Category Archives: Family

Family, Walking the Dog

Evading the Terrible Thunder Monster

1 Comment

Christmas Card 2012 019

One morning last week, when the sky was still dark, we were awakened by a sound we hadn’t heard in several months: loud, rumbling thunder.  Kiko had been asleep on the floor between my bed and his.  As I expected, he was sitting up, looking around uneasily.  I could read his little doggie mind:  Oh nooooo!  Is that what I think it is?  The terrible monster is back!  It didn’t die!  Where is it?  Will I see it this time?

Kiko has only one real fear.  In the presence of snarling, threatening, enormous dogs, he holds his head up, cool and composed.  He has never met a person who frightened him, although he barks with some alarm at those who insist on wearing large, unflattering shoes with shorts.  As a puppy, he was afraid of garbage trucks and wheeled trash bins, but now they do not phase him.  Thunder, however, is another story.

That morning, he quickly vanished from my room. When he returned a while later and jumped up in bed with me, his fur was wet in spots. Strange, I thought.

At the slightest suggestion of thunder, Kiko begins a frantic, unsatisfying routine.  First he searches for visible signs of the approaching menace.  He stares intently at the windows and darts from door to door.  He recognizes flashes of light as extremely bad omens, likewise the appearance and sound of rain.  Once his worst fears are confirmed, he seeks a better place.  Unfortunately, there is no better place.  He attempts to maneuver himself into confined spaces:  closets, under desks, behind arm chairs, even behind the toilet or in the angle of the open refrigerator door.  Once, when we had removed the kitchen trash bin from its cabinet, he sought refuge there.  But no place is ever safe enough.  He is soon on to the next spot.

If all this fails to console, and it always fails, his last resort is physical closeness with one of the pack.  As I’ve mentioned before, if all is well, Kiko doesn’t need to be in your lap, or in your face (he’s not a kisser, unless you’ve just eaten cheese).  While very social when we’re out walking, at home he prefers solitude and the freedom to enjoy a variety of spots for unencumbered relaxation and sleep.  He’d rather you not disturb his rest by joining him on the sofa.  He may begin the night downstairs in the playroom.  Toward morning, I may find him sleeping in his bed in the corner of my room.  Occasionally he stretches out on the foot of my bed, but he never remains there long.

Only thunder prompts him to get close, and then he can’t get close enough.  Usually he is too nervous to sit or lie down. If he catches you off guard, he may try to stand on you, perhaps on your chest or neck.  This is extremely unpleasant for everyone involved.  Or he tries to sit on your pillow, which I will not allow.  Wrapping him in a towel or the bedspread offers some solace.  I considered buying a Thundershirt, but those I’ve seen appear to be hot and heavy.  He’s already panting excessively; I could imagine a thick, binding coat leading to spontaneous combustion.

As I readied breakfast  for our daughter that day, Kiko stuck by me like glue,  huddling in the space between my legs and the kitchen cabinets.  When I opened the dishwasher, he considered getting in it.  The thunder continued, so I turned to the only remedy that verges on effective:  Xanax.  Prescribed by the vet, it takes the edge off, so he is less distraught.  It allows him to cease roaming, lie down and minimize the panting and shaking.

When H appeared for breakfast, I asked if he knew why Kiko’s fur had been wet.  He did.  When Kiko had left me, H had been in the shower. Frenzied desperation seems to endow our dog with a near-magical power to open any door.  Suddenly, there he was, in the shower with H, trying to dodge the drops.  This was a first, even for our weird little dog.  He hates getting wet nearly as much as he hates thunder. When he realized  there was no escaping the water, he began pawing at the shower door.  Once released, he dashed upstairs to find me.

Nothing else had worked.  He had abandoned all dignity and was prepared to snuggle.  I had been expecting him, so he he missed the chance to stand on my throat.

Kiko0021
Did I just see a flash? Did I hear thunder? Here it goes again!

 

 

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Friendship

Prayers for Boston, Prayers for our Country


Boston 007

It’s happened again.  Another harrowing national tragedy.   This time in Boston, during that city’s much-beloved marathon, on Massachusetts’ annual Patriot’s Day, a day of holiday and celebration.

More innocent lives were lost yesterday, April 15.  More bodies were maimed, more souls damaged, more children left without a parent, more parents’ lives ravaged by the loss of a child.  Another beautiful day in April, forever marked by catastrophe and sadness.  Today is the six-year anniversary of the Virginia Tech shooting.  This Friday, 18 years will have passed since the Oklahoma City bombing.  As in the 1996 bombing at the Atlanta Olympics, a jubilant time in the life of a city has been twisted into ugliness, a blood-red-letter day of mourning.  As in December’s horrific mass shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, children are among the victims.  As on all these days and on September 11, those of us still standing are shakier, less steady.

Perhaps somewhat guiltily, we are relieved that it wasn’t our time.  Not yet, at least.  But we know it could easily have been us.  It could happen to any of us.  And increasingly often, it does.  Our family was concerned, in particular, about friends from our church.  The daughter was running the marathon, and her parents were there to cheer her on.  Luckily, she is young, strong and very fast.  We learned through Facebook that the family was unhurt physically.

Now, as a nation, we will pause.  We will mourn.  Many of us will pray.  We may find ourselves at a loss for how to proceed.  But then, as we always do after such calamities, we will rally.  We will come together in love and support of those who died, of those runners now missing limbs, of those who have lost loved ones, of those who will assist friends and family as they face years of surgery and difficult recovery.  We will stand up and say that we refuse to get used to this.  We refuse to accept such violence as the natural order of things.  And through our shared strength and determination, we will show that no matter what, the power of goodness will win out over evil.  Immediate proof of this is demonstrated by the many people who stepped in, selflessly and heroically, to do everything they could to help injured strangers.

My prayers will continue to go out for all those impacted by this tragedy, and for all Bostonians, who, I would imagine, take personally this despicable strike against their hometown.

Boston 001

Crafts, Family, Holiday, Parenthood

Egg-Decorating, Continued

GoodFriday008

Because we fared well with our first batch of decorated eggs this season, my daughter and I pushed on. We experimented with natural dyes, without success. Boiled red cabbage suffuses the kitchen with a pungent smell and yields a vibrant reddish-blue color in the pan.  Yet eggs left in this liquid for an extended period emerge an innocuous, industrial shade of gray-white. The same is true for beet juice. This might not be the case if we had boiled the eggs slowly with the vegetables, as we have done, with good results, to make our reddish-brown onion skin eggs (See post from April 2012). Surprisingly, only frozen blueberries mixed with water imparted a substantial but subtle color (a dull gray-blue, seen on the egg in the top center, above).

D and I soon turned to the stand-by, store-bought egg-coloring kit. We wanted to try some easy techniques that did not involve paint or markers.  Outside in the biting March wind, we foraged for interesting bits of foliage and flowers. We arranged a sprig or a leaf on each egg, wrapped the egg tightly in cheesecloth, tied the ends with yarn and immersed the egg in the dye. We had used the cheesecloth technique before when decorating some of our onion skin eggs. (Pieces of old nylon stocking, recommended by some, did not work for us; they didn’t create a secure enough hold.) This cheesecloth process produces messily impressionistic images, as on the eggs above, instead of clear-cut stencil designs, which suits us fine.

GoodFriday031

My daughter created this interesting design with nandina leaves,
wrapped very tightly to show the weave of the cheesecloth.

GoodFriday021

We made bolder patterns by simply wrapping rubber bands
tightly around the eggs before dyeing them.

GoodFriday032

For this design we used a sprig of pine needles bound with a rubber band.  It reminds me of waving seagrass in front of a beach fence.

GoodFriday025

We made polka-dotted eggs by applying stickers before dyeing.

GoodFriday029

We used a variety of stickers for the eggs above.  Our failure to remove the stickers immediately after dyeing made for the only stress of the evening.  We spent considerable time trying,
with incomplete success, to scrape off the shredded stickers and the gooey residue.

GoodFriday028

We used tape to create simple rectilinear designs.  It peels off far more easily than stickers.

Happy Easter-Egging!

 

Crafts, Family, Holiday, Parenthood

Painted Eggs

This year, my daughter and I continued our Easter-week egg-decorating tradition, but we kept the techniques simple and our approach low-key. We dyed these eggs using the tablets from a basic egg-coloring kit and decorated them using acrylic paints or markers.  I am happy to report that no family members were harmed, either emotionally or physically, during the decorating of these eggs, which is more than I can say for some years. 

Eastereggs001

Eastereggs004

Eastereggs009

Eastereggs005

Eastereggs0131

Eastereggs0121

For other approaches to egg-decorating (and the upheaval they have provoked), see several posts from April 2012. 

Family, Friendship, Parenthood

Dark Secrets: Our 8th-Grade Movie, Part I

I find it a little alarming that my daughter is fourteen, and half-way through eighth grade.  It’s alarming because my memory of being a fourteen-year-old eighth-grader is fairly clear.  I remember many of my eighth-grade thoughts, and they weren’t so very different from my current middle-aged thoughts.  This brings me face-to-face with the uncomfortable realization that my baby is no longer my baby.  She’s my only child, so in a sense she’ll always be my baby.  But from here on out she will be traversing the continuum from nearly grown-up to nearly completely grown-up.  Can anyone ever claim to be truly grown-up?  Maybe after the death of one or both of our parents?  Or does this make us feel like old, lost children?  More alarming thoughts, which I won’t dwell on now.  Today I want to think about our movie.

 

I loved 8th grade.  The snags of our newly-formed middle school were working themselves out.  (See Middle-School Memorabilia, February 2012.) Once again, we were in classes with many of our old elementary school buddies, and we had the added bonus of meeting new friends.  Some of these friendships took root thanks to an experimental, unstructured class that replaced language arts and social studies.  As our independent project, my friend Katie and I made a movie.

She and I loved the movies.  We dreamed of writing, directing, and perhaps starring in our own films one day.  The logical starting point was our own Super 8 short film.  Of course it was Katie’s family that had the camera, not mine.  They had real cameras, ones with complicated knobs for focusing, as well as movie cameras, film projecters, even special movie lights.  The were high-tech.  I was wowed.  I come from an anti-camera, anti-tech family.  On Christmas morning, we would look around for the Kodak Instamatic.  If it could be located, it often lacked film, flash bulbs, or both.  One Christmas, our only pictures were taken by our next-door neighbor.  Old photos from the 1940s on were tossed at random in the drawer of the coffee table, undated and unlabeled, a practice that inspired me to take the opposite approach, to document, organize and archive.

Katie and I favored the genres of comedy and horror.  (See Movies with Friends: From Frogs to Rocky Horror to Toco Hill, and other posts from March 2012.) Our movie, we quickly decided, would be a campy, silly horror film, set in the 50s. As kids growing up in the 70s, we were fascinated by that Happy Days era, which seemed so distant. Because Katie’s mother and mine had saved most of their clothes from that time period, our costumes were immediately at hand.  We also had lots of comical wigs and odd accessories that begged to be modeled.

mid-March 027

We spent Saturdays and school-day afternoons writing the script.  To us, it was side-splittingly hilarious.  I have several copies of the final four-page script, typed by Katie and mimeographed at school.  It was a silent film, so the narration and dialogue were hand-written in a flowery cursive and filmed, panel by panel.  Our working title was The Underground Horror, later finalized as Dark Secrets.  It began promisely enough:

The date is 1957.  Leonora Fieldcrest had just moved into old Ravencroft Cottage on Shepherd Lane.  Knowing that the apartment in the basement was rented to a certain Dr. Marc Welby (whom she had never met), did not hinder her.  Perhaps
she should have thought more carefully.

Our set was the home of our friend Rebecca, who would play Leonora’s “old school chum” and spunky gal reporter, Amanda Duff.  Not surprisingly, Dr. Welby (we considered this name choice an example of our use of sophisticated irony) was up to no good.  He was building a creature.  His laboratory was a squalid subterranean room, the door of which had been painted, years before, by previous homeowners, with the ominous warning:  Operations Shack!  Scram!  Rebecca’s basement (really a cellar, rudimentarily finished and typical of the 1930s-era homes in our neighborhood) simply cried out for us to film a horror movie in it.

Katie took the role of the creature, and I played Leonora.  We recruited two boys from our class for the male roles:  Dr. Welby and Leonora’s butler.  Everyone in old 50s movies had a butler, it seemed, and we needed another guy.  Katie filmed the scenes she wasn’t in.  Her older sister took care of the others.  Rebecca’s younger sister and her friend served as gaffers and gophers.  We relished tossing around such film jargon.  Because the next-door neighbors had a cute little dog named Buster who was always underfoot, he was granted a role as Leonora’s puppy.

006

The entire cast, pictured above, from left to right: Amanda, Leonora, the Creation, standing menacingly, Dr. Welby, and the butler.  It’s unfortunate that not a single still photo related to our film was in focus.  I haven’t seen the movie in years, but I’m sure it’s not this blurry.  I’m uncertain of the source of these pictures.  Evidently they were taken before Katie got her very own good camera; at which point she became the primary photographer of our collective youth, known for her creative (and clear) photos.  She has enjoyed a successful career as a photo-journalist for the Indianapolis Star newspaper.

002

Dr. Welby, at work in his Operations Shack.  He laughs in a villainous manner as he puts the finishing touches on his Creation, whose red plaid skirt is visible.

001

Me, as Leonora, with Buster the dog.

007

Amanda, just arrived from Kansas (on her bicycle),
hands her little suitcase to the butler.

003

One of our funniest jokes (we thought), was the awfulness of Dr. Welby’s basement “apartment.”  Here, Amanda and Leonora snoop around while the doc is out, observing personal mementos on the table beside his bare foam-rubber mattress on the floor.

004

At Amanda’s insistence, the two friends sneak into Welby’s inner sanctum.  Leonora brandishes an Indian juggling club.  Ace Reporter Amanda wields her trusty, if anachronistic camera,
perhaps the source of some of these blurry photos. 

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Walking the Dog

Kiko’s Close Call

During our visit to Rochester, we left Kiko alone with H’s parents one afternoon while we went out.  We felt no anxiety about leaving the dog with them. I don’t think I even gave a single thought to Kiko while we were gone.  Grandma and Grandpa are worriers.  They are careful.  They visualize every possibility of disaster, no matter how remote.  They looked after our two-year old daughter for ten days when H, my parents and I went to France.  Everyone was fine.  They should have no problem dealing with Kiko for an hour and a half.
When we returned, Grandpa came quickly to the door.  He was clearly shaken. We knew something was up.   Everything’s alright, he said, breathlessly.  It’s all OK. . . . But Kiko got out.I was immediately beset by panic, even though Kiko was right there, looking up at me, perfectly fine, intact and unharmed, a bit sleepy.The story unfolded.  Shortly after we left, Grandpa decided to get the car washed.  With Rochester’s constant snow and never-ending salt and slush on the roads, car washes are a routine necessity.  He looked into the living room and saw Kiko asleep on his bed.  In the kitchen, he pressed the garage door opener, as he always does, before going out the side door.  It was then that he was aware of a reddish flash behind him.  Kiko was already in the garage and dashing out into the driveway.  Grandpa lunged for the dog, managing to grab his tail, which  looks very much like a curled handle, as on a teapot.  But Kiko was moving too fast, and the tug on his tail merely caused him to yelp and move even faster.Our brilliant dog turned left at the end of the driveway and bounded down the very center of the street.  H’s parents’ live on a busy road, where cars speed by with dependable frequency.  This was no quiet neighborhood cul-de-sac.  Oh no.

 

 

Fortunately Grandma heard Grandpa yell and was alerted to the situation.  I had showed her Kiko’s bag of treats and left them out on the table.  Thinking quickly, she got a treat and rushed out in pursuit.  By this time Grandpa and the dog were well down the road.  Kiko would stop occasionally and look back, then fly off again playfully.  He was evidently thinking,  This is a great game!.  When he heard Grandma yell pleasantly, Kiko, treat!, he paused long enough to allow Grandpa to catch up and grab his collar.  Luckily, I hadn’t removed the collar as I usually do at home; this dog is as slippery as an otter.  Kiko was saddened and stunned to see the game ending so quickly, and he did all he could to resist returning home.  He splayed his legs, put his head down resolutely, and managed to make his compact 26-pound bulk feel much heavier. But Grandpa was determined, and mustering his strength, he corraled our little runaway beast.

Considering that Grandpa and Grandma generally don’t move especially fast, it is a near-miracle that they managed to catch our speedy dog.  Evidently the adrenaline rush fueled their unusual alacrity.  The real miracle, according to Grandpa, was the absence of a single car passing by during the entire episode.

We all visualized various grim alternate endings:  Grandpa collapses in the street with a heart attack, Grandma slips on the icy road and breaks a hip, and Kiko is still flattened by a Suburban.

We would all be awash in blame.  The whys and the what-ifs would be dizzying and relentless.  Why didn’t we ask Grandma and Grandpa if they planned to go out?  Why didn’t we warn them about the garage door?  What if we had taken Kiko with us?  Grandpa would regret that car wash for the rest of his life, as H, D and I would regret that day’s outing.

Here, I am, close to tears, again, imagining the sad trip back to Virginia, without Kiko.  Or with his inert little body packed in ice in the back of the car? I doubt we could have buried him in the frozen Rochester ground. We would have had to gather up all his stuff–his bed, blanket, food bowls, treats, Foxy, his little coat.  Oh, his little plaid coat, the coat he wore only once!  And now my heart is breaking for parents who have lost children (and I do mean human children) who must confront  the tormenting evidence–the forlorn toys, the clothes, the snow boots–that screams: She’ll be back!  She’s at a friend’s house.  He’ll be home from school at 4:00!  How do such parents answer, without going insane: No, pretty red dress, my baby won’t be home again.  No, boots, he will not use you for this snow, or ever.   Only with God’s help.

But our ending, this time, was a happy one.  I don’t think God held back the cars that day.  Nor do I think he assigns guardian angels to dogs.  But maybe God did give Grandpa and Grandma the unaccustomed speed they needed to catch our escaped monster.  And maybe he looked after them so they did not get hurt in the process.  Maybe he helped Grandma remember that a treat might work magic. And maybe luck was simply on our side.

Today, safely at home, my Kiko is warm in the sun.  I will cuddle him, and give thanks again.  And I will say a prayer for those wrestling with an unhappy ending.

Kiko 011

 Kiko sleeps in the March sun.

Kiko 008

Now Grandma and Grandpa have signs like this one on all their doors,  just as we do in our house.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Travel

Historic Angelica, New York

2 Comments
0241
This Angelica house, built in 1884, is one of the town’s newer structures. It is now the Park Circle Bed & Breakfast.

If you ever find yourself in western New York, perhaps after fulfilling a quest for authentic maple syrup at Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn, I would recommend another stop in the nearby historic village of Angelica.  (While Cartwright’s  has an Angelica address, it is several miles outside the tiny town.)

Postcard-pretty Angelica was named for Angelica Shuyler Church (1756- 1814), scion of two eminent New York families, the Schuylers and the Rensselaers.  Angelica’s father was a general in the Continental Army, later a member of the Continental Congress and a U.S. senator.  Her brother-in-law was Alexander Hamilton. After eloping with the English-born merchant John Barker Church, Angelica lived most of her life in Europe.  Intelligent, well-educated, charming and beautiful, she mixed in elite circles.  During her years in Paris, her confidants included Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson (with whom she kept up a lifelong correspondence), and the Marquis de Lafayette. Her London acquaintances were equally renowned.  Angelica and her family returned to America for a visit to attend the inauguration of George Washington.

When her family purchased a 100,000-acre tract of land in the wilds of western New York, Angelica’s son Philip scouted the area for a suitable location to build a town.  He chose a site along the Genesee River.  In 1802, he named the new settlement after his mother.  Thanks to Philip and his surveyor, the town has a pleasing geometric plan, its main street radiating out from a central circular park.

Considering the name of the town and that of its founding family, it’s appropriate that Angelica is notable for the many lovely old churches that ring the green and dot Main Street.  Nearly all the town’s buildings date from the 19th century and have been little changed.  Modernism sidestepped Angelica.  Large, still beautiful homes, plus a library, academy, court house and post office, are interspersed among the churches and shops.  We typically visit in February, when the view from the snow-covered central park recalls a tabletop Christmas display of quaint ceramic buildings.

0212
Angelica’s central green, showing two of the town’s churches.

 

0222
The former Presbyterian Church.

                                                                 

0262
St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, which dates from 1847 and includes several Tiffany windows.
033
Yet another Angelica church, surrounded by homes.

                                               

0281
This Gothic revival house was built in 1826 for the family of Aaron Burr.

                        

0341
The Lloyd House, built from 1834 with local stone quarried from nearby Joncy Gorge.

     

036
When Kiko spotted these two dog figures on a side porch of the Lloyd house, he confronted them with extreme wariness. They remained silent, and he moved on, disappointed.

In 1797, Angelica and her husband returned to live permanently in the U.S.  Their grand home, known as Villa Belvidere, is located on the outskirts of town.  Begun in 1806, its design is attributed to Benjamin Latrobe, architect of the U.S. capitol.  The house remains in private hands.

Family, Nature, Parenthood, Travel, Walking the Dog

North to the Sugar Shack: Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn

Last weekend, we drove to upstate New York for pancakes. Not just for pancakes.  Pancakes and maple syrup.  We met H’s family at Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn, a glorified sugar shack located, really, in the middle of nowhere.  Its actual address is County Road 15A, Angelica, NY (2 miles from Short Tract), which, in the language of our GPS system, is “not on any digitized road.”  Despite its truly out-of-the-way location in the midst of snow-covered fields, it’s a popular spot, with big crowds on weekends.  It’s only open during the maple sugar season, which typically runs from mid-February through March or mid-April, depending on the weather.  H’s family has been trekking out to Cartwright’s for decades, and now it’s among our winter traditions, even though our drive is far longer.  Of course, we don’t return directly to Virginia, but spend the weekend visiting H’s family in Rochester.

Rochester 021

The Cartwrights began producing maple syrup on their farm in the 1850s.  The Maple Tree Inn dates from 1963, when the family decided to build a restaurant specializing in Grandma’s buckwheat pancakes served with their own maple syrup.  In the adjacent shop, the syrup, maple butter and maple sugar cakes became available directly to the public.  The somewhat ramshackle building has been expanded over the years and is now fairly large.  It will win no awards for architectural style, but that’s not the point.  In the chain-store sameness that dominates so much of our country today, the Maple Tree Inn offers a unique, quirky, authentic experience.  It’s living history, and it’s worth a visit.

Before I met my husband, I had never tasted true maple syrup.  The first time we ate together at PJ’s Pancake House in Princeton, I was surprised to see him pull a small container of pure maple syrup from his pocket.  At the time, PJ’s didn’t serve the real stuff, although that has since changed.  I didn’t understand what the big deal was.  Growing up, when Daddy made pancakes on Saturday mornings, we used the typical supermarket syrup–Log Cabin, Aunt Jemima–whatever.  H was no food snob, so I found his insistence on unadulterated maple syrup mystifying.  That is, until that day at PJ’s, when I tasted the liquid from that little jar.  H was right.  There is no topping the perfection of the stuff that comes straight from the tree.

Visitors to the Maple Tree Inn are welcome to descend into the building’s lower level to learn how the sap is boiled down, in huge wood-fired evaporators, to its golden maple essence.  Several years ago, a Cartwright grandson, no more than twelve or so,  gave us a comprehensive tour that began in the frozen fields where we could examine the taps on the trees and see the liquid running into the buckets.  As far as I know, this is not an option at IHOP.

These days, the rarified nuances of maple syrup, like those of chocolate, coffee and small-batch whiskies, are earnestly discussed at considerable length, using wine-lingo terms such as terroir.  H doesn’t do this, although he can and does enjoy discerning, in blind taste tests, the variations between light, medium, and dark amber syrups.  My palette will never attain such a degree of sophistication, but I can say this: a little true maple syrup makes life sweeter.

Rochester 010
The snowy landscape behind the Maple Tree Inn.
Rochester 014
Kiko and I walk through the surrounding fields before I join the others for lunch.

Rochester 018

Kiko keeps vigil in the car during our meal.  Animal advocates need not be alarmed–he has his sheepskin bed and blanket if he needs to hunker down for warmth.  Before this trip, in case it was particularly cold, we bought him a red plaid fleece coat.  The temperature wasn’t low enough to warrant it, and he appeared perfectly comfortable, peering out from the front seat, when we returned.  For his wait, he was rewarded with an extra sausage patty H’s grandmother had carefully saved for him.

016

Kiko and D atop a tall snowpile on an earlier visit to Cartwright’s, in 2009.  Kiko looks almost exactly the same as he did four years ago, when he was two.  D, on the other hand, has changed.

006
We stocked up at the Maple Tree Inn.
Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Friendship

Ashes to Ashes

On Ash Wednesday, we are urged to face a stark truth:  we will not live forever.  The certainty of our mortality should be evident as we daily confront our society’s latest egregious incidents of violent fatality.  Where was today’s shooting?  At a mall, an office, a restaurant, a church, or, most horrifically, at a school? Who were the heroes and innocents who died senselessly this week? Firefighters, doctors, nurses, teachers, small children, infants? Depending upon where you live, you may be mourning a different tragedy than the one that preys on my mind.  There are so many tragedies in our world. Every day it becomes more difficult to say It can’t happen in my neighborhood. 

Yet despite the ongoing exposure to such dire events, our culture is constantly blaring the message that if we spend enough on miraculous health and beauty products, if we make the right lifestyle choices, we can prolong our lives indefinitely. It promises us, repeatedly, that it’s in our best interests to extend the look of youth far beyond our youthful years.  One of the worst things we can say about a celebrity is this:  She’s looking her age. How shocking!  How pitiful!  Not enough botox, or botox gone bad.  Excessive collagen, or inadequate collogen.  A facelift that failed.  A fanatical exercise regime that no longer does the trick. Her arms were once buff; now they’re stringy.  The more beautiful one is in youth, the sadder seems the diminishing of that beauty with age.

Lenten roses 002

Yesterday I caught a brief snippet of a TV soap opera that I admit  I used to watch, on occasion.   Well, not really watch.  It happened to come on at a time when I needed a rest.  It offered a distraction as I  sat down to fold laundry, leaf through piles of papers and magazines for recycling, make get-well cards. Sometimes it lulled me to sleep, I have to say. This particular soap opera, even sillier than most, if possible, requires minimal attention, because it’s always the same. During my most recent viewing, it was immediately apparent that the same small group of characters was still soldiering on in scandalous banality, divorcing, remarrying, swapping spouses and children, re-betraying one another in bizarre ways.  At a glance, the old gang looked very much the same.  There was not a wrinkle, not a gray hair to be seen.  Bodies were svelte, as always.  But the faces were altered in odd ways:  eyes slanted at more extreme angles, lips overly puffy, cheekbones higher, chins more pronounced, foreheads immovable as those of marble statues.   The characters continue to behave in sophomoric, stupid ways, so it is fitting, perhaps, that they appear young.
In real life, though, is maturity so terrible?  If we learn from our mistakes, we are not cursed to repeat them endlessly, like soap opera characters.   As we mature mentally and spiritually, we will age, and our age will show.

Lenten roses 003
I’m not saying I’m immune to the horror of growing old.  I’ve begun to avoid harsh lighting,  I’ve noted, with acute dismay, what an awkward turn of my head can do for the skin on my neck. The magnifying mirror is my frenemy.  I silently bewail the effects of gravity.  Just as the classic birthday card line attests: Old age is not for sissies.  It’s for the the wise, the well-adjusted, the truly mature.
On Ash Wednesday, we are called to confront the fact that no magic potion or surgery will keep old age forever at bay.  And while death claims the young, as we see all too often, most of us are granted the bittersweet privilege of aging in this lifetime.  This is, indeed, a gift; it allows us  the opportunity to grow toward wisdom, toward maturity.  It means the chance to come to terms with the hollowness of our culture of vanity, and to learn to live accordingly. The visible effects of age are reminders that death awaits us, unavoidably. The physical body decays even as we live, earthly beauty is fleeting, and material possessions are transitory.  Once we acknowledge these truths, we are free to recognize the real value of what will not pass away:

 
And now, these three abide: faith, hope and love.  But the greatest of these is love.  –1 Corinthians 13: 13

 
On Ash Wednesday, we thank God for not leaving us to eternal decay.  Through the love of Jesus Christ we are rescued from the dust, from perpetual darkness.  Our future, as God’s beloved children, is one of light and glory, of joyful wisdom that, in its zeal, perfection, and yes, its maturity, will remain forever young, forever beautiful.

Lenten roses 005
I noticed today that some Lenten roses (Helleborus Orientalis) are already in bloom , although barely visible among winter’s dead leaves.

*************************************************

For further discussion of the meaning of Ash Wednesday, see last year’s post: What’s with the Ashes?, February 22, 2012.

Family, Parenthood, Walking the Dog

In a Snippy Household, the One Who Will Not Talk Back

As my last post attests, my family and I tend to be a touchy bunch around each other. We are polite and well-behaved when we mix in society at large.  We don’t pick fights; we don’t brood over perceived insults dealt out by acquaintances or the general public.  But when we’re at home together, just the three of us, it may be a different story.  We are not an unhappy family.  Nor are we always indignant or incensed.  We have many moments of placid, content complacency, substantial periods of harmony.  But when something sets one of us off, we’re all going over the edge, and quickly.  Watch out.  (See, for example, An Evening of Discontent, Part II: The Big Family Dog-Walking Fight, October 2011.)

 

At home, our finely tuned radar is on near-constant alert for the slightest hint of sarcasm, negativity, discourtesy of tone or, heaven help us, an ill-chosen word.  The faintest traces of insult or anger, whether real, or more typically, imagined, rarely elude us.  With the barest minimum of words exchanged, we may be suddenly engulfed in a family-wide conflagration.  When this happens, nothing helps but time, and time apart.  With some stomping and huffing, we retreat to our own respective areas in the house.  Sometimes, from my husband and daughter, the stomping is accompanied by loud whistling.  Speech is pointless for a while, because we will be certainly be misunderstood.

But one member of our family maintains an admirably even keel. Our dog is either above, or beneath all this drama. Kiko never reacts badly, never acknowledges an insult, and he never makes a cutting remark.

I talk to Kiko a lot.

When he and I are home alone during the day, I keep up a running, one-sided conversation, heavy on the exclamation points. It’s typical, mindless doggie talk: Hello sweet baby! Are you the sweetest little fella? Of course you’re the sweetest fella! You’re such a velvety baby! You have the best fur! Are you the best old angel?  Of course you’re the best old angel! You’re my angel! I love you so much!  I just love you!  Sometimes I tell him, very nicely, of course, that he’s a terrible boy,  a very bad sweetie, just because I can, and it doesn’t matter one whit to Kiko. I think it’s to my credit, at least, that I don’t speak in a high-pitched, artificial tone often preferred when addressing babies and dogs. I use my normal voice to repeat my plodding menu of banalities.

As dogs go, Kiko is not particularly expressive.  He does not gaze into my eyes with love and admiration.  If I want that, I go down the street to see George, the big-hearted golden retriever. Kiko’s response to my ongoing chatter is subtle. My first words may be greeted with the raise of a doggie eyebrow. I’m reminded of Chad Everett, on whom I had a middle school crush when he starred as the charming, handsome Dr. Joe Gannon on TV’s Medical Center. While Dr. Gannon’s lifted brow indicated kindness and concern, Kiko’s indicates an openness to any words of consequence, such as Wanna take a walk? Wanna go for a ride? Want some cheese? To these questions he responds with a head tilt, perhaps followed by a stretch and a vigorous full-body shake.  Barring these welcome phrases, he remains largely inert, with the possible exception of his ears.  Unlike Chad Everett, Kiko has a wide range of motion in his ears, which may move independently of one another as though in vague reply.  Otherwise, he’s utterly, quietly motionless.  If I hover or confine him too long in a hug, he may sigh.  I take this as a signal to back off and shut up.  But that mild protest is as close to a rebuke as he ever makes.

You fellow dog owners understand the benefits of talking to your dog.  As you know, we converse with our dogs not for their sake, but for our own.  It makes us feel better.  For me, there is hardly a situation that cannot be eased, at least a little, by making ridiculous remarks to my dog.  Considering the atmosphere of irascibility that may reign in our household, it’s wonderful to know that no matter what I say to Kiko, peace and equanimity will prevail.   

Kiko002
A typical response from Kiko to my ongoing chatter.