ground, letting loose an odor
from the permordial past,
smells of swampy bogs and
slimy lizards, reminding me
of castles and dragons and
Fair Sir Lancelot. I look for
Maidens in Distress and
Heroes to the Rescue.
I find ersatz comedy as the
thick mist parts to reveal that
imagined dinosaurs are, in
fact, a trembling doe and her
fawns. They fade off on silent
hooves, disappearing into
the nothingness from
whence they came, leaving
me to my pretend world.
An illusion of ghostly white
specters gliding towards me
'cause goosebumps to raise
on my arms and the hair on
the back of my neck to stif­
fen. They float closer and I
hold my breath, waiting
for...who knows what. As the
apparitions get near, the
ghostly forms take on a more
solid shape and I recognize
my friendly Australian
Shepherds. I laugh quietly at
myself for fearing that which
is like my shadow. These
sentinals of my safety are part
of the courage that helps me
brave each day’s battle. I rely
on their keen senses to warn
me of unknown dangers^
With them dogging my
heels; I proceed to in­
vestigate the other magical
shapes ahead.
I reach the edge of the sod­
den woods, and what had
looked to be foggy dwarfs
become tiny new trees, cl­
inging tenaciously to their
small part of the forest. In­
sisting on their birthright,
they are forcing their big
sisters to acknowledge these
upstarts and give way to new
growth, or at least a chance
to be roommates.
Brushing aside the wet,
feather-like limbs of the fir
trees, I push my way into the
dark, murkey forest. By now I
am as damp as the fog and
we pace each other, blen­
ding our dripping bodies so
that now I am fog, now I am
me, now I am a foggy me. A
foggy mountain me, aloof
and cool above the valley.
I step cautiously, careful of
the precious trilliums grow­
ing in the soft bog of the dark
woods. They seem to be
placed helter-skelter like a
necklace thrown carelessly
on the floor. Their en­
dangered existence is
threatened further by their
habit of pushing their
blossoms up directly in the
middle of the path we follow
on our journey to adventure.
The plants most likely to be
trampled have been dug up
gently and moved to a safer
existence under a protecting
tree away from foraging feet.
I pause for a moment in the
protection of my forest as the
blessing rain sprinkles holy
water on everything,
christening the newborn
day. The after-glow of dew
glistens in the sun like
diamonds on Elizabeth. I
continue on out into the
clearing and the fog is slowly
lifting its wet shroud as it
dries its air in the sun.
As I step into the warm
sunlight, I drink up the beau­
ty of this bright new day. I am
filled with hope and I realize
even my snuggy bed cannot
be as comforting as the pro­
mise evoked by another
dawn. I am glad I chose to
leave home to witness this
miracle. I pause a moment to
give thanks for the gift of this
new beginning, and to pray
that ecologists win the future
for those next in line, before
the world loses the present
to the past generations.
The last of the fog gathers
up her billowing skirts and
' dances off over the moun­
tain. My rejuvenated heart
dances me home across the
high mountain meadow.
by Lyhn Baker
“Where There Is A Mother In The House, Matters Speed Well”1
If you have enjoyed the look
of Rhapsody, then join in and
submit your talents.
Rhapsody is YOU. Without
you, there isn't a Rhapsody.
Bring poems, short stories and
essays to trailer B, "The Print'.
Editor & Designer
Judy Singer
I can't seem to get my own work done for the constant interruptions. The telephone is always ring­
ing; I have to take messages for him every time it rings. If the phone isn't ringing for him when he isn't
here, it is him calling for my attention when he is here. I try to see that he does well in all that he tries,
to do, that he associates with the "right" people, that he eats right and gets his exercise, and that he is
understood. Without my help, he wouldn't be what he is today; and I am really proud of him.
He has a dental appointment, so I have to remind him that he has to hurry or he'll be late. I write all1
of his appointments on a calendar that he can't help but see numerous times every day; still, he calls
I me during lunch to ask me what he has to do the next day so that he can plan a game with the friend
'he is having lunch with. I recently reminded him that he needs his "ears lowered." He asked me to;
i make an appointment for him. I made him an appointment; I wrote it-on-his calendar; I reminded him1
the day before; and I cancelled the appointment and re-scheduled his haircut when his friend called to
invite him to go to a game.
When he is invited to a friend's birthday party, I am the one who picks out an appropriate gift; I see
that it is wrapped in the funniest way possible; and I have it ready for him to take to the party with
him. I also have to remind him to take it Should he decide to have a party, I make out the guest list; I
sign his name to the invitations, address them, take them to the post office, and mail them; I put up
the decorations; I arrange for all of the food and drinks; and, of course, I see that things are returned
to normal after the party.
Often he is ill-tempered until he has his fluid repast of a morning, so I make sure that there is a sup­
ply close at hand. Sometimes he only has a donut for breakfast and/or skips lunch. I order in his,
favorite lunch when I know he will be there to eat it. I remind him that he should eat a healthy
breakfast and lunch, but he tells me that he doesn't have time. He does get regular exercise at his
club, but I am the one that sees that his dues are paid. There have been times I have wished he did not
belong to that club; he is usually there playing a round with his friends when I could use his help the
most.
He likes to write letters quite often, but he would never make himself understood without my help.
His scrawls are unreadable and he has a habit of leaving out words, If I didn't have a good idea of
what he wanted to write, I could not interpret his letters myself. Like an experienced translator of
foreign language, I decipher his scribbles for the stenographer who types them because "the mark of a
true executive is usually illegible."2
I take pride in his accomplishments and my part as his executive assistant. Where there is an ex­
ecutive assistant in the office, matters speed well.3 Executives are what their assistants made them.
'“Where there is a mother in the house, matters speed well.” Amos Bronson Alcott, “Table Talk; Nurture.” The Home Book of Quotations, Burton
Stevenson 1967
'Leo J. Farrell, Jr. as quoted In Reader's Digest 1962. Reader's Digest Treasurey of Modern Quotations, 1975
'“Men are what their mothers made them." Emersons, “Conduct of Life: Fate." The Home Book of Quotations, Burton Stevenson, 1967
by Becky Bontrager
I