In Search of Pussy Willows
an original short shotry by DBB
Miezo reached into the pocket of her denim jacket for her branch cutters. Spring had been very late in coming this year and the sixty-five year old, olive skinned woman was finally able to locate a willow bush just showing the bits of creamy fuzz on its slender red branches. The ground around the pond was still soggy, sucking at every step of her irrigation boots as she made her way towards the stand of pussy willows.
In Miezo's eyes, the first buds of the pussy willow were a definite sign that the world was about to explode into a riot of spring flowers and yellow-green leaves. From across the pond on another stand of willows, a tiny, gray Titmouse sang out to the small, pudgy woman, her long gray-black hair thickly braided down her back. The irrigation boots she wore looked far too large and cumbersome for someone so small. Yet five-foot-two and half Miezo managed very well at gathering an armful of the soft fuzzy branches in them.
The clear, blue morning had been bright with sunshine. The barren branches of the oaks above her seemed to be stretching their gnarly fingers towards the sun. Soaking up as much as of the sun's energy has they could hold, storing it within the thin, seemingly, lifeless branches that would soon burst open with red-tinged catkins: precursors to tender pale, green leaves at least a month away. Shifting her load from one arm to the other, Miezo thought she could almost hear the old tree give a grateful sigh for the sun's gift. She stood gazing across the pond, listening to the morning chorus of small birds that filled the cool, still air.
Satisfied with her collection of the year's first fuzzy branches, Miezo shoved her clippers back into her pocket and headed back to her car. She had one more pond to investigate before heading back home. She had been up since before dawn, contemplating whether or not to fix breakfast at the usual hour her life had demanded for so many long years. Going through the motions of setting the dented, aluminum teakettle on the back burner, pulling out the coffee can, two cups…no wait. Miezo had done this in her sleep for more than forty-seven years. Again she had stumbled through the four a.m. routine to the point of the coffee cups, before realizing it was another lonely day without her treasured companion…Peter. Peter had died early last month. She seldom ate breakfast anymore. It was too lonely now to eat breakfast alone, without her husband.
Life on the prairie had never been lonely. Ever. She always had work to keep her busy. Her stubby little fingers kept busy weaving baskets. Peter called her beautiful willow and grass baskets, Prairie baskets. Peter had been her life. She didn't need anything else to fill the void. They were both eighteen when they married…way back then somewhere…they never had children. Peter worked in the local quarry until he was fifty, then he went to work in the textile factory on the river. He was about to retire in three months from today. Peter and Miezo were going to give up their little white house atop a small hill, surrounded by old oaks, ash and sycamore. They were going to move south. Where the winters would be kinder to their old bones. Peter had a heart attack at work and died the very same day. Now Miezo was lonely.
The oak above Miezo's head seemed to sigh again, bringing her thoughts back to the pussy willow gathering. She had always gathered the tender red willow shoots in the early part of spring for her prairie baskets, but she adored the fuzzy buds and took many home to place in canning jars about her small little house. It always cheered her after the long winter had finally released its icy grip. The first real blooms of spring.
Miezo's attention again turned to the sighing oak. It was singing? Miezo gazed upward, searching the thick bark for signs of movement. There was no breeze about. The air was cool and still. She smiled at the thought that the oak would be singing to her. Peter had a lovely tenor voice and often spent many summer nights on their little porch, singing love songs that he and his guitar composed for her. She missed his voice. Terribly.
She was staring up at a deep crotch in the massive branches when she heard the sigh again. Louder than before, in fact, a cry…not unlike a baby's cry. Her eyes eagerly searched the spot she'd heard the sound come from. "That is not the tree!" she cried out. "What the…"
Tiny blue eyes peered out at her in the deepest part of the crotch. Tiny, pale ears flicked in all directions, taking in the sounds of the pond, the birds, the human voice. The little creature gave one last, desperate utterance to the small woman on the ground below it. "eeeeeoooooow!"
It took Miezo a moment or two to recognize what the trembling, plaintiff creature was. "Kitten?" she called to it. "Are you lost? You are lost…there's no one but me living out here for miles. How did you get here?"
She held up her hand and called to it. The kitten didn't move, but complained even louder than before. "Are you stuck? You are stuck…" Miezo sighed. If Peter had been with her he would have shimmed up that old oak without a second thought. She was afraid to climb on a footstool in her kitchen to get stuff out of the cabinets, how was she going to climb a massive oak to get hold of tiny kitten stuck twenty feet off the ground.
Miezo's car was parked on the old wagon trail over the rise. If she hurried she could get to the car, there was a rope in the trunk. It had always been there. She'd get the rope and…then do what with it? Desperately, she looked about her for something, anything to help her get to this frightened little creature. The kitten's cries had turned into frightful wails.
Miezo dropped the bundle of pussy willows to the ground and circled the tree looking for an easy way up. A low limb, a broken branch, anything to help her reach the kitten. There was nothing. No branches of this tree touched the ground, or bent low. She stepped back shielding her eyes from the bright sun, and called to the kitten once more. With the sound of her voice the kitten's pleas increased. Miezo imagined tears were falling from its pale, fuzzy face. Finally out of frustration she threw her hands up in the air, "Kitten, if you've been stuck in that tree for this long, you'll have to wait until I can come back with help."
Tears gathering in her own eyes, Miezo collected her precious bundle of twigs and slogged back to her car, the irrigation boots hindering her flight. When she reached the car and opened her trunk she noticed the brown paper sack she had packed for her lunch. Fried fish sandwiches and a small bottle of milk. Miezo grabbed the sack, exchanged her boots for her loafers and ran back up the hill to the tree. "Just maybe," she hoped out loud, "you're not really stuck but just too terrified to move. Something must have frightened you up there and you're too afraid to climb down."
When Miezo got to the top of the rise, she could still hear the kitten's cries. Screams really. Lonely, mournful screams of abandonment. Once the kitten saw her approaching the tree again, he stopped. Looked down at her with enormous blue eyes and shuddered. Much like a child would shudder after having a good long cry. "Kitten, I'm back," Miezo said soothingly. "I'm not leaving you here, promise. If I have to stay here at the bottom of this tree with you all day and all night, you will not be alone."
Miezo held up the brown paper bag and shook it a little. She pulled off her denim jacket and spread it like a picnic cloth on the ground beneath the oak. The kitten watched as she opened up the waxed paper and broke apart the sandwich. She sat as if to eat the lunch entirely alone. She uncapped the milk bottle and took a sip. "Kitten," she said, holding up the bottle for him to get a good sniff, "maybe you're just scared, but I think that if you are hungry enough you'll figure out a way to come down. I have fish and milk. What more could a small thing like you want?"
Miezo poured a puddle of milk onto the piece of waxed paper she'd fashioned into a kind of bowl, then turned her back on the tree and the tiny creature, pulled her knees up under her chin and gazed out upon the pond. The birds still chattered excitedly, flitting from branch to branch of the trees and willows across the pond. Eager it seemed to renew old friendships. Find a mate and build a nest. Miezo's heart melted at the thought. Her nest was empty. Peter was gone. She pined for him with every chore. The things they did together, mater-of-fact, without thought. Side by side, working around the house, the garden. If he still lived he'd be with her now, gathering the first of the pussy willows. Rejoicing in the joy of spring with her.
While Miezo's thoughts went deep into remembering her life with Peter, she hadn't noticed the kitten scrabbling backwards down the rough bark of the old oak. She hadn't seen it dash from the roots of the tree in triumph, across the grass to her jacket. To the bits of fish, the puddle of milk. She only came back to the present when she felt a fuzzy face brush against her hand, a sandpaper tongue lick her fingers. Miezo reached out and pulled the pale, color of pussy willows, kitten into her lap. "I knew you could do it," she cooed. "Shall we go home now, you and me? Pussy Willow?" The kitten licked her face in response and began to purr. Miezo laughed and cried at the same time. "You and I will not be lonely anymore."
The End
