A Cottage in Akin

PROLOGUE

June 2001

I tumble from my dreams into the quiet light of dawn.
The coffeemaker in the kitchen is brewing in low whispers, but in my half-sleep, it's a sprite rustling about the room flinging petals from an extraterrestrial bouquet. Five o'clock. I rouse and squint toward Charles whose feathery snores breeze across my face. His eyelids flutter over the dream he is living. I sit up in bed, and my orange cat, Agatha, jumps up. She purrs, arches against my hand, and paces across my lap.
The wobbly chirp of a lone robin and the heady fragrance of my Autumn Bouquet rose hedge drift in through the open window.
The dream—what was it? It had been pleasant, yet doleful. Agatha snuggles her face beneath my chin, and I lean back against my pillow, pondering, stroking her.
I recall it now. I'm a child in the dream. The scents of apple blossoms waft in through the open windows of the school auditorium and coffee from the refreshment tables in the vestibule. People stir in their seats and fan themselves with their programs, a man coughs, a baby squeals, and a squeaky door opens at the back of the auditorium. A sweet, deep pulsation grips me as I slog my way up onto the stage toward a brown-as-dark-rye-bread elderly woman, sitting, waiting for me on the stage, her arms outstretched. My legs are like sticks with wooden feet that clunk across the stage. The air is thick like water. With great effort, I stroke with my arms in swimming motions and finally reach her. There is sadness as well as joy in her animated face, her tilted smile. I clasp my arms around her neck. She smells like spice and honeysuckle. Her cheek is yielding and cool, and her rhinestone earring presses like a thorn into my cheek—a cherished discomfort. Then I'm poised beside her, soaked in a hot chill. She recites a poem—casts it out over the audience like bread upon the waters.
And her voice is deep and rich and clear, an orchestra of tones and notes. She transforms the commonplace words into a sonata, a symphony, and then a lullaby just by the turn of her voice. A myriad of emotions plays across her splendid old features like clouds flinging shadows over the fields on a windy afternoon.
I smile at the dream—and the remembrance—of Auntie Odie, the dear woman who metamorphosed my life. Had my existence not become entwined with hers, I may not have survived—and I would not have traced the God-ordained design for my life.

Charles stirs. He works hard, needs his rest. I yawn, nudge Agatha off my lap, and shuffle out through the kitchen to the sun porch that overlooks the patio we poured last year.
I look out beyond the patio where house finches, house sparrows, and mourning doves gather to chat among themselves and worry the feeders and tins of seed. Black-capped chickadees dine at a feeder of sunflower seeds hanging in the saucer magnolia tree. Up in the maple and pine risers, robins and starlings, chests fluffed, practice their scales for the sunrise opera to come.
I head for the bathroom to slide into familiar clothes—jeans, cardinal-red tee and brown sandals. In the mirror I fuss with my mass of pale curls and inspect the bridge of my nose, sunburned from yesterday's work in the garden. I am homely, it's true, but I look much younger than my fifty-nine years. The beauty experts say I should never wear red, but I do. Crimson, cochineal, fuchsia, magenta, and any other color I wish. Daffodil. Tangerine. Cobalt. Amaranth. The sheer pleasure of wearing a garden of colors outweighs the mischief they affect on my moon-white skin.
I run a brush through the tangles and look no better for my trouble. Dear Charles has never even noticed that I'm no beauty. Bless him.

* * *
Coffee, notebook, and pen in hand, I head for the sunporch and shoulder my way through the door to the patio. Agatha strolls out ahead of me, confident in our daily routine. The morning is goldenizing itself in the waking sun. As I step across the patio, along the garden walk, and through the arbor, I am baptized in a fragrance-blend of roses, dianthus, alyssum, and lily-of-the-valley.
I don't pause to examine the gardens for weeds like I usually do or to see if the foxtail-lily bulbs are coming up. Agatha leaps up onto the garden swing next to me. As I push us into motion, I drink in the air like a delicious gourmet beverage. A squirrel chatters and eats at the pie tin of seed on the fence rail. A robin eyes him, cocks her head, then chirples her ambivalent song.
The dawn slings ribbons, peachy gold, across the Colorado plains and ties up the roofs, chimneys and spires of our little town—and my gardens—like birthday packages. I journal my morning so far—simple, yet somehow profound.
Suddenly I notice Agatha, off the swing and stealing close to a cluster of finches and mourning doves pecking at seeds beneath a feeder.
"Agatha!" I scold, and she is scooped up and taken inside.
Embarrassed, Agatha slinks off to her kitty igloo, and I change into my Reeboks.

* * *
Swash! Swash! Two pelicans plunge their immense, vivid-yellow bills deep into the water. Soon the bills are raised, lower mandibles expanded. They swallow the fish whole—gulp, gulp—and the mandibles return to their original size as I snap away with my digital camera.
I’m one of many birdwatchers around the pond at Akin Park. So glad to be here to see the pelicans during one of their rare visits to Weld County. From my shady spot on a grassy swell, I notice for the first time that Pretty Pond is shaped like a pelican with wings folded. Pelican Pond. I’m warm from the brisk walk here, so the breeze feels good. The sky shimmers in the exact color of the star blooms on my blue phlox in the spring. I even imagine I smell blue-phlox.
"Look! There's more!" a man shouts.
Looking to the east, I shield my eyes. Twenty or more pelicans in the morning sun, looking as if a glassblower had fashioned them in white and clear glass, soar in a V on expansive, black-edged wings. All at once, they flap in a hushed thunder of sound. Soon they still their wings into glass again as they soar over us, circle back, and then glide in for landings on Pretty Pond.

* * *
I pour out my lemonade—along with a couple dozen one-inch caterpillars—onto the patio. A few which haven't yet drowned, squirm themselves upright and ripple away. That's what I get for leaving my glass on the patio.
For a week I've noticed the painted lady caterpillars in shady areas of the property—on the sides of the house, on the walks, fences, trees, arbor, and on a few choice garden plants. Only one in the house so far. I remember at least three of these infestations of painted ladies in my lifetime. Many gardeners complain about them, hate them, and kill them off with Sevin. But I can hardly wait to see my garden lit up and alive with the gorgeous little winged wonders. They look like miniature monarchs—bright orange wings with black, brown, and white markings. To me, it's worth the damage to a few of my plants—strawberry, sunflower, and geranium mainly—to be blessed with the painted ladies' frail beauty.
While heading inside to cool off, I notice a caterpillar hanging on a potted geranium stem. It bobbles and twists. Fascinated, I stay and watch until it becomes a silvery chrysalid.
Maybe, in about a week, I'll be lucky enough to see it emerge.

* * *
At two p.m. I rock in my writing nook, reflecting on the day. Like the unfolding of this morning's dawn, a revelation is unfolding in me. It swells in my soul as incredibly as an embryo grows in the womb of its mother: I must write the story of Auntie Odie—how she entered and transformed my life.
But where do I begin? I ponder awhile.
Ah.
The Arrentz Place. When I was nine.