Remember that Thanksgiving when all the family was about, and the wind was a-blowing and the rain was a-threatening, but you all went about a-meandering anyhoo? Even little Vikram, who was a bit of a grouch to begin with, fearful of soggy toes and a-worried about chilly ears? Even he was in a vibrant mood by the end, as you looped back past the far pastures and into the gravel parking lot, crunch crunching beneath his, yes, soggy, toes? All the cheeks were rosy with the blustering wind, all the sweaters now full of the scents of the earth, and the spirits were soaring, soaring up there with the hawks in the wintering sky. What a nice memory that was and perhaps it would be nice to slip a little card to Vikram, now grown, and remind him of that soaring day, and the owls you saw on the way.
Other Things You Might Like to Know: The original artwork is watercolor and india ink | © 2017 Melinda Nettles | Designed and printed in Oregon, USA | Paper by Neenah and envelopes by Mohawk are minimum 30% Post-consumer recycled content and FSC® Certified
The Back Story:
Sometimes, thought Oleander, when the wind is up, and the dirt blows around, and your feathers get in a fuss and you cannot keep them out of your eyes, it is anyway the best of days. Where did that dirt come from, you say to yourself, the mind a-wandering far and a-wandering wide. From the sandy edge of Namibia, where the vast red desert slips after miles upon miles into the sea? From the Outback dunes of deepest Australia, where the dingoes howl and prowl past sacred rocks that tower a thousand feet above the open plain? Or from just down the road, where tall Wanda Elferidge, sporting on even the warmest of days her thick woolen cardigan, makes her way each morning to the sturdy barn to tend her well-fed cows? Sometimes, thought Oleander, when the wind is up, it is anyway the best of days.*
*Ever So Important Note: Come with me along the fence-line, where the mower cannot reach, and the grasses grow just a little bit higher. Where the wildflowers, too, escape the cutting blade. Where the blowing earth collects amongst the roots and the wire strands, and a little dam forms, keeping for a moment last-night’s quick-fallen rain from sliding too fast across the curving belly of the earth. Come with me to where the small be-furred creatures slip along in the shadows, along this small shield against the open fields. Climb with me up upon the fence-post, where the hawks perch, and the kites and owls too. Come along to where the grasses grow a little bit higher, and the wildflowers too, and the odd buried nut begins to grow. Come with me, down along the fence-line, where the mower cannot reach, and magical things begin to brew.