Patti Santucci, author


I sit here, avoiding raking the leaves that are choking my front yard, ignoring the end-of-the-year bookkeeping that is breathing down my neck, pretending not to notice the gym membership card that dangles from my key-chain pleading, for the love of God, to be used. I pile all of this in the back of my brain because today I need to write.

Last night, I officially became a published author. Two pieces are now loud and proud in the American River Review, a nationally award winning collegiate literary magazine.

Last night, I read one of my pieces before an audience.

It wasn’t so long ago, I was the woman who would cry before she had to meet clients because I was so nervous; the woman who would sweat and shake when I needed to ask a question in a flippin’ PTA meeting; the woman whose identity has always been defined by the existence of someone else: wife, mother.

And while those experiences,as well as both those titles, have given me great joy, last night, it was me they introduced. It is my  name on the stories in the glossy pages…pages that people actually pay to read.

I can spot them now. The ones who used to be like me.  They shake their heads and repeat their mantra of, “Oh, gosh. I could never do that.” Their internal whipping post vacillates between quietly nudging them as an annoying reminder and violently slamming them as a stabbing truth that they will never be good enough.

I want to tell them to be bold and fly. I want to tell them that everyone is scared. I want to tell them that people will forget about them five minutes after they leave. I want to tell them to shine their colors as brightly as they can because even if they are forgotten, for one moment, they gave someone a rainbow, a reason to smile, a thought to ponder. I want to tell them that even if they make a mistake, even if they screw up, it will never be as embarrassing as they think (the blessing of the five minute rule).

All that fear that we keep bottled up inside is just a thief stealing moments not realized.

Live out loud. Go forth and conquer. Live every positive cliche without excuses. Love yourself for who you are because I’m telling you, the feeling is unbelievably awesome.




Double Digits

“Yea, I can come!” Brittney said. “This is going to be so much frickin’ fun!”

I held my cell phone tight to my right ear as we talked, dangling my feet over the edge of the dock, feeling the cool water lick my ankles. Tomorrow will be my 10th birthday, a biggie by anyone’s measure. Brittney and I talked about the huge sheet cake my mom was getting and I confided in her that I had over sixty balloons to fill, the big surprise for the end of the party. We talked about who was invited, who was coming and who was getting nailed with the most water balloons.

“I bet Robbie throws all his balloons at you!” she said.

Brittney and I had talked long and hard about Robbie. His dark eyes, his cool clothes and the way he could make milk squirt out his nose and, at the same time, play what sounded like “Who Let the Dogs Out” with his arm pit.

Robbie wasn’t from around here. He had come here from California which is 2,160 miles from Peshtigo, Wisconsin.

I looked it up, twice.

I watched four cranes take off from the weed bed across the river and asked, “I wonder if he was ever in the movies?”

“Probably,” she said.  “He is from California.”

“Chloe! Your dad’s home!” my mother’s voice rang across the river. I didn’t even have to turn around to know she was standing there, in her apron that said “Kiss the Cook” while she held the screen door open, waiting for me to get in the house.

“Gotta go. My dad’s home,” I said into the phone and clicked the End button.

“Coming!” I yelled back, holding my phone with one hand and scooping up some river water with the other, dabbing the back of my neck, as I ran toward the house.

I was glad to have Dad home now. He had lived somewhere else for a while. Mom stopped wearing perfume and spent a lot of time in her room when he was gone. Now, he comes home everyday from work around lunch time and, since its summer and I don’t have school, we all get to sit down and eat fried chicken or steak and sometimes he even brings home a pizza, the expensive kind from the Palm Tree Pizza Company.

“What’s up ChloeChloeDavidBowie?” my dad said as he picked me up and swung me around the kitchen. I was, I thought, a little old for that but I liked it anyway. He says David Bowie and me are gifts from God, music to his ears he always says.

Mom sat the meatloaf in the center of the table and said, “Tomorrow is the big day, huh Chloe?”

“Whatcha got going on?” Dad asked.

Trying to keep my face from frowning, I looked at my Mom and she said, “Bruce, don’t be mean. You know its Chloe’s birthday tomorrow!” I watched as she rubbed his left shoulder.

“Hah! Got ya!” Dad said to me. “You think I would forget double digits?” He paused. “Remember that magician you told me about? The one that Jordan had at her party?”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling all tingly inside.

“Well I talked with him, worked my magic a bit and he’s coming to the party! He has a bunch of new tricks. Of course, he’ll do a few of the good ones he did at Jordan’s party too but he’s been working on some brand new, never seen before, super cool ones!”

“Are you kidding?” I screamed and looked at mom who smiled at me but I could tell it was a surprise to her too. “Oh my God, this is the best present ever!”  I ran over and gave Dad a big hug. His face got all red and he smiled making his dimples show and I poked my fingers in them like I used to do when I was a little girl.

Somehow I managed to sit through lunch and eat what was on my plate but Mom could tell I was antsy and wanted to call Brittney back.

“Go ahead,” she laughed and excused me from the table.

I called Brittney right away. Jordan always had the nicest parties and now mine was going to be even better. Water balloons AND a magician! I called everyone who’d been invited saving Robbie for last.

“Hello.” Robbie said, his voice sounding like cotton candy and root beer.

“Guess what Robbie? I’m going to have a magician at my party tomorrow. It’s gonna be awesome! You’re still coming right?”

“Yea. I got you a present. My mom’s gonna drop me off at eleven.”

My heart stopped. I hadn’t even thought about what he would get me for a present. Robbie is getting me a present. I let that just sit in my head and that tingly feeling was back full blast as I spelled out Robbie + Chloe with a stick in the dirt.

“Super!” I said grasping for something, anything to say as this weird silence hung in the air. “I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

See you tomorrow? That’s the best I could come up with?

“Okay. Talk to you later.”

I said bye not wanting to but, let’s face it, there was nothing else left to say.

I hung up the phone, danced, twirled  and spent the rest of the day picking daisies and pulling the petals off in that “He loves me, he loves me not” game. I imagined what our house would look like and how many kids Robbie and I would have, that is until I realized I had nothing to wear.

At first, I was going to wear my yellow shorts with my Harry Styles T-shirt and my sneakers but after talking with Robbie, I decided on my dark blue sundress.  I knew I would be able to dodge all of Robbie’s water balloons if I wore my sneakers but, really, did I want to let him miss me every time? Besides, a dress would be prettier and all the magazine covers say dark colors are slimming.

Dad came home and we had supper and watched TV while Mom finished up a baby blanket for my new cousin, Oscar. Nothing exciting about the evening but I couldn’t sleep. I had put my hair in curlers and didn’t want them to fall out so I tried to lay real still but that just made my head itch and when I tried to think about something else to forget about the itching, I came right back to Robbie and my party.

Mom and I got up really early and strung yellow and purple streamers she’d bought at Dollar General in all the trees so they hung mid-air over the table and then dangled balloons from some of the branches. Next, we strung up the huge banner we made. Yesterday, Mom and I had spent hours cutting out the letters, gluing them to the construction squares and decorating them with silver glitter. Mom brought out the One Direction tablecloth, paper plates, cups AND napkins and laid everything out on our picnic table. By myself, I dragged some palettes over and made a stage for the magician and then cut out little red construction paper triangles to trim the edges. We had some silver confetti left over and my mom was going to sprinkle it on the table but I asked her if I could put some on the stage and use the rest to throw up in the air when we announced the magician. She didn’t answer right away but then agreed after thinking it over.

We stood back and stared at all the decorations, the giant pink box that held the huge chocolate fudge cake in the center of the table, the streamers, the balloons, the stage. It was all just perfect!

The first car pulled up and Brittney jumped out with a big pink and yellow present for me. She stopped just before reaching us to look at the decorations. She looked at me and squealed, “It’s frickin’ beautiful!!”

I knew as soon as it was out of her mouth, our day was doomed. Brittney’s mom hated, and I mean hated, the word frickin’.

“Brittney Lynn,” her Mom said sternly from the car.

“Sorry,” Brittney said, standing very still.

Our moms looked at each other and smiled and Brittney and I both knew that it was with an “aren’t-these-kids-cute-heavy-sigh” kind of smile and not an “embarrassed-you’ll-be-in-trouble-later” kind of smile.

Everyone showed up. Carol, Jodie, Kylie, Jordan, Madison, Joey (‘cuz my mom said Robbie shouldn’t be the only boy) and, the last one to arrive:  Robbie. He smiled at me when he handed me my present and I think he said he liked my dress but I wasn’t sure and I didn’t want to ask him to repeat himself but I think I said thank you before he walked over to the picnic table. My head was swimming.

We played Charades, ate hamburgers and then my mom said everyone could go swimming in the river. I was so surprised when everybody peeled off their clothes and had their swimsuits on underneath.

“Surprise!” mom said. “I knew it was going to be hot today so I called everyone and told them to bring their suits. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” I said. “That’s frickin’ awesome!”

She just laughed and shook her head.

All of us took turns jumping off the pier doing our best cannonballs and measuring who had the biggest splash. Robbie could do backflips off the edge like an Olympic gymnast. He said it was easy and that he could teach me how.

“Cake and ice cream, anyone?” Mom yelled and that caught everyone’s attention. It felt like I floated from the river back up to the picnic table.

Mom started to light the candles and it dawned on me. “Where’s Dad?”

“He had to work but he should be here soon,” she said and then began singing “Happy Birthday”. Everyone joined in and I made a wish that Robbie would teach me how to do backflips. I blew out all the candles in one breath so I know that wish will come true.

Mom started slicing the cake and handing out pieces. She came to the corner piece that had the most frosting and I quietly reminded her to give that piece to Robbie.

She winked at me and we watched Robbie’s eyes light up.

“Thanks Mrs. Stewart. Frosting’s my favorite part!”

Mom kicked me under the table and we both tried hard not to smile.

After cake, we broke out the water balloons. Mom and I had spent forever filling each one and had piled them in two baskets. I watched as she struggled to get them all to the safe spot we had agreed upon.

“Now there are enough balloons for each of you to use six, so use them wisely. The battle field is just beyond those two birch trees and all the way down to the riverbed. Throwing any balloons within the safe zone will get you disqualified so wait until you clear the trees. Look around out there, there are lots of places to hide.” Mom clicked on the portable CD player and the theme to the Hunger Games began. She cleared her throat and in her best Claudius Templesmith voice said, “Let the games begin and may the odds be forever in your favor.”

We all ran toward the baskets. Some of us grabbed two balloons at once; others took only one and then sprinted off to find a good hiding spot. I watched which way Robbie went and followed through the trees.

“Arghhhh!” Madison was the first one hit and she ran back for a second balloon.

I hid behind some bushes and tried not to make any noise. I heard Robbie laugh and Jordan cry out, “You butthead!”

Robbie joined me by the bushes and said, “I just got Jordan!”

We looked at each other and smiled.

The theme music continued to play in the distance, the sound of water exploding followed by laughter played in the air. Robbie took off again, with his second water balloon in tow, looking for his next victim. I followed, nailing Kylie in the back.

I threw my other balloon at Joey and missed and then noticed something strange. Robbie was hiding, holding his balloon and not throwing it even though Joey and Brittney were in the open. Jordan returned with her balloon and hid behind a tree. Robbie caught sight of her, snaked around the back and threw the balloon on the back of her legs.

“You…” Jordan yelled and started chasing Robbie.

As my grandma always says, “I wasn’t born yesterday.” I knew what this all meant and sure enough, Robbie used almost all of the rest of his balloons on Jordan.

I ran back and got the rest of mine and quietly pierced them behind a tree.

Mom called game time and everyone crept out of their hiding places soaking wet.

“Wow Chloe!” Robbie said. “You’re good at this game. You didn’t even get hit!”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Robbie, look at my hair,” Jordan said. Her long brown hair was wet and she had piled it high on her head. Strands started to fall and I realized then that I had never noticed how pretty Jordan is.  Everybody laughed as she grabbed a particularly wet strand and made believe she had a beard.

My dad’s red pickup pulled fast into our yard, kicking up dirt, making a big announcement; at least now the magician was here. We all turned as my dad’s car door flung open, each of us holding our breath just waiting for the guy in the tuxedo to get out of the passenger’s side. Instead, my dad folded out of the truck in slow motion. I watched as he weaved toward us. The closer he got, the tighter the knot in my stomach got. I tried to stop my face from reddening. I tried to stop my eyes from tearing but I knew what all this meant.

“ChloeChloeDavidBowie,” he yelled slurring his words and catching his foot on an overgrown tree branch.

“Who’s David Blowie?” I heard Jordan whisper to Robbie.

“Hey kids! The magician sends his apologies. He got sick and is unable to attend this fine, fine party.” He threw his arm out in a grand gesture and burped loudly, then mumbled, “A’scuse me.”

Please, please stop talking. Mom shot me that one look that I had long forgotten about. She walked over to him, put her arm around him and said, “Hey, you hungry honey? All the kids wanted to save you the biggest piece of birthday cake. Let’s go inside and find you something to eat.” It was the same kind of voice she used when my last dentist appointment was over and she was trying to get me out of there before I started crying.

“Really?” Dad said, the slurring getting worse; his legs turning to rubber. “You kids are the breast. I mean the best.” He covered his mouth with his hand, laughed way too hard and said, “My bad,” drawing his leg in like a bashful schoolgirl. He winked, snapped his fingers and pointed at me, “Double digits! Par-tay!”

Mom ushered him inside and everyone stood staring at me. I wanted to run, to hide, but then there had been Mom’s look, that look that said: This is the last time, I promise.  I wanted to disappear, to melt, to fade away but I just stood there. Brittney clapped her hands and said, “We have presents to open,” in that happy voice she uses when she feels like crying.

Brittney handed me presents and I opened them and hoped that I looked happy. I just kept picking up a present, unwrapping it, thanking everyone and going on to the next one. My mom came back out and “oohed” and “aaahed” each time I pulled the paper away as she handed out popsicles. Mom said, “Happy Birthday” and raised hers in the air. Everyone at the table raised theirs too and then pretended they were wine glasses and clinked their popsicles together like a big toast as if we were grown ups at a dinner party. The heat began melting them before everyone could finish and drips of purple and red ran down their arms which made me feel like crying again.

Parents started pulling up and it was a good thing as no one was really having a good time anymore. One by one, my guests disappeared until only Brittney was left. Mom gave me a long hug, kissed the top of my head, and went back in the house without a word, just a long exhale as she wiped her hands on the back of her jeans.

Brittney and I went down to the pier where just less then an hour ago, Robbie had told me he would teach me how to do a backflip. I didn’t really feel like talking but that’s the thing about best friends. They just seem to know and can stay quiet with you so you aren’t alone.

We sat there until a summer rain began to fall. The rain came hard and fast but we didn’t budge. Mom didn’t come out to check on us. I knew she was trying to get Dad onto the couch so he would just fall asleep in front of the television set. She was probably laying that ugly brown and yellow blanket over him and placing that big silver barf bowl next to him and when I went inside to get my sleepover stuff, she would probably mumble something about him not feeling well. Whatever.

I mean, I’m a little old for that.

The rain stopped just as quickly as it had started leaving the air super muggy, heavy and tight like last year’s Christmas sweater.

“You okay?” Brittney asked.

“Yea,” I said, just staring down watching the water bury my feet making my toes disappear, wishing the rest of me could too. “Do you think I could spend the night?”

“You know you can. My mom said anytime was fine with her.”


The laughter and play that had filled up the river was long gone and now a stillness just sat next to us, the occasional click of a snapping turtle the only noise breaking the silence.

“Hey look,” said Brittney, “a rainbow.”

It was one of those big, beautiful rainbows that fill the sky and reflect off the water and we studied it for a long time without talking.

“Do you think the other side of a rainbow, the side no one can see, is dark and gloomy?” I asked.

“No way. It’s colorful no matter which way you look at it,” she said quietly trying to meet my eyes and then added brightly, “My mom says it’s the reward for making it through the storm!”

I smiled back but knew that was only true for some people.

Image result for real rainbow images

Writer’s Workshop

whatifI drove home in silence with my brain full of learning, learning how to avoid adverbs, how to create distance or focus, how to re-arrange, tighten, pull back, learning ways to get the reader to willingly crawl inside the skin of a character and feel. The workshop introduced me to people I would otherwise never meet, worlds I will undoubtedly never physically see, and witness ways that authors can make the mundane, inspirational and the unreachable, the larger than life moments that only a chosen few are brave enough, lucky enough or unfortunate enough to be immersed in, seem so small, so human, so approachable, so unintimidating and so like me.

I am grateful for the folks who put events like this together. Not just for the technical knowledge we learn, not just for the comfort we get from those who struggle with the written word, not just for the friendships that develop but because what I see in the classrooms, the boardrooms, the lecture halls is a small fire. And for some of us it is so hard to keep that fire going, that dream alive. But days like this someone comes along and offers some kindling, some tools, some feedback, some hope and I begin to feel, once again, like I have something to contribute, that maybe the dream isn’t frivolous, that the “what if” is out there and maybe, just maybe, it is out there waiting for me.

The Day the World Stopped


You can feel his eyes trying to reach yours, to hold your gaze, but the last thing you want to do is look up because you know if you do, the sucker punch he will deliver will not just break you but shatter every inch of your already drained and fragile soul.
You think about the first time you met Rick. The way you immediately fell in love with this unique, shared, instantaneous, logic-defying connection that affectionately embraced you every time he smiled. His easy laugh that melted trouble. Those warm hugs that, throughout the years, never ceased to give you comfort. Two babies and twenty-three years later, hundreds of bedroom romps and kitchen table arguments later, roller coasters of feelings that waxed and waned later, you find yourself here. No one warned you it could be like this and the more you think about it, the more you find it harder to breathe.
Finally, you raise your head and meet his eyes but there seems to only be part of you alive. While on some level, you are dimly aware of a flurry of activity, of green scrubs and white orthopedic rubber-soled clogs racing by, of beepers rushing frantic pleas to perched ears, of a steel on steel whisk as curtains are thrown back, of clipboards and rubber fob watches, of nametags and stethoscopes, of regular people drawing their hands up to pained faces in slow motion and spilling a kind of sadness that makes others recoil, the only thing that pierces through all this fog and holds your attention are his lips moving. You barely feel the whisper of his rehearsed, yet gentle, touch to your right elbow. You glance at the surgical mask that hangs like a punctured balloon from his neck and you note the way his shoulders now sag in defeat as if losing all of your hope had physically shortened him six inches.
There you stand, not sure which way your mind is going to go because control is no longer in your vocabulary or capacity. You watch as his head imperceptively shakes back and forth in slow motion. Just yesterday, you were arguing with Rick over the toothpaste cap. The toothpaste cap. Last night you went to bed mad and it all started with the damn toothpaste cap. And now, all the images crawl inside your heart. Rick playing “airplane” with Ricky Jr. Rick teaching Sara, at sixteen, how to check the oil in her first car. Rick, leaning against the frame of the bedroom door, smiling, and you remember how his look made you feel sexy despite the wrinkles, the grey roots and the extra pounds that the years had gifted you. You can almost hear the way he used to say in that sexy, smooth-honey, southern drawl, “How’s my Baby doin? You wanna….”
But the man’s lips keep moving and his voice interrupts and cuts through your thoughts like a guillotine as the sporadic words like, “I’m sorry” and “nothing more we could do” slam against you, a relentless tsunami, and that is when you become aware that you are drowning and your ability to make it all stop is not, nor will it ever be, within your reach again. You think you are falling but you can’t be because no one else is reacting so you stand there….silently sinking until the man’s words build walls around you, boxing you in, keeping you frozen.
The man slowly guides you to a chair and this very cruel part of you no longer lets you have even moments when you are numb or distant or sheltered. His demolishing words, the sad sideway glances from strangers who dare to make eye contact, the suffocating swarm of antiseptic combined with body odor and fear, the futile offering of a small glass of water come straight at you like rapid fire knives and make it harder and harder to breathe and the only thing you want to do is claw your way out of this moment. But you know there is no way out, no other side, no where to hide or run or scream. This box you’re in is now your permanent home and that thought is so overwhelming, so desperately devastating that you just let the walls envelope you, chew on you, crush you, and hope that they can erase you.
He sits next to you and watches you breathe, hands you a Kleenex for tears you didn’t even know were there, places his hand on your back to calm this heaving body that no longer feels like your own. You are in quicksand, all the way under, and while the man tries to comfort you, he is miles above the surface and so very far away.

You are all alone now.

“Mrs. Jennings, do you want…see the body….a chapel on the first floor….is someone here to drive you home….I’m so sorry for your loss…”

Is this happening?

You mumble thank you and stare at the used, torn Kleenex wadded up inside the palm of your hand that won’t stop shaking and absently ask in a small, lost, child’s voice you have not heard for decades, “Who will put the toothpaste cap back on now?”


dawnThere is a pencil sketch that hangs in my living room I bought years ago at a charity art auction entitled “Dawn” by an unknown artist.  Train tracks run up the center of the picture and then split off into three different directions fading out into infinity while the morning sun peeks brightly from behind the station. When I saw this picture propped up on the bidding table it felt isolated from the other paintings, perhaps in a lonely kind of way but also in a thoughtful kind of way – as if it tried to go unnoticed sitting by its more vivid bidding family.  For me, Dawn had a message. I too was at a crossroads trying to decide which path to take.  I find myself there again now and each time I approach my couch at the end of the day, there it hangs reminding me that my train has been on one track long enough and what lies ahead is some necessary change.

The fact that Dawn is black and white seems to be a perfect fit because times like this, for me, are not filled with excitement and joy and thrilling adventures.  Times like this are not painted with strong hues that jump off the canvas.  Changing directions, altering paths, requires stillness and too much color, too much frivolity, will cloud judgment and distract focus.  Natural early light is best – that clear headed thinking that has always come for me in the morning will help me decide how to begin the second half of my life.

When we bought this piece, I was deciding a marriage proposal and now we fast forward twenty years and I am traveling with the same partner but passengers have arrived and departed during our long ride.  Being self-employed for as many years, we have seen employees come and go, die and move on, become family or burden. Friends have stepped on board placing their baggage next to ours which, at times, has helped distribute the weight comfortably.

Our daughter has boarded another train altogether and my role in motherhood has altered and somewhat disappeared. I find myself trying to figure out where the train is headed now and actually choose, for myself, which path to take.

The journey, filled with opportunity, the kind that feels like youth and idealism and passion and winning bravery, is balanced delicately with trepidation, the kind that feels like an icy wind against my bare cheeks and chills my deep breaths of courage every time I step away from the deeply grooved track I have traveled for years.

What if I get it wrong? But, oh my, what if I get it right?


Rosie’s Hands

     handspicHer hands. For decades, those hands have produced oil paintings that cause strangers to stop, stare and sigh. Hands that ignore age and disease and transfer stories to canvas. Fingers that refuse limitation and caress paintbrushes to create beauty. Hands that have cradled babies at dawn, embraced bibles in church, gripped armchairs in injection centers and nursed relatives in care facilities and I am both mesmerized and enchanted as I watch her paint free today of obligation or sadness or pain. My eye travels to the canvas and I study the picture. The son she lost during the Depression stares back with eyes that no longer weep or fear and as I transfer my gaze back to her, I see a mother who, for an instant, has again touched her boy, heard him giggle, felt him inside. Her eyes smile with the warmth of fresh-baked bread hot out of the oven. Her expression purrs like a cat lying in the sun.

     Hair peeps from her scalp and if we use our imagination, we can all pretend each strand poking up is new growth. We can pretend the wrinkles are canals where wisdom lies; that sallowness is a color and gravity has not drained her for over 84 years. Age has stolen her youth, cost her her health, but does not leave her wanting. She knows the disease will dictate that she put down her paintbrush for the last time and she stares at her hands, ignoring the tremors and the transparency, because she knows…

     soon her hands will be holding those of the boy in her painting forever.

The Hunt


When I need an escape, I find refuge in thrift store shopping, imagining the people as animals foraging with the same goal in mind:  to find that unique item to return to their nest, a slice of magic that will calm their prowl. The customers flit around me some traveling in packs while others are lone wolves on the hunt. Some are injured trying to find a slice of solace that will feed their soul while others simply prance about laughing in the sunshine of a good bargain.  The young mama bear searching to clothe her offspring who plays hide and seek beneath the hanging garments, grateful for the diversion and the innocence that her cub enjoys. But there’s no mistaking the primal protection in her darting eyes which signal the others that she has a history of being very aware of any predators in her midst.

The white haired, stooped older mammals, like wise owls, gather around the books and lose themselves in the warm bask of a good story.  Other animals remind me of what happens when left in the wild too long.  The ripple effect of bad decisions, sometimes forced bad decisions, play across their face, crawl up their spines and lay heavy on their stooped shoulders; their empty eyes lost in a forest of numbing apathy and useless regret.  There are others still, rejuvenated, primping, strutting as they enhance their plumage barking, chattering, cooing while others plod through this forest, worn and tired, simply trying, practically and matter-of-factly, to gather the necessities for the cold winter ahead.

I relish in the anonymity that my “nature” place provides.  I go unnoticed among the herd as I pick through the sticks that line my own nest and draw comfort in being surrounded by others who unknowingly carry inside them a tiny piece that looks a lot like me