The Reindeer Keeper

When I was seven years old my grandfather made me a simple pine desk for Christmas. It came with a stool, two side shelves and a single drawer. Inside that drawer was a pad of paper and two yellow, sharpened #2 pencils. That was the moment I knew I wanted to be a writer. I really didn't know what that meant. I think the pencils had a lot to do with it. I wanted to draw with them. Write. Scribble. Fill that pad of paper with original artwork. All kinds of artwork.  I fell in love not only with my desk that Christmas morning but with pencils as well and the infatuation has never gone away.  So, when I discovered there really is a "National Pencil Day" I had to celebrate it by sharing my infatuation for pencils with anyone who might like to read about it. I have a "few" boxes of pencils. Colored pencils. Broken pencils. Really sharpened pencils. Pencils with erasers. Pencils minus erasers. Pencils with funny erasers. And lots of yellow #2 pencils. I also have a few

Besides the robins, tulips, daffodils and geese, kids playing in and walking through puddles created by melting snow are a sign of spring despite occasional snow squalls and the wind howling. I bet most kids would say playing in those puddles is a favorite thing to do as Mother Nature tries her best to turn Winter into Spring. I know my nine-year old grandson would agree. The top photo shows him at age three, standing in one of those puddles after jumping up and down, laughing with his hands flying, losing his breath when some of the flying melted snow splashes him in the face. But kids don't feel getting soaking wet in a puddle. They just keep jumping and laughing, eventually racing inside to get warmed up with a cup of hot chocolate. The 2nd photo shows my grandson the other morning after sleeping over the night before. Nine years old now, he didn't jump up and down, but he did make waves with his boots. Then he took a stick and looked for fish or other fantastical creatures

I've always been drawn to remnants of places sitting in silence along country roads. As I drive by those haunting structures, I wonder who lived there. I wonder why they left. I wonder how they walked away. Each one of those abandoned places has a story. Just like we do. Most of us have been abandoned in one way or another at some point in our lives by someone we loved, by a boss, a friend, a community. My first realization of abandonment came when my aunt cared for a foster child-a little baby. I might have been twelve at the time. I never knew babies were abandoned. It was a rude awakening. That was followed by my sister finding a puppy alone, cold and shaking and hungry in my grandfather's old barn shed. I wondered how someone could do such a thing to a puppy. Since becoming the mother of a mentally ill son, I've learned even more about the harsh reality of abandonment by so many who either fear such an illness or are embarrassed knowing someone with such an illness. Wha