I am getting my “Mojo” back!- (personal magic, energy, confidence, getting your power back) -and I am, in this case however Mojo, was the name of the crow I had as a pet when I was a little girl living on a trout farm/hatchery in the middle of the woods in Mountain, Wisconsin -a VERY tiny dot on only a few maps that I can find…Wow the memories come rushing back of the seemingly idyllic moment of my childhood where I just ran wild as a child. We lived in a very small 2 bedroom “cabin”, and to be honest, cabin might be a generous term. Looking back it was more a shack, but seen through the eyes of a child it was the cozy tiny place that became our home for several years. One small heater in the center of the house that I remember standing in front of to dry off after our baths or warm up in front of during the biting cold of winter-more than one sweater or pair of socks was “melted” by hanging it too close to it’s surface to dry. My father had given in to his dream to raise trout, paused his career as a geologist and moved us into this very primitive “cabin” -all three of us girls in one small room-we were small we didn’t mind, and more often than not we would cuddle up together and share a bed, it was warmer that way. We had the luxury of electricity and the small heater, but not the amenity of indoor plumbing or running water, though a few steps down the hill to what we called the “spring house” or actually hatchery, supplied us with all the fresh, crystal clear and cold spring water we could want (in fact that was the name of our hatchery -Crystal Springs Trout Farm)-the only issue was hauling it up the steps in buckets to the house (did I mention we were little? somewhere around the age of 8 or 9 myself and my two younger sisters ) but somehow we managedad, until my Dad installed a large plastic tank in the attic. We would fill it with a hose from the springs, and he ran piping, gravity flow, to the kitchen where we had it attached to a tap/faucet. We still had to heat the water on a stove, but it was much preferable to hauling up a bucket at a time and we thought it was grand! You may wonder if we had no indoor plumbing what that meant for necessities of bodily function of “waste”? Well, we had an OUTHOUSE -let me clarify this for you-not the fancy, plastic-molded, and more sanitary version, the “honey bucket” kind of today, but one with actual wood, slats of weathered planks fitted together but still with cracks wide enough for allowing tiny rays of daylight to stream into the dim interior, a wood bench seat with a round hole cut into the top that offered the possibility of a splinter or sliver in a most inconvenient place-ouch. 😳 The fact that it was dim lit and made of wood IN the woods and shaped as a box with corners also made it a perfect place for spiders and their webs-as a child one of my least favorite creatures, so an equal dislike to having to “go”. It was freezing in the middle of a Wisconsin winter night-COLD seems a mild description-I shiver just at the memory-of both spiders and the temperature🥶 It sat at the top of a hill (as I now think of this as an adult, I giggle-isn’t there an expression about the occurrence of “**IT running down hill”? Who would think to have placed an outhouse at the top of the hill if they recalled this phrase? Maybe, this is exactly where that saying originated and I grew up in an infamous situation? Just pondering. Anyway, we aptly called it “whippoorwill hill” named after the night bird that would sit on the roof of it and call out, making a call that sounded like its name. “Whip poor will, whip poor will” with the sound of a great horned owl also drifting to my ears at night I snuggled in next to my sister and gently fell asleep.
Our days were filled with the childhood adventures we imagined and took from the many books we read-we read a lot, the book mobil that was a library on wheels arriving to the area every couple weeks was a very happily anticipated occurrence. We, my sister and I, were largely unsupervised, as Dad was busy working in the hatchery, and mom slept after working night shift at the hospital. We were ok being on our own, we watched out for each other and what mischief could we really get into with acres and acres of woods? (Insert eye roll here-the sticker I saw on a car bumper somewhere -“why did I not die?” springs to my mind) The natural rock and boulder formations, trees, ponds and streams became our playground and we were aware and familiar with every bend, turn, nook of rock, burrow of vegetation, pond, trees, and tree branch (and the moss that grew on them) and meadow in our “kingdom”. We had names and nicknames for locations and realms only we understood. In our explorations, we discovered a “castle fortress/fort” we brought our treasured books, snacks or a picnic to, a formation of rock that naturally came together converging to leave a space big enough for several small bodies to sit or stretch out comfortably, with soft moss on the forest floor, we would climb up and over, using hand holds or foot holds of the rough rock surface and the agility of a child or that of a goat , once at the top we reversed the process until we could drop into our secret “den”. We embellished it by pieces of wood scavenged in the garage, and bits of tree bark and stick, using the natural corners formed by the rocks to wedge the wood into place, building a shelf system- we then used to display our woodland treasures, or set a book, have our tea party on. We often dragged a cushion, a blanket with us from home to prop against the rock to soften the rough surface of our hideout-we happily spent hours there reading our books.
I actually had many woodland creatures as “pets”. Critters orphaned by either ignorance of a visiting city dweller who didn’t understand that a baby animal hiding in the brush is not necessarily lost and the parent not far watching in distress as the well intentioned individual walks away with their baby, or unfortunately an orphaned animal as the mother had incidence with a car on the highway (sad but happens) That is exactly how we ended up with our little fawn named Sugar, who grew into a lovely doe, she came and went as she matured, but mostly hung around the ponds grazing and occasionally coming to get a treat, Dad had built a little shelter for winter she could snuggle into if she wanted, occasionally she would bring friends she’d met back and they also became accustomed to us and join her for treats-apples, carrots. We also had a foundling named Kit, a little red fox someone thought abandoned along a trail, a raccoon-Rosie-curious , adorable and very mischievous, my crow Mojo- he was a rascal and had the freedom to fly away and come and go, often took things that were shiny, he was a collector of all things shiny. He would come when he heard me call (crows have amazing hearing and understanding, very intelligent creatures), he enjoyed cat or dogfood out of the can so if you tapped on the tin side it made a sound easily recognized by him and he would fly in and land on on my shoulder or arm-it has occurred to me in rather an amazing realization how he could/would perch on me without ever inflicting damage or pain, not a scratch or poke, and his talons and beak were razor SHARP.
We also named a couple mallards that never flew south and wintered with us (why would they? We fed them and they just hung out on the trout ponds…we enjoyed all their babies but could never tell them apart to name them, just ducky one, ducky two etc-and Lucky Ducky).
Can a fish in the wild actually be a pet? I am not sure but we had a couple huge trout we rather considered “pets”, one we named Big Bertha. A wild trout that lived in a deep-hole area nestled into the bank of the stream that ran a ways behind the house and main trout ponds. She had a hooked jaw that my Dad had explained likely had been injured and/or broken by some fisherman who caught and released with carelessness or some “critter encounter” she was able to get away from-she also had scarring on the top of her head and side of her body. We made up all kinds of adventures she had battled through to make it to the 23-24 inch length (estimated by my Dad) she had become. Somehow she had defied her injuries and hardships, made it to this cold and deep hole in the creek (more like a small river) and grown to become the queen of her peacful, watery domaine. We would take some of the fish pellets from the hatch house and softly call to her, waiting with anticipation and a slight fear that something may have finally gotten the better of this feisty, regal trout, but she would rise out of the depths of the bank and we would toss the pellets in for her, twisting and turning to catch them, her greenish-brown speckled back, streak of silver and dark pink stripe glinting in the sun and surface of the pool, sometimes she would just come float by the edge of the pool after she’d had her fill, then slowly slip away to her resting place. I am uncertain if fish recognize voices but she seemed to, or at least had the conditioned response and connection of our voice and “food” and so we named her Big Bertha-she was revered by me.
So MANY MEMORIES and stories of a really unique time in my life, our playground the woods, our best friends the rocks, trees, animals-barefoot, young and free…life was so simple then… my perspectives from a young age altered and kept me appreciative of the things we take for granted so often, especially in this country, a warm bed, (in fact a roof over our heads and a heated dwelling) running water, nature…it was an incredible couple years
…the two cheeky crows on my walk along the lake the other day, that seemed to follow me flying from limb to limb as I walked, they “talking to me” I interacting and talking back, even flew to the ground to sit and share time with me as I sat on a log enjoying a quiet moment by the water. They inspired these memories and this painting-though this photo does not do it justice, it looks a bit splotchy on camera? (looks a bit rough and rustic) however in in realtime, I believe this to be one of my favorite paintings/illustrations to date🥰❤️😁maybe it’s just the lovely reminiscing🤷♀️
Just Life With Denise 
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