The Night I Met the Irish Elk

 

            THE NIGHT WAS BLACK, LIKE A CAT IN A COAL BIN AT MIDNIGHT. A SLICE OF ORANGE MOONLIGHT FILTERED DOWN FEEBLY, RADIATING AN ORANGE GLOW BEFORE AN ENDLESS BEAUTIFUL BLANKET OF STARS. QUEEN CASSIOPEIA REIGNED IN THE NORTHEAST AS MY FRIEND TIM AND I SPED ALONG THE MOUNTAIN ROAD ETCHED INTO THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN. THE ROAD WAS TOO NARROW FOR A TWO-WAY ROAD AND OUTFITTED WITH A LOW 2 FOOT RAILING TO KEEP CARS FROM PLUNGING INTO THE RAVINE BELOW.

SUDDENLY, ON A SHARP CURVE, TIM SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES, GRINDING THE CAR TO A QUICK STOP A FEW FEET IN FRONT OF WHAT LOOKED LIKE AN IRISH ELK MEGALOCEROS GIGANTEUS WHICH WAS IMPOSSIBLE SINCE THE PREHISTORIC BEAST WAS EXTINCT. THE IRISH ELK WAS A MISNOMER SINCE IT HAD RANGED FROM IRELAND TO SIBERIA, ALTHOUGH MANY SPECIMENS OF THE CREATURE HAD BEEN PULLED FROM THE BOGS OF IRELAND. IT ALSO WAS NOT AN ELK, BUT THE LARGEST DEER THAT HAD EVER LIVED. THE HUGE DEER WAS AT LEAST 800 POUNDS WITH A RACK OF ANTLERS 3 METERS ACROSS AND A BODY LENGTH OF 12 FEET FROM NOSE TO TAIL. HE WAS STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD SO THAT THERE WAS NO ROOM TO GET AROUND HIM BY HUGGING THE MOUNTAIN OR BY VENTURING INTO THE OPPOSITE LANE OF TRAFFIC. IF ANOTHER CAR OR TRUCK CAME ALONG IN EITHER DIRECTION, WE WERE DEAD SINCE NOBODY WOULD SEE US UNTIL IT WAS TOO LATE.

TIM TRIED BLINKING THE LIGHTS AND BLOWING THE HORN AND REVVING THE ENGINE WITHOUT SUCCESS. THE MONSTER DID NOT MOVE.  MY MIND WANDERED AS I REVIEWED MY 17 YEARS OF LIFE, FEELING THAT IT WAS MUCH TOO SOON FOR IT TO END. WE TRIED SLAMMING THE DOORS AND MOVING THE CAR BACK-AND-FORTH TO NO AVAIL. SOONER OR LATER, OUR LUCK WOULD RUN OUT AS ANOTHER VEHICLE HAD TO COME ALONG THE ROAD. FINALLY, AND AT A LEISURELY PACE, THE HUGE DEER DECIDED TO MOVE OFF THE ROAD, AND HE SQUATTED BACK ON HIS HIND LEGS AND SPRUNG UP INTO THE WOODS AND WAS GONE! WE TOOK OFF RIGHT AWAY, THRILLED TO BE ALIVE AND NOT FAR DOWN THE ROAD, WE PASSED A LARGE LUMBER TRUCK THAT WAS BARRELING ALONG OUR WAY, AND IT WOULD NOT HAVE HAD TIME TO STOP BEFORE HITTING US. LIFE TASTED SWEET THAT NIGHT.

JIM – SEPTEMBER 26’

Looking Up

 

It was so cold I could see my breath up on the roof, each exhale drifting out as a small fog that lingered before thinning into the night. I’d come up there for one reason—I wanted to see the stars. 

The sky was clear, crisp, and impossibly bright. Every star shone sharp and unforgettable, as if someone had etched them into the dark by hand. For a moment, the cold slipped away. Their light didn’t just glow; it rang, a thin silver shimmer threading through the deep blue sky. 

Georgia

Free

 

He wanted to catch the beautiful butterfly

It was not to be caught

Tickled by the breeze

Fluttering, Flitting, Floating

Spreading joyous sunshine with sprinkles of love

Carefree, Peaceful, Happy

Free

Laura M.

The Geese in the Cemetery

 

I live very close to a very old cemetery. Geese live there year-round. Geese are migratory birds, and they’re supposed to fly north in the summer. Not these geese. 

They’ve adapted to life in the cemetery. The manicured lawns provide plenty of grass, and between the old tombstones there are bugs, worms, and everything else a goose could want. They seem quite content there. 

Geese are surprisingly large birds—some can stand nearly four feet tall and weigh around thirty pounds. When you see them walking across the cemetery lawn, they look almost prehistoric. 

Almost every evening at dusk, I see a group of adult geese heading west in a perfect V formation. I don’t know where they go. I don’t know when they return. 

But I do know they have made this quiet cemetery their home. Among the old stones, the grass, and the fading light, they seem to have found a place where they can simply be geese—and live their best life.

 - - Georgia

My Favorite Book

 

The War of Art by Steven Pressfield is my favorite book. I have read it at least a dozen times, and I’m sure I’ll read it many more.

The book is about breaking through the blocks that keep us from creating and winning the inner battles that can stop us from doing what we love.

Pressfield writes about the inner critic, the saboteur, and the doubts that can hold us back. These inner voices can be powerful. They often believe they are protecting us or helping us, even when they are actually getting in our way.

When I’m in the throes of doubt, fear, or terror about my creative work, I pick up The War of Art and read a page or two. Somehow, those few pages remind me that resistance is part of being creative—and that I don’t have to believe everything my inner critic tells me.

Then I get back to work.

 - - Georgia

One with Nature

 

I found a special spot in between Jacob Riiss Landing and Breezy Point that has free kayak lessons along with a supply of kayaks to be used for free on the weekends.  The Park Rangers supply everything.  All you have to bring is a pair of water shoes, sunscreen. and, of course, you might want to wear a bathing suit. 

I went on this adventure alone the first time and I was quite nervous and excited at the same time.  The Park Ranger gave me a life jacket and showed me how it should fit properly.  Then he helped me get into the kayak and gave me two paddles. He instructed me on the correct way to hold and use the paddles.  Then he pushed the kayak off the sand and into the bay. 

It was such an exhilarating feeling, to be floating on top of the water and being rocked by the waves. When the nervousness left my body, I actually felt like I was one with the kayak and the water.  It was so beautiful and peaceful. The sun shimmered and sparkled on the surface of the water, making me think a hypnotist was putting me into a trance. 

There was a small island in the middle of the bay, lush with trees and tall bushes. The leaves swayed in the gentle offshore breeze as I imagined the breeze relaxing me in a comfy hammock.  I most definitely felt like I was becoming one with nature. 

After about thirty minutes, I was called to paddle my kayak back to shore.  That broke my “being as one with nature” spell.  I noticed my water shoes were filled with sand, my nose hurt from forgetting to put sunscreen on it and my arms felt like they were going to fall off from all the paddling I did. 

I lost that feeling of being one with nature and became one with my body’s kayaking experience. 

Ellen G.

Learning to Read

 

I have two memories of learning to read. My first is sitting with the Dick and Jane books—yes, I am that old! I was about six years old and could barely understand the words. I felt frustrated, but I kept trying. 

My second memory came when I was about eight. We were moving to a new apartment, and one of the movers called out to another man, asking for a “dolly.” I stopped and suddenly realized that one word could have two meanings. A dolly could be a little girl’s toy—or a small cart used to move things. 

I was shocked and amazed by this discovery. I felt very smart. It was like discovering that words had secret lives of their own. 

I have loved reading my entire life. I love libraries. I love the minds, worlds, and words of writers from all over the world. My thirst for reading and learning has never left me—and I don't think it ever will. 

 Georgia