patchwork quilt

i sigh, rolling over in my warm bed as it groans slightly on the spings. the sheets are soft white with blue leaves and the walls are wood. i count the faces made out of the knots, each set looking at me like eyes. my screened window lets in a slight breeze from the lake and a stream of sunlight spills on the floor through a piece of missing chinking. it is late morning, and the excitement of last night still fills the house. i had been reading late at night under my comforter, flashlight in hand when i heard the squeaking. it was highpitched and i wondered if it was a mouse. peeking out of my bedroom door i caught sight of something flapping wildly around the cabin and i yelled for my parents. "there's a bird in the house!", i called out over the living room, becoming alarmed. my papa lumbered out of bed with a butterfly net in hand. in those days he slept with a gun under the bed and a net propped against the wall. i heard the floorboards creak as he swatted and swished the net around trying to catch the bird. the bird, in fact, was really a huge bat that had wriggled in through the ceiling and was trying to get out.

once captured in the net all thoughts of rabies subsided and his compassion for the poor thing overcame him. i watched his hands, thick and capable with a scar wrapping around two fingers. "poor little guy," he said softly, looking down at the twisted netting. "out we go." he always let the bats go outside where they belonged. inevitably they got back into the attic and then into the house, but he justified it by teaching us about how many mosquitoes they ate and how amazing their sonar hearing was. i took one to show and tell once, marveling at it's soft brown fur and doglike features. the teacher thought our family was crazy. maybe we were a little misplaced in those days.

my mom was in the kitchen, which shared a thin wall with my room. i heard her making breakast and then the knock on the wall to wake me up. "one more minute mom!" my nose was pressed deep into the final pages of a racy jean m. auel book. i had graduated to five hundred page novels at a tender age and gobbled up my mom's anthropological porn like a hungry beast. i loved thoses books that mixed up history, romance, sustainable living practices and shamanistic rituals with adventures. "stephiiiiie, come on we're ready!" i shoved the book back under my pillows and reluctantly swung out of bed.

our family made a big deal out of eating together and breakfast on sundays was no exception. outside my dad had the eggs on the griddle and the smell of bacon was drifting around. i carried the pitcher of orange juice out to the picnic table on the deck and helped mom with making toast. "how do you want you eggs, stephi? one or two?" i looked up at papa against the backdrop of pine trees and birds singing. i thought about the way he always told me to remember this time of life because it was the best. it goes so fast, kiddo, you'll blink and you'll be all grown up. this is precious time, you have no idea how easy life is for you right now.

"one or two, stephi?" i look up out of my thoughts and think about how much i hate the yolk and about wanting more egg whites. "two, if you'll eat my yolks papa." we agree and everyone sits down at the red and white checkered table. breakfast outside on sundays included peanut butter toast, well done bacon, eggs, oj, and the five of us. sometimes i had to go out to the chicken coop and get the eggs before we started, but this sunday i was off the hook. it always grossed me out to feel the eggs still warm from the hens and see the small poop smears on the shells. i would think about my novels and how the heroine tracked animals and raided quail nests for eggs. i was sure there were poop smears back then too.

after breakfast we always took a family walk "around the horn". we lived in the country and the land surrounding us was mostly farmland. my dad lit his cigar and put on a light flannel button up as we cleared the table and suited up. the five of us headed out down the tunnel of trees and into the field. i silently dreamed of horses as most little girls do, and decided to voice my wish again. "pleeeease can i have a horse?" my mom shot my papa a look from behind her big sunglasses. she had a horse growing up and i knew she wanted me to have one too. "well, honey, you've been wanting one for a long time. are you ready to have all that repsonsibility?" i felt the welling of possibility rise in my heart. "ohh, yes!" "well then, if you save all your money this summer we'll match you dollar to dollar." i squealed and jumped up and down.

the next few weeks i was consumed with the greensheet, pouring over the classified section. i mowed the lawn and babysat and cleaned people's houses. i did whatever i could to make five or ten bucks all summer and finally amassed a whopping $300. i had become a professional horse-ad reader, now equipped with a spending power of $600 and an insatiable need for equus. we went to check out quite a few horses, landing on a chestnut mare named misty. her owners gave me a break on the price and because we didn't have a trailer mom rode her home to our house. they arrived eight miles and five hours later, exhausted and covered in horse flies. mom was walking and misty's tongue was lolling out of her mouth sideways.

i couldn't sleep that night, creeping out through my screened window with little amanda in tow. we tiptoed barefoot in our nightgowns to the barn feeling every soft pineneedle underfoot. there she was, barely snoozing in the straw. i was in love for the first time.