Author's Note - Finding My Strength
I discovered the magnitude of
silence and inspiration of solitude at the top of a large outcropping of
boulders known as Rim of the World. By
the time I was eight years old I had memorized the natural ridges and curves
where I placed my feet and hands just so, a single move at a time, until I reached
the very top. It was there that I learned
to share and to appreciate the miracle of God, because until I could sit still
and watch the trees bend in the wind and allow my dreams and ideas to
culminate, God was just a man in a book.
Eventually, I understood that this gift of force and grace remained in
my heart. As a young woman, I learned to
rock climb and billet with my husband.
Much later we shared the lessons and experience with our children in
Arizona, Hawaii, Italy, Switzerland and Germany. Upon reaching the peak of each climb and during
many of my life’s summits, I’ve returned mentally to my place of solace and
found strength.
Bucket
Lynnette Bukowski ©
2011
This is the story of Bucket, a
three-legged, huffy little dog with blue eyes, shaggy white fur and silly brown
speckles. But I can’t tell the story of
Bucket without telling the story of Kyle, his beloved imperfect boy.
Kyle was seven when he became our official
tag-a-long. Danny, my best friend, and I
knew Kyle was sick with leukemia – but to us, Kyle was simply Danny’s little
brother. He was small for his age, and
his left leg was much shorter than his right, but his most entertaining
features were the freckles on his ears that looked like connect-the-dots, and his
full head of red hair, with a dollop that stuck straight up from the crown of
his head.
On Monday, the first day of Easter
week, Danny and Kyle’s Mother announced that Kyle could come along with us on
one of our adventures. Danny beamed, as
though he’d been entrusted with a precious treasure. We were only nine, but when Kyle’s face lit
up and he hobbled off to get his shoes, it made everyone in the room get goofy
smiles and their Mom’s eyes sparkle like glitter.
Still, in the 1960’s the seriousness
of life lasted only until the next opportunity to play and of course, because
Kyle was Kyle, we treated him like any little brother long before this milestone
day. We called him “runt”, “slow-poke” and “Opie” with the love and affection that
only a brother and his tom-girl best friend could show. He’d laugh it off,
stick like glue and never give up. Secretly we were pleased because Kyle was
special and perhaps some of that special would rub off on us. Plus, we were fascinated by a kid who was smarter
than all of the encyclopedias in the school library, and he didn’t even attend
school!
We hiked to our favorite adventure
spot in the woods; a small meadow surrounded by pine trees and vacant cabins.
We had just started to gather wood for our “fort” when Kyle dropped his handful
of sticks. “Do you hear it?” he asked, “Something’s afraid – a tiny cry that
goes up at the end like a squeaky sigh?”
Danny and I
laughed. Kyle loved to tell stories and
this day, bright blue and warm, was no different from the rest, except that
Kyle was with us outside.
Kyle limped wildly toward the pile
of leaves. We both heard it then - just
the slightest sound – like a broken bird in the wind. Danny cocked his head and
motioned for me to follow him, but by this time, Kyle was waist deep in the
leaves, “Here!” he yelled, and we both ran full out toward the boy holding up a
large metal bucket.
“Kyle, be careful!” Danny yelled, “It might be
a squirrel or a raccoon and they bite and Mom will kill me and…give it here!” Danny was clearly more afraid of his Mother’s
wrath than the mystery animal in the bucket.
Kyle held his free arm straight,
palm out. Danny stopped short. “Shush!
You’re going to scare it, now shush!” Kyle warned.
Before we could stop him (and honestly we didn’t try), he high-stepped
his way from the leaves, reached into the bucket and brought up a ball of
quivering fur. “Hello,” he whispered,
and even as he said it, even as he placed the tiny fur-ball on the ground and
we gasped at the wobbly three-pawed stance, Kyle grinned and shouted,
“Look! He’s absolutely perfect.”
Once home, we all crowded at the
kitchen door while Kyle announced to his Mom that God had sent him a puppy with
only three paws to keep him company for the rest of his life. Bucket – aptly named - wiggled from Kyle’s
arms then, plopped onto the linoleum and did a lopsided pitter-patter across
the floor. Their perfectly coifed Mom, in
her pressed and pink paisley dress, actually kneeled on the kitchen floor to
greet Bucket. Something was way
off. We all stared dumbfounded when she
burst out laughing and wiped tears from her eyes.
From that
day, Bucket was Kyle’s shadow and protector.
Kyle read Huckleberry Finn to Bucket and it was downright creepy because
Bucket always barked at the good parts. When they watched the “Andy Griffith
Show” together, Bucket danced to the whistling tune and then he’d fetch Kyle’s
small fishing pole. This always caused
uproars of laughter for anyone watching.
We played “go-fish” and Bucket tapped
the cards with his paw when it was his turn.
On our adventures or just around the back yard, Kyle and Bucket had the
same walk-and-wait gait that made us all (even Kyle) laugh until our bellies
hurt.
Shortly after the school year
started, Bucket began to meet us at the bus stop and as we stepped off the bus,
he’d bark twice and run home. We came to
learn that these were days Kyle didn’t feel well and Bucket was sent to tell us
he couldn’t play.
On good days, though, Bucket would
meet us and turn two circles, sit, turn two circles and run back to where Kyle stood,
waving and yelling happily, “I’m good today, you guys! Real good.”
One week before Easter and one year
later, I sat alone on my rock thinking about how to pray and what the rules
were for miracles. Kyle had not been on
an adventure in two months and now they were down the hill in San Bernardino at St. Mercy’s Hospital.
I rolled
onto my stomach and stretched myself across the sun-drenched rock to peer over
the edge, just as my best friend’s bicycle clanged to the ground twenty feet
beneath me. I was surprised because
Danny knew this was my private place and I had never let anyone sit on the top
of the Rim of the World with me, especially a boy. He leaned his head back to
look up at me, not bothering to swipe the tears that leaked from his swollen
eyes.
“Kyle died,” he whispered.
My throat
crowded and my eyes stung. I couldn’t
talk, so instead I reached down and held my hand out. Danny climbed up easily
and took my hand. He held on, even as we scooted across the rock, even as we
lay down, side by side. He murmured that
we must be very close to heaven and then we cried together until the tree limbs
and light sky above us blurred to dark blue, until a tiny bark drifted up to us
in the night. We rolled to our stomachs
and peered over the edge.
Bucket
turned two circles, barked again, turned two circles, sat and stared straight
up past us to the night sky.
“Kyle must be feeling real good
today,” Danny said.
I began to believe in miracles at
the tender age of ten. Now you know the
reason why.