Beginnings

The morning sun was lifting its yellow shadow above the horizon when Rodney’s mother peered into his room, to check on her little boy. For months Rose and Jack, Rodney’s Dad, had been thinking of adopting a little brother or sister for Rodney, when one special morning Rodney had returned home from his ramblings near their farm with a new addition to the family, in a little, brown, furry surprise package. Both parents had been immediately captured by the cute, tiny bundle, and Rodney had a play mate before either his mother or father had expected.

Dumpy was curly and wet when Rodney found him near the rural dumpsite, which was open Wednesday and Saturday mornings for all the residents in Kempel Township. He was walking along the gravel road which did not have much traffic, and had found the puppy whimpering beside its mother. She had been hit, sadly, probably by one of the big dump trucks that carried gravel from the gravel pit further up the road. Rodney checked to make sure she was not still alive needing medical help. Her stillness told him that it was too late for her. But he could help the little orphan by her side.

Now Dumpy kept Rodney company as he slept in his upstairs bedroom. Rose silently went on down the stairs to start a breakfast of porridge, toast, bacon, and scrambled eggs, while Rodney slept a little longer with his arms around his precious new friend. The wee dog opened one eye, listened to mother’s soft footsteps, and then nestled back underneath his master’s chin and breathed a contented sigh. Downstairs mother sat with her morning coffee and felt just as contented as she gazed out over the farm yard and fields, and watched the sun slowly rise to a firm ball of gold. It cast delicious sunbeams across the meadows, and lit up the golden rod and white carrot. It was lovely living this farm life, and she wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Out past the laneway Rose could see Jack, already busy fencing along the roadway, making sure the pasture was ready for the calves which would be let out of the barn later today. Soon he would be coming in for his hearty breakfast, and they would enjoy some early morning time together as a family, wee Dumpy included.

A little later, when they were all sitting together for a scrumptious breakfast in the big kitchen, they watched through the huge window, the downy woodpecker lifting its little red-knobbed head against the bark of the maple tree. Rodney loved all of nature and enjoyed watching all types of wildlife, in the fields and nearby forests, and along the river which bordered most of their farmland.

Rodney’s thoughts drifted back to the day when he had found Dumpy, and he remembered how sad he had been to find the still body of his mother. He had slowly approached the trembling pup, and his heart had sank when he noted that the full grown collie was not moving or breathing. He steeled himself with the memory of his Dad’s solid advice.

“ We have to take care of the living, boy, the rest have gone on to a better place. ”
His Dad’s words had been spoken softly when great grandpa had passed on.

Rodney gently lifted the tiny puppy to his chest and stroked his fur. A huge dump truck was slowly driving out of the side road nearby, and they were all near the township dump. Nick, the driver knew Rodney and his family, and he opened his window. Quickly his eyes took in the sad scene, and he pulled the big vehicle over onto the shoulder of the road, and jumped down to see what he could do to help. Deftly, he checked the unmoving body of the mother dog, and his expression confirmed what Rodney already knew.

“Would you like me to drive the two of you home?” inquired Nick, and Rodney nodded in answer. Already the little dog had snuggled in under the boy’s chin and Rodney knew he could never give him up. The mother had no collar, and Nick suspected they might not find an owner who was looking out for the pair.

Mother was hanging fresh laundry out on the clothes line which stretched across the spacious, back yard when she saw Nick pulling in the graveled laneway. Nick hollered a friendly, “ Hello Rose!” and then turned a sympathetic glance towards Rodney. “ Let’s tell her what happened, son.”

The big man heaved himself down once more from the truck and found Rodney already scampering with the tiny pup towards his mother. Rodney stopped in front of Rose and held up the squirming and furry baby. Mother couldn’t help smiling as the puppy licked Rodney’s face thoroughly, and Rodney was grinning through his tears. Nick explained what had happened, and assured Rose that he would attend to the care of the mother dog, which deserved a tidy plot in the pet cemetery.


“Mom, I can keep him, right?” Rodney looked up at his mother with the sober wisdom of a seven -year-old, and knew even at his young age that the important adults in his life could not deny him this fabulous little creature with glossy hair and sad eyes. Mother smiled down at Rodney and reached to smooth his hair from his eyes. She quickly hugged the pair, and with nodding assent she asked, “ What’s his name, son?”

Rodney looked up at Nick, who stood with a serious expression on his manly, rugged face. “Well…” and he thought for a moment, then his face brightened and he beamed. “ Dumpy!” he exclaimed, having hit upon just the most appropriate name for the little fellow found near the dump site.

And so it was that Dumpy came to live with Rose and Jack and Rodney, and he learned to scamper around the huge farm without getting lost, almost always keeping an eye out for the boy who rescued him, the day his mama went away.

1st in a series of children's stories about "Dumpy"

Colleen Weber  ~  cailin raine

The River Of Life

I will introduce myself as a lifelong writer, from humble means, raised on a small family farm in the bottom of Beaver Valley. We will be getting to know each other, via the magic of online publishing, which for a lot of us, did not exist when we were kids. A lot of my writing transpires from my love of nature, which was vastly nurtured as I explored the Beaver River, and hiked the valley and the hills up to the escarpment face. Our group of youngsters from Kimberley and the neighbouring farms loved to explore, and we found a way to scale up the face of Old Baldy, with the help of a big, old maple tree. We would climb to the top of the tree, inch outward on the highest limb, and scramble onto a lower ledge of rock. From there it was easy to crawl on up to the top of the highest pinnacle. There you could stand at the outmost edge and breathe in the fresh, balmy air, and take in the sight of the whole valley laid out before you, far beneath the rock, and you could watch the silver thread of the river, gently winding its way along the valley floor. Memories such as these, inspired much poetry and many stories. Below is one example.

 

The River Of Life

Twelve is such a substantial age. You are still a child, protected and worried over, so that you do not have to do the worrying. At twelve, finally, you are able to look into the adult stage with somewhat of a glimmer of understanding of that baffling realm. I was, at twelve, beginning to glimpse the person I was becoming and I knew a poetess lurked there. I spent hours in the sun, and sported a deep, golden tan and no one was concerned about the ozone layer or sunscreen. I enjoyed the opportunity to spend endless days roaming the fields and examining the frog ponds in search of Mother Nature’s treasures, ones like the daddy bullfrog on his lily pad, governing his domain, his wives, his children and I would name them all. Tirelessly, I explored the hills, the ravines, the caves and caverns, creeks and ponds, and of course...the river.
The Beaver River was an entity in itself. It flowed serenely, at times cascading, musically playing its way down the valley floor where it meandered and curved itself into a stream of sparkling, blue beauty. Its magic drew us to her. We were drawn mindlessly to the rapids that sang in soprano and alto, a duet of playfulness and delight. Then just below a fallen tree, the eddies would spin in miraculous, forever motion.
When I was twelve, I had a crew of pirates at my command. We built and manned a raft of cedar logs roped together with binder twine from my Dad’s barn. It didn’t matter that the pirates possessed brown, girlish legs like my own, or that we all giggled and wore pigtails. We were, nevertheless, the bravest bunch in all the valley and certainly more daring than the boys who dove off the high board at Ezra’s Bridge, into the deepest hole of the river.
It was at the Beaver River that we proved ourselves. On the river we sailed our vessel and scouted for bandits on the banks. In the river we went skinny dipping and knew the freedom of just “being”. On the sandy banks of the river, we built a fort that lasted well into our teenage years.
When we were twelve, we swapped stories about the mysteries of life and did not yet care to give up any of our priceless hours of watching the skippers on the river, for more grown up pastimes like dating boys. We spent lazy hours on our tummies, watching the grasshoppers in the long grass, and thought that to pray alongside the praying mantis meant our wishes would surely come true. Tadpoles were captured, named, and then mercifully let go again at the edge of the stream. Families were left intact, and at night we counted the fireflies and the stars.
Now, when I walk those banks of the river, no longer so close to home, I still hear the magical voices lilting in the air. Pirates they are, you know, calling out when the bandits come near, giggling to cover up the self conscious stretching of t-shirts across budding, little breasts, but bravely clutching their long poles, manning the big raft, and dearly holding onto the last threads of childhood.

　

pen name ~ cailin raine