The Mystery of the Gay Meatloaf

My dearest friend in this lifetime was gay. He did not come out of the closet until he was well into his thirties. It was a traumatic and heroic action on his part. He kept his secret so well hidden that I, his best friend, did not suspect. But, at long last, he was out, and the profound change this brought to my friend was a great thing to see. He was happier than I had ever seen him, and I had known him a long time. Even better, he soon found true love.

My friend and his partner invited my family to Sunday afternoon dinner at their restored farmhouse. It was an important step for my dear friend, and I wanted the entire afternoon to go perfectly for him. My brother happened to be visiting that weekend so he accompanied my husband, my daughter and me on the trip for Sunday afternoon dinner.

We had a wonderful afternoon, admiring all of the considerable remodeling and decorating the two men had accomplished in their home - refinished wood floors, restored french doors, excellent choices in artwork, house plants, fabrics, antique furniture. Their home was beautiful and comfortable. The dinner was a sumptuous feast served on a lovely old restored dining table set with heavy silverware and fresh flowers. It was heartwarming to see my friend so happy, lonely no longer, with someone to share his life and building such a beautiful home together.

When it came time to sit down to the meal, there was a tiny problem. They were serving meatloaf. I absolutely hated meatloaf and never ate it, not even my own mother's meatloaf. I was not about to let a detail like that put any sort of negativity on my friend's day, so I ate the meatloaf and said not a word. My brother and my husband had seconds. My little girl ate a big helping of it, too. It must have been delicious.

We passed the rest of the afternoon in good cheer and took our leave fairly late. It was over fifty miles to our house. It was the end of a long Sunday on a long weekend and we were all tired. We went to bed shortly after we arrived home.

My little girl was the first one to be sick. I heard her little feet running down the hall and got up to check on her. As soon as she was settled and I had returned to bed, it hit me. I ran down the hall to be sick. Goodbye, meatloaf! Of course, everyone in the entire house could hear the commotion of people running down the hall. As I returned shakily to bed, my little brother said something smart-assed from the sofa. I did not hear exactly what he said but I caught the drift. It was just a few minutes later when I heard him running down the hall, and that made me laugh. When I heard him returning to the sofa, I called out, "How instant is that karma?"

Only my brother, my daughter and myself were ill and we felt fine the next morning. I, of course, blamed the meatloaf. Since no one gay who ate the meatloaf became ill, that forever put my husband under a cloud of suspicion. He ate two big helpings of the meatloaf and was never sick. I teased him with great delight about that for a long time.

Amazingly enough, after that, I was able to eat meatloaf and I have enjoyed it since. I had some last night at a fine restaurant in Manhattan, Kansas. Of course, I can never enjoy meatloaf without remembering my best friend and the mystery of the gay meatloaf.

Roaming the Flint Hills With a Camera

Sunrise at Spirit Creek


I love Ginger. Here is the spoiled diva eating breakfast at sunrise.


This old cottonwood lives high on a hill and bears the shape of the incessant winds.


From this ridge you can see far to the south, miles and miles across the Flint Hills. The clouds were shredded and combed by the cold winds. It is difficult to convey the space. It was a beautiful November morning high on the prairie.

Who knew the new camera would lead me into danger? Yesterday I left the house early and took off to the west in search of beautiful scenery to record with my new digital camera. The wind was blowing out of the south with such ferocity that several times it slammed the door of my car against me. Good thing I have lots of padding - and a hard head.

The wind whined its melancholy chords through the tightly strung electric wires wherever I went. It is such a lonesome sound that I can hardly bear it. On the ridges, the barbed wire strands were thrumming in slightly varying keys of sadness, too - a chorus of sadness and solitude.

Several times I almost fell on steep hillsides and deep ditches. Today I am sore and bruised, but such personal sacrifice is the hallmark of a truly gifted photographic genius. I bleed for my art!

At one place, a big dog faithfully guarding his family's front yard barked at me, keeping me in view at all times. I was across a creek, but that was too close. I recognized him as one of the Good Dog Duke's comrade in arms, a good old farm dog, faithfully looking after his family's place.

I spent an entire morning taking photographs but when I returned home, I only had fifty photos. I deleted about one third of them. The best photograph of the day looked awesome in the viewer. I was so excited about it and thought it was going to be an award-winning work of art. I could not wait to get home to see it on the big screen. It was ruined by the inclusion of overhead wires that I did not see in the original composition. In the old days, I would have spent a lot of money getting that ruined photograph developed. I was disappointed but there are a billion more photographs out there waiting for me. Delete, delete, delete!

Another Day on Planet Earth

I did not have to go to the cube farm yesterday because I was "on vacation". Instead, I went to see about a horse. He was a nice looking bay horse, rather a gentle spirit - with wings on his feet. When he was led back in his pasture to the rest of his herd, one of the horses came over and kicked him, in slow motion. The slow kick was in deference to their human benefactor being right there among them. None of the horses wanted to harm her. The kick may have been because the bay was enjoying the carrots I had brought for him right in front of the rest of the herd. Jealousy afflicts all flesh, it seems.

When I got home, Duke and I decided to go down to the creek. I had not been down to the water for a long time. I was expecting it to be almost dry but it was still flowing. In some places it is a mere trickle over the rocks. In the deep clear pools, the little fish were plentiful. I have never been able to identify the fish that live in Spirit Creek. They could be Topeka Minnows, an endangered species found only in the tall grass streams of the Flint Hills. They are probably nothing as rare as that. There are only three kinds of fish that live in the creek here. The most numerous fish look like silver minnows of some sort. In the years when there is a lot of water in the creek, a few will grow to about ten inches long. There is a slightly different type of fish, far fewer in numbers, that seem to be full grown at a couple of inches in length. The most rare fish of all is some sort of little spotted bottom feeder that looks a bit prehistoric. I have to spend a lot of time beside the water to spot one of those as there are so few of them.

It was wonderful to be walking the creek again. In the years I have lived here, the banks have grown into a jungle of brush and vines so it is not easy to get down to the water's edge. To see the little creek in its normal state - a quiet crystal clear stream - you would never guess how quickly it will rise in a heavy rain, nor how loud and violent its rushing waters blasting between the banks can be. There are always trees precariously hanging on the banks, in danger of being washed away in the next big deluge. The banks change continually, in elevation and in appearance. What does not change is the limestone rocks scrubbed white by the rushing water, and the sand full of Permian Sea fossils.

It takes no effort to find the fossils in the soft sand of the creek bed. My favorites are the little clams. It is easy to find perfectly shaped ones and yesterday I found one that was fossilized white instead of the usual charcoal gray. I also found a turkey feather. Duke enjoys snuffling around, checking to smell who has been by. There were raccoon tracks in the soft mud but no other animal tracks I could see.

It was simply a great day on planet earth.

The Deer Nation

Years ago, I heard that everyone has animal protector spirits, one on the left and one on the right. Testing that hypothesis, I announced to the Universe that I wanted to know what animal spirit was on my right. "Your move, Universe," I thought.

It took the Universe about a year to convince me that the animal spirit on my right was the deer. After I announced my request, I began noticing that each time I drove out of the city, I would see deer on the right side of the road. Of course I dismissed it as coincidence, like any normal red blooded American. As time went on, seeing a deer on the right side of the road, day and night, was such a constant and consistent event that I could have bet money on it. The more I meditated and prayed about this business of an animal protector on my right, the more deer I saw, and the greater my doubt grew. Crazy that the more proof we are granted by the Creator, the more we indulge our doubt.

I went through all of the rationalizations that my society has dutifully taught me: coincidence - looking for deer when I had not been looking for them before - high number of deer in Kansas so of course I will see them everywhere - "magical" thinking - stupid to believe old pan-Indian myths.

One time I had been earnestly praying about this whole spirit business and admitting it was difficult for me to believe. Later that day, on my way to visit a friend in another town, I spotted a doe with triplets at the edge of a field in broad day light. I have never seen triplets before or since. The Universe was patiently answering my prayers but I was stubbornly dense.

In one prayer Lodge I attended, the people were taught to look into the red hot stones, the grandfathers, for messages, for help. While I always dutifully looked into the stones, I did not know what to expect. Would I see a vision, like a hologram? Would an intuitive answer arise in my consciousness? Would I hear something? I did not know, but I continued to take the elder's word and looked to the grandfathers for their help. One time I closed my eyes tightly and prayed hard about the issue of whether there really were protector spirits for people, me in particular. I earnestly prayed to be shown what my right protector spirit might be. When I opened my eyes, the pattern in the glowing red hot stones was the perfect likeness of a deer facing me. It sent a jolt of joyous energy through me, but only for a moment. Anyone can see anything if they are motivated enough, I told myself. Just as my mother had said to me a million times, "It's just your imagination." I dismissed the gift from the grandfathers like I had dismissed the deer that had been showing themselves to me, like the doe who brought her three precious fawns out into the open danger of daylight. What a dolt. Most of us are dolts when it comes to recognizing the blatant answer to our prayers, whatever they may be.

But, I was beginning to believe.

This entire lesson culminated when I received the first energy work of my life, a Reiki session. I became so deeply relaxed that I was able to still my thoughts entirely for the first time. Into that quiet space behind my eyes, I became aware of a mighty buck with a magnificent rack of antlers standing to my right. A dazzling energetic curtain separated the buck from me. It was so startling that my eyes involuntarily opened. I could still see the buck. A current of gratitude washed through me, and I opened and closed my eyes several times to prove to myself that what I was seeing was real. Whether my eyes were open or closed, I could see the deer spirit.

I wasted one of the most momentous events of my spiritual life by failing to acknowledge the spirit of the deer nation when he appeared to me. Yet, what he brought was the knowledge that the Indians know what the hell they are talking about. The thing is, we do not have to be Indians to have spirits visit us, to have our prayers answered - merely human. Our human prayers are heard and answered. The Creator of all knows our hearts.

No, I am not a deer shaman, not a deer whisperer. I cannot magically entice deer to come to my side. (You, "deer" reader, have been watching too many Hollywood movies!) I cannot call on deer to kick someone's ass, someone who pulls out in front of me in traffic, for instance, but that would be cool. Even so, this was a tremendous lesson for me. Our lives are mysterious. The world is more mysterious than even science can say. There are things we no longer understand, things we have forgotten, and things we absolutely no longer value to the detriment of all sentient beings. Thankfully, there are people who have never forgotten, and are willing to share a little of what they know.

Footsteps in the Dark

The graying Good Dog Duke - still shedding, so he looks unloved and unkept, but neither is true.

I do not know what creature is causing the Good Dog Duke to bark all night long. He barks all around the house, so I am guessing coyotes are circling. Coyotes have been howling around this area for weeks. Ginger the horse cannot eat her hay in peace, stopping every few mouthfuls to step away and listen intently. Last night she was particularly nervous and I felt sorry for her. Something out there is worrying her. A herd animal probably feels quite vulnerable and defenseless living alone all the time.

As I was playing my favorite insomniac marble game, Zuma, in these early morning hours, I heard slow footsteps crunching fallen leaves right outside the window. Having just watched Unsolved Mysteries about people who disappear for no reason, I got a little jolt of adrenaline. Duke was silent. Of course, in my mind, it cannot mean that Duke is right outside the window listening to me cuss as I continually die in the advanced levels of Zuma. It means a crazy redneck high on meth, wielding a skinning knife and a compound bow, is sneaking up on the house to steal my broken down furniture and the 532 pound television. One thing my mother taught me about living in the country: do not sit paralyzed with fear - investigate! I went to the front door, flung it open and hollered for Duke, and added, just in case, "You can have the television but I'll have to help you carry it out, so don't kill me!"

It was just the old Dukenator lying faithfully beneath the window.

A Few Miles Down the Road...

This was once Kaw land, as far as the eye could see in any direction.


Winter on the prairie.


Muddy horses. Beautiful.


Steak on the hoof.


This little stream was full of water cress, a sure sign of spring water. I do not know the purpose of this limestone structure. It is one of the largest limestone ruins I have ever come across. As I was taking photos, the incessant Kansas wind thrumming new electrical lines overhead caused a mighty lonesome feeling, a melancholy in my spirit. I left right away.


This limestone ruin was very similar to the first. If this was once a house, it was situated on a long stretch of tableland. The wind howls unimpeded all the way from the Arctic in the winter. I cannot imagine ever being warm within these stone walls.

Bonnie Vista

A bonnie vista is a beautiful view. It is also my grandmother's name. She lived to be 99 years old. That is a long time looking forward but looking back it is not much time. She once said to me, "It went by faster than I thought."

She was a beautiful woman all the years of her life. She was opinionated but not in the way I am opinionated. She held her opinions with class and restraint. I often wish I had learned that grace from her.

She believed when people die it is simply the end. I do not know what led her to this belief but I am sure it was her logical, pragmatic mind. Based on what we see, that is the logical assumption. This belief informed her life and lent to her an admirable discipline and strength. She told me a person must not weaken. She remained disciplined until the very end.

She was not sentimental but she was loving. Her sense of humor had a touch of the steel blade in it but it was never mean-spirited. Her house was always spotless, from the big old farmhouse to the small home in town where she and Grandpa moved after they sold the farm and retired. I always had the sense that my Grandmother could have run a company or a school or a government if such professions had been more readily available to the women of her generation. In fact, she did run a successful business. She and Grandpa started with nothing but she was quite well off until the end. She successfully taught four children, eight grandchildren, and as many of the great grandchildren as she had the opportunity to know. Under her rule, the family prospered. She never dominated the people she governed but empowered the people she dearly loved.

By some unknown blessing from the hand of almighty God Himself, I spent almost a week alone with my grandparents one summer. Every single day, as soon as I had breakfast, I could go to the barn. I could ride the horses as much as I wanted. It was the best consecutive run of days in my entire childhood! It was my father's chestnut cow horse that I rode. I loved the red horse and she loved me. It was nothing to the big working mare to carry a skinny little girl around in the pasture behind the barn or on the dirt road following the bend of the Little Walnut River. I have often wondered if a horse, such a sensitive and empathic animal, enters into the imagination of a child and experiences the make-believe worlds, too. Maybe it is the simple pure joy of childhood the horse experiences. I was as safe in the care of that wise old mare as I was anywhere in the world.

My grandmother understood me and never placed any sort of burden on me for being who I was as a child. One day when she called me in at noon I asked if I could take my lunch so I could have a picnic in the pasture with the horse. She took my request seriously and packed a meal in a brown paper bag. Beneath the large cottonwood trees in the beautiful little pasture behind the barn, I gathered armloads of grass for the horse. I sat on the ground to eat and the horse, who could have easily chosen to graze anywhere in the entire pasture, stayed faithfully by my side eating the grass I had gathered.

Even late in her years my grandmother remembered when I asked her to pack my lunch so I could picnic with the horse. I do not think Grandma had any idea what a wonderful gift she allowed me that day.

I was lucky enough to know all four of my grandparents well, and to have ongoing relationships with them that lasted until the end of their lives. My grandmother did not always approve of my choices but I never doubted that she loved me. Even when I did not visit in person, we wrote to one another over the years, so she usually knew what was going on in my life. The older I was, the more remarkable she became in my eyes. The thing about loving someone your entire life - that love does not fundamentally change but it expands, adds on, becomes more complex without ever leaving those innocent, simple beginnings behind.

I do not know where my Grandmother is now. She died at the summer solstice when the sun was at its highest, when the most light was available to her. At the graveside the day of her funeral the sunlight was strong and clear. Off to the left, in an open area away from the mourners, a column of bright light was present. It was only thin air, visibly brighter than the surrounding sunlight, and was as clear and straight and as beautiful as my Grandmother's spirit had been in physical life. I knew it was my grandmother taking her final leave of the family and friends she had loved so well and for so long. Wherever she is now, that is a good place.


Bonnie Vista and Charles Asa