Mighty Hunter, Leaf Bringer, Deer Scarer

Siobhan, my six pound black and white cow cat is many things.  She is the Mighty Hunter who brings me dead (and sometimes still alive) mice onto my bed in the morning.  She also manages to lure birds in through the chicken wire and she has captured snakes and crickets and June bugs.  

When there are no rodents to capture she makes as much of a fuss bringing in dead leaves and stalks of weeds.  I call her the Leaf Bringer.  Some days she brings in so many leaves I need a rake for my living room carpet.

This evening I glanced out my back door to see a doe and her two half grown twin fawns slowly working their way towards the cat enclosure.  One fawn kept stamping her front hooves, alternating legs nervously.  All three tails and all six ears were twitching with the tension.  What was catching their attention?  It was Siobhan, who was seated calmly in the enclosure.

Suddenly Siobhan leaped onto her platform  and all three deer scattered into the forest like leaves in a whirlwind.  So now my little girl has another name:  Deer Scarer. 

The Governor's Inn

Beginning in January of 1970, although we were still folkie regulars at the Limelight Coffee House, we also patronized another little club which presented completely different but equally remarkable music. This was the Governor’s Inn, located on Sycamore Street on Buffalo’s East Side. The Governor’s Inn was a blues club and charming owner James Peterson was a jack-of-all-trades including used car salesman, blues musician, bartender, and part-time decorator - I will never forget when he redecorated and put glitter on the ceilings (at least in the ladies’ room!). James had connections to Willie Dixon and the Chicago blues scene which resulted in national acts coming to perform including legends like Buddy Guy and Muddy Waters. On one memorable evening Buddy Guy plugged in his guitar with a really long chord and made his way down off the stage, meandered through the crowd, out the front door and into the intersection, still playing!

My then-husband Paul and I started going there originally with a couple of Canadian friends who attended Canisius College (a professor had first taken them to the place), and then later mostly by ourselves. We were drawn not only by the well-known acts but also by our favorite house group, The James Peterson Blues Band, which ultimately featured James’ five-year-old son Lucky on keyboards and guitar. Father and son were both dazzling. I recently discovered that little Lucky was playing Bill Doggett’s Hammond B3 organ, and a love for that unmistakable sound has been embedded in my brain ever since.

I don’t know how they managed to squeak past the liquor board with a kid running around in the bar but Lucky was in attendance most of the times we were there - he used to play with his toys behind the bar. I remember one night seeing his little head going down the length of the bar and I could not figure out how he was managing to walk so smoothly - turns out he was riding his tricycle! I also remember another evening when he rode up to our table on his trike and as I was talking to him he suddenly leaned over and sank his teeth into my arm - then he giggled madly and made his escape pedaling furiously. Good thing I was wearing a winter jacket and he still had his baby teeth!

In the same span of time that found Lucky riding around on his tricycle in the Buffalo night club, he was also releasing his first record album (produced by Dixon) and the  accompanying splash of publicity resulted in appearances on The Tonight Show and The Ed Sullivan Show and reviews in well known magazines.

Some evenings we brought friends with us, but Paul and I were usually the only people of pallor in that audience and it was upon the rarest of occasions that anyone would pay any attention to us whatsoever. Despite the racial tensions of the times I always got the impression that it was the love of the blues  that united all souls in the audience. One gentleman (I won’t name him) seemed to take it upon himself to act as our “guardian” - every week he would seat himself at our table and just nonchalantly hang out with us. His companionship was enjoyable and I never really thought anything of this until one evening when a patron who was more than a little inebriated staggered up and loudly insisted on buying me a drink. Our protector said softly, “The lady does not want a drink,” and then he ever so casually readjusted his suit jacket to reveal the hand gun tucked into his belt. The unwanted drunk disappeared as swiftly as he had arrived.

Another character who livened up the place was Mingo. Mingo was a snake charmer, costumed as a sort of a low-rent genii who, in addition, pranced around performing various feats of fire- and glass-eating. His huge boa constrictor was usually draped around his neck and he kept other snakes in a big basket. How he loved to scare the ladies! He snatched empty glasses off of tables, taking big bites out of the rims and he also ate light bulbs. I never did find out if he actually worked for James or if he just showed up sporadically at the club to work for tips. Mingo was also memorable to me for the last time I saw him - he was lurching down the sidewalk in front of 644 William Street (where I worked back then). He looked to be under the influence of something and he presented an exceedingly raggedy figure in the unforgiving light of day. I later read in the paper that his boa constrictor had been lost inside the walls of his rooming house.

The last calendar notation I found of  going to the Governor’s Inn was in August of 1972 - a lot of things were happening in my life in those days and I kind of lost track of how much longer the club even existed. But after all these years, Lucky Peterson, a child-star survivor, and James Peterson are still going strong as acclaimed bluesmen. Lucky lives in Texas, according to his Wikipedia page, and James is in Florida.  I hear that every so often Lucky comes to  Buffalo for a performance (although the last time went to see him was in 1980 when he was only 16 years old). But sometimes I just can’t help but wonder whatever happened to Mingo.

Lost in the Woods

On Sunday October 10, 2010, aka 10/10/10, in order to mark this special day I decided to go for a ten minute walk in my unremarkable woods and take a couple of nature photographs. My land is flat; there are no murmuring brooks, no quiet ponds, no magnificent vistas - just trees and weeds and brush and brambles (consisting mainly of buck thorn with lethal 1”- 1½” spikes). The sun was shining and the bugs were gone for the season. It was a perfect day!

I wore a pair of shoes with sturdy soles, cotton socks with jeans tucked in, and I carried my camera, my monopod, and, having locked the house, my keys. A couple of Kleenex and a half a box of Sugar Babies completed my gear. My plan was to follow the new path back to the old oak trees, take some photos, follow the same path back out. I was pretty excited about this new trail as it had been recently created by my kind neighbor with his tractor’s bush hog.

I found the oaks and took a few photos, found a handful of pretty yellow and black feathers, took a few more photos here and there, and then I found myself to be completely lost. I could not relocate the trail at all; I started following deer trails, trying to remember where the sun had been in the sky when I entered the woods. I kept going in circles, working my way deeper and deeper into the old canopy forest. Every time I tried to leave I ended up caught in the high weeds (taller than me!) or snagged in the buck thorn. Several times the thorns held me so fiercely I feared I would never be free of them. (How do deer make it through these things with their pointy antlers?) (Deer are smart - they don’t go in the buck thorn, silly!)

This was not the first time I have been lost in the woods. When I was considerably younger I once had a similar scare down near Letchworth (I can blame a camera for leading me astray in that incident as well), and I have been lost in my own woods upon several occasions. Wait - is that banjo music I hear? EEK!

It frightens me being lost like this - and of course many wild thoughts go crashing and careening through my brain as I try to find my way back to my nice little house. Honest, I will never complain about the 85% humidity again - just let me find my house! I love my house!

What if I never find my way out - not a soul knows I went for a walk - my car is there, my house is locked, my computer is on - someone will think I have been kidnapped! They will find my bones in the spring (if ever!) and since I am carrying no ID - they will not even know it is me! I was literally and figuratively spiraling out of control. Breathing heavily - blood pressure rising.

H-E-L-P!!!

And, as a person who never goes anywhere without a bottle of water, I had no water with me - I was sweating and becoming dehydrated and boy oh boy was I thirsty! I got so mixed up I started following the sun (which should have behind me to make it back to the house).

What if I fall and break my leg/sprain my ankle? Then I will be totally beyond hope and help. What would I do? I have a lot of MacGyver in me but I did not have much to work with - keys, camera, monopod, Kleenex, Sugar Babies? Oh! The Sugar Babies - they have moisture content - they will give me energy - mmmmmmm. And thank the Powers that Be for the monopod - I was able to use that as a walking stick (since my real wooden heavy-duty walking stick was in my car!).

My cats! What will happen to my cats? My cats need to be fed! By the time anyone notices I am missing my cats will all be dead. I must find my way back to my house. My cats need me!

Thinking of my cats comforted me and I gathered my wits and calmed my breathing and composed a little prayer to the Guardians of the Woodlands - “Please give me a sign, please help me, this is a special day, all I need is a sign.”

It was not long after this plea that I looked upon the ground and found a glowing red maple leaf illuminated by the sun. I took a photo and proceeded in the direction it seemed to be pointing. Soon I found a beautiful barred turkey wing feather, picked it up, found another a few steps further - and by the time I picked up the last of eight magnificent feathers, I could see the clearing.

I entered the woods around 4pm. I am old, out of shape and carrying more than a few extra pounds and although it may not sound like a lot of time to anyone else, I had spent almost an hour with my thrashing and crashing and cursing and my walking and stumbling and tripping, when I finally came through to this blessed clearing, a very large overgrown field, it was close to 5:15. At the edge of the field, way off in the distance, I could see the backs of large buildings. This put me in high spirits because I was sure what I had found was the field behind the industrial buildings on my street (the properties adjacent to mine) and I headed in that direction. I knew where I was, my goal was in sight and I trudged towards it with a huge sense of relief.

So here I am walking, walking, walking through the weedy field trying not to trip over hidden hillocks and the building I am heading towards looms larger and larger until I discover much to my shock and dismay that it is the Toyota dealer on Highway 3 and I am about 90 degrees away from where I thought I was, not to mention I am almost two miles from home.

At least the last part of my journey was on pavement and although I must have looked like a lunatic hobbling down the street clutching my monopod and my turkey feathers, I was enormously pleased that I was not going to die in the woods and I was confident that I could make it home no matter how tired, thirsty or footsore.

I have sworn an oath to never venture into mine or any other woods without a compass and a bottle of water (and quite a list of other essentials!). I also thank the Guardians of the Woodlands for giving me a 10/10/10 that was truly memorable indeed.

Zoo Story

When I worked at Bond’s back in the seventies, Cecilia Evans Taylor, aka “Peach,” was an enjoyable and fascinating customer. She bought her art supplies from our store and we also framed her many paintings. Most of these paintings were of animals: horses, giraffes, lions, elephants - so of course I adored her artwork.

I became more acquainted with Peach when she bought a Rapidograph pen. She was fond of drawing with this pen - the fine lines were quite suitable for her delicate style; but she was always mystified when it stopped working every couple of weeks. She would bring it back to the store where I would unclog it, clean it for her and refill it with ink.

Unlike the more country club attire worn by other ladies in her age group and social stratum, Peach dressed in blue jeans and chambray work shirts and she was frequently adorned with impressive Navajo silver and turquoise jewelry. I remember her red Mustang always seemed to be overflowing with big happy dogs, and I loved these and other unexpected facets of her persona. Seeing a lady her age (I was in my twenties and she was in her seventies) wearing blue jeans made me want to be just like her when I grew up - she was the perfect role model for me: creative and eccentric and a lover of animals.

One day she came into the store and showed me a letter she had just received, a lengthy missive in cramped handwriting on onionskin, folded into small rectangles and coming all the way from Africa! It was from her good friend author Joy Adamson - I remember being so impressed - this was the woman who had written “Born Free.”

In those days I used to spend almost every weekend exhibiting at various area art shows - I exhibited an array of miscellaneous artsy and craftsy creations - macramé jewelry, abstract knotted sculpture as well as little pen and ink drawings of flowers, mushrooms, lady bugs and, of course, all sorts of animals.

Peach was an enthusiastic supporter of the Buffalo Zoo (I believe she was on their board of directors) and giraffes were her passion - she created a bronze giraffe statue for their grounds, and I recall that at one point in time she even donated a real live giraffe! It came as no surprise when she undertook a mission as one of the organizers of an art show fund raiser called “The Zootique” to take place at the zoo and she talked me into participating.

The space allotted to me for my display was, alas, in a dank, dimly lit area deep in the bowels of one of the zoo buildings - I remember all of the artists’ set-ups were scattered willy-nilly throughout. The fund-raiser was scheduled for a late November weekend and it unfortunately proved to be a dismal affair: torrential rain and chilly temperatures for the entire event which resulted in hardly any visitors and even fewer sales. I felt badly for Peach because she had been so incredibly excited about the grand possibilities of this idea.

One memory from that show that I have always treasured, however, was when Peach ushered in a dapper but slightly frazzled looking older man to see my display. She was very animated in showing him all of my wares and she ended her spiel by enthusing, “Mar made all of this by herself!” The gentleman looked me straight in the eye and simply said, “Congratulations.” Then she hustled him away to see the next artist. It was only later that I discovered I had just met Seymour Knox II.

Now, every morning on the way to my shop I drive up Parkside past the Buffalo Zoo and the Cecilia Evans Taylor Giraffe House. When the weather is appropriate and the giraffes are outside enjoying the fresh air in their enclosures, I wave at them and I think of Peach.