Some have it others work at it

There's the type of writing I do... laborious, inexact, rewritten, trashed, recovered and rewritten. Then there is organic writing... from the heart with a clear eye for detail. Our daughter is such a writer. We are blessed that all of our kids (including grandkids) have the ability to communicate clearly. Here's an example of Leslie's "organic" writing talent and a glimpse into her multi-faceted life.

March 25, 2010

There is a deer hanging in my barn. It’s been dead for several months.

It’s not a traditional barn. It’s not red and it doesn’t have a hayloft. I often long for the red, hipped roofed barn with a musty, dusty hay loft filled with golden square bales. This is a metal building, it is long and divided into two sections. There is a runway that you can chase the cows into that leads to a chute and a head gate. Sometimes we run a cow through and pull her calf. Sometimes we put an obstinate mother in the head gate and teach her baby to suck.  Either way, it’s all about life, giving life, sustaining life. Right now the East side of the barn has 5 pens made from bright red panels that contrast sharply with the thick layer of yellow-gold straw. It is bright and glows warmly against the still cold March wind outside. After time it will dull and even turn brown but for now, it’s warm and welcoming.  My orphan pen is in the corner and the motherless stay warm and dry in there. 

 

There is a metal roof on the barn. Some roof panels are see-through to let the natural sky light shine in. Over time, some panels have come loose and sometimes a few rain drops or even snow flakes gently fall into the barn. The cows don’t seem to mind. It keeps them out of the wind and protects the babies.  There are two heavy, long sliding doors. They rhythmically bang against the door frames in the wind. A lullaby song of protection from the elements outside.  

Just inside the walk-in door hangs the deer…or rather what is left of him. At one time he had the potential to be an impressive Buck. His antlers still stand proudly atop his head. His body is missing, his legs cut off. A dirty faded red strap hangs around his neck like a noose and connects to the rafters above my head.  Another rope with a hook attaches what is left of his spine to the sidewall of the barn.  My step-son killed him legally last Fall. The hunting tag displayed on his left antler.  The meat of his carcass is in my deep freeze. The hide has been cut away from his once proud shoulders and the meat of his neck is exposed. It is a dark red, almost magenta color, veined deeply with white congealed fat. He was well muscled and marbled.  If you look closely you can see where the blood trickled out from under the hide and slowly slid towards the floor. 

His shiny eyes are defiantly open and he is staring straight ahead. The cold temperatures have kept the flies and other flesh eaters from consuming them. His nose is long and proud. It is his mouth however, that rivets the attention. It is wide open. His black tongue, now dull and dried, sticks out, curled at the tip. His last terrified, shocking moments of life forever recorded in expression.

You can hear his silent scream when you look at him.