In an invisible world that coexists with the world of humans

  The Good Neighbors, the fair folk, or simply the folk

 By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

The aos sí, or the older form aes sídhe is the Irish for a supernatural race in Irish and Scottish mythology, comparable to the fairies or elves. They are said to live underground in fairy mounds, across the western sea, or in an invisible world that coexists with the world of humans. This world is described in the Lebor Gabála Érenn as a parallel universe in which the aos sí walk among the living. In the Irish language, aos sí means "people of the mounds" (the mounds are known in Irish as "the sídhe"). In modern Irish the people of the mounds are also called daoine sídhe in Scottish mythology they are daoine sìth. They are variously said to be the ancestors, the spirits of nature, or goddesses and gods. The aos sí are often appeased with offerings, and care is taken to avoid angering or insulting them. Often they are not named directly, but rather spoken of as 'The Good Neighbors, The Fair Folk,' or simply 'The Folk.'

***

Perhaps I should have seen it coming? I have lost a lot of good friends over the years, but still it is always a surprise. Lynn, Edena, Lisa, Michael, my dad, on and on ....
Mark Twain (Sam Clemons), understood it pretty well.
“I do not fear death. I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it,” he said.
And as usual, Hunter Thompson also had an interesting take.
“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!,” he wrote in "The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967."
A few days ago, my wife looked at me funny, as I sat in swivel rocker, knowing with that extra sense she has, that something was BAD wrong. She tried to help.
I was almost crying. I told her I was going to try and write something, but I started considering quotes from Wilson Rawls, and "Where the Red Fern Grows," and it gave me that tremble.
Unsteadiness. The shake of intense discomfort from wrestling with my grief.
A rawness, that is beyond talking about.
I had lost another one of my hound dogs to ravages of time a few days prior.
Jenny, the Treeing Walker/Blue Tick coon hound mix, and one of a pair of the best dogs a person could ask for, and very real part of my family's life for the past ten years, left us in characteristic dignity, a few days prior.
Jenny herself, knew loss. Ella, her sister from the same litter passed on Memorial Day this year.
They were naturally as close two sisters from the same litter could be, and had spent there entire life together and it showed. But they also had shared thousands of hours of photo excursions, and twilight sojourns in early morning, and around sundown, with me in the woods.
I had tried to to help in her last struggles to go out side. She died, I think as I struggled to get her back inside after she fell.
Jenny and Ella were family members, of course. But we were closer than that. Not sure any of my other family members know what its like to share a frosted-over, beaver meadow in sub zero weather, all in the early morning winter hours.
I am reminded in the excellent work of Rawls, a favorite book for obvious reasons.
“Looking to the mountains around us, I saw that the mysterious artist who comes at night had paid us a visit. I wondered how he could paint so many different colors in one night; red, wine, yellow, and rust,” he wrote in "Where the Red Fern Grows."

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The banshee or bean sídhe (from Old Irish: ban síde), which means "woman of the sídhe", has come to indicate any supernatural woman of Ireland who heralds a coming death by wailing and keening. Her counterpart in Scottish mythology is the bean sìth (sometimes spelled bean-sìdh). Other varieties of aos sí and daoine sìth include the Scottish bean nighe: the washerwoman who is seen washing the bloody clothing or armor of the person who is doomed to die; the leanan sídhe who takes a human, and holds it close to her heart. Those who love the leannán sídhe are said to live brief, though highly inspired, lives. The name comes from the Gaelic words for a sweatheart and the term for inhabitants of fairy mounds (fairy). The leannán sídhe is generally depicted as a beautiful muse who offers inspiration to an artist in exchange for their love and devotion; however, this frequently results in madness for the artist, and a short life. 

***

Today, I notice Jenny's and Ella's collars, carefully arranged on the book shelf, in an out of the way place, in the house with their name tags out.
"Jenny Carrigan," and "Ella Carrigan," and our phone number, the metal tag says on the purple and red smooth nylon. "Microchipped," it says.
You never really get used to it, I guess. An image, or a moment, or even a sound or scent, brings back your attention to the hole in your heart, for a time. Dogs don't live long.
"Lifespan in general is determined by trade-offs between survival and reproduction. Wolves, the ancestors of dogs, can live 15-20 years, roughly twice as long as comparable-sized dogs. They start breeding in the wild no younger than 2-years-old. They need to form pairs and establish a territory before breeding. Older wolves will often have help raising their pups from older juveniles who have not managed to mate or find territories. In contrast, most dogs can breed from six months to 12 months of age, and they don’t benefit from having territories, pair bonds, or packs. Whereas wolves breed until they die, dog breeders will usually retire older females. So the whole life history of dogs is shifted to more of a “live fast, die young” style compared to wolves. On top of that, artificial selection and inbreeding have created huge problems for dogs," says Suzanne Sadedin, Ph.D. in zoology from Monash University.
In the words of Wilson Rawls, I remember.
"I knew the pups were mine, all mine, yet I couldn't move. My heart started aching like a drunk grasshopper. I tried to swallow and couldn't. My Adam's apple wouldn't work. One pup started my way. I held my breath. One came until I felt a scratchy little foot on mine. The other pup followed. A warm puppy tongue caressed my sore foot. I heard the stationmaster say, 'They already know you.' I knelt down and gathered them in my arms. I buried my face between their wiggling bodies and cried,” Rawls wrote.

***

A variant is Cù Sìth or the fairy dog. The Cù-Sìth was feared as a harbinger of death and would appear to bear away the soul of a person to the afterlife. In this role the Cù-Sìth holds in Scottish folklore a function similar to that of the Bean Sidhe, or banshee, in Irish folklore. According to legend, the creature was capable of hunting silently, but would occasionally let out three mournful and sometimes terrifying barks or howls.


***

And only three howls, that could be heard for miles by those listening for it, even far out at sea.

All depends on what the dog thinks of you

I never saw a dog that didn't like my dad.

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

My dad would always come up with these ridiculous theories about dogs and the true measure of a person.  He held that if a dog didn't think well of someone, there was good reason.
Over the years he had a considerable amount of experience of judging people this way.
The first dog that I remember in our family, was a singularly-focused Beagle by the name of Suzy.
No matter what the circumstance, you could not pull that dog off of scent.
Rabbits bedeviled her. Put her in the woods, and in a few minutes at most, she would begin a bay sequence that would would honor hounds of the centuries.
More than a few times, we were forced to physically remove the crazy Beagle from stimuli, (meaning carrying the psycho, obsessed animal out of the woods before her heart stopped). Bahr... bahr... Bahr... a bay every three seconds or so, and with an intensity and focus unlike anything we understand as humans. It ran though her blood.
Suzy had other qualities, like a protective nature (of a spayed female hound).  She positioned herself incognito, under the end table, next to where my mom spent a lot of time. Door-to-door salesman, totally unnerved. Jehovah's Witnesses ... completely demoralized.  Neighbors and friends... well, TRUE friends understood you had to put up with some barkin' and bayin'.
Another famous dog that befriended my father, was my younger brother's black Whippet-like, Labrador mix with an outlaw nature, named Shea. The only reason that animal put up with us Carrigans, is that at a very young age, while chasing elk on the hill above our house, it had acquired a bullet crease between its shoulders and the accompanying lesson of not to chase the local wildlife.
We were also close to the the Ponderosa Restarant's dumpster, and important convenience to an independent animal such as Shea.
Perhaps one of his greatest challenges for my dad was what to do about Amos?
Amos was a Great Dane, (also an outlaw, belonging to my brother originally) that had a record of tearing drywall out of garages and ripping up houses on whim.
Hard to handle, one of the salient stories of Amos, however involved his exodus, though the glass of my parent's front window, when he saw another dog that pissed him off.
That involved many stitches at the vet, and the realization that Amos does, pretty much what Amos wants.
But my dad loved that dog. People I don't even know, tell me how special it was, watching my dad take Amos for a walk in Dolores. It gave my dad focus and purpose for that monster to drag him around the river town. And it lasted for years.
Dad was starting to lose his focus by the time he met my hound dogs, but it was great to see his eyes light up when those two barkers made his acquaintance. His approval meant a lot to me.
Because, you know, according to his theory, the true measure of a person was what the dogs thought of them.  
In all the years, with all the different dogs over time,  I never saw a dog that didn't like my dad.

A true story: Day or two before St. Paddy's, up early

Try to squeeze though there, you devious, sad-eyed, slack jawed, droopy-necked beast

 By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

 True story.
A day or two before St. Paddy's Day, and I'm up early. Nothing new. Working on the fence today. Dogs know when, and how, to take advantage of me when the fence is down. 
Last night, that slow-living blue tick was a dark streak on bee line for neighbors spread.
"I'm too familiar," she said. "Expanding my horizons."
Fifty feet of pigwire will put a stop to that.
Cowboys build fence. Wish I was a cowboy.
So about 9:30 a.m., my knuckles are bloody already. I am thinking about beer, and it really is starting to get cold. Staples, stretch, line it up, watch your fingers. This was never this hard before arthritis, bursitis, tendentious and Johnny Unitas. My elbow, my back, my knees, and I'm not one to complain. But why am I thinking about beer, so early?
It is a little known fact that most taste is linked to what you are able to smell. I love the smell of beer.
Hops, When I finish this fence job, I am headed to the brewery.
"IPA will possess a nose of perfumey alcohol, fruitiness, and malt, although newer versions frequently overshadow the malt with strong hops."
Hopped up. I am not afraid of that. Columbian coffee in the morning, and India Pale Ale in the afternoon. But how are we going to make it to afternoon?

The damn fence is done. It is not even noon yet. Let the dogs out. Try to squeeze though there, you devious, sad-eyed, slack-jawed, droopy-necked beast. Tight.

I think I will take a nap. 

Afternoon always has something else that needs done, It is past 4 p.m. when I load them in the back. Those dogs love a ride, and are righteously perturbed. Cars, trucks, cows in the field, pedestrians and God help another dog, when sighted. Bark, Bark, Bark, repeat ....

You meander down to the brewery.  "Stay here, girls. Watch  the back of the car while I go fill this jug up."

They are skeptical but, after all, he is driving.

Chaos, from entry, in the shadow of the hop tower.

"Are you in charge of this weather?" asked a vaguely familiar fellow on my way in, though the wind and snow..

"Cause if you are," he said. "You suck."

A leprechaun-looking fellow with green tail coat, green hat, and sad mutton-chop side burns, is in the way of my approach to business end of the bar.

"Do you have any objection to a leprechaun giving your friendly hug?" asked the green topped, green-coated, green-faced and friendly hugger obstructing the bar in front of me.

Didn't really want a hug, but he was determined. 
"I have whole lot hugs to dispense," he slurred, but he meant it. Because it wasn't St. Pat's until Monday. Just now getting into the swing of it. Two days more, and rare form already.
Sixty four ounces of hopped-up Elephant Rock Ale, I ordered, when finally asked. Medication for fence building. Returned to dog-guarded car.
Dogs asked, "Where have you been? Ladies in kilts, men in stumble, at least,we don't try to dye the river green."
Hate to say it it, but those droopy-jowled, sad-eyed, coon hounds  know what is going  on.  
But, of course, they are not in charge. Not until, the hops take hold. And even then ,,,,
What am I thinking about beer, so early? 
A day or two before St. Paddy's Day.... Mostly, it is the smell, I like. 
In the morning, I will be up early. 
True story.

Christmas for everyone, even the dog

Probably the least demanding member of the family is the old dog. It is not a tortuous decision-making process to try to come with an adequate present that will make him happy. Throw him a bone any day, and he is convinced it is Christmas time.
He believes in keeping on the sunny side of the room — and life in general. Nothing suits him better than the morning rays beating down on his favorite, carpeted spot and reflecting off the light-colored wall behind him.
We don’t ask too much of him and his only requests come in the form of whiney little pleas for a taste of something off the grill, or pitiful petitions with his suppliant eyes for table scraps.
In turn, he offers the protective services of a thunderously menacing bark combined with the wild look in his eye that unnerves even the most-determined of door-to-door solicitors.
Though small in stature, he fears no dog, or any other creature for that matter. In fact, if it came to a scrap, he is so cocksure— beyond a thread of self doubt — of his own military might and physical superiority as to attempt bear wrestling, or a bout with a mountain lion, or even wage war with a porcupine. And though I am sure in each case, he might suffer debilitating damage in such battles, he is convinced he will eventually emerge victorious.
He gets up early because he believes the day should start with a brisk walk, preferably before daylight. Hopefully, it is not so cold as to make him want booties for his tender paws, but he will manage if necessary. If stiff and limpy from arthritis at first, by the end, his gait is natural and relaxed. If dogs know to smile, his is the widest.
Sometimes around the holidays, the kids dig out his red and white fur Santa suit, and the poor mongrel dresses the part. The first few years he was mortified, but now he barely notices.
Of course there is stocking for him. And he doesn’t know what is going on. But Christmas is for everyone, even the dog. Merry Christmas.

Varying degrees of verbosity

 Give to limbs plumpness and symmetry which nature has denied

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

Running a newspaper 100 years ago was the kind of business that required varying degrees of verbosity -- depending mostly on how much advertisement the paper was able to sell.
And it was true also, that even the ads could become long-winded.
Consider the following item appearing in the Pikes Peak Journal of Feb. 16. 1895.
‘There is one department of industry, which, by the general admission of those engaged in it, is exempt from the stagnation which so largely prevails. Indeed it is in a remarkably flourishing state, and the men and women employed at it are kept busy from morning to night. It is that which deals with the supply of artificial sinews and muscles in order to give to limbs the plumpness and symmetry which nature has denied. The great demand at the present time is for well shaped calves for the legs, and for some time the purveyors of the embellishments could not make out why so many of them were wanted, because the requirements of the ladies of the ballet and burlesque actresses are pretty much the same all the year around, and there was nothing going on to occasion an unusual request for the articles.
“But they have now found out the reason. They are required by lady cyclists who wear knickerbockers, and who, naturally enough, desire to exhibit to mankind the limbs which are not covered by these bulky garments in as shapely and attractive a form as possible. The stuffing required for the purpose must be of the best kind, and it is also necessary that the mold should be well fitting; otherwise the lady cyclist would become a kind of scarecrow on wheels instead of a thing of beauty. The articles, therefore, cost more than the ordinary calves, and it may accordingly be said that the latest fashion among women not only encourages cycle making, but also aids the artistic upholstery of the human figure in the highest form.”
But requirements for space varied wildly. A week later the following entry was more straight-forward and to-the-point.
“Ralph Aldrich, one of the carrier boys for the Journal was attacked Monday night on Ruxton Avenue by a pointer dog belonging to Henry Mueller, and badly bitten in the shoulder and side. The boy is the son Alderman Aldrich, and was delivering papers when attacked. Mr. Mueller took the boy to Dr. Oglibee, who dressed the wounds. The dog was shot.”
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