Aerial Sphinx

"So... do you want a naughty dog story or a good dog story?" I asked. Josie and Lilly shouted, "A Sphinx story!" So this is a Sphinx story. ...a naughty cat story.

Finally, our cabin was being painted (long overdue). Sphinx (Florida orange tabby), typically used the dutch door to enter and exit the cabin. Alas, the dutch door was covered with plastic in preparation for paint spraying and so he was trapped in the cabin. He growled and complained to get out. Then growled and complained to come back in. Finally, in frustration, he positioned himself on the back porch, which is at least 20 feet off the ground, and in front of the giant redwood (Fragrant Sequoia) eight feet away, hesitated and then leapt. The rest you can see for yourself!

How is it that a family with three dogs came to have a cat?  Sphinx adopted us when we were living in Tallahassee back in about 2006. I was arriving home from work and pulling into the driveway when I noticed a charming orange tabby sitting by the garage door. I thought to myself, what a handsome cat. He had a lean Siamese cat build, was bright orange with spots (evidently these are  interrupted stripes). I opened the garage door and the cat rushed into the garage and started eating the dog food. This is when Sunny, Sky, and Keegan were all living with us. "Hungry kitty!" I thought to myself and retrieved a can of tuna from the pantry. I opened the tuna and placed it before him. He ravenously ate the food and looked at me. I rubbed his ears and went inside. Of course, this shows how little I know of cats. He never left and nobody ever claimed him. "What are you going to call him?" Jay asked. "I think we should call him Sphinx because he is mysterious." I replied. And that is how Sphinx adopted us.

Mutti's Ghost Story Continued

So Tilly went to live with the very rich woman and her daughter.

 The woman's house was opulent with a large parlor full of red velvet furniture and tables filled with photos in silver frames and delicate ceramics. The little girl who had been so ill was recovering and kept Tilly busy all day. Tilly told her funny stories about her sisters at home, how they worked in the notions store, and shared a bedroom and a bed. The two played splendid imaginary games where they pretended they were princesses and sorceresses who saved beautiful unicorns and handsome princes. They read books to each other aloud (remember, this was before electricity) and watched the busy traffic with horses and carriages traveling back and forth.

But Tilly soon missed her sisters and her mother. Moreover, the rich woman had an owl that perched on a large tree trunk in the parlor. Every time Tilly walked past the owl it would follow her with its luminous round eyes. Tilly did not like the owl. One day, Tilly informed the rich woman that she wanted to go home. The rich woman was furious and told Tilly that she was the only companion her daughter loved. "You may not go home!" Tilly grew more and more unhappy. Another month passed and Tilly was still despondent. She asked to go home again, and again, the rich woman would not take her home.

 Finally, Tilly was so desperate, she ran away from the dark opulent mansion all the way home. Her mother and sisters were so happy to see her.

 The next day, the rich woman came to the notions store and demanded that Tilly return to her home with her. Tilly's mother said, "No. She does not want to live with you any more and I will not make her return." The woman turned and said angrily, "You will pay for this!" And stalked out of the store. 

Now one of Tilly's sisters was delicate. It seems there was always a frail child in every family back then. And shortly after Tilly returned home, her beloved sister began to fail. Because the sisters shared a bedroom and a bed, they would have pillow fights and generally horse around before falling asleep. However, the delicate sister would cry out in pain every time somebody touched her pillow.

Tilly's mother was concerned and ripped open the down pillow to discover a rope wreath. Feathers had woven themselves into the rope creating an almost perfect wreath of owl feathers. Only one feather was missing!

Tilly's mother called the priest who quickly came to their home. When the priest arrived, he took the wreath and quickly went into a trance. "This rope is cursed. When the feather wreath is complete, your child will die." When he awakened from the trance, Tilly's mother was in tears and asked him what to do. He said, "close and lock every window in your house. Draw the curtains and the shades. Close and bolt the door. Then, sit in a circle with all of your children and throw the wreath into the fire. Do not open the door for anybody!"

 Tilly's mother called to her children and told them what the priest had said. They quickly went to work closing and locking all the windows and drawing all the shades and drapes. Tilly's mother carried her precious daughter down from the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the big kitchen where a fire was roaring. They bolted the door and sat in a circle holding hands. "Now pray" said Tilly's mother. And as they all prayed, she threw the wreath on the fire. As they watch it burn, they heard a frantic pounding at the door. Tilly slowly started to stand up. "Stop," said her mother, "Do not break the circle." Tilly turned slowly and, taking her sisters' hands once more, she finished the circle. They continued to pray as the wreath was consumed. Finally, the frantic knocking on the door stopped and the fire died down. The beloved delicate sister looked around her and smiled. "I feel much better!" Tilly's mother smiled too, exhausted and very relieved.

Several days passed and Tilly was once again working in the notions store. One morning the rich woman, heavily veiled, walked into the store. Tilly started to greet her when the woman stopped her with a quick wave of her hand. Slowly she lifted her veil and revealed her horribly burned face. She pointed at Tilly and said, "You did this to me!"

Mutti's Ghost Story

August 1968, Maine, Ellsworth on the coast

I remember the night clearly, we were visiting my grandparents at their cabin in Maine, which was actually called a cottage: mountains = cabin; ocean = cottage. Our summer friends and family were finishing the nightly baseball game and we kids (I should say children here, in deference to Mutti; baby goats are kids) decided to visit the graveyard and tell ghost stories. My summer friends had been coming to this part of Maine’s coast for over 5 generations. They claim to be among the first settlers of Massachusetts and I believe them. Maine was their summer camp with cabins that had no running water but did have electricity. Funny the priorities. The graveyard was old and unkempt but their ancestors were evident – Martha Hayes 1644-1679 – such short lives. Imagine childbirth in a day without our medical advances and only midwives and prayer. When my turn came, I said, “My grandmother has the best ghost story because it is true. Its about her mother.” Of course we decided to go ask her to tell it right then and there.
All of us gathered in my grandparents’ small cottage (which did have running water and looked over the bay) filling the parlor. “Mutti,” I asked, “Please tell us the ghost story about your mother.” With a sharp look, she imperiously replied, “That is a story only for the family.” My mother, watching and amused, was silent. “Please” begged John Madore (very cute – I had a crush on him every summer). And so she told the story. This is in her words and as I have told it to my children in the boat, on the lake at our cabin under the stars.

Cincinnati 1842.

“My mother was Otilli, called Tilly, by her family.” Mutti began (Me: Tilly was my great grandmother and so your great great grandmother. Mutti was Jesse Mueller Toboldt, formally baptized Josephine Ellen). “My mother’s mother was a widow and owed a notions store, which fed her family and provided a home. The notions store was cluttered with large spools of thread, cards of buttons, hooks and needles. Otilli worked there everyday helping customers and working the old cash register with her mother. She was one of 6 children, who all helped in the store as soon as they were old enough. School was optional. Indeed I,” Mutti explained, “dropped out of school in 7th grade to join the theatre.

“On this particular day, a very rich woman entered the store. Tilly was waiting on her and the woman was so taken with her that she offered Tilly a position as a friend to her daughter, who was recovering from a serious illness. ‘Would you care to come live with us?’ she asked. Tilly's mother started to say no but Tilly, irrepressible as always interrupted saying, ‘Yes!’ Her mother, however, was not so sure and was, indeed, a bit miffed that Tilly had said yes so quickly.

To be continued...

Every autumn, we sit and watch the news wondering if the following weekend we’ll be sifting though the ashes of our cabin in the woods. Our cabin, which holds our family’s memories, is the constant in our lives. Because we moved from city to city growing up, the cabin became our real home. In 2003, when Pat wrote the following college essay, the mountains were engulfed in flames with no news regarding the fate of our cabin. Three years later, in 2006, the fires came within a half mile of our cabin – only the ridge between our cabin and the golf course diverted the inferno. We sat hopelessly as announcers proclaimed Lake Arrowhead in flames. Perhaps it took the fires to remind us about how important family and home really are.

Pat’s Essay
I remember that my sisters and I were horrified when my parents decided to buy this particular cabin. The first time I saw it, it was creepy. It was yellow with a painted blue roof. The windows were boarded up and the smell of neglect permeated the air. A brick fireplace hunched at one end of the pine paneled living room and a narrow staircase took us up to the dorm. The dorm. At the time, my sisters were sure that a bedroom with five beds was unacceptably communal. There was another small bedroom upstairs divided from the dorm by a partial wall, which would later be claimed by my older sister, Jessica. Under the house was the basement full of the former owners’ stuff, including a tractor. I pointed out that the tractor was cool but my sisters shushed me. Initially, the siblings took a stand but the parents prevailed. We bought the cabin because, as my mother pointed out, it was on the lake – even if the windows were boarded up so you couldn’t see the lake.

My mother worked some magic and the next time I saw the cabin it was still yellow with a blue roof but the windows sparkled with the reflected azure of the lake and a boat waited for us in its dock. Even the wallpaper proclaiming – “A day of joy; a lifetime of love,” – hokey in any other world, seemed appropriate here.
Our days fell into a flexible routine. Mom and Dad would write in the morning (my mother wrote her dissertation at the kitchen table) while we slept. We would awaken to the smell of pancakes and coffee, throw back the covers to the small beds in the dorm, and wander down the narrow staircase to the old kitchen with the funny brown stove by the door. One entire wall of the kitchen was windows and the lake, glinting in the California sun, would beckon us saying, “I’m here – come swim, sail, water ski, whatever.”

Ah the lake. My mom was right. It didn’t matter how old the cabin might be, its location was perfect. There was the beach to the right and our dock to the left. We looked out across the lake at the monstrous “cabins” of the rich and famous. The water was always blue but sometimes cold. My sisters, my best friend Blake, and I would carry the water skiing equipment and the cooler full of drinks to the waters edge. The walk took us through an old growth cedar forest - ours was the only part of the woods that had not been logged one-hundred years ago. The trees soared miles high and were 10 feet around. No matter how hot the day was, the woods were cool and mysterious. The smell of pine infused our days. Our dogs raced before us and plunged off the dock. The day began.

My father’s entertainment was introducing novice skiers to the joy of water skiing. Arms straight. Knees bent. His most challenging pupil was Coraline, a foreign exchange student from France. “Coraline, keep your arms straight” my father begged.
“What?” asked Coraline.
“Arms straight; Knees bent”
“I do not understand!” she yelled in her strong French accent.
“She doesn’t understand your commands!” Jessie announced with a hint of despair.
My dad faced certain failure. The language barrier was too great. But just when it seemed that all hope was lost, a translating hero stepped in to save the day. Jessie’s boyfriend at the moment grew up speaking French.
“Coraline, Tondue! Plie!” he yelled over the roar of the engine.
My dad took up the call, “Tondue! Plie!”
Fortunately, Coraline was a dancer and immediately her arms straightened, her knees bent, and she was up on both water skis skipping over the water. That was of course, until she lost her balance and plunged awkwardly, with a splash, into the water. Fortunately, she emerged waving and excited. The international ski boat driver was successful, his reputation untarnished. There was another notch on the throttle of the boat.

Blake and my friends were natural athletes. Blake mastered the wake board with spectacular wipeouts and Will did his best to emulate him. However, my sister Keri was the master at water skiing and at crashing. She once encircled the entire lake on one ski not stopping until the boat had to stop for gas. She could take one foot out of her ski, hold the tow rope with her toe, and wave with both hands at the tourists in the great white riverboat – The Arrowhead Queen - that cruised the lake on the hour. The stunt was called “The Jessie” after the sister who thought it up, mastered it, and then grew too tall to keep her balance. The same thing happened in turn to Keri and then to me. I think I was 10 years old the last time I was able to do “The Jessie.”

At night, after dinner and doing the dishes (no dishwasher; the cabin didn’t have phone or cable when we bought it – and we never watched television; cabin rules), when the stars were out, we would cruise silently on the lake with our running lights sparkling on the water and we would tell stories, including our family ghost story. This story was told to my mother by her grandmother (my great grandmother) about her mother when she was a little girl – so the story is about my great great grandmother, Ottili, or Tilly as her mother called her.

The Fires
So how does this cabin tale end? We see a solitary but resolute fire fighter at the beginning of a cul-de-sac. The road is one car wide and defined by stocky granite stone walls. Not one cabin on the street belongs to anybody famous but the great trees beckon to him. He turns his hose on the roofs of these old cabins – cabins that are older than the lake - and on the trees, which are older still, -- and he saves them all – the whole street, including our little cabin that has stood there for over 75 years. It has survived earthquakes, drought, and recessions. And it survived the worst wildfires Southern California has experienced in its history. We thank all the firefighters and dedicate this cabin tale to them.

French Onion Soup Cabin Style

This is a great recipe that is a variation of a recipe (healtiher) I learned in college given to me my back in the 1970s. It can be halved easily.

5 lbs onions -- mix of sweet and yellow
1/2 cup butter -- you have to use real butter, sorry!
3/4 cup whole wheat flour -- the original recipe used white flour
2 tsp salt
2 Tbsp paprika -- you can also use green pepper with a dash of red pepper and cinnamon
1 bay leaf
1 cup red wine
3 quarts low fat organic chicken broth -- the original recipe used canned beef bouillion

Slice onions thinly and saute in butter for 1 1/2 hours. Add the other ingredients excluding the wine and broth. Saute 15 minutes. Add wine and broth. Simmer at least 2 hours. If you can, refrigerate over night but it is actually fine to skip this. Heat soup. Dish into bowls. Add 1 slice French bread (or whole wheat) and 3 oz grated swiss cheese (low fat). Broil until brown. Yum!

Cabin Rules

1. No television
2. Friends, including dogs, are always welcome and may be invited without checking with anybody.
3. Everybody helps cook and clean.


That's it!