Pregnancy, ditches, dog-catchers and death

Tuesday I drove toward town on slushy roads.  You know, the kind of snow-melting roads desirous to fling an unsuspecting car into the woods.  You mustn’t drive faster than 45 miles an hour or you’ll be ditch-bound.  Four-wheel drive pickup trucks sneer as they pass your 2003 Buick Century.  They leave a wake of salty spray on your windshield.

It makes you ponder past ditch episodes.  Thank goodness, not many in the last several years.  You recall your early years in the Upper Peninsula.  How many times did your little adventuresome blue Fiestas spin around uncontrollably and land in deep snow?

There was the time you lived at Roland Lake, nigh 20 miles from town.  You carried your beloved babe, the baby you would die for, in a safe car seat, heading toward grocery stores and banks.  (If you believe I actually remember where I was headed–you don’t know me very well.  I can’t remember where I was headed last Tuesday, but will wind the story back to this week eventually, if you’ll keep reading.)

This tractor has rescued our stuck vehicles many times.

Your blogger crooned to her fair-headed first-born, “Sing, sing a song, make it simple to last your whole life long…” driving swiftly around that curve—far too swiftly, in retrospect–when suddenly, unexpectedly, the blue Fiesta careened out of control and ended up in an undignified heap in the deep white, a ditched creature of unplumbed snowbanks.

You hugged your first-born tight, sweating nervously in the freeze of January, crying, lamenting life’s unfairness, wrapped him tight in your arms which wanted to love him endlessly and never-ever-ever give him one moment of transgression or sadness or pain or grief–and walked home, sniffling, to request a husband and father to pull the stuck vehicle from its new unfair and undignified position in probably two feet of deep snow.

First born when he was old enough to help dig us out of the snowbank

Then there was that time when you were eight months pregnant with second born–another fair-haired child, a girl this time, who would be born looking red as an Indian with black hair sticking up in unruly spikes all over her head–at a time when you were hanging around with the local Native Americans–a very suspicious incident indeed–how could you have given birth to a little native child, except within four months her hair turned blond, blond, blond and she looked like her paternal grandmother, so it must have been the spirits of the Anishinabe coming forth to greet you, to blow their north wind spirit into your womb and out into the world.

That time, eight months pregnant, you drove on icy roads and the north wind blew you off the road (OK, let’s pretend it was the north wind) and you twisted around in a perfect half-circle, about six feet off the road in the snowbank, and you sat, dazed, but perfectly content in an eight-months pregnant type of way.  You felt absolutely calm.  You knew everything was fine.

You opened the door of the car, stepped gingerly into the snowbank and walked to the road, knowing, just knowing, that life was perfect.  Within five seconds, five seconds, mind you, a driver appeared with a four-wheel-drive truck and he asked, “May I help?” and you nodded regally, in that eight-months pregnant type of way, and he hooked a chain on your bumper and pulled ever-so-slightly and out popped your car like a baby without any labor throes, and you thanked your rescuer kindly, thank you, thank you, and off you drove, still calm, to the doctor’s office and said casually, “Yes, my car just went into the ditch” and he took your blood pressure and it was lower than Prozac, so low that the baby decided to remain in the calm womb for another three weeks.

My little bitty black-haired baby

Let’s fast-forward 27 years to Tuesday.  I was driving to town and the slush threatened the car.

But no, it would not send me ditch-bound.

Instead I saw a tiny black dog with pink collar tinkling across the road, far from any house.  I would like to say that I stopped and rescued that dog, but I did not.  In retrospect,  that is what a passerby should have done.  (Next time I will act more honorably.)  Instead, I stared, mesmerized at that tiny creature and attempted to avoid hitting it.

The next car avoided hitting it as well.  And then a police car appeared miraculously on the scene and, in the rear view mirror, I noticed at least three cars stopping to rescue said wandering tiny black curly-haired mini-dog.

I suddenly felt quite odd, like somehow there was a message in that dog, a message from the spirits Beyond.

But what?

I drove further down the road, glad that the dog was being rescued by responsible folks. (Although I pictured the dog running excitedly toward the woods and police folk and passerbys chasing it up snowbanks and down snowbanks calling “Doggie, doggie!” as it pranced cheerfully away.)

When suddenly–from the corner of my eye–I noticed a fellow driving a truck.  Ahhh, it was Hud!  Hud is a fellow from our community, an elder, someone with whom I’ve always felt connected spiritually.  He traveled to Tanzania to help build a church once, or maybe twice.  We met in the early days, back in the 1980’s, when I attended the Lutheran Church in town.  Maybe two years ago, maybe six months ago,  he plopped down at my table in a local restaurant and we chatted.

He was the county’s dog-catcher for a while.

I thought fondly of Hud as I glimpsed him in his truck.  He always makes me smile, a bright light in a human body.

I didn’t think more of the black dog, or Hud, until yesterday.

This one's for you, Hud

Barry came home from work at the newspaper.

“Did you hear Hud died?” he asked.

I gasped.

“When?”

He didn’t know, but I just looked at the obituary.

He died on Tuesday.  The day I “saw” him in his truck, the day the little dog pranced along on the road, far from his home.  Obviously it was not him driving that truck.  It was his spirit, come to say goodbye.

Hud, wherever you are, I send you love and gratitude.  Simply for your being–your shining beautiful being.  Thank you for sharing your light with all of us.

Wherever you are, I’m sure you’ll stay on the road, avoiding the ditches, keeping your eyes open for stray doggies along the way.

About Kathy

I live in the middle of the woods in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Next to Lake Superior's cold shores. I love to blog.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

37 Responses to Pregnancy, ditches, dog-catchers and death

  1. Brenda Hardie says:

    ohhhhhh….sending peaceful prayers up right now for your dear friend Hud. May he rest in blissful peace and may all of the people, you included, who loved him best, find a sense of peace from knowing him. May his light shine brightly ♥

    • Kathy says:

      It’s odd, Brenda, I actually did not know Hud that well. He and I had a spiritual connection, but we rarely ran into one another. When we did run into one another, we paused and laughed. It is good to have a friend like that. I like your blessing.

  2. Good God, this is a stunning post, Kathy. I don’t know how you do it, my friend, but you have an amazing gift.

    I’m so sorry about Hud. Blessings to him and all of you!

    Hugs,
    Kathy

    • Kathy says:

      I love writing, Kathy. I am remembering how much I love writing. It’s interesting how it seemed to get pushed in the background while I explored photography. Am thinking about Hud today and all those who loved him. Thank you.

  3. “A bright light in a human body.” What a lovely tribute you’ve paid to Hud.

  4. John says:

    Hud sounds like someone I wish I had met. I did so enjoy the path we traveled to learn about Hud. It would be interesting if we could cross reference your blog and create a list of all the people you have introduced us to. Speaking of that I am going to take a long shot and see if you might know this “Linda” http://youtu.be/sotn-oh5hhQ

    I need to hang out at Da Finns more when I am up there.

  5. Sybil says:

    I don’t care what you really remember. I love your stories.

  6. Celeste says:

    Lovely. The North seems to offer these visions of friends gone or far away more often than any other place I’ve known.

  7. Susan Derozier says:

    Stunning piece Kathy! One wonders if Hud didn’t return to say “hey Kathy – you forgot something back there! Someday I will tell you about the time I believe my dog came back as a deer for a visit on the northern shore of Lake Superior. Amazing wonders around us every day and who is to say what is real and what isn’t? Beautiful stories and beautiful babies!

    • Kathy says:

      I would love to hear your story, Susan–I think you have dozens or maybe millions of stories whispering inside of you that want to come out and play on paper. 🙂 Now that’s a thought…what if lots of the people we see on the street aren’t really real? Hmmmm….well, that’s what some of the Native Americans told me years ago. I guess I just thought in retrospect that it was some other driver, but that Hud’s spirit briefly imposed upon him as a final goodbye. But who knows? Thank you for your supportive words.

  8. Love's Thesaurus says:

  9. Love's Thesaurus says:

    well… the heart (above) didn’t “work,” but sending a hug anyway. Wonderful post!

  10. Munira says:

    What an amazing, incredible story.

    • Kathy says:

      Munira, thank you a hundred times. I am finding much joy in writing stories like these again. (And they are true! What I can remember, any way…)

  11. lynnekovan says:

    Lovely post. Bless Hud

  12. Dawn says:

    Lovely. I’m sure that WAS Hud you saw, giving you a last wave. I am sending warm thoughts to Hud’s family and all of you there that will miss him so much.

    • Kathy says:

      It was sweet of him to show himself. Don’t you wonder why this happens? I didn’t see much of Hud around town, but always enjoyed our chance meetings. Others who knew him more intimately will indeed be mourning today.

  13. Dawn says:

    Just came from reading Hud’s obituary (isn’t the internet a wonderful thing?). He was a very interesting person, and did a lot of different things in his life. I think it was a life well lived and that now he is beginning a new journey which will be just as well lived.

  14. Colleen says:

    Kathy, what a wonderful man. I love the legacy he leaves in this world and in your heart. And the connection that you had. Your beautiful writing and your stories are a blessing and a joy.

  15. susan says:

    Hi Kathy! You have a tremendous talent for taking memories (even if you aren’t SURE) and hooking us all into the stories! So glad you share! 🙂
    Hugs
    Suzen

  16. Dana says:

    It always amazes me that the spirits who end up affecting us the most profoundly aren’t always the ones who were closest to us as people in human bodies. I’ve waited for years to sense my dearest Baba’s spirit, but I’m usually visited by the non-scary ghosts of distant friends of friends instead…

    May Hud rest in peace. This was a beautiful tribute to him.

    • Kathy says:

      Isn’t that so true, Dana? I wonder why. People you hardly know will reveal themselves after death, and loved ones are nowhere to be found. If you can figure this out, please let me know. It is so interesting.

  17. I love the way you wove moments from the past and the present into a tapestry of meaning and now. A wonderfully written tribute to the spiritual connection between you and Hud, and to all the lives his life touched.

    • Kathy says:

      It was a fascinating bit of writing to watch appear, Barbara. As I said before, blogs like these don’t feel like I’ve written them. They seem to appear from the ethers, and I just type them, usually in awe and amazement. Thank you.

  18. Pingback: The day Daddy brought home a rattlesnake and other north woods stories « Lake Superior Spirit

Although I don't reply to every comment on every blog, I do read all comments with mesmerized interest and try to return the favor by visiting YOUR blog or at least sending you heartfelt well wishes.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s