growing the little house of Bones

I live in a little house.
It might  be 900 square feet. It has two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen, a living room, and a dining room.
There are no hallways.
I use the front porch and yard as my art studio.
My 'laundry room' is an attached shed; I have to go outside to reach it. I share that space with house spiders, because they keep the flies down.
This house is full to bursting with me, my son, and our dogs. This house has a friendly, warm feeling to it that I cherish. It's a happy house, and it makes me happy.
There isn't room in it for one more living thing. Or any more dead things, for that matter. In fact, I recently had to get rid of some books because I realized I could not possibly fit another bookcase in this house, and stacking them in front of the bookcases is hoarder-esque.

I didn't really understand exactly how full my house was until I considered how I might go about making a third person comfortable here. That third person, of course, is Archer. He will be moving in with me in the near future. So as I thought things like, "I could move this over there, and..." it dawned on me that no amount of shuffling furniture would make this house big enough for all of us.

So I'm gearing up to move out of this little house that has sheltered my son and I for the past almost-three years. This is the house that taught me there is no such thing as "hoarder-chique." It taught me that I can garden, and things will actually grow. It taught me the value of leaving a string of lights up on the front porch - my house always looks inviting. It taught me to love front porches - now a requirement for future homes of mine.

I'll miss this house. It will be awkward, for all of us, learning to live in a new space with a new person. And when I go to see a potential house, I'm looking for something I cannot see. I'm looking for happiness in the walls, peace in the floors, and comfort in the ceilings. 

I'm making it: cleaning houses and finding balance

I finished my bachelor's degree last spring, majored in psychology and anthropology, minored in history, so now I can clean houses full time and work more hours at the cafe.

I can't, at this point, go back to working an office job. A "real job" as my mother called it. She apologized for saying that, acknowledging that cleaning houses was, in fact, a real job that results in real money. But she'd like to see me in a career. Something that pays the bills a lot more easily. It just can't happen yet.

Mostly I say this is because my son isn't ready to go back to public school, and working close to home and on a relatively flexible schedule allows me to continue homeschooling him. My goal is to have him ready for public school by the 2015 school year. He's seeing a therapist, who is working with me to help him with his social anxiety. All this is true. Even if I wanted a 'regular' job, he wouldn't be ready for me to be gone that much.

I don't want a regular job. Well, part of me does, but not the rational part. I'd love to have a steady, and larger, income with benefits and all that fun stuff. I'd love to know what work I was going to be doing that month, and the next. I'd be an awesome park ranger, or historian, or researcher.

The rational part of me knows that I have not won the battle with my depression, and in any job that is only a job, not a passion, I will crumble and give way. I will start the work with excitement, just happy to have a job. But depression will creep in eventually, and I'll do something - show up late, not finish assignments, whatever - and get fired, or laid off.

For now I'll keep working at the cafe and cleaning houses, which keep me physically moving and don't allow me to wallow. The happiness of my customers in both jobs is rewarding enough to make me come back, on time, every day. And soon I'll apply for graduate school. With a Master's degree, I can teach. That has always been my favorite work, and I could do that joyfully, in spite of my depression.

I'm having good days - when I end the day with smiles from the homeowners and cash in my pocket - and bad days - when the bank tells me I can't spend all that cash - but here's to hoping the balance will find more good days than bad. I have a few years left before I qualify for the 'real' job I can handle.

Bones' Apothecary: Barrel Cactus

First, you should know that "barrel cactus" isn't a single species of plant. It's a common name that includes two genera of cacti: ferocactus  and echinocactus.
Second, they're somewhat cute, in a ugly-sneaky-menacing way. Not dissimilar to small, ferocious, ineffective, squishy-faced dogs. You know the ones I'm talking about.

From here.

An example of a echinocactus. From here.

And a ferocactus. From here.

I know you see what I mean. 

So anyway, these guys all have some basic shared traits that make them easy to identify as barrel cacti. For example, they are cacti with a roughly barrel-like shape. Also, they are ribbed, spiny, and they produce flowers and fruit. They can branch, but often they're just a single column sticking almost-straight up, not unlike a giant penis of death.

From here.

This one is starting to bud.
I love how ridiculous they look with their flower heads.
From here.

They do tend to lean a bit to the southwest, as they grow toward the sun. This can be a problem as they get taller. See all that ribbing they have? During the rainy season, they fill up with water and the ribs flatten out a bit. Gives them plenty of room to store water for the dry season (which is most of the year, in the Sonoran Desert). It also makes them top-heavy when they're full of water. Being top-heavy and leaning a bit means that these cacti don't usually get very tall - after a certain height, they fall over. Then they die.

Like this. See how it's starting to turn gray, and the ribs are deep?
It's dying, and it isn't storing water anymore.
From here.

Wikipedia says barrel cacti are dangerous to people. I disagree; barrel cacti don't move around much (not like those damned jumping chollas - more on those in a later post), and they're not very sneaky (once they're past a certain size they're pretty obvious, and below that size... well, don't walk barefoot in the desert and you'll be fine). The problem, according to the wiki page, is that "a puncture to human skin from one of the spines is considered a 'dirty wound'. If the puncture is deep enough to draw blood, antibiotics may be needed; and could take up to several months for the wound to heal properly."

That's quite a stretch from the reference the wiki author cites for that "information." The cited reference, the Arizona-Sonoran Desert Museum website (which is a great resource), does say, "with all deep puncture wounds tetanus infection is a remote but real possibility." This is not at all the same as calling cactus spine punctures "dirty wounds" that could take "several months" to heal. Cactus spines are, in and of themselves, neither poisonous nor venomous, mkay? In my personal experience, brushing up against a cactus spine accidentally gives you the cactus-equivalent of a splinter. Obnoxious, yes. Deep puncture wound, no. Now, if you somehow manage to jam one of those babies into your flesh a few inches, yeah, that could cause problems. But the problems wouldn't be because the thing in your flesh is a cactus spine; you would have problems because there's a thing in your flesh. If you had a monster splinter in your flesh, you might have to consider a tetanus booster, too, no matter how benign the tree was before you splintered it.

Moving on to other myths...

No, you should not drink water from the inside of a barrel cactus if you're thirsty and want to play cowboy. It is not a "traveler's friend," despite that unfortunate nickname. The water inside a barrel cactus is highly alkaline, and causes diarrhea and headaches - more or less of each depending on the species. For example, fishhook barrel cactus (ferocactus wislizenii) juice is more likely to cause diarrhea and joint pain, while Coville barrel cactus (ferocactus covillei) juice causes headaches. If you're really afraid you might die of thirst, you still shouldn't do it. Diarrhea will further dehydrate you, and you will die. Instead, try the prickly pear cactus for liquid sustenance; it's far more friendly to our digestive tracts and neural sensitivities, and if you're seeing barrel cacti, there'll probably be some prickly pears nearby. Like this:

That odd looking cactus in the top of the picture is a prickly pear.
The little red fruits are actually quite tasty when cooked.
Prickly pear jelly is The Awesome.
Anyway, back to barrel cacti...
From here.

That is not to say that no part of the barrel cactus can comfortably be consumed; the buds and flowers can be cooked (parboiled; this reduces their natural bitterness) and eaten, or sun-dried for later consumption. The buds or flowers are available for harvest for a few months each year, typically starting in late spring or early summer. The easiest way to harvest the buds or flowers is with a stick or two - you can pluck those little suckers right off there with a couple sticks. The seeds can be ground up like flour and mixed with water if gruel's your thing. Not sure how that would taste, but it's edible.

If you really wanna get gutsy - and careful - you can cut that cactus open and use it for a container. Their structural integrity is quite good. You'll just have to dig out the interior.

There aren't a lot of medicinal uses for a barrel cactus, but there's a possibility it could help with pain. Remove the spines, roast a slice of the body, wrap the slice in a cloth, then press it to a sore area. Again, do not consume the body of a barrel cactus. It will hurt you.

I've found zero references to barrel cacti in a spiritual context, so I'll just share a bit about what I think of them. Your mileage may very.
This is a plant whose most common cause of death is it's own weight, as it stores more water than it can hold at its angle. It's almost a perfect metaphor for hoarding. It could be a reminder that we can't hold on to everything; we can't save All The Things. Or maybe the barrel cactus could be seen as a reminder to let go of things that are weighing you down and keeping you from growing. That which you think is saving you (storing all that water for the dry season) might just be what kills you. As the Buddhists say: let it go.


References are linked as they are used, except this one because it's a real book:
"Indian Uses of Desert Plants" by James W. Cornett, published in 2011 by Nature Trails Press.

This is one of those days, one of those posts, where I'm writing just because I have to write. Because I can't just sit here and cry. I missed my VA appointment yesterday. That one was with the psychiatrist, and I missed it because when I woke up I got distracted and forgot what day it was until about half an hour after the appointment was supposed to start. That appointment was at 8am. They only offer "those appointments" (I have no idea what that means) at 8am. Today, I will miss another VA appointment, this one because it conflicts with my son's counseling appointment; both our appointments are at 2pm. I called the VA clinic I go to, and rescheduled both the appointment I missed yesterday, and the one I will miss today. I waited four months to make these appointments, and waited five weeks between scheduling and, well, missing them (and in the midst of those five weeks, the VA changed the appointment times - I found out by showing up for an appointment that wasn't happening at the time I showed up - so the ones I'm missing are not even for times that I scheduled, all because the VA is evil). I'll wait three more weeks for the new appointments, which the VA may or may not reschedule, with or without letting me know. Both of the appointments are just to get referrals for other doctors. And all I want are refills. I'm not coping well. It all seems so fucking hopeless.

I just want to not be sick anymore.

Somebody please just make things better, instead of worse. My efforts aren't getting me anywhere. 

in an alley in Bisbee, Arizona

This was written on 14 June 2013.

In an alley in Bisbee, there’s a coffee stand, a woman who sells hand-painted silk scarves, and a metalsmith who sells the most amazing jewelry of precious metals and stones. This is Peddler’s Alley. Seth runs the coffee stand, giving out free espressos and selling bags of coffee beans. June sells her scarves. Autumn is the metalsmith. Trez, the hotel manager from across the street, likes to hang out and drink coffee in the alley. When the guests are all settled in for the night, she joins us for a beer or some of Seth’s whiskey. Sometimes Belle and Patty come over from the cafe next to the hotel. The Honey Man, Reed – he makes our local honey – comes to get some free espresso from Seth and chat with the rest of the alley. I’m there, too, but I’m not usually a productive member of our little alley-family. Sometimes I do oracle readings, which are like tarot readings but less complicated, for whoever wants one. That’s my contribution.

Today, we had dinner together. The cafe was getting ready to close for the day. It had been a slow day, so they had an entire quiche left over. Seth bought the quiche and a pitcher of ice tea. Belle, Seth, and I handed out the ice teas in the alley. Patty heated up the quiche and brought it across the street to the alley. I cut and served the quiche, while Patty and Belle went back to clean up the cafe.

The conversation went like this –

June: Cut small pieces, Katy. We just ate a bunch of this (gesturing to a lidded pot).

Katy: Sure thing.

Seth: Oh you need – (reaches for a roll of paper towels) – something to put that on.

Katy: Nope, Patty brought us wax paper.

Seth (not hearing, handing over a paper towel): Here –

Katy: No need hon, I got this covered. (Winks.)

June: Yeah Seth, she’s got this covered.

Katy (to Seth): Thank you sweetheart. You’re awesome. (Takes the offered paper towel; passes the first piece of quiche to June.)

June: No, give that to her. (Pointing to a tourist who was looking forlornly at the nearby, but closed, restaurant.)

Katy (to the tourist): Would you like some quiche?

Tourist: Oh, no thanks, we have to eat dinner in an hour, so...

Katy: (Shrugs.) Ok, your loss. Here Trez, this is for you. (Handing quiche slice to Trez.)

Random local person who happened to stop by right then: Haha!

Trez: Thanks!

Reed: Hey, lemme try some of that quiche. That looks good... Oh man, that’s rich. Who made that?

Katy: Patty.

Reed: That’s delicious. I have to take home some of that for the old lady. Can I take some home?

Seth: Sure – that’s what it’s there for.

Customers came and went; some joined our conversations, some shrugged us off. Most of them got espresso from Seth.

Trez: Maybe that’s my guests – (runs across the street, just ahead of a couple tourists carrying luggage; she disappears into the hotel).

(June nods sagely.)

Seth: I’m thinking about going to upstate New York.

Katy: Really? What part?

Seth: Upstate.

Katy: Where in upstate? I’m from there.

Seth: Finger Lakes.

Katy: I’m from the Finger Lakes! Where are you going?

Seth: Lake Chitaqua. My dad turned me on to it. There’s this place he goes in the summer, and he lives for it.

Katy: Cool! It’s so beautiful there, especially in the summer.

Seth: I might do an event there.

Katy: Need a helper?

Seth: Maybe –

Katy: Ooo, pick me!

Seth: Yeah!

Katy: So when are we going?

Seth: This summer. I don’t know.

Katy: Well, I have til the end of July.

Seth: Sweet, that’s my time frame.

Katy: So what’s going on at Lake Chitaqua?

Seth told me the story, then, of how he and his father came to terms with each other, just a few years ago. He didn’t like his dad much, growing up, he said, and he moved out quite young. After he moved out, he’d call his dad once in a while, but hated doing so because the conversations were never pleasant. They didn’t argue, or anything like that, but his dad was something of a hypochondriac and would tell Seth that, someday, Seth would have the same health complications he believed himself to be plagued by. Seth felt his dad was trying to bequeath those illnesses to him, and he found himself reluctant to call his dad. He’s say, “Hi Dad, how are you?” Then he’d kick himself for asking, because he dad would respond with a listing of medical misfortunes.

Seth: And I never wanted to go home unless I could do it on my own terms. I pay for everything. If I want to go somewhere with him – last year, I wanted to go to Santa Fe. I called my dad and said, “hey, let’s go to Santa Fe. I’ll send you a plane ticket, you just get on the plane and meet me there. I’ll rent a car at the airport.” And I did. I flew us both in to Albuquerque, rented a car there, and drove us to Santa Fe. And it was great. But I never wanted to make him provide the vacation. I provide the vacation. He just comes along. I like it that way.

A few years ago, his dad called him. While they spoke, Seth realized that the neediness usually so present in his dad’s voice was – gone. His dad told him about going to this retreat at Lake Chitaqua, and how it was a life-changing event. Seth’s dad learned, at the retreat, that in all his life, he had never learned to say “I love you.” Further, he learned that all his life, he had been going to doctors when he needed to feel cared for. Seth’s dad said, “my biggest regret, is that I didn’t do this sooner in my life,” and he wanted very much to share the experience with Seth. After some resistance, Seth agreed to go spend a week with his dad at the retreat at Lake Chitaqua. He stayed an extra week; when it was time to leave, he let his dad go and booked the extra week for himself. This year, he wants to go back.

Seth described the retreat location: hundreds of acres of gated land where no cars were allowed. People would drop off their luggage, then park their cars by the entrance for the week – or weeks – they were staying. They’d walk everywhere – around the lake, to the opera, the theater, the symphony, the lectures. Speakers come from all over the world for the once-in-a-lifetime chance to speak at Lake Chitaqua, and there is a different theme every week. The second week Seth stayed there, the theme was National Geographic: Oceans. They would talk about science all morning, and theology all afternoon, then go to the opera in the evening.

I wondered what the theme was the week Seth’s dad discovered how to say “I love you,” but I didn’t ask. He was telling his story and we were sipping Irish whiskey from his flask. It wasn’t a good time to get interrogative.

At the end of the evening, Autumn has packed up and gone to dinner with her husband, Logan, who came to visit toward the end of the day. June has gone, too, with her rainbow of scarves, and Nicole and Kirsten have parted ways. I tell Seth about the paper I have to write, and how I’m not sure that I’ll be able to, since I’m not around many families at the moment.

Then Kirsten stopped by to see Seth; she and I introduced ourselves to each other. The three of us talked about road trips and motorcycles and cars. Seth pondered how he would drive to New York. Not a direct trip, he said – he wanted to be in each place. He wanted to enjoy every stop on the journey, to have lunch with people who knew his coffee. He has at least 200 customers in every state. Every place he goes, if he gives enough warning, he can meet someone who drinks his coffee and have lunch with them. He wants to meet as many people as he can. He loves people, he says with a smile, and people love coffee. I think he’s right.

Nicole stops by next. I’ve never met her before, either, but she’s familiar, like we’ve seen each other somewhere, somehow. It’s a small town; that’s not surprising. Nicole is full of life, a flower about to burst in a pink velvet dress and brown boots. Nicole and Kirsten talk animatedly about Santa Cruz and Nicole’s latest gig, managing the creation of an art installation at the MOCA, the Museumof Contemporary Art, in Tucson. Her friend Chico had asked her to be part of the team. The piece her team created is called “Chrysalis,” and she talked about all the changes in her life and how the project was so appropriate for this period of her life. She talked about being the only woman, in charge of a group of men, and how that made her want to “do fist pumps every day.” She felt like the butterfly emergent and powerful.

On a whim, I decided to do an oracle reading for Seth. While he entertained customers and Nicole and Kirsten caught up with each other, I shuffled and drew my oracle cards. When the customers departed, I nodded Seth over to my cards and explained the reading to him. The reading helped him make a decision: he’s going on a road trip this summer, north to Colorado, then east to New York. He’s going to sell his coffee at Lake Chitaqua. I’m so proud of him.

Then I notice, for the first time, the beautiful stained glass windows on the second floor of the building across the street. I mention it to Seth. He agrees. We stare at the glass for a moment, slightly inebriated and almost out of whiskey.

"I feel like I'm going to cry," he says.

I ask, "Good cry or bad cry?"

"Good cry."

"Oh, good then."

"I can just feel it. You know, life is so beautiful. It's like how old people's eyes always have that sheen of wetness. Their eyes have seen so much, and it's all there, all that beauty, and there's so much that they're about to burst. They've seen so much beauty. The tears are always just about to fall because life is so beautiful. It's like that."

"That's going in my paper," I say.

"That's cool. It should," he replies.

Normanstops by, seeing Seth and I still there. Norm is one of Seth’s employees. We chat. A kid stops by with a young sparrow on his finger. It can’t fly because some of its flight feathers have been damaged. A cat, maybe, from the looks of the sparrow’s matted downy and torn tail. The kid thinks the bird is “part finch and part sparrow” but the rest of us doubt that very much. He’s looking for food for the little bird, and I recall that I have chia seeds in my kitchen. So I say good night and leave the alley, kid and bird in tow, hoping to write a paper after I feed the bird.

bones' apothecary: agave

I have an agave in my front yard. You'd think a plant in a category called "succulent" would be... I don't know, nicer.

It could double as a guard, if it were just a little closer to the gate. Back before I knew what this cursed plant was (not so long ago), I referred to it as "that stabby plant out front." It's kind of a jerk, with its stabbiness. The sharp points are actually darker than the rest of the plant, so if you're not looking right at them (and are unfamiliar with the plant, as I was), it'll sneak-shank you as you walk by.

Yeah, me and this plant did not start out as friends. And honestly, "friends" is too nice a word for our current working relationship, which mostly involves me leaving That Stabby Plant alone.

Recently (tonight) I learned that pretty much that whole plant is edible. Also, when roasted, the inside of those pulpy leaves (aka, your shank-wielders) tastes like molasses.

You hear that Stabby? I could totally eat you. And revenge shall be sweet. 

Fortunately for Stabby, I don't own this property, and me removing a 7-foot agave that's probably ancient would not go over well with my landlord. So Stabby and I won't be parting ways any time soon.

Unless. Unless Stabby decides to flower.
I've learned all sorts of things about agaves tonight. For instance: most species only flower once in their lifetimes. Once they've flowered, they die; in other words, agaves are semelparous. A few (not the ones my region of the world) can get away with flowering twice before they're done. One gardening blogger recommended being "mean" to your agave plant - not encouraging them to reproduce, by not making their environment ideal. Withhold the pampering - the extra rations of water, the especially fertile soil - and your lovely agave could last decades! I might start fertilizing mine.

Not only out of spite though. No really! These plants are incredibly useful!

The seeds can be ground into flour.
The blossoms can be eaten, though they're bitter if not boiled first.
The flower stalks can be roasted and eaten, or juiced to make pulque - the main ingredient in tequila. I'm pretty sure that means agaves are medicinal.
The leaves can be roasted and eaten (you'll want to remove the husk after roasting, and before consuming).
The fibers from the stalks and leaves can be used in all sorts of things, if you're crafty like that. Weaving, brushes, et cetera.

It takes For Ever for one of these plants to bloom, though. Their common name is "century plant," because it feels  like it takes them a century to bloom, especially if you're waiting for it. Typically they'll bloom much sooner, within 20 years or so. And of course there's variation on that timeline by species. It appears - from my brief internet search - that smaller agaves tend to bloom sooner than larger ones. (Which makes sense - the larger plants spend more energy on somatic development as opposed to reproductive development.)

(Incidentally, the gardener I mentioned above refers specifically to the agave americana variety, which is the most common in the Southwest and probably what I have in my yard. Alternatively, mine might be an agave durangensis, which also appears similar to mine in the web pictures. It's hard to say though. I'm not finding any definitive information to discern the two, or any great pictures. All I can be certain of is that mine is not the striped variety of a. americana.)

 

one version of a. americana

a. durangensis

I've found very little to support any medicinal uses of agave, other than in the production of tequila (which really should not be ignored). There's some mention of agave sap as a disinfectant, but absolutely zero reason to suspect that's true; this is not a reference to the disinfectant properties of tequila, but a claim that the unprocessed sap has disinfectant properties. At best, I would venture that the sugar-like nature of the sap might  have similar preservative properties to other sugars.

As a representative in magical uses, I personally would consider agave an excellent guardian. The rosettes (the radially-oriented cluster of leaves) are fiercely protective of the plant, as are the stalks.  In fact, if you don't handle the dried stalks properly they'll get ya. The plant as a whole makes me think of fire: abundant in it's usefulness, but inherently dangerous and requiring mindful handling.

If you decide to work with the dried stalks, wear gloves. The fibers of the stalks are quite pokey, and they are so fine that it's nearly impossible to see them once they've embedded themselves in your flesh. They make wicked, hair-like splinters. There's one under my fingernail right now that's still working it's way out. I can tell it's still there, because the dried blood around it is still there. Also, it hurts. So wear gloves, and sand that thing down with a very fine grit sand paper. That'll make it better, but it's probably next to impossible to get all the fibers smoothed out, so I also recommend giving your agave stalk some sort of wrap where you plan to grasp it. I have both a wand and a staff made from agave stalks (wild harvested, not from Stabby). They came to me through my ten year old son, who collected them and brought them home as gifts. I used rabbit fur on my staff, but I don't hold it a lot. Leather would probably be better for something you're going to use often. Or any fabric thick enough to tame stray fibers and keep them out of your skin.

This staff is ridiculously tall, and I'll probably end up shortening it a bit. If I do, I'll take some off the top. I really like how the bottom 'bulbs' out and makes a solid base for the whole thing. It's good for grounding.

Notes

By the way, yuccas are part of the agave family, too, but they're a different genus. I'll talk about yuccas separately, and later.


Also, I'm in the market for a good southwest herbalism book. Comment with leads if you have any please!



References

http://www.gardeninggonewild.com/?p=7002 Gardening Gone Wild (blog) by Debra Lee Baldwin, "Uh-oh. My agave's blooming." Appears to have been posted in 2009, but I can't actually find a date for that post (I'm basing my estimate on the dates of the comments).

http://www.succulentguide.com/cactus/?genus=Agave Succulent Guide: Genus Agave. Lots of pictures, but no hard data.

http://www.succulent-plant.com/families/agavaceae.html The Agave Page. Somewhat better pictures and a little more information than the Succulent Guide.

Book: Indian Uses of Desert Plants, by James W. Cornett. 2011. Nature Trails Press. It's more 'glorified pamphlet' than book, but it's a handy little thing to have. It can be found here.



For more information

http://www.allaboutagave.com/ How to make agave nectar (a nice sugar substitute); this is not a step-by-step guide, just an overall explanation.

http://www.ars-grin.gov/cgi-bin/npgs/html/taxon.pl?1690 The US Department of Agriculture weighs in with the taxonomy of agave americana.

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/10025868 Apparently agave leaves contain potential skin irritants in their pulp.

a bit of fiction

A bit of fiction, pulled from my dreams last night. 

I have weird dreams.

~

Eggs scrambled with spinach and mushrooms, a little salt. Peaches, sliced. Cottage cheese.

Check, check, and check.

Naylee will give me that face, the one filled with sweet happiness. I turn off the stove and scrape the eggs onto a plate.

A couple forks from the drawer, and -

There she is. Radiant. Bouncing into the room.

“Jorg! Look what I made!” Naylee giggles and holds up a ridiculous… sea slug? “It’s a sweater, obviously.” She’s laughing outright now, unable to even attempt a straight face. I’m grinning back at her, despite being completely confused. The knitted thing is huge, and orange, and when she holds it up that high it blocks my view of her. Still smiling, I let her hand it to me. It could be a sweater, if I had no arms. I’m helpless. Naylee’s smile quiets. “Don’t worry,” she coos, “you can put it with the rest.” Relieved, I toss it to the top of the kitchen cabinets, where a collection of ill-fated knitting projects is accumulating.

“I’ll get the hang of these things one of these days,” Naylee insists. “I don’t know about that orange though. That might be a trim-only sort of color. A little goes a long, long way, ya know. Oooo! Peaches! Hmmm, you must like me an awful lot.”

That’s my Naylee. Teeny Queen of Distraction. My heart thumps. I reach for her waist, and I like the way my hand wraps from one hip to the other.

“Come here.” It comes out of my throat as a growl.

“Oh, scary! You know sexual dimorphism in humans isn’t supposed to be this distinctive, Jorg.”

“Mmmm, I love when you talk dirty to me, Naylee.”

She’s giggling again and just like that, I’m taken. Again and again.

“Hey there big man,” Naylee bats her eyelashes, “are you gonna feed me first or what?”

I pull her close, so gently, and ask her, so softly, if she’s really that hungry. A kiss on her cheek, then her lips.

“Not really, no,” she whispers back.

“I need you,” I admit.

“Oh please,” she laughs.

I had meant it, but that’s okay. I smile and kiss her again and play along. “My princess, my love, you taste like joy.”

I’m rewarded with a new round of giggles and accusations of romantic delusions. She’s right. She always is, she just doesn’t know it yet. I pick her up and kiss her again.

“Oh, you got me!” she squeals and smirks, “whatcha gonna do with me now?”

I carry her across the kitchen and into her gardening room. There’s a couch there, under the big bay windows.

“Naylee, may I?” I whisper in her ear.

“Yes please,” she says.

I set her down and lay myself on the couch. I’m careful - no need to break any more furniture throwing my weight around. When I’m settled, I tug her hand. She straddles me, her knees at my hips, and leans down for more kisses. I catch her again in my arms and hold her as close as I dare. The air around us seems to heat as we kiss. She rubs her body against me, sending hisses of urgency up my spine. Distantly, I feel myself rumbling and I grow stronger against her warmth. I open my eyes to take in this whirlwind of a woman - sometimes I have to see to believe - and a flicker of movement comes from the open room to my left. Releasing Naylee with my left arm, I grasp her tighter with my right and catch the little fucker in my left hand. My grip dwarfs his fist, and I give it a shove, sending him back across the room. Still squeezing Naylee with my right arm, I pull her in closer to that side. She’s taking advantage of my turned head and trailing little kisses along the side of my neck.

“You really need to do something about that,” Naylee says between kisses.

“I know,” I grunt. A blond scrapper of a boy is taking aim for my head again. This time when I catch his fist, I squeeze. First the bones crack - a very satisfying sound - then they crumble, and the boy disintegrates. I sigh. Naylee trails her kisses back up to my face, and I hold her with both arms again. And I’m taken. Again and again.