recipe

A wolf is a complex creature. It is like two animals meshed into one. It thrives on social interaction and the hierarchy of its pack. Yet it is also known to be solitary and fiercely independent. It is a loving parent and pack mate—playful, protective. Viciousness is an equal aspect as well. The wolf is one of the more beautiful, graceful and mysterious creatures that has endured throughout human folklore. On the same token, it perhaps the most feared, hated, and misunderstood as well. Contradictory aspects that should not be able to inhabit one entity are commingled in the wolf. Even as a little kid, when teachers asked us what kind of animal we would be, I have always said a wolf. It is the age old question: Which came first? Did I relate to the wolf because I saw myself when I looked at him? Or did I become like the wolf due to my fascination of him? Either way, I become more of a wolf as time goes on and my life takes me journey through journey. As I look back over my twenty-eight years, it is uncanny how wolves have shown up in my life, in both comforting and terrifying ways. Take a wolf at face value and you will be completely unprepared with the animal that will surface. Cut me down to one persona or one nature and you will not know or comprehend the man you have in your life. Wherever my next tattoo ends up, it will have large aspects of wolf symbolism throughout.


I stand at the window that is over our hallway sink. I see my dad outside taking care of our chickens. They flock around him, squawking and flapping haphazardly. The day is a little overcast, as so many Missouri days are, lightening just beyond the horizon. Everything is brown as if the window has endured a dust storm that lasted a week; the window is clean though. The gate to the chicken coop is locked and in spite of the frenzy brought on by the feed, there is no danger of any of them getting away. A huge, stunningly beautiful sliver-white wolf appears in the coop. He shimmers as if radiating moon glow. He lunges at my father. He attacks from behind. He lowers his head. Dad doesn’t move. I am not even sure if he sees him. He darts his head in-between dad’s legs. Still dad continues to feed the chickens. His jaws open and rush up to encase my father’s groin, abdomen and chest between his ferocious fangs. Blood gushes in crimson torrents over my dad, the chickens, and the drab surroundings. My dad will be killed. I know this. There is no possibility for any other outcome. I stand at the window. No sound utters from me. I do not even move. I simply observe, not in delight or terror, just observe. The wolf begins to shake his mighty head and the crimson tide grows. I wake up.


It was my tenth Halloween. I hated all scary costumes. I hated all the blood. I hated going door to door—how embarrassing. I even did not care for the candy. Now if people would pass out cheeseburgers, mashed potatoes, or tacos, then you would not be able to hold me back. Candy was really just a waste of food. However, I loved dressing up (got to dye my hair black one year—found out why my complexion goes well with red hair and not black) and I love carving pumpkins. I am standing at the sink in our hallway that looks out to our backyard. I am carving a pumpkin with one of those kits with the intricate designs that you have to poke little holes along the lines of the drawing and then connect the dots with the little provided jig-saw knife. Currently, however, I am using one of our larger carving knives to cut off the top and dig out the insides. I would always have dad get out the icky, stringy guts. They were gross. Dad was not afraid to touch anything. As I am carving, occasionally looking out the window at our chickens rummaging through the fall leaves on the ground, I feel something malevolent. Out of the corner of my left eye I see a huge dark figure lumbering towards me. I jump and twirl around to see what it is. I scream in absolute horror. Werewolf!!! Its head is huge and hairy. Mouth open wide in a silent scream, its fangs long and bloody. Its massive claws raised in front of its body like a zombie. Reaching for me. I scream and scream. If I run, it will get me. If I try to hide, it will get me. It WILL get me. I attack back. I raise the carving knife and slash it at the werewolf. It jerks back. Tears are running down my face. I slash again and again. Screaming. The werewolf keeps backing up. I hear my named being screamed from miles away. Slashing. My name again. The werewolf reaches up with its claws and rips off its face. My father’s furious face appears. Screaming my name.
Even when I see this mask today, up in the attic, stored with all the other Halloween decorations, I am terrified. I will not touch it or let it be near me. If anything belongs in hell, it is this creation for terror and domination.


Note from today, 10.10.07--I have debated and debated over the moral question of posting this section of the text that I wrote. The dream aspect show a emotion that is so drastically different than what my relationship is now with my father. I cannot even begin to say how much I love him, respect him, and am thankful he is in my life. However, the things we think, see, and feel as children have a complete foundation in a different reality. I was frequently assailed by night terrors—dreams that I would continue to see even after mom and dad woke me up, I would see them just as clearly as I did in sleep—even as mom and dad walked me around the house for hours at a time. In my own self absorption, I am compelled to continue to post parts of the book I have written, as if in the act of posting more closure will continue to ensue. Regardless, childhood is magical, brilliant, and twisted. I am so glad that I am an adult and will never have to go through it again, though I hold on to the countless wonderful times with fervor.