merrymuhsman

recent posts

about

Born and raised in Nebraska, Merry Muhsman is sometimes a fantasy writer, sometimes a nonfiction writer, sometimes a flash fiction writer. Basically, she’s a writer of a lot of styles. She reads a lot of different styles, too, which often influence her writing. As Forest Gump once said, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get.” And so is the case of this site. Merry still lives on a farm with her husband and son, a dog and lots of cats.

  • Government Intervention

    The answer from the government finally came, but is it the answer I was looking for?

    Spider Log: 08.2025.4

    I haven’t been in the office for a week, but fate was calling me back to the room.

    A few days ago, I believed the letter from the government had finally arrived in the form of a spray plane. My heart soared with the thought the government sent the plane to spread poisonous fog onto our property to rid us of the spiders. But no, the spray plane flew over the neighbor’s field. Those pilots fly low over the trees, loud enough to frighten the cats. They are crazy. But they wave at me. Crazy attracts crazy I guess.

    I called the post office, because I’ve been waiting for the letter from the government, and if it arrived, only one person would know about it.

    “I don’t go through the mail that carefully. If you got a letter from the US government, it would come with a certified notice.”

    Thelma the postmaster at our small-town post office. And she was a liar.

    I’d known Thelma for years, and when we were on speaking terms, she would tell me all the gossip. Like who had an overdue bill stamp on their power bill, who just got their Columbia House subscription using their dog’s name or who finally won Publisher’s Clearing House.

    “Thelma,” I said as calmly as I could. “I’m expecting an important letter. I have no idea if it came certified or not, but…” I gritted my teeth.

    The information I was about to give her would be all over the local coffee shop (aka The College of Knowledge), and then it would get back to my husband. And my in-laws, and the entire congregation at church. I might as well attach a scarlet “S” on my shirt.

    “Thelma, we have been friends for a long time.”

    “Hmph,” she muttered. “Not for years, but go on.”

    I pinch the bridge of my nose. A headache is coming on. “I would appreciate if you didn’t say anything to anyone about this… it’s top-secret stuff.”

    “Top secret?” her voice raised.

    I smiled. “Yes, the sort of stuff the government has been keeping secret for years. You know, those conspiracies we always talk about.” I stifled a giggle, but I could practically hear her leaning into the phone, the cord creaking on the other end.

    “Yes, I remember. Did you… oh tell me that you finally uncovered one?”

    “I did. But Thelma, I can’t tell you about it until I get that letter. The proof is in the letter,” I whisper.

    She gasped. “No kidding! Is it bigger than the time they let the mountain lions loose on Owen’s farm because he wouldn’t sell his cows to the governor?”

    “Yes, yes it is. Now can you tell me if a letter from the government came?”

    The silence on the other end was longer than winter in Nebraska. “Listen, I’m only telling you this if you promised to share with me what the secret is.”

    “Ok, I…”

    “And maybeeeee,” she trilled, “I will forgive you, and we can be friends again.”

    I considered. Not a bad deal. “Deal! Now did the letter come?”

    She tapped her nails against the phone receiver. “Yep, that letter came last week. It wasn’t certified though. Just had a return address of the US government in Washington DC. I thought maybe you finally sold the farm or someone claimed…”

    “Thelma, listen…are you listening?”

    “Yes, my beloved friend.”

    I stifle a groan. “The secret is what we’ve suspected all along. When the fog is just barely a trickle in the fields, it’s the mucus hanging in the air from the coyotes sneezing.”

    “I knew it! I knew the coyotes were involved somehow. Always howling all night, stealing my chickens. Foxes always get blamed, but it was always the coyotes. What else do you know?”

    “Well the government is injecting pollen in the air to save the bees. It’s making the coyotes sneeze, and their slimy mix of electrolytes and mucins and leukocytes is hanging in our air.” Thank you Webster’s dictionary.

    “Their what? I can’t even pronounce that luke-o-tightie-whitey.”

    “Yep, just keep it to yourself, Thelma. The bee people would protest with their flower power signs outside the post office if they knew what we know. You don’t need that kind of drama.”

    “Oh yeah, right. Sure. I’ll keep it to myself,” she stammered.

    “Good girl, Thelma!” I slammed the phone down on the receiver. I had no intention of telling the real story of why I wrote the government. This would keep her mind churning for a while until the

    I stood before the front door as if I was about to meet the Queen of England. The door was large and loomed tall above me. Intimidating me. What if I opened the door, a thousand little spiders would come rushing out in a swarm.

    I shivered.

    I’m not ashamed to say that when I threw in the mail and slammed the door, the action rattled the house a bit. Maybe it rattled any other spiders hiding in the dark crevices of the basement or the closet or the cupboard to vacate the property.

    I doubt it but one could hope.

    I decided to open the door a crack and scream really loud because that scares everything away. Except raccoons. They are not scared of me.

    Having emptied my lungs, I step gingerly into the room, staying away from the corners or dark places or the closet. My precious books have no webs, so that’s a good thing. I consider trying to grab one, but I have going to finish “Fairy Tale” by Stephen King, even though I’m really bored 100 pages in. Great writing, but I keep waiting for the old man to die.

    I flick the envelopes on the floor with my toe and finally uncover the official-looking letter. Nothing black or scary or eight-legged on it. I slip out the door, scream one more time in case they were waiting for me and see the certified letter is indeed from the government.

    Office of Public Inquiries and Environmental Affairs

    999 Constitution Avenue, NW Washington, DC 20500

    Ref: 887-B/45-C

    Date: August 17, 2025

    Regarding Your Recent Correspondence on Public and Environmental Matters

    This letter serves as a formal response to your recent inquiries regarding two separate matters: the global eradication of the arachnid species known as “spiders” and your proposal for the implementation of “clear mailboxes.”

    With respect to your initial request for the eradication of all spiders, the appropriate committees within this department have conducted a thorough review of your proposal. Following a comprehensive analysis of the available scientific data, our researchers have unanimously concluded that the systematic elimination of this species would have a detrimental effect on the global ecosystem. Spiders, as a keystone species, play a critical role in maintaining the delicate balance of our planet’s flora and fauna. Therefore, any efforts to remove them on a large scale would be counter to public policy and would result in an ecological catastrophe of unprecedented proportions. We regret to inform you that we are unable to fulfill this request. In the interest of your personal comfort, you might consider relocating to a colder climate where arachnid populations are less prevalent.

    Furthermore, your secondary proposal regarding “clear mailboxes” has been received and logged in our system. We will be forwarding this idea to the appropriate subcommittee for review and further investigation. Please understand that all such proposals are subject to a rigorous and lengthy evaluation process to determine their feasibility and public benefit. We will contact you should we require further information or if any developments arise concerning this matter.

    Please refrain from further contact with this office. We will initiate all subsequent communications as deemed necessary.

    Sincerely,

    A. P. A. Bureaucrat

    Interdepartmental Correspondence Division

    Well there it was. They are doing nothing. Not surprising. It’s the government. I know. I know. They have wars, climate change, poverty, budgets, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Got it. It’s on me.

    But it can’t be on me. I am terrified of spiders, and even burning down the mailbox would not stop them from coming back. We’d put up a new mailbox, and they’ll still come back. It’s weeks before frost, and they are preparing to come into my house.

    I can feel their army amassing in the fields outside the house. Once the harvest is brought in, they’ll find somewhere new to live. And where else but a great, big warm building with fleshy humans to feast on all winter.

    I must rise above. Be a hero for the world. I hear the call, but to be honest, my hearing isn’t the best, and was that a call to kill spiders or a call for dinner?

    Wait… even heroes in novels get help. Where would Luke be without Han? Where would Spiderman be without his friends? Where would King Arthur be without his knights (well except for Lancelot. That didn’t end so well.)

    There were people who helped me when I was a child. I would run down the steps yelling, “Bug, Bug, Bug. Bug, Bug.” They saved me many times. I’m not sure I would be the woman I am today without them.

    They would not fail me.

    They would honor me in my hour of need.

    They would know exactly how to eradicate the spiders from my life!

    Who you gonna call?

    Not the Ghostbusters.

    The bugbusters! My childhood babysitters.

    Thanks for reading Merry’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

  • He got the mail

    Spider Date: 08.2025.3

    I had devastating news today via text. My husband picked up the mail on the way home.

    But we haven’t had a frost yet! Panic skittered like lighting under my skin.

    Photo by John Hanson on Pexels.com

    The spider probably had babies by now in the mailbox. I didn’t even want to think about how long babies incubate in the egg sack. It’s bad enough that mice breed every two weeks.

    (You’re welcome people who are terrified of mice.)

    I drove up the lane, pondering how many spiders might be scurrying across my floor with their long, hairy legs, tapping their fangs together.

    Maybe I could stay at a hotel tonight.

    A pile of mail was scattered on the kitchen counter.

    There were boxes, manilla envelopes, bills, credit card offers, AARP membership applications (that alone was horrifying. I’m not that old.) I scanned the mail like a rabbit surrounded by a pack of coyotes. My heart literally bounced in my chest.

    “Did you tap the envelopes on the mailbox?” I whispered.

    “No,” my husband replied washing his hands in the sink.

    I swallowed an enormous lump in my throat.  I had to get the envelopes. There were bills to pay, and I am highly protective of my credit score.

    My fingers brushed across the manilla enveloped, tweaking it just slightly. I snatched the regular envelopes, backing away, an adrenaline spike rocketing through me.

    My husband just stared at me. “Are you alright?”

    “Yup. Fine. I’ll be right back,” I said, holding the envelopes at arm’s length away from my body. I rushed into the office, cleared the already cluttered desk with my free arm and gave the envelopes a solid whack on the desk. Then threw the envelopes on the floor, shut the door quickly, took a deep breath.

    Just to be safe, I will not open the door for a week. You never know where the babies might be.

    But inside the office were my beloved books. What if spiders enjoyed books?

    Well this would be the last time I read a real book until winter. I do have my Kindle as a backup.

    The rest of the manilla envelopes, I’d let my son open. He loved to open Amazon packages. I might even lie and tell him they were his.

    And when he opens them, I will be outside, pretending to start the grill, stare at the birds, pet the cats, something.

    Crisis averted for now.

  • I made peace with a spider

    The day I made Mel Robbins proud and Let Them.

    Spider date: 07.2025.2

    I bounced in the house (which is not easy for a woman my age), and I announced to everyone who had ears, “I have overcome!”

    My husband sat in his chair, scrolling through Facebook on his iPad. “Good day?”

    “Yes, I made peace with a spider,” I said, my face creased in a pirate’s smile.

    My husband nodded. “Really,” he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

    “Yes, yes I did. I walked in the storage shed, and there was white spider sitting on the wall next to the light switch, and I let him.” I said. Mel Robbins would be so proud.

    Photo by Eva Bronzini on Pexels.com

    It was an unusual spider; I had to admit. Yellow-white like a bone left out in the sun. He was kind of hitched up on one side, his legs splayed out. Still as death, but with spiders, you never could tell. They fake death sometimes, being so still to entice their victims into thinking their dead, getting close enough to poke the spider body, causing them to jump onto your hand.

    Terrifying.

    “You let him?”

    “Yes, I let him stay there. I didn’t spray him with Raid, brush him off with a broom, smash him with a shoe, burn him with the lighter or any of those things. I let him stay there.” I folded my arms across my chest.

    “Uh huh, and was this just today?”

    “No, that’s the best part. It’s been all week. He hasn’t even moved from the spot,” I said, slapping the counter with my palm. “I have overcome!”

    My husband put down the iPad and turned to me. “Ok, he hasn’t moved at all?”

    I paused, considering my next words. “Well no, but they fake death all the time.” From what I could remember, he was poised in that same “I’m going to pounce on you and drain the life from your body posture that most spiders exhibited daily.

    “You don’t think it’s odd that it hasn’t moved?”

    I tensed. If I had pearls on, I would have clutched them. “No. I mean if it was dead, why would it be stuck to the wall? Wouldn’t it just fall on the ground and let nature take its course?”

    He shrugged and turned back to the pointer-finger scroll on the iPad.

    I shrugged and let out a deep sigh. “I don’t think he’s dead, and even if he is, I still made peace.”

    “Proud of you honey,” my husband said, still scrolling. “Since you’ve made peace, did you get the mail?

    Follow along for more Spider date entries!

  • A new spider species causes a national emergency for me

    Spiders: the final enemy in my mailbox. These are the stories of a Nebraska farmwife terrified of spiders. Her mission is to avoid getting the mail until the second frost. Her mission is to avoid spiders at all cost, seek out new ways to avoid them and to boldly never open the mailbox until winter.

    Spider date: 07.2025.1

    My dear friend from Colorado heard of my plight with black jumping spider in the mailbox, and she sent me a photo of a new spider discovered in Mexico. Signed it, “I know how much you love spiders.”

    We are no longer Facebook friends.

    Close-up view of a large spider species discovered in Mexico, approximately the size of a softball.

    Photo from the San Diego Natural History Museum) Continue reading about this super-sized spider: https://bit.ly/4nG9rnf

    Since these spiders are in Mexico, I decided the best course of action is to light the places in Mexico the spider lives on fire.

    However, that might be frowned up on by the Mexican government.

    Instead, I could write a letter to our government’s national security and encourage them to burn everyone’s luggage that traveled to Mexico, any part of Mexico, because spiders travel. Even though they haven’t been seen in the US, it’s only a matter of time before some whacko brings it home as pet.

    Because this is such a critical issue an email won’t do. I have to write a letter. Type a letter because my handwriting is shaky. This letter is so critical to the safety of the entire nation, and I don’t one any words to be misunderstood. Burn them all, but be clear and to the point.

    I will type the letter, and then I’ll have to mail it. There’s a problem. I’d have to open the mailbox, and I’m not doing that. I could go to town and mail it, but it would have to be a town that no one knows me. I don’t want word getting out about my idea. I don’t want hate mail from the Spiders of America society.

    Besides, I’m avoiding my local post office and the postmaster. I’m fairly confident that she’s not pleased at my lack of attention to the mailbox.

    ***

    Letter mailed. The world can breathe a sigh of relief. Our government will take care of us.

    I heard a locust this evening. Only 90 days until the first frost. The first death day for spiders.

    Follow along for more Spider date entries!

  • I’m going on sabbatical

    I’m going on sabbatical. Time frame is to be determined, but I’m done getting the mail from the mailbox.

    You see, there’s not just mail in my mailbox. There’s black creatures lurking in the mailbox, building their sticky sacks where their thousands of children live. And the worst part of these creatures? They jump.

    I should have known better. The signs were there: random webs along the black mail box, hot metal, cool shade inside, random mail and package to hide within.

    I thought twice about opening the box. I peered down on the lid making sure no one was lurking inside, hiding in the dark.  I even gave the package a good WHACK against the box before pulling the mail into the car.  If there were occupants in the mail, they needed to vacate now.

    I felt safe as I drove up the driveway and took the mail in the house. I’d say I even felt confident. I put the mail on the kitchen counter. Maybe the webs I saw were just random babies traveling the wind, looking for a new home. Far away from me, if they are smart about it.

    When I was younger, I didn’t get much mail, so getting packages (not just bills) is like getting a Christmas present every day. You can’t wait to open it, even if you know what’s inside. I started to open the brown paper package and felt something pop onto my hand.

    Something unholy escaped my mouth. Not a scream of terror, but rather disgust and guttural darkness The worst was the feeling that something touched me. On my hand. I could still feel where its black, hairy legs pressed against my skin.

    I walked like a stiff person away from the counter, babbling something incomprehensible, praying, cursing, swearing. I have never dropped the “f” bomb that much in 10 seconds.

    A breath later, I realized the spider was in the house. IT was in the house.

    I looked under the bag, and the black spider crouched, waiting. I started to record the encounter with my phone because I was certain I would die. Someone needed to know what killed me.

    My son called. I ordered him to come home now. I was his mom, and he should do what I say.

     “How do you know it’s on the bag?” he asked.

    “I can see it,” I half-whispered, half-hissed.

    “I’m not coming home.”

    Mental note: take the only child out of the will.

    “I think you should come home,” I repeated.

    “Mom, take the tongs and throw it outside.”

    This sounded like a horrible idea. It still required me to touch the package and walk the package to the door. The door was about five feet away. Entirely too many steps and I still had to open the door and slide it shut. All while hoping the spider didn’t jump off the package and onto me again.

    I kept my son on speaker phone in case this all went wrong and he needed to call 911.

    I took the spotlight out of the garage. I had to make sure the spider wasn’t anywhere else and cursed myself for picking dark granite countertops—a mix of black and orange and gold. All spidery colors.

    Maybe the light that illuminates a half mile away would blind the spider momentarily. Just long enough for me to toss the package outside.

    “You still there?” I asked.

    “Yes Mom.”

    “Don’t give me attitude son.”

    The spotlight illuminated the counter. No spider. Just the package and the rest of the mail. I opened the deck door, grabbed the tongs and hurled the bag outside and slid the door shut.

    My heart hammered in my chest, and I took deep yoga breaths. The last thing I needed was a heart attack which might lead me to passing out on the floor and potentially that little spider might retaliate against me, if it was still in the house.

    “Are you sure it’s outside?” my son asked.

    Super helpful son. “Yes, I’m sure,” I said. I grabbed the spotlight to check the countertops, under the cabinets, everywhere. I took in a deep cleansing breath. My next breath caught in my chest.

    Something black crawled around the base of the deck door outside.

    “He’s outside!” I whooped, hollered and jumped up and down like an idiot. My son hung up. Crisis averted.

    The spider clicked its legs, feeling the heat of the outside and likely wanting to come back into the air conditioning. “Not today you little f#&@#@*!” I cried victoriously.

    It clicked its legs, fangs rubbing together. Emerald markings glinted in the sun; its eyes fixed upon me on the other side of the glass. It began climbing up the door toward the door handle.

    I locked the door.

    ***

    Two days later, another brown Amazon package arrived, and it looked eerily similar to the previous package. Brown paper, lots of folds and creases.

    I looked at my husband. Wariness slid over my skin, and my lip curled up a little. “Did you shake the package?”

    “Yes, there’s nothing in there,” he assured me, while flipping through the envelopes.

    Confident in his assessment because he loves me and knows my fear of spiders, I lift the bag and began to rip it open. And there along the fold was a black object curled up in a ball.

    I screamed.

    The package went flying out the door onto the deck.

    And this is why I will be officially going on sabbatical from getting the mail until after the first frost.

    Wait.

    Make that the second frost. Just in case the first frost doesn’t kill all those f&*%&@s!

  • I didn’t win, and that’s a good thing

    Closed doors, open doors and waiting for that one “yes”

    Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

    I didn’t win, and that’s a good thing

    About a month ago, I learned I was honorable mention in a writing contest. When I got the news, I did the happy dance, jumped up and down like I was on a pogo stick and told anyone who cared enough to ask why I looked like a gleeful idiot.

    A month later I learned that I did not make the final 20. Surprisingly I wasn’t disappointed or surprised.

    I expected it.

    Why? Am I just that much of half-empty person?

    No, I knew that my story was a sweet story of resilience, overcoming fear. But the contest I entered generally wants stories that are painful, gasp-worthy and sometimes just plain weird.

    I entered anyway because maybe this one time, there might be a chance.

    I read the winning story, and I just didn’t get the appeal. The second place story was better. Only once have I read a story from the contest that lingered with me. It was truly brillant honestly. The second one was also a previous winner in a different contest, and the fairness factor in me thought well, what one contest wasn’t good enough?

    This could be my reaction. Why does the one author feel the need to submit again? Wasn’t one contest win good enough? It’s hard enough for writers to break through, but you already have and now you need validation again?

    But here’s the thing, feeling this way isn’t going to change the outcome or really make me feel any better. Raining on someone’s parade doesn’t make the sun shine brighter on me.

    It was one person’s opinion.  Just like the judge of this particular contest. She had her own experiences, what she liked to read is a heavy influence when she reads stories. The same is true for us.

    Take for example, you read a book and you loved it, and you describe it someone. They pick up that book and decide after a few pages that the story isn’t for them. Does that devalue the story because you liked it and your friend didn’t?

    Of course not. It means that not every story will resonate with every person.

    A friend mentioned to me that she has never watched Star Wars. I told her that she was truly missing something special. But my fear is that after talking it up, she will be disappointed because it’s not her “cup of tea.”

    Maybe Star Trek is more her jam. Maybe not. Maybe Bridgerton is really what she likes. Or maybe she likes a true crime documentary.

    We live in a world of choices, and it’s really a wonderful thing. I have a choice to wallow in my disappointment and be rejected yet again and never send the story to another contest or publication.

    Or I could research new places for my story because maybe this contest wasn’t quite the right home for it.

    Here’s some interesting facts. Stephen King submitted the story “Carrie” 38 times before he finally got a yes. Let that sink in for a minute. He addressed 38 envelopes, bought 38 stamps and saved every rejection. Jack London was rejected 600 times. Louis L’ Amour was rejected 200 times. All of these people went on to be highly successful.

    Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

    When I live in the world where no is the only answer and choose to give up, I might miss out on something marvelous. When I look at that closed door, I never see the one opening off to the side of me. Maybe the open door isn’t as pretty or intricate or fancy, but it’s open, waiting for me to acknowledge it.

    If I give up, I would never experience the beauty of the moment when I hear that  one “yes.” Because that yes will be beautiful, life-changing and satisfying. And I will scream it at the top of the mountains.

    You lose your dream when you allow your fear to grow bigger than your faith.

  • Gratitude is Going out of Style

    There’s a movement that is becoming a bit troubling to me, and I’m not talking politics, AI or the future. I’ll let other bloggers talk about that.

    I’m talking about gratitude. Writing thank you notes is becoming a lost art, even just writing a note in general is rare. And nowhere is the absence of thank you felt more greater than in nature.

    Specifically, animals.

    Yes, I am finding that for the most part, animals of the world are an ungrateful bunch.

    Except dogs. Dogs love us unconditionally, wag their tales and give us those big, sorrowful eyes when we’re sitting at the kitchen table and so we extend our hand and give them a scrap of food (even though we know it makes them fat). We don’t deserve dogs.

    Every night, I leave a bowl of cat food out for the cats, and other critters decide to partake in the cat food buffet.

    Possums, with their rat-shaped face and pirate smile, will trot up to the dish, and generally, they are tipping over the bowl to get the last morsel. But if I happen to walk outside and disrupt their dinner, one of three things happens: 1. They either run away, 2. Hiss at me or 3. Charge at me. But never do they say thank you.

    Consider this… possums eat bugs and ticks and they do their job well enough, but food in the winter can be hard to come by. They even love to get their noses slick with grease from the grill. But no thank you. Ever.

    Possums=ungrateful.

    Birds will even give me the occasional song, or if it’s a blue jay, they squawk about how long it took me to refill the feeders.  Ok maybe birds are a little grateful.

    Racoons are another nightly visitor. Those thieves. They enjoy sitting on their haunches, staring off at the night sky and eating the cat food like popcorn. And how do they say thanks, well they wash their hands in perfectly good water and leave an inch of mud, straw, dirt and just general filth.

    Just the other night, the water dish was completely dry and dragged three feet from where I had left it the night before. The bowl was dry.

    Every morning, I change the water, knowing its futile, because the raccoon will be back again.

    Not the best guest.

    You might be thinking why I don’t just bring the food in at night, and occasionally I do, but you have to understand one thing. I have outside cats.

    Cats are grazers, they keep coming back to the buffet, eat a little, run off, roll in the dirt, come back brown and dusty and eat again. They just assume the food will be there, so why fill the belly completely in one stop.

    And before you tell me that cats don’t say thank you, I do get the occasional gift (aka a mouse or bird or snake), and I get a general leg rub or head butt. Generally, the cats say thank you in some way nearly every day.

    Cats=grateful.

    I’m not really making my point, am I? Sadly, even raccoons have changed my mind.

    When I started to write this blog a few weeks ago, I was completely annoyed with the racoons. The daily water dump and rinse was getting old. And then something changed. I dumped out the water one morning, and a small white rock fell out of the bowl.

    What is this? A gift? I thought maybe it was just the raccoon wanted to wash his rock, but he dropped it in the filthy water and couldn’t find it again. Well it served him right.

    The next morning, I found two rocks. The morning after, a piece of wood. Since I then, I have found multiple rocks, a piece of plastic, a stick shaped like a sword, a long rusty bolt and more pieces of wood. None of these things were close to the water. The raccoon had to put thought into what he wanted to drop into the water. He made a choice as to what he threw in the bowl.

    Perhaps, I was wrong. In the dead of winter and early spring, water is not as easy to find. The raccoon found hope in the one thing that he does not have to fight or scavenge for. Because of this gift of water, he gave something in return.

    Maybe nature is a bit more grateful than I gave them credit for. And when we experience small acts of kindness, perhaps we should offer a thank you to like nature does.

    I admit that I look forward to what the raccoon deemed worthy of dropping in the water. Sometimes, if the bowl is empty, I do feel a little sad and wonder if my buddy got lost or hurt.

    Why should I care? Because it brings me joy. Simple as that, and I am grateful for the gifts the raccoon shares with me.

    Well except for possums. Still ungrateful.

    P.S. I have since found out that raccoons like to horde treasure. They are in fact pack rats. The raccoon is likely setting the “treasure” in the water, and he forgets about it. Not a gift.

    Raccoon=ungrateful.

    I still look for the gift anyway.

  • I was forgotten

    Fear cripples every living thing, but God shows us how to overcome.

    The north wind blew strong, bitter; the very chill that comes with the bite of snow. Winter was still showing her teeth no matter that it was officially five days into spring.

    The cats snuggled in their warm buildings with their bellies full. Everyone that is, but Axyl.

    He likes to play a game with me, and being a cat, he only comes in when it suits him or when it’s about to rain. I nicknamed him my weather barometer. Life clockwork, Axyl came home a few hours before it rained.  Sometimes he was gone a week, sometimes just a few days, but bitter cold was not his thing.

    I walked around the front of the house that was out of the wind. There he sat. A blanket had fallen down between the seat and the back of the metal bench. Axyl used the blanket as a kitty shield. He was stiff with fear.

    Fear that he had been forgotten. He meowed when he saw me, and ran away like he didn’t trust me. Fear had such a hold on him. I bent down, and he came straight to me, nudging me with his head. I scooped him up, feeling his rough fur. His fur had been transformed by his stress. He trembled in my arms.

    Now Axyl is not a feral cat. He just had a moment where he felt forgotten and cold. Cold had a bitter hold on him.

    I felt like Axyl once. Alone, cold, lost, forgotten. I was unemployed for the first time since I was 16. One bitter cold moment, and my faith dissolved into the darkness of fear. Two words bounced in my head.

    What now?

    I read that the Bible references fear 365 times. Let that sink in for a moment. Fear is so important that we need a reminder every single day. God knew the power that fear holds, so he gave us enough defenses against for every single day of our lives.

    That cold day in February I needed the reminder, as I felt alone and forgotten. I, like Axyl, felt unable to move, unable to make another step, just curled up in a ball in a shock, feeling forgotten.

    But God had not forgotten me.

    God sent people to find me, message me, call me. They answered the phone when I called. I sat in the parking lot with my list of things I needed to pick up that day. It seemed so unimportant now. The people who answered my call told me it’s going to be OK. You will bounce back. And most importantly, I believe in you.

    I found that people came out of the woodwork of my life to show up and say, it’s going to be ok. It’s going to be ok. How did they know it would ever be Ok? I certainly did not. And yet they showed up.

    God sent me hope in the form of everyday angels. And I will always be grateful for them.

    I carried Axyl to the warmth of the shop. Axyl nudged my chin with his head, and he purred. The texture of his fur softened. I set him down inside, but he didn’t go to the food. He rubbed against me, and his eyes shone with gratitude and love.

    I know times seem difficult and scary, and the world might seem a little dark right now. It is now we must look to God, trust in him and have hope.

    In Isaiah 43:1-4: But how, this is what the Lord says—he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. 2. When you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the Lord, you God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior; I give Egypt for your ransom, Cush and Seba in your stead. Since you are precious and honored in my sight, and because I love you, I will give men in exchange for you and people in exchange for your life.”

    Fear not, for I have redeemed you… and look for your everyday angels.

  • Random Thoughts

    Finding reflection on Sunday with random musings…

    Sundays are a time for rest and reflection. They are also a time I choose to write. I could work on my novel. I could work on a short story or flash fiction story that has been nudging at me, but instead, I have a few random thoughts.

    Mary makes things happen. John 2: 1-5 is a perfect example of a mother seeing what needs to happen and ignoring her son when he basically says, “let it go.” It made me wonder did Jesus shake his head when his mother ignored him and told the servants to do what Jesus said? Maybe Jesus even rolled his eyes a little?

    (The above example was inspired by a conversation with an IT guy. We talked about how no one is perfect, except for the man who walked on water. Although, Jesus was scolded by his mother once.)

    Why is a brand called Drunk Elephant? Where did they come up with this? Were they on safari and saw an elephant sway back and forth and said, “let’s make a beauty brand and call it Drunk Elephant!”

    (I happen to like Drunk Elephant products, but I could never figure out why the name.)

    Watching Patrick Mahomes start to run out of bounds, slow down, and then flop dramatically when the defender touches him. The ref did not fall for the drama. It made me wonder, do you not trust the talent of your team enough that you have to draw a call from the ref? It’s one thing to draw players off side, but to make an obvious fall?

    (Yesterday’s game continues to tarnish the Chief’s reputation. There’s plenty of articles about how the NFL is rigged and the Chiefs are paying the refs. Consipracy theories abound.

    Finally, how is it that it’s 32 degrees in Alaska, but it’s 9 in Nebraska, and it feels like -5.

    (Canadian cold front, the weathermen tell me. Thanks Canada. I understand now why people move to Florida for the winter.)

    What are you pondering today?

  • A crisis of conscience

    The internet is ruining one of my favorite authors. This is not the first time.

    I was sitting in the physical therapist’s office, randomly scrolling through Twitter and came across a tell-all piece regarding Marion Zimmer Bradly.

    When I was a teenager, my aunt gifted me with “Mists of Avalon.” I remember my mom not being pleased with this choice, as there were ahem… questionable scenes in the book, and she was not sure I was old enough to handle these scenes.

    It was not Game of Thrones (which I agree has several questionable and uncomfortable scenes in the book). Its fiction, but finally, my mom was being a good parent and involved in what I was reading.

    (I digress for a moment and firmly believe that parents should be involved in what their kids are reading. Check into the author, check into the content. There is no reason these days that you can’t find a synopsis or reviews to help you make the best choices for your kids. It was more difficult for my mom back in the day.)

    The article accused Marion Zimmer Bradly of child molestation by her own daughter after Marion Zimmer Bradly had passed away. To say I was shocked is an understatement. Now you may be reading this and think, Merry this is an easy decision. Why a crisis of conscience?

    Because “Mists of Avalon” was one of my favorite books. I looked up to Marion Zimmer Bradley as an author. I had planned to re-read the book in adulthood; I even have an autographed copy of another of her books. I can’t look at either book without profound disappointment.

    When Bradley had a magazine, I submitted to her magazine, and while my work was rejected, I kept the letter. The letter had a personal note, not just a formula rejection letter.

    Now looking at the books just makes me sad. Can I separate my feelings of the person from the art they created that I loved? I don’t know. I should know. I know better, as my mother would say. I almost wish I had never looked at the article.

    But that’s not the only piece of childhood that now I question, because I am informed now.

    I read an article that Michael Landon, Charles Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie, a beloved TV series, had cheated on his wife. I guess it came out at the time the show was still on the air (didn’t know at the time; I was kid), and the incident came out again recently when the Karen Grassle, the actress who played Caroline, published a memoir.

    Little House on the Prairie was an iconic show for my sister and me. I could relate to Laura in a lot of ways. I’m certain most little girls could at the time. And Charles Ingalls was such an iconic father, not perfect, but certainly he would never cheat on his wife in the show. But in real life…a different story.

    Should I stop watching the TV series? I enjoyed that show, and I still do. I was rewatching the first season recently, but now, I look at the show a lot differently, especially the relationship between Caroline and Charles. They were beloved characters, played by really good actors.

    But that’s not all I’m struggling with today.

    Today on X, I ran across a story about Brandon Sanderson. A beloved author that I only recently discovered, and I was blown away by how well he writes. He has written a lot of books; he’s a Nebraska fantasy author and now there are lengthy claims that he is going woke. Because of his change in beliefs, his stories are more about checking boxes than actually developing a good story. I personally haven’t read recent work. This was simply what the article suggested.

    The internet, AI and algorithm have insured that I can’t simply ignore these stories now. They will continue to feed me these stories, because I clicked on them once and showed interest. That’s how the internet game works.

    At the end of the day, I wish I didn’t know these things. Is this considered cancel culture or just being informed? Some might say you should know about these people that you support and love their work. In some cases, they are really awful people.

    No one of us are perfect. I’m guessing that if I looked up any actor, actress or author there is some an article citing how they made a mistake or commented inappropriately at some point in their lives. And I’m not saying that we should ignore infidelity or child abuse. These are all awful acts. But should it change how I feel about a story that I fell in love with ?

    The answer is I don’t know.

    For now, I’m going to enjoy my TV shows and my books and the characters they played or created. I am going to box up my Bradley books until I can decide what to do with them. I will continue to watch Little House and read Sanderson’s series I have come to enjoy.

    I can find peace in that.