Category: Odd Little Stories

abstract imagination, Odd Little Stories, patterns

Missing– Found wires from days past

Michele B. Naquaiya

Two years ago or so I gave away a precious collection I had worked hard to acquire. What is so hard about giving away a bunch of old smashed wires you say? When you live in Mexico and walk on cobblestones that are five hundred years old, you have to look down as you carefully put one foot in front of the other. If you don’t, you can fall down. For many of us retired folk, falling can be dangerous, dibilitating and down right dangerous.
I used to do a lot more walking when I first arrived here five years ago. Times have changed. The point is in Mexico people are constantly building. There is construction going on everywhere. Building with concrete, steel, brick and mortar and adobe are a different animal than what I’ve been used to. There is constant pulvo or fine dust that accumulates heavily…everywhere. When did a lot of walking, the combination of looking down yielded a new sort of vocation. I began to collect pieces of wire that had been crushed, run over, rusted and every other transformation. They spoke to me with their weird shapes, sometimes very recognizeable as everyday icons. My little bag accumulated amazing things that became a gateway for my imagination. It made the walking more fun. Sometimes people would stare????
I figured I would do something with them one day. The one day never came. I was too busy to play. What was interesting was that friends would leave me treasures that they found on the streets and alleyways. Thank you. My front table was getting full of weird things people would leave me. I met an artist who was a pretty creative guy. He was struggling to make a buck, get seen and respected. As is my usual life path habit, I sacrificed my treasures to friends. I gave him my collection.
He said thanks and I knew immediately it meant nothing to him. I could see it in the blank look on his face. I had imagined him being very appreciative and creating great additions with these bits of wire to embellish his works. It was my personal opinion and only in my head. I never said it to him directly. Somehow I thought he would jump for joy over this stuff….To me these treasures would give more texture and contrast to his pieces. Mistake. Apparently he didn’t see it.
Now I am missing these silly things. To me they are a symbol of dreams lost. They represent my achievement in bringing myself here, leaving my past behind and trying to build another life. The area that I live in is changing so fast that sometimes I have to pinch myself to realize it really is happening. There is a huge new population of Americans and Canadians living here permanently now. Gentrification isn’t a word strong enough. Since I’ve come here, there is a whole new hospital, pharmacy and health clinics of many kinds. There are now quite a few beautiful modern homes in gated communities as well and beautiful upscale shops and stores. I can’t say if it’s right or wrong, good or bad. As long as it doesn’t destroy this wonderful friendly mixed community, I’m good with it and it’s a good thing. All I know is life is not the same. Some things are easier, some things are harder. I guess it depends on who you are, where you live and what you do. So I’m here now and moving on. All the letting go of my life in the U.S. is done. All the tears have been shed. The goodbyes have all been said. It’s time to ease on the throttle and coast a little in future days. Enjoy every day I tell myself.

animals, dogs, dogs, horses, cats, Illustrations, Odd Little Stories

Staffordshire called Trixie

Michele B. Naquaiya

Here is my sweet and very smart old pup “Trixie”. I rescued her in our early days in California. It was in 1976 in the San Fernando Valley. There were a bunch of unruly boys in the neighborhood playing mean games with her. Putting meat on a rope and hanging it from a tree. They set up a lever/pulley system to amuse themselves. She would grab on to the meat and they would hoist her up the tree and as she locked her jaws, they partied. I stole her and she was our rescue dog for a few years after that. I took her everywhere with me: shopping and to work too. She was my little guard dog when I worked in Culver City. When I had my first son, she was wonderful with the baby.

We had another dog at the time that the veterinarian suggested we find a home for. I remember him saying that in some situations, dogs cant accept the new baby. The new baby was more than the Labrador could handle. So I gave the lab away because they were fighting. It was dangerous but I took care of it right away. When we moved to the country, it was great for a while but she disappeared one night. She showed up a few days later; hungry, tired, very dirty. I tried everything to keep her but she kept going out into the hills and then she just disappeared. A few weeks after she left, one morning I took my binoculars and aimed towards the distant rolling hills. I saw her. She had taken up with 3 wild dogs and they were hunting together. My heart was broken. I loved her so and knew now she would never come back. I think of her still. I think of her a lot. I miss you sweet Trixie. You could not help being the dog you were. There was nothing I could do. Here is the digital drawing of her.

Odd Little Stories, short stories, storytelling art, whimsy

Uncle Ray’s Breakfast

Michele B. Naquaiya

Ray was an early riser. He preferred 5 a.m. to anyone else’s normal hours. He loved making bacon and eggs any day. He had a special way about him. He had his all time favorites. He liked making sandwiches with slices of fat red onions on rye bread, fresh tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden. He was also known for his adoration of “stinky cheese”. He adored Roquefort cheese and we all ran when he opened the wrapper. It was his special treat and he thought we were babies with no guts to stomach it. There were big blue chunks in the white creamy cheese and he always insisted it tasted much milder than it smelled.

Everybody loves the smell of fresh brewed coffee in the morning and Raymond in the kitchen always started with a pot of fresh coffee. It was a ceremony. |He was a ceremony. Breakfast always came with his songs. He made sure everybody could hear him. His songs were always funny and he sang while he cooked. He made whole wheat toast, coffee and bacon to go with his basted eggs. Insist the bacon be turned only once. Insist the bacon be not overdone. Insist you leave some bacon grease in the cast iron pan. It should be hot but not so hot as to burn the delicate over easy eggs. They had to be handled with lots of care, cooked slowly and gently, very gently. Three eggs and when they landed in the pan, the flame was already turned down to medium. No excessive heat here, just a gentle fry.

He would tilt the pan and baste his babies by gently ladling a tablespoon of the bacon grease over the tops and watching the yolks change from dark yellow to a lighter and more milky shade. Towards the end, he would splash some water on with his open hand like he was sprinkling stardust a blessing on them. Then he would put a cover on the pan for 5 seconds to create steam to seal in the goodness. Therein was the secret to his famous breakfast. One more special touch was salt and pepper and a touch of ketchup.

Lots of people say ketchup is a crude form of condiment that he learned in the army. I guess the army had powdered eggs that needed all the help they could get. Actually, we loved Ray’s eggs and loved the ketchup on them too. What is better than this country style breakfast? What is better than a wonderful uncle. Raymond wherever you are in heaven, we miss you.