Chapter 1

Charlotte Grace was river rat through and through.  Traverse Island on the Upper Mississippi had been her summer home before her parents ever knew they would have a daughter, much less fall in love with one another. Charlotte was sure the river water was part of her blood, she felt it in the very marrow of her healthy bones. Her parents never quite understood her obsession with the place, but they did seem to indulge it, helping her to grow her grandfather's little summer resort fishing business into a year round enterprise.

As she swatted at mosquitoes walking the long, shaded path along the Wisconsin channel she noted that Nessie, her trusty old Jack Russel Terrier was still taking great satisfaction in her favorite past time; squirrel spotting. The industrious little dog had always taken her varmint control function very seriously, smart enough to comprehend that she would never run a gray squirrel to ground like a fox, she had become quite expert at squirrel spotting as they leaped from tree to tree.

Woman and dog were on their evening constitutional, returning from their walk to the western tip of Traverse Island having watched the sunset from the old rope swing. Charlotte began cursing herself for her repeated failure to bring along bug spray, knowing full well that after a wet summer the blood-sucking parasites would prey upon her naked ankles if she hesitated for even a moment on the muggy, shady path. But Nessie had become distracted, as her breed tended to, and she was not readily responding to Charlotte's sharp whistle.

"Damn dog," Charlotte muttered under her breath. "NESSIE, come NOW!"

Fine fine fine. Just give me a minute to see if I can sniff out this big squirrel over here in that huge cottonwood. Wait a minute. That's not a squirrel. It's that funny big eagle that lives up by the dam.


Hey. What are you doin' down here. We never see you down here this time of year. You usually don't grace us with your presence until you're hungry for open water in the winter time. Do ya miss us?


It's too loud down here in the summer time. I just want to warn you that there's trouble up on your little sandbar by the dam. You better tell your people. Nobody's gonna want to eat the fish or play in that part of the river for awhile if they don't deal with the mess.


Okay okay okay. I gotta go, Charlotte's whistling and she gets pissed when the blood-suckers are this thick. Thanks for the tip. See ya!

Charlotte had just swatted a particularly full insect that splatted blood across the top of her foot.  She did her best to smear away the viscous fluid as she attempted a second burst of whistles when her beloved canine companion burst through the bushes to revisit the walk home.

"Where the hell have you been?" she griped at the dog. And then a particularly large eagle gave a cry and circled over them across the end of the island as he skimmed over the treetops and dropped into the river valley, cruising for fish.

"Aha," Charlotte surmised, "keeping tabs on that big eagle. Looks like he finally got his adult plumage this year. I think he must be that same one we saw a couple summers ago when he was learning to fly. It's nice that you two have maintained your friendship." Nessie wagged her tail faster in her odd pattern of an up-and-down stutter rather than a side-to-side swipe. Charlotte always suspected that damage had been done when Nessie was a Wisconsin farm puppy and had been hauled off to the vet to have her tail docked like all good Jack Russels. Silly habit. Poor little Nessie just had a snub of a tail, but she was adept at using what she had to express her emotions.

Sometimes Charlotte Grace had some funny notions about all the critters in her river centric world. Having spent so much time alone on the island as an only child, she had often "adopted" wild animals and domestic critters alike to populate her domain with characters that resembled all the folk of A.A. Milne's Hundred Acre Wood. The adult Charlotte had not shaken this habit and her husband, friends, and family all tolerated her anthropomorphizing animals with respectful interest and a little bit of good natured teasing from time to time. But Charlotte always maintained that the island critters gossiped just as much as the human folk, and if you paid attention you could learn as much from the critters about the local environment and the antics of the local inhabitants.

A is for Atlanta Airport Adventure

This is Bronwyn reporting from, of course, the A concourse at ATL International. I pray that this blog, expressing mild panic, minor drama, and genuine gratitude doesn't jinx my flight home :)

On my short hop from Richmond, Virginia, this afternoon I was given a complementary "Medallion Upgrade" = First Class Cabin. YES!

A flight that was scheduled to take off 30 minutes prior to ours was "cancelled due to mechanical issues" and their passengers were relocated to our flight. We were all assured that those holding first class seats would still be seated in the first class cabin. One of my new traveling companions was completely skeptical about the reason for the delay/cancellation of his flight. I tend to agree with him since both loads of passengers still totalled a less than full flight, including empty first class seats.

I was seated next to a Army National Guard Cavalry Soldier headed back to Afghanistan for his fifth tour in Iraq/Afghanistan, having been home for a two week leave to be with his wife as she gave birth to their twins; yes, folks, a boy and a girl. All are healthy and mom is well. I warned you there was drama!

I have an affinity for those Army National Guard troops thanks to Mary, Bud, Tom and Beth. Go Guard!

This soldier had never been upgraded to first class before. When I told him the drinks were free he hesitated. I get it, he's not supposed to drink in uniform. I said, "We sure as hell are not gonna think less of a soldier on his fifth deployment if he accepts one cocktail on the airplane." (I do have a reputation for encouraging less than compliant behavior in some circumstances. It's kind of like watering your livestock on the Sabbath. . . .)

"Crown and Coke" he replied to our fashionista flight attendant. She didn't bat a bogus eyelash. But she did return to confess the lack of Crown Royal on the airplane and very discreetly offered him a choice of Seagram's or Jack Daniels. He's a Virginia boy and took the Jack. Heineken in hand, I clinked his glass and offered a toast in thanksgiving for his service, his children, a successful mission, and a safe tour. He downed his cocktail like he was dying of thirst and promptly chased it with two mugs of coffee. Our flight attendant properly announced his presence and story over the intercom before landing and asked us to remain seated at the gate until he stood so we could all see the "true American hero" in our midst. He and I got misty-eyed, and we all clapped enthusiastically. He is praying to fly out of Atlanta within 24 hours to return to his mission. He hates getting stuck in Atlanta with nothing but a uniform when waiting for charter flights to fill. But he did say the local USO would take pretty good care of him. I will continue to pray for peace and the conclusion of our missions in the region.

Once in the airport I made my way from the B to A concourse to identify the location of my connecting flight gate. Upon arriving at A29 I was just in time to welcome the passengers disembarking from Kalispell, Montana. An elderly gentleman tripped over his toe on the door to the concourse and went sprawling to his knees and narrowly avoided a face-plant. I joined two other potential passengers in rushing to him to see if he was okay, my knees throbbing in sympathy pains. He was very slow to get up, announced that he thought he was okay, allowed us to assist him to a chair, and thanked us for the help. I reluctantly left and made my way to the restroom and then on to Houlihans for a Heineken and some Potato Soup.

"May I see your ID, please?' asked the 20-something female server.

HA! Okay . . . .

"Oh crap! I don't have my wallet! It must be in the restroom. I'll be right back!"

Can you imagine the sinking feeling in my stomach? My travel wallet contains my Minnesota Driver's License, Credit Cards, Receipts for Reimbursements, Passport, and Boarding Passes!

Prayer: "Thank you for carding me, ridiculous as it is to card a 48-year-old woman. Please let my wallet still be in the bathroom. Please let some Good Samaritan have found it and turned it in to the cleaning woman who was in there, please, please, please, please, please . . . . . ."

"Excuse me, Ma'am, did you or anyone find a black travel wallet in this stall or at the sink?"

I knew it wasn't there. I have a very visual memory and upon walking back in there I had ZERO recollection of having it in my hand when I was peeing or washing my hands. Damn. And she confirmed its absence. She suggested a couple logical and local places to check on this concourse and sent me away with a prayer for it to be found quickly.

I backtracked to A29 where the falling man had disrupted my normally careful airport routine. As I gained ground my visual memory kicked in. I had my wallet out to check my flight number against the gate information. When he fell I placed it on the counter, let go of my carry-on, and moved to assist him. As I departed I hadn't noticed the black wallet on the black counter and had walked away with my carry-on and tote-bag.

Prayer: please, please, please, please, please . . . .

"Ma'am," did you find . . . ."

She was smiling and holding it out for me. She said she had checked my boarding pass and was getting ready to page me, knowing I probably hadn't strayed too far from the gate of my departure.

"Thank you. Thanks be to God!"

She grinned and said, "You're welcome."

I did stop back in the women's room to let the cleaning woman know that it was found. She was pleased.

I then returned to my table and produced my ID. I thanked the server for carding me stating that it would have been really troubling and even more embarrassing had I not realized it was missing until she presented my bill!

Then again, she wasn't going to serve me a beer without my ID!!!

Therefore I also offer thanks for my vice. Thanks be to beer!!!!

Prologue

I love this part of the river. It's always been my home. I remember the first day I flew, if you can call that first plummet from our nest in the tall cottonwood a flight. It was a peaceful afternoon in August and I was terrified. I remember that couple in the blue boat with a feisty little dog were carefully cruising close enough to watch, but not too close. They were peering at me through those huge and heavy mechanical eyes and they quietly encouraged me. Even the dog was rooting for my success. At least they all followed my progress. My parents just sat in trees screeching at me as I whined and cried. 

That couple comes back to check our old nest every year on their way up to the little sandbar below the dam.  Nessie's Island, that's what they call it, after the dog. She loves playing in the sand and water in that quiet little spot. Too bad that branch fell and toppled our nest over there. That was always a good summer fishing spot. But our new nests further across the river have a much better view. I prefer watching the sunset from over there. Besides, it's closer to my new friend's childhood nest.


I think I'll follow this thermal up and over to the lock and see if any fish are rising below the dam. I love soaring up this high. The lift on my wings makes it effortless to circle up and up and up . . . .


Aha, crappies are rising to something. I'll need to get situated so my shadow doesn't spook them.


Okay, dive time.


Whoa! What the hell is that?! I thought it was part of the tree caught above Nessie's Sandbar. Looks like someone's swimming? No, the crappies are eating . . . 


Oh, yuck. Thank God I have eagle eyes so I don't have to go in so close that I smell it. That would drive Nessie crazy. I swear she smells everything before she ever lays eyes on it. But I guess that's the disadvantage of being a ground-bound little mutt. I wonder if she knows her favorite sandbar has a body floating above it. . . . .