who, who, who . . .

Did I ever tell you the story about the owlet in the kitchen?  Not mine.  Not my kitchen that is nor, my owlet.  But definitely an owlet in a kitchen.  Who's on first?

Back in the day, I entered college as a shy gangly thing fresh out of an all girls boarding school.  Four years later, I graduated somewhat irreverent in thought and action.  It was after all, 1967-1971.  I can hardly be faulted for swapping my Villager skirt and sweater sets for bell bottoms, buffalo sandals and crop tops, right?

The change was gradual until I met Hig my sophomore year, his senior.  My very own personal Peter Pan.  I was introduced to him by a mutual friend.  He might well have been from outer space.  Tall, equally as gangly, long hair and goatee, living off campus, riding his bike, working on an underground paper, marching in protests, messing with the Dean's mind.  But in those days, he represented everything I was not and I followed him around like a puppy.  He taught me how to shoot a gun. Drive his motorcycle.  Run the bridge rails.  Roll my own. 

One day, I being upset about something, he decided I needed to head home with him to Heartslog Valley, to meet his mother the ex-Russian actress and his father, the man who developed the formula for the paint that is the stripes down the middle of the roads. 

As we walked into the house, well after dark, we entered through the 'music room' complete with baby grand, harp, fiddle and other miscellaneous musical instruments and stands.  I was taken a little off balance but not so that I didn't notice the goings on in the kitchen while being introduced to his mother.  Along the upper most portion of the four walls, were dead branches nailed and strung together forming a trellis of sorts winding around and around the room.  Trying to concentrate on the conversation with his mother . . . first impressions being what they may . . . I totally lost it when my eyes focused off to one corner.  Surely someone else must have noticed the owlet among the twigs???  The very much alive owlet. Mouth agape, finger pointed, I indicated the forest creature lurking in the woodwork.  They, however, seemed not surprised.  Apparently, he/she lived with them . . . in the kitchen . . . in Hartslog Valley . . . just off the music room. 

To this day, whenever I meet another Peter Pan type soul, for a brief second, I have an urge to ask them who lives in their kitchen, hoping to find another owlet.