Missy

Simply put, she came with the house. It was our first house and during our numerous visits prior to the purchase, there were glimpses of a skinny, gray stray. I was much too overwhelmed with the financial and uprooting challenges rapidly guiding our lives to give an animal (banned already due to my husband’s allergies) much thought. Persistence changed that as we were moving in.

It was summertime and the doors were open wide for furniture and other belongings making their way into our new home. The cat strutted in and out; entitlement in her sway. She was constantly underfoot and the balancing of boxes while shooing her out of the way became exasperating. To bend over and pick her up though was an affront and she would scurry right back outside to await her next victim.

After the move was complete and the doors kept shut, our confident stray would lie on the back porch or sit on the high brick out front as if to guard the entrances to our home. This was all very precious until meows and hisses screeched through the night as she courted and battled with other cats that dared cross her path.

Brian and I were still settling in when Barb, from across the street, came to welcome us to the neighborhood. She was such a nice lady and had loads of scoop to share! We already knew that the house had only one previous owner and we were aware that the purchase we made was part of an estate settlement. Barb filled us in with more detail.

She cleaned house for Margaret, a lone widow, and held their friendship dear. So dear that Margaret had shown Barb all of her secret money stashes. Just one year previously, Barb noticed an unusual quiet about this house from across the road. She meandered over and peered into the front window only to find poor Margaret dead on the living room floor.

Barb then proceeded to walk through the house showing us Margaret’s secret banking spots. Left with the impression that it may not have all been found, Brian and I (unbeknownst to each other) kept an eye open for any missed treasure over the duration of the next 10 years.

I inquired of Barb if she knew anything about the gray cat that’s been about; wondering now if it might have had a relationship with Margaret. Barb had not noticed the cat at all.

Ruth Hill from next door said “yes,” a gray stray had been visiting her house. Ruth would let her in, want to keep her, but to her dismay kitty could not be contained. She would eat Ruth’s food, then cry until she was let out.

Ruth was 67 years old. She had thinned black hair and beautiful black eyes. She was slender and had obviously been quite a ‘knock-out’ in her youth. She never had children. The love of her life, Arthur, passed away early in their marriage and no one could ever replace him.

I would see Ruth sun bathing out back through the rickety white picket fence. My neighbor would flaunt herself in halter tops and short shorts. I admired this woman’s grace and dignity uninhibited by a body pulling ever downward. This was uncannily similar to her abode with its missing shingles, peeling paint, and crumbling chimney.

Even in this condition though, beauty shined through. Roses - all varieties and colors hedged wildly around the perimeter allowing the house the same kind of aging charm as its owner.

Each night I pulled in the drive from work to find Ruth sunning or fussing over her yard. It quickly became a happy ritual to chat over the fence about each other’s day.

As the cooler weather approached, I could see that the cat was noticeably thinner than when we first arrived. She still wasn’t particularly friendly; more so, her cry was demanding as her big, yellow eyes dared me to ignore her.

Imploringly I began, “I can’t take it, Brian! I will not let this cat starve to death on our back porch! She won’t be allowed in the house…I promise! Just let me feed her and keep her outside.” I felt Brian’s eyes roll as I scampered to review the cupboards. I found a can of tuna fish and watched the famished animal devour it.

That done, happy days were filled with exploring all the nooks and crannies of the new house. I arranged and rearranged furniture and pictures until they suited our style. I loved our bedroom in the loft upstairs. What a luxury to have such a spacious room after living in an apartment with a bedroom barely a fit for a bed.

Though still aloof, kitty would now allow a few strokes to her back and to be held for the briefest of moments. I kept feeding her (but with the less expensive canned cat food). It wasn’t long before her hair took on a silky, healthy shine. She was put out every night and would still occasionally wander for 2 to 3 days without a sign.

The leaves were changing and a brisk wind was whipping outside as the daylight became more and more precious. We were pleased with the little white house and its awnings that helped to keep us cozy and warm regardless of the weather outside.

The cat had been gone several days again and the assumption was that she had decided to settle someplace more accommodating since we were still very strict about her evening shut out.

It was Brian who heard her; the softest, weakest “meow” at the door. As it opened, he called to me. Poor little kitty! She had been in a fight – maybe even hit by a car. She was mangy, dirty, glassy eyed and unable to use her front right paw. Thankfully, the vet was still open. We wrapped her in a towel and took her right in. Once cleaned up, the real damage was the broken leg. A splint was applied and she was returned to us with instructions to keep her inside. They would see her back in two weeks. $150 please.

We weren’t at all prepared with litter or a box but certainly relieved to see she was familiar with using them. With our pampering care, one might think she would warm up to us. Instead, she was just plain work; not appreciating a bit of it!

Each day though our now permanent stray grew stronger and moved about more daringly. We were happy to see that even though she could barely use it, she was trying not to drag her paw under which had been a concern. Progress was slow yet sure and within a few weeks, she regained full use of all fours.

Of course, we couldn’t just call her cat or kitty through all of this. We named her “Missy”. In addition, it didn’t seem right to force her back out into the dangerous night and Brian’s allergies seemed at bay, so she became ours; out during the day; safe and warm through the night.

She remained a cat with an edge; never too chummy, but we didn’t expect much else. We respected and enjoyed Missy just as she was for many happy years.

Written By Teri Lee
Events of 1988
Winter 2005

No Fear

I have these pictures in my office. Beautiful pictures actually of a friend BASE jumping from the New River Gorge Bridge in WV. I’ve also a picture of his son skydiving in Utah and another of one of his daughters, with her long blond hair rising high. What a family! I tell everyone who asks about these pictures, “The ‘No Fear’ t-shirts exist because of this man and his family!”

There are two pictures of Paul. The first I point out is the typical sky diving freefall. You see a beautiful earthy blur around the photographer's sharply focused subject; very close to a 3-D affect. Goggles on his eyes, harness on his back, and a purple leader in his right hand to be released when it's time for the canopy to take hold of the wind. It’s a fantastic shot.

Then, I motion to the next frame. Still in perfect form, the purple leader is high above him with empty fall tree limbs off to the side while below is a gorgeous view of the New River with slate and stone shimmering around and reflected from the bed of the river. It is a spectacular bird’s eye view.

But, my story to onlookers doesn’t stop there. I direct them (every time with awe) to look closely at the second setting. Now imagine seeing the river heavy with stone right below and the purple leader above you and realize right at that split second that your chute isn’t going to open. This is what happened to Paul.

In those amazing split seconds, Paul guided himself using rehearsed body technique over into the trees to help brace the impact. He gashed open his head and broke his back. They had to life flight him out of the valley. I asked his son, “With a gash like that, did you look? Did you see inside? Was there really anything in there?” His reply: “It was completely empty!”

Over the next year, Paul had back surgery and discovered he also had a tumor resident that needed removed. In this light it was a blessing that he fell from the sky into those trees to catch this disease in time!

Paul became a hurtin' man. They put him on drugs that reduced him to a fearful soul. He wouldn't stay down though so it wasn’t long before he rejected the treatment and refused any more medication. Once his body cleared of the meds, so did his mind. Paul came back at age 67 refusing to allow that bridge to beat him. Two years after his horrific fall, with his son by his side, he BASE jumped that bridge again…successfully.

I bow to Paul; to his life; to his courage and to his will to be who he is. I simply adore him.

Note: These two marvelous pictures were purchased with full usage rights by Paul from Bridge Day, 2003. His consent was given for use here.

Written by Teri Lee
May, 2004

Elton John

We saw Elton John in concert last night. Eighteenth row. On the floor. Never have I been so close to a performer. My life has new breath!

We paid way too much for these tickets! I fretted quite a bit about that. I really couldn’t imagine getting our money out of it, but a friend made the choices with my blessing and we went through with the purchase.

We left my son at his cousin’s for the night. One of his rare overnights, which actually added to the value of evening. Because he has been adamant over the years that he would not spend the night anywhere but home, we were quite surprised at his matter of fact enthusiasm. (Not as surprised though as thrilled!)

We dropped him off and finally headed for the show. We were running late. I mentioned this to my husband. He asked me why I had hung around so long at my brother’s house. I barked back that it was very much in his capabilities to have pushed me along and said “Let’s go!” (Sounds like fun already, doesn’t it?)

We got into some horrible traffic and parked in one of the farthest lots. I was ready to move, but it took a couple minutes for my husband to transition. I tapped my toe until we finally got going. I glanced at my watch. We had seven minutes and I’m kicking myself that we spent all this money and I didn’t even care enough to try to be there for the opening act. I heard him. “I forgot the binoculars.” I didn’t look back. If he was going back for them, he was going alone. We kept up our pace.

We weaved through ten thousand or more cars. I walked faster. I was focused. There was nothing in between me and the arena except not enough time. I heard my husband behind me. “Hey, this is our neighbor’s car!” I’m wondering how he could ever pick out a neighbor’s car in this huge parking lot, let alone how he could do that and keep up! We continued onward; both, apparently, in our own little worlds.

We finally arrived and were pleasantly surprised to find the entrance very close to where our seats were. Even more pleasant was the pit stop to bathrooms with no lines of anxious fans. It’s a new arena and was obviously planned well.

We hurried to our seats. It was only a couple minutes past performance time. It was another 10 minutes before the show began. Lights! Elton! Music! Music that pounded through my soul. Music that brought tears to my eyes. I wept uncontrollably through the first piece, Funeral For a Friend. My mind took it all in and then took me through 1973…1983…1993…2001. I realized that Elton has been in me for close to 30 years. That each piece of music represented a time in my life. The tears that streaked my face throughout the concert were tears of lost innocence, of the times when life looked fresh and exciting and unbeatable. He went from high school graduation to marriage to our son’s birth ‘til today. He never had a direct affect on my life, on my choices; good or bad, but he was there marking all the phases of it with his songs and the statements he made in them and the dreams he held out to me. And I wondered where those dreams were now?

My husband held onto me during the concert through some of the songs. We hadn’t touched like that in such a long time. But, Elton swept away all the intimidations, all the frustrations, all the walls we had so carefully built one brick at a time. He took our souls and sent them on a journey through our lives and left us with an incredible positive energy that sent the crowd soaring….Rocket Man!

With all the animosty and negativity wiped from our minds, the trip back to the car was as man and wife. My soul was satiated with good, powerful dreams I had shared and realized with the man I love and I was at peace.

Thank you Elton John.

Written by Teri Lee
October, 2001

Aspiring To Be Mary

Brian and I were young in our relationship and thrilled to be able to go on a company cruise to the Bahamas! It was a true adventure as neither of us had ever been on such a luxurious and exciting vacation!

One afternoon we were basking in the warmth of the near equatorial sun at an open market area. Our ship was docked for supplies and we had a couple hours to devour more of this laid back culture. We enjoyed sitting lazily with one eye on each other and the other skimming the crowd.

You see a lot of different kinds of people milling about and blending in; but, one woman caught my attention. She was tall and big waisted and wearing a belt to accentuate it. She looked fine, but it bothered me. It was certainly something I would never feel comfortable doing with my similar thick, pillar-like waist area. I figured her for at least 60 as I continued my scan. Ouch! Another fashion blunder; knee highs rolling down her calves. I was shaking my head when her tall, handsome husband lumbered over to bring her to meet us. I had missed his presence. It was newly acquainted Bob from work. As the couple approached though, I realized something else that wasn’t quite right; his wife’s glasses. Sunglasses? No wait, not just sunglasses; she had her regular prescription glasses on underneath! My initial fear was that I would gawk and giggle. But, I quickly sobered up as I realized what a delightful woman Mary was. In addition, it was apparent during our brief conversation that Bob was still crazy in love with her after 40 years of marriage!

I may have been 30 years old then. I have just turned 50. It’s crossed my mind more than once that I’ve failed to jot down the first note about this aging milestone in my life. It hasn’t been sad or traumatic. But, I’ve had this feeling inside….okay, I’ve had many and often violently conflicting feelings inside. The most predominant one has been a strong need to finally be undisturbed by the constant nagging of satisfying everyone around me! Exhaustion overtakes me just thinking about it!

It wasn’t until my mind traveled back to this brief encounter that I realized its true life value. The vision of hefty Mary and her double glasses and those hose rolling down her legs suddenly made my most grandiose wish the ability to walk through the rest of my days as uninhibited and comfortable with myself as this enjoyable woman surely was!

People encourage how important it is to do the right things for your self without concern for how others might perceive them. I think I’m ready. I want to be just like Mary!

Written By Teri Lee
March, 2005

A Challenge Unanswered

At the age of 19, I rode across the United States with a couple of girlfriends. One memorable stretch of road traveling through Colorado held me captive; a lone mountain reaching high into the bluest sky I could ever have imagined. I was transfixed. I gazed in awe toward that mountain. The splendor of its mere presence overwhelmed me! Inside I had a sense that this was my mountain and that it was calling to me. I wanted to run to the base and climb it to the top! I wanted to twirl around and sing the Sound of Music. “The hills are alive!”

It was a clean, wholesome aspiration; one that I’ve revisited in my mind many times since.

Twenty years later…A group of us arrived at the Tucson El Conquistador Hotel mid-afternoon. We checked in and after a quick freshening up period, I began absorbing my new environment. Columbus, OH is settled on flat land. I still held lingering memories of plush green lawns accented by the beautiful foliage of autumn. Here in Arizona, the brush sets delicately against a sandy terrain. Pine trees and palms towered alongside dry river beds, though the majesty of the mountains swore to fill them to the brim with the melting of the winter’s snows. I liked it.

The El Conquistador was built at the bottom of one such set of mountains; a spectacular view regardless of your perspective. I pulled up a chair next to one of my co-workers. Neither of us visually acknowledged anything but that mountain. He finally spoke.

“Do you suppose it’s me or does everyone who looks upon it feel a strong urge to climb it?”

I certainly felt it; that old familiar hankering to make that mountain mine. I was dressed for the welcome reception but decided to explore the possibilities of realizing this seemingly ancient dream. I moved toward it. New construction along the back of the hotel provided access a short distance above the hotel, but the trail ended at a water tower. The Saguaros were tall and mighty - unburdened by the wood pecked holes and desert animals hidden well within them. A yellow flowered bush reminded me of a picture captioned “snake weed”. It looked to me that it might be called that because of the low bushy lay of it. It further looked to me like a good place for a snake to hide out from the sun and a good place for me to avoid!

I stood in the middle of the path and looked up. It didn’t look that tough! It’s not that far to what I assumed would be called the brush line and if I could just get there, I would be a satisfied woman.

At the welcome reception, conversation indeed turned to climbing that mountain.

“You wouldn’t catch me in those hills! A lot of rattlers around here.”

“You better have a good pair of boots to wear.”

“The scorpions might sting you but you’re only sick for a while”.

The following day was filled with meetings, a hoe down, and a headache that allowed “mountain climbing” to settle far to the bottom of my list of “to do’s”.

Our third day was the free day. Breakfast broke up at 8am. I went back to my room to retrieve my camera. Slowly, without allowing much thought, I headed upwards to my destiny. Within minutes, I stood at the now familiar water tower surveying the land I was about to approach.

There seemed to be a way; just climb those rocks. What had they said about snakes under the rocks? The path was narrow and there was that snake weed again. I became acutely alert looking for any kind of movement indicating desert animal; friend or foe.

I stepped up onto the rocks and jumped down to the sandy terrain. I immediately huddled close to myself frantically jerking my head around in search of danger.

Overpowering anxiety; afraid and frozen!

“This is crazy! What do I fear but the talk of those who stayed behind? I can go on.” And I did. I forked to the right still careful not to touch anything around me, eyes darting in every direction. More rocks, more rocks with lots of nooks and crannies luring large families of snakes to rest in wait. In wait for what? A reprieve from the sun? Safety from the daylight? Unsuspecting tourists like me?

Suddenly I eyed the speeding stillness of an insect’s ability to flutter its wings beyond sight and yet remain motionless. It was the size of the common bumble bee known from my own backyard. Bee? No stripes. Killer bee? What did they look like? If they looked like a bumble bee with no stripes and could fly suspended, than this guy was probably just that! Twenty feet from the water tower and I flew back down to safety. I’m outta here! Back down the road; skipping so not to trip. I am done!

Safely from the rocks, I shook myself to relieve the rest of the tension. I began walking around the tower on my retreat down. I viewed the beautiful scenery but felt almost sick. I stopped. I slowly turned back. To my horror I gazed up to that brush line and felt peace. I looked away; bad. I looked again; good. Something, certainly not the conscious self I know, took one foot back toward the path and set me on my way. Tears were streaming down my face from at once realizing how deep rooted my fear of this journey was and discovering a sense within me that maybe I could overcome it.

I hurried through the familiar, on to the rocks guarded by the killer bee. The insect was unseen, though my anxiety was growing again.

I made my way quickly and more confidently to an opening perhaps 50 feet up. From there I could see the brush getting thicker but that didn’t bring the brush line much closer. I lingered for some time. Then, I descended.

Ten years has since passed since this trip to Tucson. I’ve never forgotten the fear nor my tears shed in conjunction with this vexing adventure. I’ve reflected on its meaning and understand it as the beginning of a journey to uncover new dimensions of my self. There were frustrating limitations I didn’t expect at all. The huge amount of fear interweaving in my life was brutally obvious.

I’ll be 50 in a couple of months. I’m still fearful (yet of fewer things) and still take cautious steps while wishing I was leaping lively and with vigor. Even so, I keep my hopes alive and my hunger for adventure awaits another chance for fresh discovery.

Written By Teri Lee
October, 1995
Final December 2005

The Man On The Plane

I can always rely on a good trip away from the norm to entice me to write. There is so much new information to take in and enjoy and relate to and analyze!

I just returned from a software convention in Orlando, Florida. I saw so many old friends and began the process of getting to know even more, but that isn’t really where today’s thoughts come from. In fact it’s not from business at all.

I finished reading a book, “The Bottoms” by Joe R. Lansdale, while I was in Orlando. The words rolled so smoothly and eloquently through the pages. The story captivated me from the beginning and I enjoyed every syllable thereafter. The story was told in the 1st person; the adult man in a nursing home perhaps 82 years old. What a tale he had to tell! The events surrounding a serial murderer where he lived from birth were relayed with amazing clarity. He took this reader back to Texas when he was 12. My mind followed it vividly. The closing of the book was so powerful with the old gentleman pining for that time in his life when such evil reigned with the good. At least he was living life back then and not drudging through each day at a home for the aged.

I thought of a woman I met several years ago while volunteering at a nursing home. She was 101 years old with still a sharp mind and reasonable health. I only met with her a few times, but she would tell me stories about how her daddy was in charge of laying out plans for the new railroad tracks across America. He forged his company and his family ever westward and often they found themselves to be the first white people seen by the natives. They would travel through the small villages establishing ties with its residents. What an adventurous life!

On the first leg of my flight home from the conference, I sat with a man 88 years old. He was clear, concise and interesting! He had been temporarily banished from his daughter’s home in Florida because of an impending hurricane (Ivan). His son lives in Columbia and he was traveling there so as not to be a worry to his daughter. He talked about how he occasionally now would lose a word during a conversation. (Trying to find words is such a constant effort for me at 49 I’d forgotten to think of it as something wrong.) He may have been more astutely aware of it because his wife had passed away 7 years ago with Alzheimer’s. He looked so sad telling me about the events leading to her death that tears came to my eyes. They had three children and had been together 57 years. “Fifty-seven years and it wasn’t nearly enough time,” he said, and I could sense the well of loneliness; so painfully sweet.

There is such a fast and deep relationship between the young and society's elders. The bond seems immediate and mutual. I felt that bond with the man on the plane and the lady in the nursing home and the man in “The Bottoms”. I feel there is something important to be communicated. Maybe that’s why Mr. Lansdale wrote that book. Maybe he feels it too.

Written By Teri Lee
September, 2004

The Fountain

The fountain with its majestic jut of water grabs me each time I pass now. It’s been active for 10 years or more, but it has held my sovereign interest for only a portion of that time; that time that has passed since the drowning.

Was it a friend? That’s a tough one for me. I have people I care a great deal about and who care for me. But, I hear people talk about friends they’ve had for years and years. How they have groups of friends they often see and travel with and play cards with. We were none of these things to each other.

I surely knew of him for 5 or 6 years. He was a clerk at the local grocery. With the tight job market, it became common for the store management to hire some of the community’s disabled residents. It was the first integration of the kind I had personally experienced. I watched as the initial group arrived on board. The personalities were so varied; some loud and large while others stayed small and quiet and, of course, there were a couple right smack in the middle. Certainly not unlike the rest of the world except that they may have fallen a little farther to the left or right. Patrons were occasionally annoyed. (Yes, including me.) But all and all we adjusted to each other just fine.

There were 3 or 4 other pleasurable characters who have since faded in my ever fading memoirs. One will never fade. Tall, lanky, extremely quiet; I may have seen him smile once or twice in all of our brief encounters. He never seemed to recognize me and words rarely escaped him, but he worked diligently and efficiently and was a stable presence in this world of chaos.

One cold February day, I ran to the store for some “fill in the gap” dinner items. Copies of flyers were pasted all over the walls and windows of the store. My frequent encounters with this gentleman had come to an end. It was his picture and he was missing. I asked after him and was informed that he lived close and failed to come home one night. He was a loner and the concern was that he was mugged by someone taking advantage of his station in life. I feared for him, fretted over him. Each return visit to the store renewed my concern as the flyers continued to inquire if anyone had seen this man. After a few weeks though I succumbed to the fact he was gone; not necessarily dead, just gone.

Spring came around and one day in late May I realized the flyers had come down. Another clerk was approached and asked if they had just given up. They had not. They had found him as the warming sun melted the ice that had formed over the fountain. He had loved the water and it was thought in his enjoyment, he had fallen in or through ice that couldn’t hold him.

The fountain has held my attention ever since; not necessarily with grief. Even though I was horrified that he drowned while playing, it would have been much worse to hear he had been maimed or attacked and left to die. He wasn’t really a friend…he was barely an acquaintance, but his death impacted me, held me and formed a relationship with my soul. I continue to honor my brief and shallow knowledge of this simple man with each renewed siting of this fountain.

Written by Teri Lee
April, 2004