MY UNFRAMED LIFE

This truly is “a time to love.”

Searching for Home in Tragedy - Photo Essay

Deborah T. Hewitt — Sun, 16 Aug 2026 22:43:25 GMT

Henri Matisse — from my postcard collection

“The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.”

— Blaise Pascal | Pensées (1670)

Due to the many images —> if you are reading “in email” please click “view entire message,” to see them.

Last Friday evening I opened an email from a couple who I worked with 18 years ago. It was a submission form from my photography website. It went like this:

Subject: Wedding pictures

Message: Deborah, you took our wedding pictures for our wedding on Sept 20, 2008. We lost all our photos as well as everything else in the Eaton/Altadena wildfire on January 8, 2025. We were wondering if you still had those photos saved. We will gladly pay you whatever fee necessary. You can contact us through…

I have spent ages in the photography world — perused photography social sites, opinions, spinning wheels on working in the industry vs. just taking pictures for the love of it. People vs. landscape or street. Straight-up portraits vs. editorial or environmental. Studio, flash, natural light. The opinion/preferred photography genre list goes on and on.

And weddings provide almost all of it, despite many photography social sites shunning the idea, rather showing a series of industrial buildings or beautiful nature scenes, expressing the sheer horror of working with people. And if they do? Work with people? It has to be cool. Weddings aren’t cool for many people with cameras. I get it. I only took up to a dozen weddings a year — because they aren’t for the faint of heart. Weddings and most people-based events require extremely long work day stamina, physical and memory muscle, high organizational skills, and the ability to technically cover all the above. Most of all, it requires love. Love of people and love of documenting life’s celebrations.

In the end, what you savor and save can become “home again,” for those who have suffered the most extreme tragedies.

I received this message just before we began to watch a new movie called, “Don’t Say Good Luck.” To say we were full of all the feels was an understatement — the memories of being theater parents, my best friend slowly dying of cancer, while our sons performed in theater together, getting her to a rehearsal performance in a wheelchair, the recent loss of another theater mom (and dear friend)— and the absolute heart of a teenager and her young family coping with this type of tragedy.

Less judging. More Love. Always a winning cause.

I still see the pictures I was asked to take of my friend with her family a few months before she passed away.

After the movie, I cried while looking through my hard drives. Remembering the big fire we went through as a family in 2003. Except, our home survived. I saw myself throwing memories and the contents of my office in boxes. We had time.

They ran in the middle of the night with the clothes on their backs.

And there it was. The engagement and the wedding. All organized, numbered and ready for me to upload to my online photo proofing service, which I had started to use in 2009. Before this, the work was backed up on cd/dvd and hard drive. Back then, most of my clients purchased all the files with their wedding package, with some still ordering professional prints and custom albums, at an extra charge, directly through me. When I went online, clients loved having the independent and personal proof site for the same thing, as well as their own hard copy. Thankfully, I still backup on hard drives, despite being able to get an entire job delivered back to me from my proof-site.

And thank God I didn’t throw my work away from that time. I had not one, but two different places to look. I could have thrown away all the cds/dvds and found that my hard drives were no longer working. Or vice-versa. Newer computers do not have those slots anymore and many can’t be read by cheap plug-in disc readers.

I will also pay yearly for online storage until I can’t — proving proof of life in unrelenting circumstances — or any kind of loss — at no charge to my clients.

What made this wedding so very special — was the hope of second chances. A love story that began later in life. I remember smiling the whole time, looking at the many faces of genuine love, joy and support. Some who are no longer with us.

By yesterday, nearly 2k pictures were ready to be viewed by a couple who lost everything, but each other thankfully, and are finally beginning the process of rebuilding their home. Sadly, the red tape, from our Los Angeles fires, is still an ongoing part of the tragedy — as they forge ahead 18 years older.

Cheers to you Holly and Don. I can’t begin to express the immense gratitude I have that you both survived such a terrible tragedy in history — and for the blessing of “people photography.”

Thank you for reaching out to me.

oxox

Here’s some black and white galleries of the many precious faces from that day —from Pasadena to Long Beach…

Great is thy faithfulness…

On Both Sides of the Middle

Deborah T. Hewitt — Wed, 12 Aug 2026 18:16:40 GMT

Monday night, while unpacking from three long weeks away, the rooms were spinning. As I leaned into a wall — every speck of flooring was in circular motion of liquid marble grey, scanning for cat puke, wondering why I was home — and not with my precious mom. Unsettled sleep, I dreamt a dear friend, and our little rescue dog, were chasing my car, hot pavement under their bare feet, running helplessly, until their skin was crisp and black. Don’t ask. Scrambled stories. The road. Can’t unsee scenes.

And my wailing-all-night-long-cat who hated her company.

Morning sun, in the bathroom window, debuted Mabel the maple tree. “Hello, I’ve missed you.” From the porcelain shrine, the shower tile looked oddly slanted, although perfectly set, clear glass reflected my drawn face.

Coffee in hand, I stepped outside. Barefoot and disheveled. Creeping fig had wrapped it’s spindly arms around the garden gates — and everywhere I sat — wild flowery fingers, seemed to beckon my body in shrouds of comfort and suffocation —simultaneously.

Dear Gracious God, I am in resistance — and You know it. There is a jumble of ingredients spread all over the tabletops of my mind with no instructions to follow. But You say you are the bread of life. The part that holds it all together, forcing my overwhelm into submissions of gratitude over panic, joy over worry, steady over dizzying realities. Clamoring for answers and tastes of what’s to come, I am hindrance, idling in thresholds, carefully heeding space-bending doors, holding heaviness at a crack. Pushing back, with all my might, the entryways to lost portals, before they slam shut. Forever.

Remember me. Remember us. Remember them. The vines wrap tighter. Remember this present and past time. Love, war, peace, flight, ocean, pastures, family, friends, dog, deer and crow. Rich existence. Years of clarity — now moments tossed into unfair waves of bewilderment.

I am here, there, everywhere and nowhere. The pull and tug of two points. North and south. Timorous third act. Won’t You — reveal it’s ending to me? The one where she married the boy and lived happily ever after? despite.

Extend this beautiful novel as we wander into seasons of feeling less like children and more like guardians of everything we have ever held respectfully dear. Write it clearly for me God. And lovingly. Squeeze me bad — in my stubborn seat.

Prepare my intrepid heart to be patient and strong. Lend me verse, song — Your cooling balms, forward peace. As one by one we watch the star above blossom and fade into the sun — forever twinkling.

Let me feel You on both sides of the middle.

And everything in between…

“The lines of love cross time and space.”
― Madeleine L'Engle, An Acceptable Time

"But I pray to you, Lord, in the time of your favor; in your great love, O God, answer me with your sure salvation." — Psalm 69:13

On the wall of the doctor’s office in mom’s town.

Between dusk, sand

Deborah T. Hewitt — Thu, 06 Aug 2026 00:47:39 GMT

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

...stands a mountain more vivid
than the tale of you and me
when our flesh submitted
and poured it's reverie 
of infinite ambitions
where time would drown
like old traditions
buried and never found 
in folly and languishing
waves scorched my face
stings of salty anguishing
every blessing to embrace
it's unyielding ancient bones 
weightless light casts over
in shadows of green tones
and earth's infinite exposure
to unguarded breaking
waves of hesitation
years of forsaking 
raised hands and separation
to lie down surrendered
in God's distinguished fortune
unraveling however centered
He is my perfect portion
while I gasp for life so near
worldly hopes, inward yearns
there's a Rock I hold as dear
where the fire of heaven burns
I can wait forever longer
between dusk, sand and sea
there is a force much stronger
than the tale of you and me...

Poem inspired by images of Roads End on the Oregon Coast.

Summer 2026 | Canon photos

Deborah Tracey Photography

Swallow Me

Deborah T. Hewitt — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 19:04:00 GMT

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Swallow me like a bookend
holding classic love stories
upon my heart sew and mend
its open aching quarries

Fill me with Your bearing
deliver these earthly notions
like a tidal wave declaring
a smothering warning potion

Wrap me up in vaporous mist
walking along Heaven's shore
of memories that You do exist
in painted splendors of more

Love me like I want to love
unguarded in the garden
dirt below and us above
no punishment, nor pardon

Start me over in my youth
where innocence lies abundant
in moors of unvarnished truths
from dust to wholly triumphant

Roads End | images by me

The most boring route

Deborah T. Hewitt — Mon, 20 Jul 2026 12:02:11 GMT

POV from Interstate 5 - NorCal

The hand of the Lord was on me, and he brought me out by the Spirit of the Lord and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. He asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?”

I said, “Sovereign Lord, you alone know.” —

The Valley of Dry Bones - Ezekiel 37

Like a troubadour. Tick tick tick. Back and forth, forth and back. We have traveled highway 5 — in all seasons. For years. And years. Summer is particularly brutal, drenched in dry — steaming from semi’s, speeder’s wheels, life changers in split seconds. Faint sounds of sirens emerging, endless traffic — and an overwhelming stench of caged black cows standing hunched together waiting to die — while free range black cows stand on golden California hills under miles of electrical towers — as far as the eye can see. Thin lines of shade under open pyramids. DiNapoli family trucks, chalked to the red glistening brim with organic freshly picked Italian Roma tomatoes, travel north for deliveries. Black crows in Los Banos dive into endless almond groves. Smokey clouds brush the faint blue sky looming over fire blackened field patches and dry bones revive themselves at the next Motel 6. Lodging ahead. The exit to Hollister makes me think of the Hells Angels riding up on us loud and hard.

I rewind the podcast with Billy Graham’s granddaughter.

"I shall be more alive than I am now. I will just have changed my address." — Billy Graham — on dying.

Did he drive the five? Over and over and over? The lone horse grazes barren land next to a sinking home where old bones have been revived again. And again. The old mare will change her address soon. We pull into a rest area. “Are you a victim of human trafficking? Call this number.” Reading material on the inside of the toilet door. California, where wild sunflowers work their way through ravines, waving at the top of overpasses. Useless barns hold useless cars. Unhealthy palm trees rise in the distance off the Gustine off-ramp with just enough flare for the curious gas seeker. We have diesel for $7.06 a gallon. Get it while you can. The aqueduct weaves hope through miles of high definition citrus trees in Newman. A dozen free range cows dot a hill near Ferry’s Crossing. A radio tower grows out of dry grass. Douglas Fir telephone poles stretch across the plain. And we talk and talk and talk — without a care in the world. A palmed circular oasis appears on the side of the road for three seconds, displaying an enormous American Flag. The turnoff to San Francisco and a single solar windmill are in the distance. A group of six white roofed barns reflect random graffiti and Oleander wind breaks. Cranes, food trucks and mobile homes are organized into chainlink construction yards in Lathrop. First signs of Dutch Bros drive-thrus. Ivy walled HOA’s butt up to more storage companies. There is a never ending supply of trucking and farming equipment rentals. County jail next stop. Camping World’s enormous U.S. flag flies at half-mast for two American soldiers. An old radio station is under lock, key — and boards. Silo jobs aren’t for sissies and one red truck parked in front of an abandoned Econo Lodge begs the question. Stockton’s marina is abuzz with working silos — sprouting like whales — and mid century buildings, dotting downtown, ask if you know about Benjamin Holt Drive? We’ve passed his exit a million times and never asked. Who would know his global history. And the Caterpillar tractor. We pass yet another truck wash, another cow farm of sweet black and white babies, rows of dog igloos and tiny enclosures. Sired for liver in plain site. I never did understand this appetite. Nextdoor corn grows in rows like long zippers.

Thorton, Lodi, and wine country. A contrast of rich and poor. Sacramento, Farm to Fork. If only. A river with it’s city’s name runs 400 miles north through a capital on the brink. Its beauty holding the saga of indigenous hope, a thirst for gold, and engineering feats which changed the land forever. Modern broken down highway bridges pass cleverly formed ancient railway trestles with bright green carpets of weed grass — invaders floating below. Velocity Island lightly bustles in water-play a stone’s throw away. Almond groves observe and Yolo, “abounds in rushes.” The Patwin natives knew the truth about water. And revival. A small pink house sits in unison with a dozen matching pink boxes where goats play. A Starbucks shines in the middle of a deceased strip mall. An old tug boat sits under a collapsing canopy. More silos and crops come to life under distilled light like a Grant Wood painting. Mounds of buried speed boats — their rears rising upward — decorate a defunct theme restaurant, as Dunnigan approaches and splits to the City by the Bay. And someday I’ll pass through Grimes, a city steeped in 175 year old history of what was once a bustling river port. Now a quiet farming community of 300. Williams is the gateway to lake life and a famous Italian eatery. Maxwell brims with red-winged blackbirds hovering over the rice fields like a framed wall image. Will the staging site of the new Sites Reservoir help our state? our farmers? Finally? Orland is the “Queen Bee Capital of North America” where thousands of queens are raised, packaged and sent across the world to pollinate crops — and Redding, at the base of the Cascades, a city that didn’t judge during 2020 — with it’s oak trees, river views and desert-style temps — a warm hug halfway to the great Pacific Northwest.

This is where we lay our heads for one night. And remember peace — in conflict.

That we are nothing more than a valley of dry bones away — no better than anyone else.

On the most boring route

alive…

in His promises.

< An observation of notes driving the I-5 North in California >

Road 13 - Somewhere off Interstate 5 - NorCal

My Irreplaceable Golden Hour

Deborah T. Hewitt — Tue, 14 Jul 2026 20:09:03 GMT

Aging, you look back. Said you’d live in a shack. On a whim. With him. Movie reel. All the feels. Look around. It’s profound. From one date. You helped create. A family. Happily ever after. Shine. So fine. His, yours, mine. LOVE. In a grocery store. You wanted more. Just two lovers, feet on the dash. Pacific Coast Highway. Driving his bus, nowhere fast. Praying it would last. Sipping tea. Sundays with me. Eating Mongolian. You’re the only one. Red pleather booth. Our youth. When he smiled. Found my wild. Once upon. The movie plays. These days. In the past. Radio on blast. Burnin’ through the night. We slowed down time. Holding me tight. I needed no light. Oh the power. Drenched in black and white.

and you

my irreplaceable golden hour

before man and wife

I was all alone with the love of my life…

mixed media: played the song above, on my headset, while using my photography, poetry (from my book) + abstract clippings

Ode to Belonging

Deborah T. Hewitt — Sun, 12 Jul 2026 18:56:55 GMT

Self portrait | Collage therapy | Mixed media

I ran down the long corridor, away from the future, as my tiny feet longed to be grounded in a place that would never be mine. Even at three, I knew — mum not far behind. Goodbye does mean. Just that. I guess I had bonded. At three, if you get a chance. You love. Arms outstretched. So the longing that has plagued my spirit, written in essays, spoken in want, snatched away when she was three — was first, and always, a delicate belonging to nature. I have longed too long. So I pondered what it meant to belong. I suppose Christ himself would be quite pleased to know that I believe I belong to Him and all that He imagined earth to be. With heaven as aim. So therefore, I look around and know that yesterday, today and tomorrow I am at one, in harmony, at peace. With Creation. This is where I have always belonged. Where we all belong — if only to draw nearer. This Sunday morning I listened as two tiny finches perched on a wire above, chatted about I don’t know what. But I imagine. The breeze clangs songs of wind-chimes, reminding me of my earthly father. Gifts I can no longer graze. But feel. With overwhelming gratitude. Clouds are building sand-dripped formations, as if a small child were playing in the sky. Surely. Tiny pink ice tumbles from clay pots with exuberance. Both flora and fauna fly, wander, root, thirst. Journeying. Without question. Like, why am I here? A minute bug steps over jasper, searching for home, disappearing in a vacant seashell. He said it would be like this. Temporal. We never know when seasons will turn cryptic or drench us in warmth. The afternoon peek of sun behind cloud castles smoothes to diffusion. Colors show their vibrancy. There are no shadows. Heat is summer with us. And we, like them, have builtin cooling systems.

We are them. Capable of amazing feats.

How astonishing the Fairyfly, like a hidden woodland faerie come to life, unsung heroes of nature’s equipoise — or the ominous Blue Whale, King of Oceans, matrix engineers working God’s brilliance into perfection. What kinship of extreme size difference within an extraordinary, diverse and vast family of being.

I see. I hear. I am. He is.

I hope Christ is happy with me today, for I can be a pain.

Planted on solid ground, my corridor is full of wonder and adaptation.

I am longing my ode to belonging.

Amen.

One species kept long legs — ideal for sprinting — and small, sticky toe pads more often planted on terra firma. — Quanta Magazine, 2 Jan. 2024

But don’t forget this one thing, beloved, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day. — 2 Peter 3:8

The Umbra & Penumbra of Leonardo.

Deborah T. Hewitt — Wed, 08 Jul 2026 11:00:49 GMT

There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The ocean is a desert with it’s life underground
And a perfect disguise above
Under the cities lies a heart made of ground
But the humans will give no love

You see, I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert, you can remember your name
‘Cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain

— A Horse With No Name by America

I’ve spent my time here repeating the biblical mantra that nothing is new under the sun. And if you get frustrated about literally anything. Look it up. You will find that history repeats itself packaged in new clothes, from vintage designers, with worn out shoes.

I saw the images and videos from the fourth of July in the ritzy enclave of Newport Beach, California. The first thing I felt, seeing the grocery store completely looted with smashed watermelons all over the sidewalk, was repulsion. Then anger. I envision the starving man, woman, child, dog. It’s always disgusting to see large groups of people going scorched earth on the public — much like the ones who have, for decades, descended on Miami Beach, Florida. City officials announced it was “breaking up with Spring break,” after the chaos peaked from 2021 to 2023.

Fueled by “The ~~Completely Entitled~~ Takeover Culture,” there were two fatal shootings, stampedes through the tourist district and during the 2023 season alone, police made 573 arrests and impounded over 100 firearms.

Last Saturday, Newport Beach police were overpowered by similar crowds of young ~~punks~~ rebel rousers destroying an annual good time for normal beach goers — many who have traveled with their loved ones, for years, to enjoy what others bathe in daily. I am good friends with normal, average income families, who save every dollar to take this holiday yearly.

Not this year. The small beach city, with it’s charming eateries, kitschy coffee hangouts, fancy yachts, mansions lining the bays and boardwalks, and it’s lowkey beach vibe, went to hell.

< Police in Newport Beach, California made 402 arrests over the Fourth of July weekend. The arrests occurred between midnight on July 3 and 6 a.m. on July 5, far exceeding the 60 arrests made during the same period in 2025.

The Newport Beach Police Department reported that large, unruly crowds gathered on the Balboa Peninsula for events linked to a TikTok takeover. Many of the individuals taken into custody were juveniles and young adults from out-of-state > source: wiki

California’s redundant arrest dance called “Catch and Release,” combined with Proposition 47, “reclassifying many low-level, non-violent felonies” ~~which in fact have turned very violent~~~~, because if you give an inch they take…~~ “such as petty theft under $950 dollars” (it’s such joy to be shopping while this is going on. We all just keep smiling like clowns. Nothing to see here kiddos! — says mom) and “minor drug possession into misdemeanors” — I don’t have to tell anyone what a ~~circus~~ circle of madness this is. I have personally witnessed jewelry theft in a large department store with the manager screaming not to chase the bandits or call the police. The old fashioned high security doors were, however, triggered, by the sales tags, and all of us were then forced into pitch black for several minutes as all the power went off, locking us inside, while they rode off into the sunset. This actually made me think about the Constitution. And my rights.

A hell no different than Miami was in the Spring — and other places where this new culture, fueled by instantaneous, temporary ~~highs~~ likes, (and often profit $) has given the we-can-get-away-with-it TikTok crowd something to do. And they don’t mind destroying every good thing in their path.

Unlike Leonardo, who would ponder, paint, draw, engineer, experiment, theorize, sculpt, and design — they don’t even absorb the beauty of the wind blowing through the palms, a picnic lunch, bicycles gliding by, the lull of ocean waves, children building sand castles, a good book and the sun on their face. The absolute blessings of life.

Instead they are fueled by a toxic amount of “self” — and the next digital party invitation.

Donned in the latest Nike apparel, carrying expensive phones, cameras, and all the things TSA would have you arrested for — the whole world at their fingertips, they committed the kind of crimes that “street Arabs,” committed in the late 1800s. But worse. The difference? With so many immigrants coming to New York City, it left thousands of children in poverty, often sleeping in alleys, because home was a tenement box of squalor. Children formed gangs with names like the Dead Rabbits and Bowery Boys, ruling neighborhoods like “Five Points.” They were desperate for survival. It was so bad that the Orphan Trains program was developed.

The young flash mobs in America today, raiding large grocery stores, destroying small businesses, decimating front yards, assaulting others, shooting guns, hurling fireworks into crowds, are not starving. But they are starving.

For attention.

And the same power, that allowed human beings, children no less, to live on streets and starve back then, is the same power that has made human beings a colossal drug and digital experiment today, causing a litany of lost souls, often with parents leading the way to the guillotine.

Nothing is new. It’s just packaged differently. It’s confusing and absolutely lacks any kind of moral conviction.

A governing authority that cannot govern, or abide by basic laws/rules, take care of it’s people, provide infrastructure for it’s most desperate, make life over death a priority, will also, inevitably, turn a decent society upside-down. This should never be a “side” issue.

No one wins.

It makes for a feral environment and that’s exactly what we’re seeing in our cities. Extreme desperation packaged in rags, riches, and everything between.

In the 1920s prohibition fueled organized crime. There were street “play groups” that transitioned into violent youth gangs. They were used to feed the powerful mobs, who had (and still have) government in their back pockets.

In the 1950s, after WW2, city centers saw a huge rise in delinquent juveniles. The news would report on “wild” teen gangs, like those in the New York City Fighting Gangs — where turf wars became common. When I was a teen in the late 70s the same was happening in Los Angeles with the Bloods and the Crips. In fact, the Crips came to our school looking for a kid. We were shut down for two days. By the 80s/90s crack cocaine and deindustrialization only lead to more militarized gangs. Gangs we’ve done nothing about. The ones with all the guns.

Why the shock over the same thing?

We have an agenda problem, perpetrated by greed and power, stoking bad behavior.

We always will.

And.. we will always have a counter balance of goodness.

When we witness humanity in trouble, we must take notes, search for truth - like Leonardo da Vinci did. A baby born out of wedlock in 1452, in Vinci, Italy, to a peasant woman and a notary, he was unable to attend a traditional university or enter a common profession, like his father. As a result, he couldn’t read Latin, so he learned through observation by exploring the creative arts — “pursuing knowledge voraciously.”

Unaffected by dogma, da Vinci’s natural environment was ultimately a gift.

A tremendous gift to the world indeed.

It’s never too late to see:

“The sweep of the human face”

“The radiance of Leda” (Leda and the Swan)

“The misshapen features of an elderly man.”

“A fetus curled up in the womb.”

Or ask:

“Where is the soul?”

and the umbra and penumbra of Leonardo…

“What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” — Ecclesiastes 1:9

Mixed media from magazines. Horse image by me. ( and I think Bill Gates is creepy and way too powerful, like so many people. Just my personal opinion. At least he made public the $30.8 million dollar purchase of da Vinci’s Codex Leicester — yet he is no Leonardo. )

America Two Fifty

Deborah T. Hewitt — Fri, 03 Jul 2026 22:24:20 GMT

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

America two fifty
look at our cities
some they so pretty
others so gritty
and I never seen
such a mean machine
taking advantage
causing the damage
we came to adore
explore 
oh the lore
common man builders
hand strewn pillars
electric and water distillers
railway, bridge, road
the load bestowed
to us
united dream makers
shakers and creators
America the beautiful
irrefutable tis of thee
keep us free
help us thrive
revive the poor
humble the rich
stitch this nation
a kind generation
Eyes that See
streets of need
rid our leaders
of power and greed
keeping score
end the wars
care for the 
downtrodden
forgotten souls
no agendas, pretenders
give Love the controls
America two fifty
plenty to celebrate
recalibrate
be wise
cause we rise
you rise
again and again
above the fruited plain
amber waves of grain
I know it's a little insane
liberty can't be contained
to the bitter end
you have been a friend
spacious skies
purple mountain majesties
two fifty more to rise

God shed Your grace on thee
from sea to shining sea

Mercy.
You got me good.

Happy Birthday America...

ox

The image above (taken by me) was of a lone Hispanic teenager honoring Charlie Kirk after his assassination on September 10th, 2025.

Music clip: “Mercy” by Duffy — featuring West Coast hip-hop artist The Game, with production by Cool & Dre.

I added a video, above, of our local 4th of July events. The first part is an overwhelming amount of visitors to our city, against the San Gabriel mountains, of San Dimas, Friday evening, the 3rd — for it’s very first 4th of July celebration. I think the word got out to all of California! It was honestly hard to move around there were so many people and the marketplace was almost unwalkable. We hold a Farmer’s Market every Wednesday evening and this was 5.0! We even had a beer garden all around the small city building. A U.S. Marine band kicked it off with a fly over of jets! Crazy stuff! Then we had a rock band and a block party like none other with a car show as well — ending in a cool drone show (which there are images of at the end too). I got to hang out with my neighbors — two awesome gals, daughters, that look after their 90 year old dad, Conrad “Connie” Munatones, one of the first L.A. Dodgers drafted from a Los Angeles street team when the Brooklyn Dodgers moved to L.A. and began to scout. You can look him up as the L.A. Times did an exposé about it in 2020, but there’s quite a bit on this awesome Latino/German man. I also sat with his best friend, 93 year old Paul Martinez Jr., one of the first Latinos (also of Italian heritage too) to graduate Art Center, when it was originally in downtown Los Angeles! I cannot begin to tell you how much I loved meeting him. Only recently has he agreed to show his work and possibly sell some. There are well over 4,000 pieces. He’s been very shy about it. I really need to talk to about this man. He’s incredible. I spoke with his daughter who is trying to get her dad’s name out there - but often, I believe, artists and their work/passion, are for another time. He has the most amazing background and still teaches an art class every week. And believe it or not, Paul is blind in one eye. I could go on and on, but — this is America! We are a unique people — all of us — with stories. Many that are utterly fascinating. All that are important.

I pray we the people, who make up this amazing country still striving to “get there,” will continue to reach for the best we can be — and appreciate all who have come before us on the journey to making our life that much better.

The second part of the video is our nextdoor city, La Verne’s awesome 4th of July parade Saturday morning — which opens with a powerful veterans ride on motorcycles. We traditionally attend with our daughter’s family and friends, and for the first time ever, we had a curb seat! (I think it’s because our city wore everyone out Friday night! lol). I just had to video some of it for my family memories. This is what makes America great. The small communities coming out to celebrate, gather on their lawns, meet one another, bbq and appreciate all the liberties we take for granted.

Why Do I Keep Falling?

Deborah T. Hewitt — Thu, 02 Jul 2026 00:21:50 GMT

I wanted to share this collage I worked on through this piece of music. It got under my skin in the same way that I worship. Hands in the air — not a care. I took one of my extra poetry magazines, found an image of an eye and began. I had no idea where it was going, but it seems God always knows. Time is of the essence. It will remain.

Time is my epitaph. Not things.

What I have craved most — the seasons have not aligned. But this is up to me.

I kept hearing over and over, the lyric, “why do I keep falling.” And why? I asked. I came here four years ago on a journey to save myself. From falling. But I have been falling for years. And. I’ve been failing. Failing to see myself clearly without looking back through the lens of others. It seems my entire life I have seen myself only the way others perceive me. Or paint me. So, I decided. It is time to stop falling. Failing. It is time to lean into the only Anchor I know, with my whole mind, body and soul.

God, who considers me His daughter. Who won’t disrespect my heart. Who will always choose me over every other temporary thing. Who will hold me in my joy. And let me wail in my grief. Who will explore all that’s in between too. Who will consider me as lovely and kind, the way I was as a child. Who will love me just the way I am — and help me shed all the preconceived notions that do not belong to me. Who will reprimand my tongue with those who put me last — and help me get back to speaking life — mostly into myself — so that I can speak pure life into those who have let me down. A God who sees my heart. And is interested in “the heart of my art.”

A God who wants to know every inch of me and who can help me recover every true and false part as well.

The parts I have made disappear for years so that I will not disrupt another’s apple cart. The part that waits for what does not show up. The part that’s easy to punish. The parts of my body that have been breaking down, like my recent eye twitching and double stye, the heart palpitations and occipital nerve ending pain behind my head and ears that are constantly sore and the emergency gallbladder surgery, a few years ago. Years of stomach pain and anxiety that were never me. Ironically, the arthritis I inherited actually reminds me to persevere.

The part that lets go of what I love the most. As if that will fix things. The One who will turn my self-punishment into assuredness. Confidence that I am uniquely wired for certain things and they cannot be taken away. Not even by me. And. The One who will rid the baggage I have been carrying that has never belonged to me. I have enough of my own to lug around.

A God who will set me straight in all the areas I am failing myself and others.

Especially the area of feeding negative behavior in the name of fear. Or the false belief that this is an act of kindness.

A God who will return me from isolation and deliver me the promise of renewal, like all seasons promise. The only One who can teach the kind of grace it takes to not only love others — but to truly embrace and love ourselves. Wholy. Holy.

I am no good alone. None of us are.

So. I begin this journey again six years later, ten years later, 15 years later, 20 years later, 30 years later and on and on. I’m tired of falling. Of failing myself.

His grace and love is sufficient for me. So “in the cold light, I live to love and adore You (God) because it’s all that I am, it’s all that I have.”

It is a time. It is a time. Actually. For all of us…

To adore Him.

There will be time.

There is a time.

There Will Be Time by Mumford and Sons & Baaba Maal :

[Verse 1: Baaba Maal]

Listen to me, I want to tell you something

The reason I love you is because

You are the only one who has taught me how to love

And appreciate life

[Chorus: Mumford & Sons]

But in the cold light, I live, to love and adore you

It’s all that I am, it’s all that I have

In the cold light, I live, I only live for you

It’s all that I am, it’s all that I have

[Verse 2: Baaba Maal]

To feel hurt and to feel joy

Feelings that come from loving you,

Situations can change,

between the morning and the night

But our love for each other stays the same,

It stays strong; It is constant and it remains true

[Verse 3: Mumford & Sons]

So open up my eyes to a new light

I wandered ‘round your darkened land all night

But I lift up my eyes to a new high

And indeed there will be time

[Chorus: Mumford & Sons]

But in the cold light, I live to love and adore you

It’s all that I am, it’s all that I have

In the cold light, I live, I’ll only live for you

It’s all that I am, it’s all that I have

[Chorus 2: Mumford & Sons]

And in the cold light, I live, To love and adore you,

It’s all that I am, it’s all that I have

And in the cold light, I live, I’ll only live for you,

It’s all that I am, it’s all that I have

Why do I keep falling?

[Bridge: Baaba Maal]

There is a time, a time to love,

A time to sing, a time to shine,

A time to stay, a time to go

There is a time, a time to cry,

A time to love, a time to live,

There is a time, a time to sing,

A time to love

[Chorus 2: Mumford & Sons]

And in the cold light, I live to love and adore you

It’s all that I am, it’s all that I have

And in the cold light, I live to love and adore you

It’s all that I am, it’s all that I have

Why do I keep falling?

Word clippings from my poetry book. Pastel art by me. Background eye image from an art magazine.

I know

Deborah T. Hewitt — Tue, 23 Jun 2026 21:48:25 GMT

Rare conceptual shoot from the archives.

I know

you gave me

thought you’d save me

all the books

my hollow nooks

when things fall apart

but my heart

beats

your distance

day after day

the edge of the bed

instead

hold my hand

help me understand

what’s that you said?

love does

but does it?

focus

manifest

through the fragile

side by side

if only you knew

the one way ride

I can no longer hide

my mind unwinds

the black and white

thrusting

my soul combusting

where’s the grey light?

foreign world

unfurling sadness

hurling madness

then it came

Book of James

unleashed tongues

the shame

bolted doors

cold damp floors

fill my lungs

speak life

I am rife

with fury

get up, smile

for the jury

trembling joy

skip away

childlike fever

knowing

the forgoing

who I am

quietly growing

observation

without explanation

her four legs prancing

trancing

unspoken broken

take me

under green canopies

nature’s keys

dear frequencies

we are leaning

gleaning

verdant crowns

standing tall

and profound

where words speak

in earthen splendor

cinematic surrender

novels of origination

life’s formation

heal over someday

it’s the Way

I know.

My Bea

“To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. To live fully is to be always in no-man’s-land, to experience each moment as completely new and fresh. To live is to be willing to die over and over again.” — Pema Chödrön

“Unclench your fists.
Hold out your hands.
Take mine.
Let us hold each other.
Thus is his Glory Manifest”

Epiphany - Madeleine L’Engle

Stinson to San Francisco and Back

Deborah T. Hewitt — Sun, 21 Jun 2026 00:41:22 GMT

< this post might be too long for email. please click on "view entire message” >

18 years ago some of my family traveled to the beautiful Northern California coastal town of Stinson Beach and the city of San Francisco. Seven lovely days locked away in my memory. Our youngest son lives in San Francisco, so we’ve been back in recent years, but usually a pit stop on our way to Oregon.

I decided to grab some images, from my archives, and do a little match. I am inspired by who does this, on occasion, in collabs with other photographers. All of these are shot on a Canon 5D with my original 28mm f/1.8, lens (still my trustiest), and my third 50mm f/1.4. There is one portrait of my daughter, in this set, shot on a 200m, f/2.8. Sadly, it’s aligned with a homeless man. I’ll let you find the similarity.

I found it fun organizing these quickly without thinking too hard. Arranged in a juxtaposition of similarities and differences. I usually see leading lines, ironies, humor, and of course, stories, in my work. This is what I came up with —

Thanks for looking!

btw, I think my husband is Mr. Bing…

"There is only you and your camera. The limitations in photography are in yourself, for what we see is what we are." — Ernst Haas

48 years old — San Francisco on Canon

65 years old - 2 weeks ago with the grandkids at the movies :)

Kathleen's Gone Missing

Deborah T. Hewitt — Fri, 19 Jun 2026 04:09:39 GMT

I opened the door to her tiny room, single bed, one chair, half a closet, small clock, big numbers, thankfully a decent workable bathroom. Staring back at me, I saw myself. Long gray hair, spirited green eyes, big smile. Loves to chat.

She remembered us from the neighborhood, although pieces were missing. When Kathleen went missing. Timelines aren’t kept in black boxes with neon numbers pressed onto a wall, labeled Philips. Or foreign boxes labeled “memory care.” Headlights passing outside the confines in shades of young and strong.

And here we were. Younger, stronger. As the clock ticks. One of us with time wired in a perpetual time limit, the other with endless time, visiting lost time. Instantly, she went to the modest closet where her necessary life’s belongings were kept, and removed her medium sized purse, excitedly pulling out an envelope packed with mostly “home printer pictures,” various old business cards, odds and ends.

8.5 x 11 folded papers of cats that looked like her “Tommy Boy,” a few smaller “real” pictures of him, a scattering of Christmas cards, mostly neighbors, children smiling. “Aren’t children so precious,” she said. “I can’t believe them.” “I don’t know children well, their ages, what they do.” “This is my Tommy, or I think it’s what he looked like, I don’t know.” “Yes, they are,” I said, “children are treasures,” looking through her small array of treasures. “And isn’t Tommy beautiful.” Will I be clinging to an envelope too? I thought.

“Tommy went to live with Dr. Bory and I am so happy for him. He loves Dr. Bory’s cat.” “I don’t know if he was lost at the hotel.” “I don’t know what happened.” “We were going to the doctor’s new office, out, you know, out in Yippee-yi-u-ki-pee-ya and my car zonked out on a hill, you know, (waving her hands). I think I walked with him to the hotel by the vet office, we were almost there, with his cat carrier thingy. I don’t remember.” “Then it was stolen.” “Your car?” I said. “My car,” she said, as the pickpocketer rifled through her beautiful mind. “Someone found him I think.” “But I know I’d never leave my Tommy.” “I think I might see him.” “Dr. Bory was here and I thought maybe I would see Tommy. I don’t know if that will be good, maybe it’s not so good,” she trailed off.

Like a mother who gave up her child. Would it be fair, she thought, to the one and only living thing she had left to love? I found myself in her coherency wondering. “I do know this,” looking at her, “Tommy had the best mom and now he has the best dad and a friend to play with. Maybe you can talk to Dr. Bory about it.”

Kathleen never had children. I don’t know if she was ever married. The only family left was a sister-in-law in the South. Parents, two brothers, and another sister-in-law had passed years before. She loved her local veterinarian, “her boyfriend,” (a funny joke she exclaimed, wondering out loud about “his poor wife”), who she left in charge of her estate. She had arranged this years ago. He came through like a shining star. A local veterinarian, 26 years in business, with a patient who chose him to help her if and when. Whenever the time came.

Could this fiercely independent woman, Kathleen, have predicted memory loss so young? So sudden or subtle?

A little home two blocks south, across from the elementary school, butted up to the crosswalk. Her neighbors loved her and she them. A bit ornery at times, I could tell she missed the sounds of children. She kept coming back to their faces in the pictures. “Aren’t children amazing?” “This is Cameron. Do you know him?” “He gave me all his Halloween candy.” “Not sure he wanted to, she laughed.” “Do you know him?” “Yes, he is so happy to have his best friend living in your home, right next door. They play all the time,” I said, wondering if I should have. Her mind wandered quietly for a minute. Kathleen is still in her home. Her things too. But probably not. “I don’t know where they took my things, perhaps all my stuff is in the garage,” she said. “Perhaps,” I said.

When Kathleen spoke it was as if talking faster would help her catch the words that might not come.

Life had been Kathleen’s way, her routine, her home in the little town where her parents first settled on a ranch, for as long as she could remember. That was before she made the local news. She told us proudly: “my dad was a mounted sheriff.” “You know he loved his horses and I loved them too. I think I was just a young girl when one was taken away. I don’t know if he went down or was going to be put down, he was young, I think, but dad never talked about it after I saw the trailer pull away. I saw his tail and legs on the ground of that trailer before they shut the door. I watched from my bedroom window. I don’t know what happened,” she said sadly.

Funny how age and memory bring us back to our first home. Our parents. Their stoicism wrapped in unanswered life-long questions. I’ve seen this before. My husband’s mom. Her unanswered childhood questions. Parents she rarely spoke about, referring to her dad as “Daddy.”

Peanut butter cups, diet coke, Doritos. Rebellion perhaps? When you know you know. Who’s coming by to judge? Family? no. The little children especially loved her. She brought smiles to those who saw her in the garden, cats in the window, walking her beloved dog, complaining about “those ill-mannered teenagers riding their big bikes on the sidewalk, practically mowing me down.” But no one saw the initial decline that lead so quickly to her road trip. The house key she couldn’t find hanging around her neck, because a neighbor thought she might remember it next time, suddenly turned into, “where’s Kathleen?”

I wonder how many Kathleens exist in the shadows of bustling streets.

Thousands. Millions around the world. Many are just like Kathleen, independent, until they’re not, or they are widows the same. I know too many widows close to my age. Some with attentive kids or “too busy” kids — others with none. Many trying to look out after their own aging parents living into their 90s.

Maybe we should check up on each other a bit more often? I know I need to. The love thy neighbor thing — It’s definitely been God’s big joke in our marriage. But we keep trying anyways.

It was good to see you my friend. Maybe that sweet little baby’s voice, you keep hearing, cooing in the ceiling vent, is God saying you are never alone.

I thank God for the neighbors who noticed in a world where noticing is a commodity. We thank Him, Kathleen, for your wisdom and smart planning. We are so grateful you are finally home, near your neighborhood, away from the temporary facility where your car forgot it’s way.

We are thankful for our community, where all good things begin, for the people who love people and animals. For our first responders, who found you last November.

You picked a stellar ~~veterinarian~~ boyfriend Kathleen :) Even if “they feed you too much” at the new place.

We’re all here.

The neighborhood loves you.

“We love you.” Blowing kisses goodbye.

She walked us to the exit, with an attendant, threw her hands in the air and said, “see? I told you I never hear that. Some people love me.”

Until next time Kathleen.

Photo above: by me.

Shake Me

Deborah T. Hewitt — Tue, 16 Jun 2026 20:04:46 GMT

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

The sky was dark this morning
standing in the middle
of your perpetual revolving door
watching leaves swept quickly off the floor.
Can I go out and play now?  Sure.  
My excruciating repudiating tone
like a turtle in your dust zone
we just discussed.  Oh God,
neuralgia buzzing overhead
what was that you said?
No dopamine sold here
I’m your opaline
thick and slow I sink below
your poor working memory
no remedy, reaching upward
one word: please.
this is not my expertise
Tell me is it true?
Can I keep my love alive?
My stability your disability
outpouring words so boring
too deep, there you go, you’re half asleep
and I am all along the black areas 
His mighty Hands and plans
pushing me back gently
dripping patience
for your fight or flight, hold tight
time blindness, oh contained wildness
I’m disappearing, you’re not hearing
playing those strings, mood swings
won’t you play me, shake me, baby
help me feel alive, keep my love alive
Can I keep my love alive?
And these days of resurrections
my perceptions screaming flesh
babies crying, you are flying
away, it will be okay
we’re not okay.  It’s okay
inside your wind I rescind
again and again writing my stories
noticing your glories, the spotlight
it’s not quite right
photographing the days
I’m sure we’re in a phase 
gliding down the highway 
world problems exploding
we’re unloading
yeah keep my love alive
in the chaos I clear my throat
sideways we float
sky is scattered, engines shattered
my old hands gripping time
crank the music
won’t you unwind?
slow motion, my emotions
dual imperfections
stopped at intersections
here, there, everywhere
can we keep, even speak?
our declarations
that we are better
more stellar than this?
and promise me you’ll wait
and maybe I’ll come home
and keep my love alive...

Shake me.
I am alive.

Mixed media photography and poetry: by me

Music: Love Alive by Heart, 1977. One of my favorite songs of all time. Worth the listen. I used to crank this up in my dad’s old Mustang on 8-track tape :) What’s that you ask? and btw, Ann and Nancy Wilson define the bar in music. The amount of talented women in the music industry today also gives me chills, makes me proud to be a woman. Check out Kinga Glyk , insanely great jazz infused bass guitarist from Poland (we got to see her first concert in the U.S. last Saturday night) — and Rush’s new bada$$ drummer, Anika Nilles — serious bars to break!!

Medium update: Well, I have a lot of patience, however, I am concerned that Medium has heavy comment monitoring algorithms. This doesn’t sit well with me. Not sure how long I’ll last. Always something. I did, however, get published by a sweet publication, on Medium, called Lit Up and there’s some nice conversations with writers and readers there.

I enjoy the formatting and visual capabilities on Substack a lot more though...

“Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.”

— Pablo Neruda

Pick Me

Deborah T. Hewitt — Thu, 11 Jun 2026 23:09:32 GMT

My Miss Bea | on Fuji X-Pro

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

When the day is a lovely melody
double steps do you skip
Or the evenings come with fear
restless in mourning's grip
Pick me

When walking past my pain
won’t you turn around and see
these cold hard streets remain
but you can set me free
Pick me

When life is much too full
no room for you to spare
consider a tiny corner
where my spirit can repair
Pick me

When you think your life is over
no future do you hold
in the valley of the aging
moored in stormy cold
Pick me

When you walk the wild planet
as I wander to my death
or see my bones behind bars
waiting for my last breath
Pick me

When you know My name backwards
ancient wisdom o’er the earth
lean into the sacred tree
for I am part of your rebirth
Why not pick me?

Love, Dog

Dedicated to the eyes who see and rescue dogs. Especially the dogs abandoned in deserts, parks, mountains, wandering beaches, and chained up or caged on big city streets, abused in broad daylight.

Medium update: Well, I joined, and two days later my account was flagged and shut down for “violating rules.” Apparently there is a glitch in their system that attached spam algorithms to my account. I am thinking about the chameleon in Kung Fu Panda. I had no idea because I didn’t receive an email from them, and I was able to use my account the whole time. A few friends told me about the “suspension/violation” message when they tried to go to my Medium site. Strange, because I had submitted a piece to a nice publication there, they liked it, and asked for some minor edits. I was so excited - but I think that got run over too. Great way to begin something new in this spammy A.I. world.

I’m thinking Rome is about to fall. Again. Big cities. Big Tech. I’m still hanging out in two places. One, for four years. Slow tech death. The other? They ate me right away. Progress?

The Jacket - Chapter 7

Deborah T. Hewitt — Tue, 02 Jun 2026 18:18:20 GMT

“Old sins have long shadows.” – Agatha Christie

Sarge had a presence like a King. He loved being with Mark at the wood shop but once they caught sight of him, new customers were apprehensive. Some would immediately turn back towards the door. “Come on in. Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you,” Mark would say, waving them over. “He’s huge, I know, but he’s a big softy. His name is Sarge.” Most asked if he was part wolf? “He is,” said Mark, “but that makes him all the more devoted to family.” “Once he knows you’re family, he’ll go to great lengths to protect you.” Laying cross-pawed next to Mark, Sarge would look up at him, then at the customer, “go on my beautiful boy, show ‘em a proper greeting.” He’d get up, grab his red Kong ball, and sit before them, looking a little less regal and a bit more dopey like a court gesture with his tongue hanging sideways. Ever so slowly he’d gently lift his paw for a handshake. It was quite the grand gesture, a little comical, and worked every. single. time.

Sarge loved to hang out at Susana’s when Mark was busy outside of work. He was madly in love with Beauty, followed her everywhere hunting for lizards in the garden, smelling the fresh air, appreciating the outdoor time. When Mark came to get him it was almost impossible to drag Sarge away from an upside down, legs in the air slumber. Mark would bring Sarge’s food, treats, and tons of extra. Pretty much, Mark was providing all of the pet food without Susana asking and it got to the point where she had to stop buying it. There was almost too much. He also managed to figure out all the varying diets. And right before winter hit, Mark helped her hook up a water purification system and a new dedicated water heater. Hers had broken a year ago. She had finally saved enough money to replace it. He wouldn’t have it. So one day she stopped by his shop with coffee and donuts. While he was with a customer, she snuck into the office and placed the money in his desk drawer.

Their friendship was simpatico. Susana was older and she was stuck, not only on that, but on the fact she’d lived alone and had her rescue responsibilities. It was a cozy life. And one that most people didn’t understand. They were too busy not noticing to notice the need all around them. Mark didn’t care though. Despite their 16 year age gap, he looked and acted more mature. Probably due to his past. But mostly, he was an old soul and appreciated Susana’s deeply caring spirit. He decided to devote himself to her cause. It was a pure and generous friendship.

Every inadequacy she had expressed that horrible evening, on his parent’s ranch, she held as her own. Forgiveness, she believed, needed to come to oneself first. Even Mark’s dad, Jefferson, had come round. He became softer in his grief, was finally getting help from the Veterans Administration, and his memory was stable. Mostly short term. It was the old memories that stuck like landmines. The meds were helping. But it was forgiveness that lead the way home.

Susana couldn’t get the image of the woman laying on the curb out of her mind. As much as she tried to erase it, she wanted to know if Tony was abusing her. It pressed on her heart so she called Sherif Harold, who had recently retired from his desk duty handling all the “minor” crimes in her small town. Much of it was animal abuse.

Susana hung onto justice. The comfort in knowing it comes at the end. Made her stare long and hard in the mirror some days. Like the day in the tire field. For everyone will be questioned.

Harold told Susana to call him anytime. Not sure what good it would do, she asked if he knew anyone in the Clovis Police Department. Turned out Harold gave her the number of a detective who owed him a favor. Strange, she thought. She placed a call to Detective James Villalobos. She gave him all the information she had and told him Harold sent her. James and Harold met when someone in Harold’s family was going through a crisis. A terrible accident in Clovis. Harold’s family was attacking the police department, for what they considered a poor investigation, and Harold made it right. Detective Villalobos’ job was on the line.

“Susana?” “yeah. Listen, I found a few things on Tony.” “Is this a good time?” “Detective Villalobos here.” She stepped out back on a break. The guys could handle the phones for a few minutes. “Thank you. That was fast,” Susana said. “Okay, yeah,” the detective went on. “Tony is married to a woman named Melanie.” “But, there’s one thing Susana,” he said. “I looked into her.” “She’s been in and out of institutions for most of their marriage.” “Institutions?” she said. “Yes. Can’t get her records without a court order, but they are mental health specific and often combined with a drug problem,” he went on, “took a drive round town and recognized her.” “You mentioned a jacket she was holding.” “Not hard to miss.” “It’s gross.” “I’ve mistaken it for an animal.” “She’s a familiar face out on the streets,” he went on to say “she’s been on and off the streets for several years, usually living in a nicer car of some sort.”

“Yeah, okay, humm. Have you ever seen Tony with her?” Susana asked. “Never seen him before. He wasn’t with her when I found her. Look, I can’t really give you his address, but he lives in Prather, bout 25 or so miles from here. Not hard to find. He’s a dog breeder. Can’t find anything negative, no arrests, nothing on him. Good reputation, from what I’m seeing. But I’d have to dig deeper,” he told her. “No, that’s okay Detective. I don’t need anymore information.” Hanging up she felt sad, yet satisfied to know that he still seemed to be a halfway decent man. With a troubled wife. He was so mean to her. How many trips to rehab? she thought.

It was the dead of winter, Christmas was fast coming, and the investigation was wrapping up on the Smith farm.

His name was Luke Bauer. Funny. Actually cruel in a way. His last name meant “Farmer.” He didn’t meet up to the name brand nor the vision Mark had for a “responsible former young vet that had served on a nuclear Columbia-class submarine for four years.” Luke was also originally from Missouri and had worked on his family farm for several years before entering the Naval Academy out of high school. Wow, Mark will never forget thinking this was a perfect situation.

The investigation uncovered the real Luke Bauer, from McFarland, who didn’t graduate from the famous high school. He was 28 when Mark hired him and presented his stolen identity well. But the investigation lead to multiple complaints from different employers around town who fired him for excessive pot smoking during lunch breaks. The last job, at a diner, caught him stealing cash from the register. He was often too stoned to work and was becoming increasingly paranoid. His records showed he had entered some kind of privileged private detox retreat hidden in the Redwoods, 11 years ago, but was obviously using again and had managed to swindle a new beginning. There was evidence of illegal, without permission, growing and selling, on the Smith farm, for the year Luke was supposedly managing it, and in the last three months he was spiraling into a pre-schizophrenic condition called the “prodromal phase.” During many interviews and psych evaluations, after the Sheriff caught him living in his car in Bakersfield, he was under the firm belief that every innocent creature should die because living in this world was not worth it. They’d be better off dead, he told intake, “aliens are coming you know?” Luke Bauer’s exact words. He’s getting three years in state and mandatory detox/psych treatment while serving. Maybe an alien will take him before he’s released, Mark thought.

Wrapping up the phone call with the news, “Can you believe this Susana? I feel so duped. No. I feel sick,” Mark went on. “I want to kill the dude. “I know how you feel. Trust me,” Susana sighed. At least justice moved swiftly. The case was closed. Mark could finally move forward and sell the farm.

The farm sat through the New Year with a sale sign out front. February arrived and not a single inquiry. Not the best time of year to buy a farm. Actually, no one was buying anything in California. Most people were either leaving, dreaming about leaving or hanging on. They had family in California, grew up with the Dodgers, hung out on clean beaches, walked the streets safely, thrived in business, and ate at local landmarks that no longer exist. People in California, who stayed after every single fire, were hanging onto those memories. California was their birth home or the place they landed fifty years ago and never wanted to leave. Farming was a thing of the past. Sacramento won the dreamer’s battle years ago. They hated private farmers. Mark knew all about it. He saw the envelopes, read the letters. The ever changing regulations, unnecessary stress worn all over his dad’s face which added to an already hard fought mental battle.

April arrived with showers and one interested developer. Mark called Susana to get her opinion. The guy was with Samaritan Health Services. They were offering full price. With the majority of Keene’s 400 or so residents averaging 40 to 80 years old, Samaritans had been doing small town assessments in recent years around the country. Keene needed basic medical services closer than Bakersfield. They also needed an eye clinic and elderly care placement services. Everything would be knocked down and something good for the small community would go in it’s place.

Susana said, “seems like a no brainer to me.” “Now if only they’d build a vet clinic in town.”

So that was that. A chapter closed in an ironically healthy way.

Flowers arrived with May, as promised. It was Susana’s favorite time of year. She loved seeing her flower pots come alive, and of course, the animals. They woke up as if they had lived in a barn all winter in Saskatchewan. Happy to be outside.

Everything felt cleaner once the rainy season passed.

Standing in the garden, her phone rang. “Hello. Susana Clemente.” “Hi Susana, it’s Detective Villalobos here.” “Oh, hi. Is everything okay?” she said. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Thought you should know I did a little digging.” “But I said I was done,” Susana answered. “Yeah. okay, but you’d probably want to know this. Not sure why, I know you mentioned you were a dog rescuer, but there’s an abuse case tied to Tony,” said the detective. “Abuse?” she questioned. “No, not on Tony’s part.” “Let me explain.” “About 10 years ago he filed a huge lawsuit against a woman who had purchased one of his dogs.” “Tony later found out…” the detective went onto say, “she was breeding like a madwoman, dumping and killing dogs when she was done with them. It actually made the local news and then went national,” the detective continued.. “Tony had signed contracts with all buyers that his dogs were not for breeding. They were sold as pets. Written formally they must be spayed or neutered within one year. He required proof or the dog was to be returned. Signed on the dotted line. It was his business motto. The best family pets or something like that.” Detective Villalobos went onto say, “Tony sued her for breaking the contract and basically being a scumbag dog killer. Unfortunately, she was only fined a few thousand by some breeder association, and fortunately shut down. She had to pay Tony a few thousand too for breach of contract. Big media case. Slap on the hand. Poor dogs.”

Susana was quiet. “Hello, are you still there?” Detective Villalobos asked. “Yeah, I’m here.” She had visions of the library computer screen and all the pictures, the 80s woman in them. That must have been Melanie. The one she saw with Tony. In Clovis.

“Oh and Susana. Another thing. Apparently this woman and Tony went way back. They went to high school together.” Susana went cold. “I fished around. Clovis High. 1976 Prom King and Queen” “Can you stop?” Susana said exasperated. “Oh sorry. I can get carried away. It’s my…” “please stop” she said, “job,” he said.

All these years later. He never let go of a high school girlfriend? and I didn’t know this? I married him? without even knowing this? Talk about feeling duped, Susana had more thoughts than her tiny stature could hold. “Thanks James. I’m sorry. It’s a lot. I appreciate you calling,” Susana hung up.

Later that day, while pottering around the trailer, still trying to wrap her head around the fact she must have been a rebound girlfriend all those years ago, Mark stopped by with Sarge and dinner. He and Susana usually shared a weekly meal.

While they were eating, he said, “there’s something I need to tell you. I might have found out some stuff about my sister Kathy. I’ve been looking for her for years and finally hired a private detective.” Susana almost spit her food out. “Wait what?” she said. He knows nothing about my past with Tony, but somehow we are both searching for people. With detectives, she thought.

“Anyway, the guy I hired wants me to take a look at some pictures. Not sure I’m ready, but he said he’ll send them email. I wouldn’t know what she looked like now? Susana, she’s in a Federal lockup. Women’s prison in Chowchilla.”

“What? that’s crazy,” Susana said while finishing up dinner. “I’m so sorry Mark. Wonder what she did to land there?”

Mark looked up at her, shaking his head, “I don’t know. The detective filed some paperwork, trying to get sealed court records from the case. I googled and nothing.”

It was strange. This life. Susana thought. Hoping for the best in people. Her childhood never let her down. Hope was the key to home. It kept her close to it.

She remembered walking into the tiny Keene church searching for an anchor. That hope. A lot of the elders had passed away since she first attended. And now?… she’s an elder. An anchor. Helps with the handful of young teens.

Watering her flowers, she looked over at Mark and for some reason said, “you know? faith is a slow thing. It’s all timing. Not our timing. It’s His. God’s. You know? Sometimes it depends on how low one can go. How much it affects the mind, body and soul. If we’re listening.” He was watching her.

“Most of us are stubborn to it. We’re the paint. Slowly peeling. Or starved innocent creatures who only see a rainbow behind the wall. Like them, some of us keep a child-like innocent demeanor, hoping, but are wholly unprepared for the fall,” Susana was looking straight at Sarge, sitting next to Mark.

“Villalobos,” she said. “Village of wolves,” Sarge tilted his head, listening to her intently.

“We survived. Didn’t we boy? I guess it just depends on how each of us goes about it,” she continued…

“Aliens might be coming. But they better be ready. For us.”

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Images: Deborah T. Hewitt
Music:  "I Think It's Going to Rain Today" | Norah Jones

The Jacket - Chapter 6

Deborah T. Hewitt — Sun, 31 May 2026 12:02:05 GMT

< for email readers, please click on “view entire message” for full story >

“When I can no more stir my soul to move, and life is but the ashes of a fire; when I can but remember that my heart once used to live and love, long and aspire — O, be thou then the first, the One thou art; be thou the calling, before all answering love, and in me wake hope, fear, boundless desire.” ― George MacDonald

He appeared on the family farm in 1979 the way a young cowboy appears to want to ride a bull with no experience. He was wild, too confident and extraordinarily handsome. Susana was helping her mom hang laundry one afternoon when she first caught sight of Tony. The way he leaned on his truck, his cowboy boots, the firm handshake, the gorgeous smile when her dad called them over to meet him.

It began with a lot of staring and grinning. He was like a Tom cat. She, was just shy, awkward and naive.

Then one day, after a painful month of flirting, just as the sun was setting over the farm, he asked her if she’d like to go line dancing. “Sure, why not,” Susana said as if she had nothing better to do. He was on his way home, wherever that was, and she was walking past him with the folded laundry. And that. Well. That was it. The flame that ignited everything. Spinning into a life she never saw coming.

Rinsing her coffee cup, watching the cats enjoy the last fall days of hunting, from the small kitchen window, Susana wondered whatever happened to Tony. She honestly hadn’t allowed herself to think about him. Not ever. Not until Mark. I better figure out how to warm up the shed for them before winter hits, she thought. They were all living inside when they were young, and although she was responsible with them, they still carried a feral sense. Reminded her of herself. Fiercely independent, like the man she fell in love with all those years ago.

Susana had spent 43 years perfecting her pride. Not even remotely interested in computers or googling, whatever you call it, she decided to look Tony up. Feeling her chest tighten, she got her phone, opened the search app and typed in his name.

Tony Castillo.

A man whose last name means “castle.” He was no prince. Looks like he lives in California still. Blurry pictures that kind of look like him, if he was older, she thought. What’s he up to. She kept digging. Dog pictures, puppies, Goldens, Doodles. There he is. Smiling with Doodle puppies as if she was seeing him in 1979. Hummm, Antonio Elias Castillo, looks just like Tony. His dad. So sad, he died when Tony was a boy. Susana really didn’t know his mom, although she was at the wedding. Sweet enough. Susana remembered her face when she put the corsage on her wrist. It was as if she had never received flowers in her life. Apparently they struggled to make ends meet after she lost her husband. Tony had a few sisters. Susana never met them. Couldn’t be bothered to come to the wedding. They were much older than Tony when Antonio died. They moved on quickly, married, and left him to care for his mom. That was. At least, the story he told her.

“Would you look at that,” Susana stared. There’s Tony, looking close to her age, wearing the same kind of plaid shirt he always wore, holding puppies. Some woman sitting next to him, in a grassy area, looked completely out of place. Like the eighties called and wanted their perm back. Pelo Chinito. Guess she matched the doodles, Susana was laughing. Internet was so shoddy in her area. “No no, don’t do that roaming thing. Ugh. This is why I don’t do the internet Beauty. I end up at the library. Do we have time for the library? Nah. Gotta get to work,” she said out loud. And why so many puppies? huh. What did that blurry picture say? Something like Golden Acres, the best bred? Figured he’d end up doing something completely opposite to her, Susana thought. Dog breeding, designer dogs, even cats, bunnies, you name it. It’s big business. Big money. Big dumping. She despised the thought. “Glad he’s been out of my life girl,” she said, Beauty looking up at her knowing Susana was headed out the door. “Okay mija, you know the routine. I’ll come check on you and the gang during my break.”

Mark helped her rebuild a sturdy fence, entry gate and lock, around the grass area of her trailer. With everything that happened, he was offering olive branches as if he owed her his life. Between mourning his mom, a quiet service at the family cemetery, visiting Jefferson in a memory care facility, not far from the hospital, and work, he was antsy. Unable to get the farm cleaned up to sell, due to the investigation, he was desperate to stay busy. For now, he’d saved enough money for several months of dad’s care.

"“Adios Amigos, Amigas. Dont make a fuss,” Susana said, “I don’t want the neighbors to complain you hear?” The trailer park was very small, but for the most part they were trained well and she left many busy things to play with. They were a good bunch, looking after each other and lazy as could be.

It was a nine to fiver four days a week. Susana had just enough time to use the small library before closing. She couldn’t help but see if their one computer was available. There seemed to be a lot of pictures of Tony. He looked like a womanizer. Lots of pictures dancing at events with various women over the years. What was he? a professional line dancer? Weird, she thought. But that 80s woman kept appearing in pictures too. Why did she look so familiar? Susana thought. Her skin was stunningly beautiful. Holding a puppy, Susana noticed her nails were long and manicured fancy, with white tips, plus she wore a big diamond, encased in a gold cocktail style monstrosity on her wedding finger. Must be a good business, thinking about how Tony was left to earn all the money, while his mom mourned and cleaned for a living. Desperate people do desperate things, or at least that’s how she saw breeding in today’s world.

Money corrupts. Susana didn’t see a lot of good coming from the money makers. Especially in government. Everyday, it seemed the news uncovered scams. But no one cared. They were hooked on the same outcome. Happy with leaders who preached but did nothing. The evidence of suffering was hard to ignore, but she guessed most people did. They ignored. Phones replaced heads. Stardom replaced humility. Ambivalence replaced doing the right thing. She wondered who the monsters were. Good intentions get the best of us too. Yeah, she thought.

The weekend was upon her and it was time to make the monthly trip to see Papa and her brothers. Their families. She always wanted to be an auntie. Rescue, plus work, limited her time and although she had no regrets, Susana realized deep down, the animals were her family. She couldn’t travel with them all. They used to visit her before Papa needed memory care.

When Mark found out, he offered to watch the pets, “No matter what.” Anytime you need me.” “Okay, thanks. But you know you really don’t have to volunteer to do everything for me?” said Susana. “I forgive you, as much as I need to forgive myself,” she said. “You? What is it that you could possibly need to forgive yourself for Susana?” Mark said. As she was closing the gate behind her, “forgive myself for staying away too. I’ve kept a distance from everyone and everything for well over 40 years. God knows I tried too. Maybe we are more alike than I thought.”

“Really? you know you’re going to have to explain this a bit better, right?” he said slightly yelling. “Drive safe. See you tonight. I’ll have your back as long as you let me.” Mark closed the gate.

Two hours later Susana made it to Clovis. It was noon with a late day apricity. Winter was coming. Parking was the same. The free one. People on the street were the same. Maybe worse. Smell? Definitely worse. Carrying some extra clothes she had been collecting, Susana began the 10 minute walk to the facility where Papa was. There were more ramshackle RV’s parked where she couldn’t, more dirty children running around and more dogs in cages this time. Susana noticed most of them were puppies. Mom tied up outside of the cage. Studs dangerously wandering around digging through trash. She had an immediate flashback to her first rescue, which to this day holds the voice of a heavenly mother, saying, “you can.” When she thinks she can’t.

It sent her spiraling into a depression and eventually back to church.

Not long after she decided to stay in Keene, she was out looking for an apartment to rent. At 21, Susana was proud of her little savings. Not knowing the area, Susana decided to explore. Her brothers were kind to bring Papa’s truck to her and some belongings, until she felt like getting more. They really wanted her to come home.

Somewhat of a history buff, curious, she stopped at the old Keene Café which sat sunken in a broken parking lot, a field of Witches Shoelaces out back stretching for miles. Nothing had been built around it. It had been a landmark “pitstop” since the dustbowl days. Been closed and boarded up several decades. Susana noticed a half hung faded sign saying “museum coming soon.”

She got out of the truck to stretch her legs and take some pictures with an old point and shoot she carried in her purse. Half the time she erased them to save some memory on the old sd card. She didn’t believe in social media.

Susana remembered looking at the long stretch of highway and hearing what sounded like cries between the occasional cars racing by. Snapping a picture from the side, she could see old chainlink fencing out back glistening in the bright sun. With her cowboy boots on, the ones she was wearing when Tony left her, she walked around back. As she got closer she saw a white jiggly blob, of what looked like cats at first, huddled on broken concrete between old kitchen junk and weeds. Bent down, one hand clinging to the chainlink, Susana zoomed in on her point and shoot, and saw several puppies clamoring on top of each other whimpering their little heads off. She noticed a tipped over basket nearby.

Looking for a way inside to save the puppies, the blazing sun reflected a silhouette of a large object hanging against the fence like a white tattered sheet

Their nursing mother had been tied up on the other side of the enclosed back patio. Roped in a field of witches. With every natural instinct and strength given, she jumped and jumped. She made it. The rope was too short. She tried to reach them. To nourish them. To keep them alive. As God calls all mother’s to do.

What kind of sadistic human did this?

Lenticular clouds had spread over the Clovis sky the same as that fateful day in Keene. Scattered all around her like alien ships, Susana, wrenching in her tiny frame, dialed 911. She looked to be a shrunken Great Pyrenees, a discarded working dog and her precious babies. Sheriff arrived quickly, went out back, and threw up.

In that moment, a light switch of purpose went off. She had to do something. It took entering the church again, a lot of prayer, older women of faith, that would remind her of her mother’s resilience, and a mission to buy a home with a yard. The best she could do was a trailer. Her second one is her favorite, due to the bigger garden.

Scattering useful long sleeve t-shirts, all sizes, men, women, children, a few sweatshirts, women’s black leggings, men’s jeans, a handful of children’s shoes, various sizes, etc., so many barefoot children bouncing in and out of tents, Susana’s eyes suddenly met the same familiar woman with her mouth dangling open. She was talking jiberish to a man leaning over her, in a corridor building, within a few hundred feet of Papa’s facility. Noticing the filthy old jacket draped around her, the man was pulling at it saying something like, “everything you ever touched turned to shit. Where did you find this?” touching her jacket, “I don’t got no more money for you to waste on your problems. Ya hear?”

Susana stopped to listen, looking up at the ships in the sky. “Jesus come,” she whispered, as a young teen on an e-bike brushed her shoulder, cursing her. Yeah, I know what you’re doing. Robbing the weak. Hurting them for fun. I see you, shaking her head.

She made her way to Papa’s room, had a wonderful visit with him and a catchup with her brothers and Papa’s main nurse. Sadly, they were all used to Papa not really knowing them, but he sure enjoyed sharing stories and rude jokes. Afterward, she’d follow them to Juan’s (“Carlos”) house for Ana’s cooking and a visit with the nieces and nephews. Francisco Jr. and Carlos each had a boy and a girl. They were all teens now. So interesting to hear what they were up to. Not one was trouble. An artist, athlete, math whiz and auto mechanic. “You mean none of you are interested in citrus farming?” she grinned.

As Susana said her goodbyes, she thought about that woman again, and the man bothering her. The nasty teen. It was hard to get their faces off her mind. Even harder to get the dogs off her mind. The RV with the sad goat living in a pen no bigger than itself. All the reasons. Childhood trauma, addiction, mental illness, domestic abuse, job loss, bad choices.

Entering downtown Clovis, she slowly drove past the corridor.

What Susana saw was the man in the pictures, on the library computer, staring straight ahead. Leaning on the wall, smoking a cigarette, he was watching the woman now lying on the curb clutching her dirty jacket against her belly.

Like an unresolved 43 year mystery she had no intention of uncovering, Susana, completely overwhelmed, hit the gas and headed for home.

In the end, she realized the earth was a profound place. Profoundly beautiful, profoundly spiritless, and somewhere in-between was an even deeper profound sense of longing. Stuck in time. She likened it to staring out the window on a rainy day wishing it would cleanse all the imperfection of the past away.

But too afraid to step outside.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Image at top:  Ally Ramirez | Unsplash
Image at bottom: Deborah T. Hewitt
Music: A Lot More Free, by Max McNown

The stories of animal abuse, throughout The Jacket, are true stories within the context of fictional characters.

THE JACKET - CHAPTER 5

","cta":null,"showBylines":true,"showDescription":true,"showImage":true,"size":"lg","isEditorNode":true,"title":"The Jacket - Chapter 5","publishedBylines":[{"id":34676277,"name":"Deborah T. Hewitt","bio":"Multimedia artist. I have a passion for Jesus, truth, people, art, music & stories.","photo_url":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/7c89c90a-2bb5-4bf9-beff-50ad1dcf4e3e_1317x1317.png","is_guest":false,"bestseller_tier":null}],"post_date":"2026-05-29T11:03:51.111Z","cover_image":"https://substack-video.s3.amazonaws.com/video_upload/post/199508882/43ee1138-8121-4e35-acbb-1d06cf824023/transcoded-00001.png","cover_image_alt":null,"canonical_url":"https://deborahthewitt.substack.com/p/the-jacket-chapter-5","section_name":null,"video_upload_id":"43ee1138-8121-4e35-acbb-1d06cf824023","id":199508882,"type":"podcast","reaction_count":5,"comment_count":0,"publication_id":875289,"publication_name":"MY UNFRAMED LIFE","publication_logo_url":"https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!md2r!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa9b90745-264d-4ffb-9848-c367e86d6819_1280x1280.png","belowTheFold":true,"youtube_url":null,"show_links":null,"feed_url":null}">

THE JACKET - CHAPTER 4

The Jacket - Chapter 5

Deborah T. Hewitt — Fri, 29 May 2026 11:03:51 GMT

< for email readers, please click on "view entire message” for full story >

“Absence is such a large house that you’ll walk through the walls, hang pictures in sheer air.” — Pablo Neruda

She just stood there and watched as he knelt down and began to unravel.

Sarge buried his head in Mark’s chest and didn’t move.

Susana also fell to her knees. For what seemed like hours, unable to move or utter a word, the adrenaline of rescue felt like a puncture wound draining years of trauma from her core. What was it? what happened to him? to her?, she thought. Suddenly, a rush of snapshots flashed before her with the kind of speed and confusion people talk about when you’re seconds from death. But you live to tell it. A little girl, a wedding dress, Papa’s laugh, her tricycle, laundry on the line, evening breezes, party lights, vows, Mama in the kitchen, Milo riding shotgun, boys wrestling, her brother begging her to come home, the truck, Tony smiling, her bedroom, toasts, faces of all the animals, arms wrapped around her, the dusty old town, line dancing, mama’s death, the woman, Papa’s tears, the jacket.

Her life of longing and avoiding with no escape hatch.

Susana was 21 when Tony dumped her. 43 years later, staring at Mark, she could have gone home, started over, helped her family. Maybe married again? No. And now she was flaming mad at a man she barely knew for doing the same. He abandoned them.

She felt colder than normal.

Shivering, Susana got up and knelt down near Mark. Sarge was now half asleep. “Mark,” her mind kicked in, “he looks like he needs water. We, I mean you, need to get him to a vet. Why is he here? in this mess? oh my God. Never mind, please, I don’t. I don’t understand what happened.” He looked up at her and said, “I need to talk to you. Will you let me now?” His eyes red and swollen, choking on his words, holding that gorgeous boy. “I have some water and food. I’ll need to wait ‘til morning to get him checked out. He’s a tough dog Susana. I had no idea it would come to this with my parents.” His nose was running, embarrassed. “But I should have known. I should have known.”

In a way, they were both pathetic, she thought. Susana had deeply judged him, but still couldn’t wrap her head around how horrible it all was. “Look, I need to get Beauty home. I might call in sick to work,” she said. “If you don’t go to work can we at least speak on the phone after I get back from the vet? Set up a time to talk?” “Nothing I’m gonna say is an excuse. Just the truth. I need to find my dad. I. I screwed up Susana. I loved her. My mom. She put up with so much. I’m sorry you had to see this. Maybe I need a few days, but can I see you at some point?” Mark was looking down the whole time holding Sarge.

When he looked up at her, Susana was walking away, through the field, her headlamp shining steady downward, the stench, a reminder of her parent’s dream, except it wasn’t a horrific ending. Oh Papa. You were right to leave when you did, she thought, as the tears began to break the dam she had built. All these years. Grit, love, could not overcome the pain and humiliation of her own dreams collapsing. Isolated in a trailer with a bunch of unwanted pets and a stubborn sense of pride.

Tears now flowing, Beauty was licking the salt off her face, smelling Sarge on her clothes, pacing on the bench seat. Susana took her out for a fast pee. She just wanted to get out of this place.

At least she was wide awake when she arrived home at 2am. One by one the sleepy crew woke, stepped into the dark cold night, sorted, snorted, shifted weight, then up the trailer steps, one by one, and right back to slumberland. Susana set her alarm for 6. She’d call in sick and sleep a few more hours. After the 6am business that is. Animals are full-time work. No wonder people get to the point of Jefferson and Margaret, she thought. Everyone needs a little help. “But, seriously? can I ever talk to him again?” she asked Beauty who climbed up on the tiny table turned bed, laying down across her feet.

BAM BAM BAM, Susana woke, 5am, heart pounding, adrenaline on guard. “What the hell?” grappling for her gun. The animals were barking in a chaotic choir, with Beauty growling, nose pressed against the lower door crack. She could see the shadow of a body moving.

Susana had to scream through the door, “Who is it?!! I’m warning you. I’m locked and loaded.”

“It’s me, Mark! I’m so sorry. I know you don’t want to see me, but I found my dad and he’s asking for you. He won’t stop asking for you. I don’t know why, but he kept saying you came back? Did you come back or go there a lot?” Groggy, Susana said, “no. what? I just met your dad, what?” Mark continued, “the nurse told me I might try and talk to you. Can you come with me? He’s at Tehachapi Valley. They told me he can’t stay much longer and he needs memory care. I can’t even, I don’t know, but I think they found a bed, whatever that means. They said something about signing his estate over to cover costs but oh my God Susana I realize I have no one at this point. I don’t know why he wants to see you. I know I don’t deserve your help, but can you come with me now, or can you just come?” he said with a mix of honesty in his face and absolute despair in his tone.

Susana opened the trailer door to a peek, peered out and answered loudly, “Look, Mark. Would you stop it Beauty! Stop it!! Everyone!! stop it!” she grabbed a whistle, blowing violently, as Mark covered his ears. Sniffing and shoving, the crew backed off cowering around her legs, still trying to get a whiff of Mark. “Okay, okay, can you go now, pushing them back with her foot.” Truly, they were a good lot to protect her the way they did. Starting over, she said, “look, Mark, I obviously have some duties here. I still need to call in sick. Gotta wait another hour. Then I’ll come. Okay?”

Staring at her in the same dirty clothes he was wearing just a few hours ago, he said a relieved, “thank you,” and began to walk back to his truck. “Hey! where’s Sarge?” Susana yelled, still standing with the door cracked half open. “Oh, I found a 24 hour emergency vet in Bakersfield. They’re keeping him on fluids, running some bloodwork, til tonight,” Mark answered. “They said he’s a strong dog. The wolf in him kept him alive.”

Susana nodded and slowly shut the door pretending this was not her life. Nope, this is not happening, she thought. “I need a hot shower,” she said to the seven pairs of eyes staring at her. Someday. For now, hot coffee and an ice cold wash.

A few hours later Susana made her way 40 minutes to the hospital. She found Mark sitting by Jefferson’s side, staring at the frail old man sleeping. A nurse brushed by her, “Sorry,” Susana said, walking in. Standing awkwardly, her tiny figure wished she was with her Papa and her brothers. It’s where she belonged.

“You know my mom put up with a lot,” Mark’s voice so quiet Susana could barely hear him. “She really tried. I loved her so much,” tears streaming down his face. Susana took a seat on the opposite side of the bed. “Dad suffered with PTSD after Nam. We didn’t know a lot, but mom said he lost his best friend. Couldn’t save him, although he tried,” Mark continued staring at Jefferson now. “Dad refused to leave him behind in the jungle to rot. They were in the middle of a fire fight. He carried his best,” shaking his head. “His best friend’s body over his shoulder to a helicopter and the medevac refused him. He was dead. Can you imagine?” Mark went on as if all of this was penetrating his soul for the first time. “Dad stayed behind, got hit in the shoulder and taken prisoner by the Viet Cong. They held him and a bunch of other guys for eight years Susana. Eight years. Til something called Operation Homecoming in 1973. Can you believe?” now sucking up his runny nose. Taking his dad’s old hand, all hooked up to i.v.’s, Mark said, “They tortured him. And when he came home, a few years later, him and mom had me. They said I was a miracle. A gift that would heal everything,” now barely able to talk, Mark apologized and just cried over Jefferson. “Mom and Kathy waited all those years.”

“I’m sorry,” Susana said staring down the scene before her. Am I hallucinating? Who’s Kathy? He’s 16 years younger than me. Why am I here? ..she thought. Mark got up and paced, “You know, I tried. I really tried. My sister. My older sister couldn’t take it. She left one day and never came back. Kathy was their honeymoon baby. God, I loved her. She was funny. She’d collect strays,” he laughed. “I remember Kathy had a basket full of kittens and their mama under her bed. Dad had bad allergies but she didn’t care. I remember being five laying on my belly watching the mama cat feed her babies. Kathy was 15. I never realized how much responsibility they put on her. All she wanted to do was go to college. Think I was maybe 12 when she left, saying she’d never come back. And she didn’t. At that point, I felt the weight of it. You know?” Mark stopped and looked out the window. “I guess I became the rock between mom and dad. It was a lot,” his voice trailed off.

“Excuse me,” Susana said, “I need to make a phone call.” She went out to the hallway near the vending machine. Good God she was starving. “Hello. yeah, this is Susana Clemente. I’m checking in on the incident at Jefferson Smith’s farm last night. In fact, I’m at the hospital with him. Is anyone. Has anyone gone out to get the deceased animals? thank you,” she said, “yeah, I’ll hold.” Everything was recorded.

“Ma’am, looks like there’s a hazmat team scheduled for early tomorrow morning,” said the dispatch operator.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” said Susana.

The dispatch operator was an old friend. “One more thing ma’am… Susana,” her friend’s voice lowered, “they’re sending investigators over too. Mark knows.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you,” Susana was looking at Mark and Jefferson through the observation window. She walked back in and sat down again. Jefferson was still asleep. “Where’s Kathy now?” Susana asked Mark. He looked so beaten down. “Haven’t seen her since the day she left.”

The room fell silent, except for the beep from the cardiac monitor and a very quiet nurse taking vitals, cleaning the bathroom.

Mark looked straight at Susana. “You know, I hired someone to take care of their farm. Care for the animals.” “What? I don’t understand. How could,” she didn’t finish, before Mark said, “how could he do this? Good question. A few months ago, the last time I checked in on them, before dad lost it again, things looked okay. Maybe it could have looked better? but everything was alive. God, I don’t know, I believed this guy. Called him every other day, had him screened before I hired him. A veteran too. I’d bring groceries every week, but dad wouldn’t open the door. He was mad I didn’t want that life,” shaking his head he got up and went out to the hallway, saying, “He never let it go.” Susana followed him. “You know, I had no idea mom was dying and he was trying to handle it. He’d say they were fine. Just couldn’t get to the store. Did some local dial-a-ride for appointments. Everything was fine, blah blah blah,” squeezing his face, “I should have busted in there.” “And Sarge? what was that all… why? is he your dog?” Susana said, her face a blank. Mark smiled through his red eyes, “He was hanging out near my shop a few months ago,” Susana interrupted, “a dump?” “I think. yeah,” Mark said. “why didn’t you say anything about him to me? I mean, I am the town animal savior.” Mark looked at her and said, “that’s why Susana. He was either dumped or got away from someone. Never seen him before. Special. You know? I know, they’re all special,” he went on, “I couldn’t keep him at the shop. You know I live upstairs, kinda rag tag. Anyways, I knew Obadiah was getting old and this guy I hired said he’d be glad to take Sarge on,” Mark was shaking his head and put his hands over his face. “Jesus Susana. What have I done.”

A nurse came out and told them Jefferson was awake. She warned them he didn’t really know where he was. Mark whispered to Susana, before they went in, “that’s another thing? I didn’t see the signs.”

They took a seat by Jefferson’s bedside and asked him how he was feeling.

His voice was so dry, Susana poured him some water. As he sipped through the straw, he looked at her for the longest time. “Kathy? Where’s my Maggie? She needs her tea. Have you seen Obadiah?” Jefferson, slowly moved his head toward Mark, and suddenly shook with all the strength he had, his face turning bright red, “I told you I don’t need anything from you boy!! Please,” he grabbed Susana’s hand, holding the cup, spilling water everywhere, “Kathy, take me home.” Weeping now, Jefferson said, “I just want to go home.”

So did Susana. She wanted to go home. Where life blossomed in the quiet work of passion. And love was never disturbed by war.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Photography: by Deborah T. Hewitt
Music: Home Again by Carole King