Music hath charms

COUNTRY SONG

 

We live alone on a sky-reaching mountain in Colorado...but are never lonely. The first rays of the morning sun send me a bit of joy, of warmth. An eagle friend of mine who I named 'America' sweeps down from its towering aerie. She flaps her wings to me. I wait a few minutes and America returns, comes close enough for me to see the fish she has caught, still twisting in her claws. Breakfast must be served and with a swoosh she is gone until tomorrow.

 

The rattle of breakfast dishes on our wooden plank table reminds me that Mama can use my help. I take just a very few minutes to put on my jeans, a clean white starched blouse and the black turtle neck sweater Mama made for me last Christmas. It's still chilly but I'll be comfortable without my sweater by the time Pop, Jimmy and Storm finish breakfast. Storm butters me up. 'Robin, you're the best dish washer in our family. Will you do my share today? I spilled some maple syrup on my jeans and would like to take care of it right away.' Even without the butter, I would have done it for her.

 

'Don't be embarrassed, you may ask if you wish, why in this peaceful place did our parents name my sister 'Storm.' They had their reasons and have told us many times how the lightning flashed, how noisy the thunder was, how the mountain shook until Storm was born and just as wild as it had been, as soon as Storm cried, the sky cleared, the sun sang to the flying clouds until the sky turned blue again.

 

We do have wonderful neighbors, like the 6 coyotes who howl their thanks for the spare rib bones we set out for them about once a month. Mama has those mouth-watering ribs air air dropped to us and refuses to just bury what's left in the garbage heap. The coyotes howl louder those times than usual.

 

The last of the mountain top snow is melting fast. It makes its own turns when it feels like it and the gurgles are light, mellow. When the snow melt really races for a short time, we can hear it during lunch. It's like rolling drums, drums banging out paradiddles. When the run-off circles around saplings, I am sure violins are tuning up.

 

Sometimes when Jimmy and Storm feel like it, Jimmy plays his guitar and Storm makes up words as she accompanies him. Dad and Mom claim they can't sing a note, but I have heard him singing love songs to her thru our connecting bedroom doors now and then. Once he sang, 'I Love You Truly, Truly, Dear,' and I mentioned his wonderful singing voice at breakfast, suggested he join the choir group at the Brethren's Church of God. He said he would, if they brought the church up the mountain.

 

 Our Dad is not a college graduate but is not a stupid man. He knows a lot about cyberspace, electronics, teaches us all the time. We have a wide screen t.v. and two computers in our den area. Dad said he will be getting an I Pad for us when the price comes down.

 

Storm and I tell him the truth. We don't want any more gadgets. Music is everywhere. 'Dad, just be you. Let us be us. You can sing.' While we tell him how we truly feel, a grumph, grumph croaks near our front door. Jimmy opens it and in jumps a great, big, toad. It lands on Dad's lap who, I know, doesn't like frogs particularly, and Dad sits there motionless, just trying to be calm until the frog gets off of him.

 

We sit, wait, twiddle our thumbs until, a much louder roar, passes our door and keeps on going. As soon as I open the door, the frog leaps out. There, just a few feet from the door step are the huge footprints of a grizzly, small bits of brown fur cling to our mulberry vine.

 

I, for one, don't like deep bass bear grunts, our mulberry bush broken in spots. I close the door tightly and turn on the t.v.