We had a small forested area that ran along the railroad tracks at the end of our street, maybe 3 blocks to the East. The “Cut” we called it.
Trains went (cut) through our neighborhood to cross the train bridge over the Willamette River to the Union Pacific railroad station on the West side.
At night, we could hear the trains chugging by and blowing their whistles. Chug, chug, whoo hoo. It was a mysterious and forelorn sound to me.
Hobos jumped the train as it slowed to cross the narrow bridge. All the boys were allowed to play in the Cut but were instructed to head for home when the train passed, leaving a group of hobos.
It was a pleasant place to camp out, treed with wild grasses sofening the hard ground. They were out of sight because the tracks were cut deep into the terrain, but we all knew that this was ẃhere the hobos jumped off.
They started camp fires to warm mostly cans of beans. My brother told me this because, being a girl, I wasn’t allowed in the Cut. I was too afraid of those worn and tattered fellows, anyway. Dad, who worked for the railroad, always said they were just men who were down on their luck.
My brother and the neighbirhood boys went down into the Cut as soon as the hobos hopped the next train. They were probably secretly dreaming about one day hopping a train outta there.
They were sure they’d find treasure in the cold ashes around the camp. Something, anything. But mostly, they found cigarette butts and tin cans.
The boys played hobos, tying a kitchen towel or big red or blue handkerchiefs around the end of a long stick fllling it with cans of beans and peanut butter sandwiches pretending to run away from home. They slung that hobo sack over their shoulder, walking down the street as if they were really leaving.
The hobos never caused a bit of trouble, unlike the “hoods.” The hoods were a group of teenage ruffians from school. They drank, smoked and harassed us girls, and fought with each other in small gangs. They never did much damage to the neighborhood or to each other. They were just tough acting.
They stormed around the neighborhood in souped-up cars, wearing tight t-shirts and narrow leather belts on their Levis. To our parent’s chagrin, we fell in love with the bad boys.
That’s who our parents should have warned us about, not the hobos.
How many of us girls got knocked up by hobos? None.
He’s driving a little bit buzzed and fast because he believes he’s above the law.
Got his rocks off with a couple of prostitutes on 82nd and Sandy.
After, while driving home, blue and red lights behind him flashed.
His brown skin alone and that he’s also draped in gold make him immediately suspect.
“Roll down the window”, they shout. Get out of the car, and put your hands above your head. Put your hands behind your head. Spread your legs,” they shout, as they pat him down. Do you have a gun”?
Now, the confidence, the natural bravado drained from his brain and his body. “Yes, I was with a prostitute. Yes, I paid for sex, ” he offers, though they hadn’t asked that question, says he.
They shouted something about red lights and red lights, they keep repeating. His body shakes. ICE is rounding up immigrants. And what he doesn’t know is that he’s part of a sting. Though he is a naturalized citizen, the news spreads fear… nevertheless.
He doesn’t know how lucky he is. He walked away only the worse for wear. The citation reads: solicitation for prostitution. Nothing about a red light.
He reads it confused and brings it to me. I explained: a class A misdemeanor, up to a year in jail and over a $6400 fine. There’s also a court date.
What he doesn’t know either is that some johns had their cars impounded and were jailed that night. He finds out from friends that his name is published online.
“How many more stupid things are you going to do that I have to help you with,” i hiss through my teeth, over a bowl of phò.
Find a high-powered lawyer. $8500 retainer. Attend classes. Go to court. Maybe go to jail.
Enough money, and his god will help him, he believes. “God did this,” he relentlessly reiterates.
On the stand, he’ll perjer himself. He lies. A big liar. The lawyer will try to keep him off the stand.
Through all of his other petty crimes, he has never had to suffer the consequences. “God helps me,” he says, and he really believes it. I sigh and say, “Money talks.” He doesn’t believe me. He never does.
I talked to Jack for a long time today. What I love about still being able to be close to him is that our memories are the same and that we share those memories.
My dad, in jest, used to call himself “dirty dog Anderson,” and my brother Steve, when he was in high school, called himself, “Beatleman”. If you saw how he dressed, you would know why.
There’s no one else on earth that would know those things. We have laughed about them now for 60 years. I don’t know if you can possibly know how precious this is to me. If Jack and I were completely estranged, which for a while, I thought we would always be, we wouldn’t be able to share these memories.
My family loved our dog Gypsy so much that when we would see home movies of her, the entire family would be in tears. I found Gypsy, a small, tan, beagle type dog lost in front of our house. Jack and I share this memory. His memory is so sharp that he remembers things in such clear detail that he can fill in areas that I no longer can remember.
He remembered today, exactly the little secondhand shop where he bought me an authentic Navajo ring of carved silver set with a deeply orange/red carnelian stone. I’ve been remembering how much of myself was formed as a young girl from 16 through our entire relationship because of things that Jack said and did. I remember the things that he bought me. He encouraged me to learn and to stay curious.
He bought me art supplies and paid for art classes. He introduced me to music and artists, and literature that I may not have run into on my own so early in life.
He bought me clothes and artwork of all kinds and taught me the value of handmade everything. We shared foreign films on days when we didn’t feel like going to school. Instead, we would spend time in the art museum, in galleries, in cinema houses and the library. We lived in houses with character and historical value. I could go on and on, but I don’t know where we went off the rails.
But off the rails, we did go… some 30 years after we started. We used terrible words with each other, though we knew so many beautiful words. We hurt one another, and yet we held it together for so many years. I’m not sure that we could have salvaged our relationship. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought we could have saved it. It’s easier and less painful for me to think that our parting was necessary for our growth. Just as a plant needs pruning to continue to grow and produce flowers and fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, those plants need to move away from one another and give each more room to grow.
Regardless, I treasure the times now when we do talk, and when we remember. It’s good to know people who have known you through the journey.
And now, as far as my immediate family, there’s just Steve who knew me back when. Maybe it’s our ages, but with these two, Jack and Steve, my life has contiguous meaning.
When I was rummaging around my room this morning, I came across this hat that was peeking out of a basket from under other winter wear. It has been years since I paid much attention to it… since I had begun to knit my own hats some years ago.
I, at first, mistakenly identified it as the art of the Cowichan Indians of British Columbia because of the natural colors and unplied yarn used by the tribe to create mostly sweaters and hats.
Sometimes, I’m good at remembering details, but other times, I’m not.
Actually, Jack reminded me that it was the famous Paula Simmons who knit this hat. She was one of the first PNW (Pacific Northwest) artists to raise and shear her own sheep. She processed the fleece, carding, and spinning the fibers, creating the yarn to finally knit garments and accessories like this hat.
With the help of Jack’s memory, he reminded me where we bought this hat. The time frame had to be between 1969 -1972, when we were living in a small house in St. Johns in North Portland. We were just married, and before children. We bought it on a trip to Seattle, Washington, at an art gallery/ craft store at the Space Needle. The store and its name are long forgotten.
Part of my confusion was that I did own a Cowichan Indian sweater, and the hat was created in a similar yarn. I know we bought it before 1972 because I have at least one photo of me wearing it in 1973 – 74, walking through a snowy forest with two year old Hannah, riding on my back. ( I will post the photo when I can find it). That means it would be about 52 years old. (I found it)
The hat, the sweater, the girls, and Skokie the dog
It is knit in unplied and undyed natural sheeps wool. It’s never been washed, and you can still feel the lanolin. The wool is very rustic and rough to the touch and still causes my forehead to itch, but it’s the warmest hat I own. The wool, in its natural state, is completely waterproof… not water resistant but waterproof.
It is in perfect condition without so much as a moth hole. It could pass for “unused.” This hat is one of my most treasured possessions, and it’s probably worth only a few dollars. The Cowichan Indian sweater was bought around the same time, but unfortunately, it burned in our house fire in 1974-75. I so wish I still had that sweater.
Jack bought the sweater for me when he worked for Norm Thompson. (A thorough history of Norm Thompson Outfitters is interesting and can be found on wikipedia.)
If you’re curious about the Cowichan Indian’s trade in knitwear, please see the following website for more information. Here, you’ll see lots of photos of the sweaters and the knitters, and their fascinating history: http://knitwithpurpose.com/knitters
I see that the Cowichan Trading Company store, established in 1947 in Vancouver, BC, has closed permanently. I don’t know what this might mean for the trade in sweaters, but I see that there are stores still stocking them, and there are many new and used online.
Original, authentic Cowichan Indian sweater
All of this interesting stuff because I found my hat made by Paula Simmons.
Just recently, I found the answer to a mystery I had given up on resolving many years before. I mostly didn’t even know that I was still looking, but the search was hidden away in my heart to emerge only occasionally.
There were few things of value that I even cared about because Mom left so little behind. But there were a few of precious value to the heart only. Nothing she ever owned was embued with monetary value.
But there was one mystery to solve, known only to me as, “The Missing Heart.” I would have found the answer if I had known to ask the right people. Why did the loss of this small charm occur to me again? Oh, yes, I remember! My niece, Sharon, was going through her mother’s (my sister’s) jewelry and came upon a bracelet she didn’t recognize, and neither did I.
I asked if among her things, had she come upon a small silver and marcasite heart with a mother of pearl inset? At first, I couldn’t remember the stones, so it was hard to describe. Her first answer was, “No”, she said, but she would keep an eye out for it.
I looked online to see if I could at least find something similar to help her identify it. Why did I even care, you might ask. Because, as a small child, like all curious children will, I loved to look in my mother’s jewelry boxes and in her top drawer to see her linen hankies and soft gloves of silk, cotton and leather, small veils of soft netting, hat pins, hair barretts and other small pieces and mementos.
On top of her dresser, among the crystal bowls, was her hair brush, a handheld mirror, and containers of face and body powder and fancy glass bottles of perfume and fragrant lotions.
There, also sat my favorite music box. It was a small wooden piano with just enough room to hold a few small pieces of jewelry.
The music box
Mom’s dresser was always dusty with the powders she used liberally. Her favorite perfume was Tweed. The fragrance is strong, with the tiniest bit of floral notes to keep it feminine, but mostly, it is dark, moody and earthy, woody, and resinous. Perfect for Mom, but not for a small child or even a teenager. I was never tempted to use it, but it smelled spectacular on my loving yet stoic mother.
But, back to the heart.
I sent my nephews and neices online images of similar items. Sharon said she would continue to look. She said she would also ask the other girls. My sister had three girls and four boys that she left behind way too early. She also said that there was a story that went with that heart, if the one I was looking for was one that she remembered. I didn’t remember any such story.
Not long after, another of Kristi’s three daughters, Shauna, sent a message with a photo of the heart. “Is this the one you’ve been looking for, Auntie?” she wrote. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
There it was! She explained that her mother had given it to her, before she passed away, to wear at her wedding. Sarah, one of the three daughters, now had it to wear at her upcoming wedding.
She went on to explain the story behind the heart, a story I had never heard: It was a gift from Mom’s first love. If that’s true, why hadn’t I heard it?
I should have been happy just to know that it was still in the family… but. I wasn’t. I was hurt, confused, and frustrated. When did Mom give that to Kristi? Not known to lie nor even to be secretive, could Kristi and Mom have kept this gift giving a secret? When did this even take place?
I couldn’t be upset with the girls, and of what use is it now for me to be angry with Mom and Kristi, now that they passed on years ago. I decided to sit with the feeling. I couldn’t shake it anyway.
Now, after a couple of weeks, I guess I’m happy that the heart is in safe and loving hands. Somethings I’ll never know, like when or why Mom decided to give the heart to Kristi. We were and are a close and loving family. I know also that Mom and Kristi hadn’t between them, an ounce of secretive intent.
Each of the girls wore the necklace at their wedding, and if I had it, it would have been enjoyed and cherished by only me.
“I beg you to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”
–Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (1929)
Dad wore large metal cleats on his expensive brown leather Florsheim brogues. These shoes were weekly tended to until they were softly polished to a warm, soft sheen. Even without the cleats, they were heavy. I can still remember the smell of shoe polish and the soft cloth and brushes in Dad’s kit.
Wingtip leather dress shoes
Every day, after he was done with work, we could hear him coming home from the bus stop around the block before we could see him. The large cresent shaped cleats on the heels of his shoes rang out on the concrete sidewalk. We ran to meet him as he rounded the corner of our street.
Cleats
It was a comforting sound that we waited for, even though Mom warned that he would soon arrive and we were to put our toys away and clean up our projects and to clear the walkway of bicycles, scooters, pogo sticks and such.
Mom was usually cooking dinner at this time of day, so she had food ready for him, knowing that he would be tired and worn after a long day. Us kids were to make way for him, so it was a peaceful and relaxing place for him to unwind.
As soon as he removed his shoes, he would put his shoe trees inside to stretch and maintain the elegant shape of these expertly designed and sewn shoes. The cleats were not only music to our ears, they were practical.
Shoe tree
The cleats prevented the heels from being worn down. When the cleats themselves wore down, the edges were thin and sharp as knife blades. New ones were applied by the neighborhood shoe repairman.
Shoes in those days that had worn out heels and soles were not disposed of but were repaired. My great Uncle Curt had a shoe repair shop where every morning he opened the door knowing that customers would be coming to drop off or pick up shoes. That was when shoes weren’t disposable.
Uncle Curt’s shop smelled of tanned leather and shoe polish. Behind the counter stood a huge black sewing machine and a workbench with neatly arranged hammers and cutters and other tools of his trade and bins of nails and threads and cords of all types and cleats, of course.
The shelves lining the walls were filled with every type of shoe from heavy work boots and workshoes to dainty women’s high heels. He also repaired purses, belts, suspenders, and anything needing his handiwork. There were also a couple of chairs for customers to wait if they just needed a quick fix, like having to replace worn-out cleats.
Dad took care of what was important to him. I remember the smells of banana from the oil when he cleaned his guns and how his tackle box smelled when he cleaned, rearranged and prepared the hooks, the flies, the bobbers, the sinkers and spools of fishing line… and little jars of florescent fish eggs.
When Dad brought out his shoes, guns, tackle boxes, and other stuff to clean and care for, it wasn’t in the basement, not in the garage and not even in the kitchen. It was in the living room where he was in the middle of his family, in the midst of the most important things in his life… in his heart, where he tinkered.
We loved to watch him and ask him this and that while he taught us the value of our belongings and the importance of what we had. But mostly, he taught us to love family. And we do.
I wish I could hear him coming down the street today. He left us way too young. He was only 52 years old when he passed away. But he left an indelible mark on us all. I insisted on wearing taps/cleats on my shoes, too, just like Dad. I wanted to be just like Dad… I hope I am.
There are a plethora of songs and poetry and of stories written about heartbreak. I have had my share, but there are some that still break my heart that are still etched in my memory.
These words hurt so badly because I knew at the time that they were true.
These pierced my heart, and I thought I might die. If you know, if you’ve loved like I’ve loved, you know how bad it feels to lose someone.
As we lay beside one another, he said softly…
“I don’t love you anymore. I know how much you love me. I love her like you love me.”
Why did he have to say those words? It would have been easier if he had just left. It would have been easier not to have heard them.
Some words we can never forget.
Why did these words come to me today? Like any kind of grief, it washes over you like the waves of the sea, and you have no control over your heart and how they make you feel. It was a song that brought them back.
Yesterday, I was going through old photographs and there was Auntie Wilma, her midriff top pulled off her shoulders, in shorts and looking quite glamorous. So, I’m eating cinnamon toast in her honor today. Sometimes after school she would come over and we’d make cinnamon toast and eat until we had finished the entire loaf of bread. It was the same when I went to Grandma’s house when Auntie Wilma came over.
If I could wish for everyone something good, it would be that they grew up with an Auntie Wilma. She drove an all black Ford Fairlaine, totally tricked out in chrome with big fins. The back seat was littered with candy wrappers, empty bags of chips, and empty soda bottles.
Auntie Wilma’s1956 Ford Fairlane
When I was in grade school, she worked as a soda jerk in the bowling alley across the street from my school. Mom and Dad forbid us to bother her on the job, but occasionally we’d get to go in to get a chocolate milkshake… on the house. I was so proud of Auntie Willma and loved to see her coming and I loved to tell my friends that she worked in the bowling alley and she was MY aunt.
Sometimes on the weekends, if there was a bowling tournament, she would pick us kids up and take us to watch her bowl and to eat all of the chips, and sodas, and ice cream we could stuff into our mouths. Either on our way to the bowling alley or on the way back home, she would surely stop and buy us hamburgers and milkshakes that we were allowed to eat in her car. If we asked her where we were going, she would always answer with one word, “Timbuktu”. We had no idea what she was talking about but we were just so happy to be hanging out with Auntie Wilma. Later, I found out that Grandpa used to answer her that way when they would go out for drives.
Auntie Wilma had shelves with trophies for swimming, for diving, for bowling, and golfing. She had a great figure and loved showing it off. She loved going out dancing and was an award winning jitter bugger. When I was in high school, she liked coming over, not only to eat cinnamon toast but to show me that she could fit into my clothes. She loved flirting with my boyfriends. I think they liked it, too.
As a child, there was nothing better than having Auntie Wilma come over or to take us out in her big black car. When I was about eleven years old, she adopted a child. Occasionally, I would babysit for her because she was usually working as a night bartender. I thought she was quite lucky and lived an exciting life. And I was lucky because she would bring me home Chinese food or some other food from some bar or restaurant where she was working. She’d wake me up after 2 o’clock in the morning, and we’d share the food and we’d talk. Now, I can’t imagine what we had to talk about, but we were close.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I found out that Auntie Wilma rarely made good choices in her life. She must have been the source of a lot of pain and suffering for Grandma and Grandpa. There’s some really bad things that she did in the family that I won’t mention here, because I loved her so and this is a post about me honoring Auntie Wilma today with cinnamon toast. It hurts me to think about those things because when I was younger she was magical.
No matter what, she was loved, and she loved us. Only if you had someone in your life while you were growing up, like Auntie Wilma, will you understand what I mean. I don’t even know if she was happy or not. All I know was that she was pedal to the metal. I don’t ever remember Mom and Dad saying one negative word about her, not even to warn us against turning out like her. Before I knew better, I practically worshiped her. I know better, and I’m glad she was not my only role model but only one of them because she was fun as hell.
PS: While looking at more photographs this afternoon, I ran into photos of Auntie Wilma in office wear, looking very professional. Somewhere tucked deep in my mind are memories of hearing that at some point she had office jobs, maybe even before I was born or before I was totally aware that she was my aunt.
To be fair. I also want to mention that she was a great fisher and hunter of, in particular, venison. We often went fishing with her and often went to the beach with Grandma and Grandpa and Auntie Wilma. Dad, Auntie Wilma, and Grandpa would swim out into the frigid Pacific Ocean and have been known to swim with seals.
No matter how much I write about her it doesn’t seem to be enough.
By now Baby Fox was not so much a baby but she still had so much to learn.
Baby Fox was still all alone and had not found a family. She had become quite adept at hunting for her meals but many times she found herself hungry and shivering from the cold.
Deep winter had set into the mountain. It had snowed mightily leaving deep drifts in all of the valleys and crevices and small niches. She hadn’t found out that in order to prepare for winter she had to find and prepare a den. You see foxes don’t hibernate but they need a warm place to sleep during the day and to hide their prey.
Baby Fox had now a keen sense of sight in the darkest nights. She had slits in her pupils like a cat and like other canines, she could hear the slightest rustling of wings and scuffling under the dense bushes of others just like her, looking for their own nightly meals. But hunting and catching her prey was never easy.
Before the ground froze and snow covered the trees, Baby Fox had learned to eat small birds and small animals that scampered through the forest, but now that the cold had set in in ernest, she slept curled in a tight ball at the root of a tree, and woke at night to find food.
She began her life in a struggle to survive and never had been nourished by her mother’s milk. She was still tiny, though she was a fully developed adolescent fox but hadn’t even learned the skills her mommy would have taught her. As the sun rose over the mountains, her eyes would begin to close even if her tummy was empty. The cold, wet dirt under a bare root became her only bed.
Fortunately, she was as keen of sight and hearing and could smell as well as any animal in the forest even without the benefit of growing up in a fox family. While hunting one night, she ventured farther afield than her usual territory. She came upon a hole she hadn’t seen before. It was hidden under a large stone. Ferns and moss were peeking out from under the snow, which had been protected by an overhanging cliff. She cautiously felt the warmth coming from within and heard soft purring sounds.
As she approached the entrance, whatever was in this den smelled of something awful but strangely attractive. But morning would soon be coming and she knew she couldn’t resist slumber. Maybe, she thought, it could be like when she first found her family as a baby kit. Maybe there were some sisters or brothers to snuggle with. She cautiously approached the entrance, perhaps with too much curiosity but with an instinctual need to sleep and for warmth and comfort.
She put one paw inside, then another. She put her nose to the ground and then lifted it in the air. Though the smell was strong like that of a skunk, which she had foolishly come too close to before, she sensed that it was something different. She was quiet. She began to breathe so as not to make a sound. Whatever was in this deep, black den was sound asleep. Casting all care to the wind, she slumped to the floor, wrapped her fluffy tail around herself, closed her eyes and went helplessly, fast asleep.
The day broke and snow fell heavily on the earth. There was no sunlight that could penetrate the storm. The wind howled and even the wild things that searched for food during the day, were hunkered down. Their backs were hunched as they turned their backs to the wind and closed their eyes.
It wasn’t until late in the day that the storm subsided. Animals began to stir and shake the snow from their backs. Birds, that had not migrated, began to peck where they could, to find seeds and bugs and other life to eat. Other animals tried to paw through the deep snow for any thing they might find. They gnawed on bark and branches. It was a fight to stay alive in the forest on the mountain.
As night began to fall, Baby Fox began to stir. She immediately sensed danger. It dawned on her that she was not the only one in the den. She feared to move a muscle and yet instinctually she knew she had to leave the den to once again hunt for food.
She heard a low growling and a slow movement deep inside. She heard the noise and felt that the creature was ever so slowly creeping closer. She had to flee but as she rose to escape, she bumped up against something blocking the entrance. While she slept, the storm had blown snow firmly and solidly against the opening to the den, trapping both animals inside.
They both needed to get outside. The hair on her back rose and her tail extended and her claws, that were safely hidden, were exposed. She would fight, she thought, if she had to. The other animal suddenly charged. Her hair had grown thick as the temperatures lowered on the mountain. This, and her claws were all the protection that she had. The other animal came at her with a vengeance and they began to tumble in a fight for their lives. They growled and clawed and bit each other. The fight was so violent they broke through the snow that was pressed up against the opening of the den. They both tumbled out onto the fresh snow that was lit by a full moon.
Baby Fox lay as still as if dead. The snow around her turned red but looked black in the moonlight. She knew that the other animal had fled. It was almost twice her size and stronger. She hadn’t really got a good look at it. She felt as though she couldn’t move yet, though she already felt hungry and thirsty. The cold snow felt good on her battered body. It also helped to stop the blood flow.
After some time she began to stir, not because she felt better but out of necessity. She licked her wounds for a bit and made it up on her legs with great difficulty. She couldn’t go far from the den and so she sniffed around for something she might find to eat that wasn’t too much trouble. Something had not survived the snowstorm and was lying beneath a tree not too far away. She was able to tear at the still warm carcass with her tiny but razor sharp teeth, through the hair and break through the skin and she ate as much as she could.
She knew she needed to get to shelter or she would be someone else’s dinner. She knew she was unable to fight or flee. She tore off a chunk of meat and headed back to the den from which she had fled with the meat in her mouth. Once there, she marked the hole with urine both outside and inside, and then she collapsed towards the back of the den in the deepest dark corner. She only hoped that her assailant would not return.
She knew not how long she slept. It could have been that she slept through a night or two before her stomach began to growl and cry out for food. She was also in great pain. When she woke, she ate a little of the meat that she had drug into the den. She then went to work cleaning her wounds. She had small deep gashes on both of her front legs. She had a deep gash on one of her hind quarters. Her body was covered in deep bites. Her jaw was aching and blood dripped from a wound on her skull and one ear, as well.
Baby Fox had survived but it would be some time before she was healed. Fortunately, there was enough food for a couple of days and nights, but she needed water. She pulled herself over to the opening of the den and licked at the snow. Nothing had smelled her blood and so nothing had bothered her yet and her assailant had not returned. She was hurting but getting better every day. She had apparently found a home for the winter and knew where there was food and how to hunt if other animals had eaten the dead carcass that was lying by the tree.
Baby Fox had faced the challenge of a lifetime. What other adventures Baby Fox will have to face is yet to be told. We’ll have to wait for Chapter 3 of The Adventures of Baby Fox.
eyeamdust 