Category Archives: Memorials

Crafts, Friendship, Memorials

Thanks to a Friend, a Miniature House Tribute to Streak the Cat

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I have a friend whose vocation–one of her true callings–is searching out the best deals in thrift stores.  She’s motivated not by monetary gain, but by the thrill of the hunt.  Occasionally she’ll sell some of her finds on eBay.  But more often, she makes gifts of them to those who will most appreciate them.  She’s one of those people who can, and does, talk to anyone she meets.  And she meets many people.  She was in our dog-walking group for the ten years that her family lived in our area.  As soon as a new family moved to the neighborhood, she could tell us their names, their background, and several interesting anecdotes about them.  Wherever she is, whether on walks with sweet Cali, her big, shaggy golden doodle, or in her favorite thrift stores, she’s immersed in community.  At a local church-run shop, she was one of the Tuesday regulars, those who line up early for first dibs at newly displayed merchandise that arrives over the weekend.  There she met a diverse group of friends, and it became part of her mission to assist in their searches.  Quality wool sweaters in fall colors for Esther’s twin grandsons in Roanoke?  Office attire in Size 5 for Maria’s young adult daughter in the Philippines?   Just-so serving pieces for Sofia’s niece’s at-home wedding reception in Manassas?  Found, found, and found, in each case, with several options.    

My friend was well aware of my dollhouse hobby. She had been on the lookout for a while, at my behest, for a miniature house that could benefit from a thorough renovation. The plainer, the better. When she spotted one on a Tuesday morning at her favorite thrift shop, she quickly texted a photo.

Yes! I’ll be right over! It was the ideal blank dollhouse canvas I’d been wanting.  It’s hard to imagine a more basic structure.  It was sizable, but it fit, just barely, in the front seat of my little car.  

For the re-do, I envisioned a stately Greek revival house in gray and white.  My husband measured and cut (two things I don’t do well) a triangular pediment for me from a thin sheet of plywood.  I  removed the few remaining shutters and painted smaller pediments over each window.  I added a central Palladian window, and Corinthian columns on tall bases.  I painted the steps, chimney, and foundation level to resemble stone.  I added pots of flowers and topiaries, and a couple of flowering trees on each side.  I kept the florals to a subdued palette of green, white and yellow.  Only the front door remains unchanged. 

Ever since deciding on the color scheme, I knew that the exterior would feature cats. Most of my houses are adorned with dogs and/or foxes, along with a few birds, squirrels and chipmunks.  When my dog Kiko died, I added him to the Red Panda house I was finishing.  This house, I’d decided, would be a sort of memorial for my favorite Atlanta feline.  Streak, all fluffy gray and white elegance, was my idea of the absolutely perfect cat.  I began seeing him when, living at home between undergrad and grad school in the mid-80s, I passed his house on daily neighborhood walks.  With very un-catlike behavior, Streak would run out enthusiastically at my approach.  If I didn’t see him immediately, I’d call for him, and he’d appear.   He’d greet me with a loud, decidedly welcoming meow.  I’d spend some time admiring him before resuming my walk.  He’d purr and circle my legs.  I’m allergic to cats, but a few moments outdoors with a cat don’t bother me.  And a few moments with a living, breathing masterpiece like Streak–those to me were priceless. 

Streak the cat, on the wall on Wildwood Rd near his house.

Just look at that lion-like ruff, those symmetrically striped, magnificently furry front legs and paws, those yellow eyes, pink nose, delicate ears, and intense, intelligent gaze.  All these decades later, and I’ve never met a cat that was Streak’s equal in looks or personality. 

I made the little wreaths for Christmas, but I like them so much that they stay on year round.

If not for my friend, the thrift store guru, I might not have had the pleasure of creating a tribute to Streak.  None of my painted cats does justice to the one that inspired them, but I enjoyed the attempt.  Streak will forever feature in my favorite Atlanta memories.  Now, in the child-like part of my brain that still imagines my painted houses as sanctuaries for cherished companions, I can envision him living here.  He’s waiting by the front door to greet me.  Content and cozy with his dear cat family, Streak is nearby in all his feline fabulousness. 

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Memorials

Remembering Grandma (As My Perfect Mother-in-Law)

In memory of my mother-in-law Doretta, who passed away at the beginning of March, I reprint this post from October 2012.  See previous post for more about my husband’s lovely mother. 

I have the perfect mother-in-law. The only down side to this is that I’m unable to participate in the swapping of mother-in-law horror stories. I’ve heard many such accounts, and other than gasps of incredulity, I have nothing to add. I’ve listened in amazement to tales of the mother-in-law who “helps” with the new baby by bellowing orders, complaints, and increasingly outlandish requests from a command center on the family room sofa. I’ve heard about the M.I.L. who, determined to ensure that her son’s house run on her rules or not at all, regards each visit as an opportunity for a hostile takeover. I’ve listened to anecdotes about the M.I.L. whose sensitive temperament is constantly wounded by imagined slights tossed off by a cruel daughter-in-law. And I’ve heard everything in between.

With my mother in law, there is no drama.  She is sweet, good, and uncomplicated.  She is kind,  thoughtful and intelligent.  During visits to our home, she asks how she may help.  She is not overbearing.  She does not insist, but she never offers out of empty politesse.  It has taken me a while, but I’ve learned to accept her assistance.  I come from what may be a predominately Southern tradition of automatically refusing the first few offers of guests’ help, thereby forcing them to insist or be considered rude.  Now, when Grandma* asks if I need help with dinner, I tend to say Yes, please! She is a calm, easy presence, and it’s a pleasure to share the house, and the chores, with her.

Like everyone in H’s family, his mother welcomed me warmly at our first meeting, now over twenty years ago.  She has never implied (as some mothers of sons are known to do), that no living woman could be a worthy companion of the god-like boy-child she birthed.  She has a deservedly high opinion of H, and she has always treated me as his equal.

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H’s mother is a loving grandmother to our daughter and to her other four grandchildren.  Gentle and fun, she laughs easily, and she remembers what it was like to be a child.  I’ve heard about grandparents who cannot be trusted with their own grandchildren.  This was never an issue with either set of my daughter’s grandparents, thankfully.  When D was nearly three, my husband and I, along with my parents, took a trip to France, leaving our daughter in the care of Grandma and Grandpa.  We missed our baby girl, but we had no worries about her welfare, either emotional or physical, during those ten days.  We knew she was in devoted and capable hands.

Grandma’s attitude is generally one of meekness, and some might take her for a pushover.  This, however, is not the case.  When she feels strongly that righteousness is on her side, she is tough, patient and determined to persevere. One year, when H’s windsurfing board went missing in Cape Cod, she summoned Grandpa to accompany her on a walk.  With slow, thorough deliberation, she surveyed the property carefully, until she discovered H’s board leaning up against the wall of another cottage way across the green.  Thanks to her gracious yet firm intervention, H’s board was soon being carried back to its rightful place by those who, no doubt, had removed it.

The photo above shows our daughter with Grandma at Cape Cod.  In D’s younger years, she always urged H and me to go out for date night during our vacation, so she could enjoy a full evening of food and fun with Grandma and Grandpa.

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Grandma is always ready for a game with a grandchild, whether it’s air hockey, Chinese Checkers, Candyland or Chutes & Ladders.

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Grandpa is a lucky man, and he knows it.  He has Grandma by his side, no matter what.  During their long marriage they’ve had their share of hell and high water, in addition to many joys.  They are a formidable team, and together, with their strong faith in God’s love and grace, they know they can weather any storm.  Grandma has a gift for finding and sharing that kernel of sweetness within the tough husk of the bad.

Thank you, Grandma, for enriching the lives of all those you touch.  Happy Birthday, and many more to follow!

*When I speak to my mother-in-law, I call her by her first name, which is an unusual, pretty name.  But here, I will refer to her as Grandma. When I wrote about H’s father, her husband, I referred to him as Grandpa (June 2012), so I’ll be consistent.

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Memorials

Goodbye, to Grandma

At one of her favorite spots, with a book at the picnic table outside her family’s Cape Cod rental cottage

My dear mother-in-law Doretta passed away in the early hours of March 4th.  Since her beloved husband Jim left this world in October of 2022, she’d been lonely.  She didn’t complain.  But when asked, or when his name was mentioned, she’d always say, “I just miss him so much.”  She carried on, despite her sadness and the growing physical challenges of Parkinsons’ and Addison’s Disease. 

I  had the pleasure of seeing her most Wednesday nights for the past several years. During the height of the pandemic, she joined my mother and me and other friends for an online Bible study through our church here in Virginia.  As her mobility decreased, attending her local Rochester church, and getting out at all, became increasingly difficult.  Our mid-week virtual gathering had become one of her few fellowship opportunities, and she appreciated the warm welcome our group extended to her.  With my husband’s and his sister’s help, she learned to use Zoom on her iPad in order to join us.  This was quite the feat, considering Jim had always been the one to deal with any and all tech matters.  During the sessions we’d often hear Barney the cockatiel chirping away happily in the background.  Barney, like Doretta, had been bereft after Jim’s passing.  An odd, cantankerous bird, he was prone to hissing with apparent vehemence at everyone who was not his best pal Jim.  Over the past two years, he warmed up to Doretta, and the two became good company.  It was her nightly ritual to sit with him in the family room,  watching TV or reading.  She found that he got particularly chirpy during the musical performances on old Lawrence Welk re-runs.  

At about age three, in her hometown of Jamestown, NY

Doretta was determined not to relocate from her house, which she and Jim had built as newlyweds in 1965. Thanks to the help of my sister-in-law Julie, who lives locally,  several regular care-givers, many walkers and two stair lifts, one to the basement and another to the second floor, she had been able to remain in the home she loved so much.  When my husband returned there the morning after his mom’s passing, on the table beside her favorite chair, he found her Bible, some recent books from our Zoom studies, and a manual on coping with Parkinsons’.  He saw them as a testament to her quiet, patient perseverance.  Throughout adversity, her faith was strong.  Life tossed many hardships her way, but she pushed through, with a kind, encouraging word for others.  She was a light bearer in our often dark world.  It feels odd not seeing Doretta’s Zoom square on Wednesday nights, not to see her sweet smiling face, not to hear Barney’s tweets. I like to think of her in that heavenly cloud of witnesses, reunited joyfully with her darling Jim.

   

Family, Holiday, Memorials, Parenthood, Travel

Father’s Day 2024

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Daddy and I, July 1965, in Lebanon, KY.

A particular image of my father has taken up residence in my mind recently. I see him sitting at our kitchen table in our house in Atlanta. He has a map open–a fold-up highway map, the kind we used to buy at gas stations and welcome centers–those old ones that today’s young adults have rarely seen. He has a pen in hand, and he’s cheerfully planning the route for an upcoming trip. The destination is likely to be one with which he’s very familiar. Probably it’s a town in central or eastern Kentucky, to visit family. Even near home, Daddy didn’t like to follow the same path twice. Mama said that was one reason she never learned her way around Atlanta. Daddy enjoyed driving, and he was good at it. He’d had considerable practice, as he’d been driving since he was twelve or so. He was born in 1929, and he learned on a Model T. I always knew that if I needed a ride somewhere–anywhere accessible by car–Daddy could, and would, gladly oblige.

Mama remembers how Daddy poured over such a map while my husband and I were on our way to New Jersey after our marriage in the fall of 1995. I was moving away, and this time, it seemed likely to be for good. Before, I’d always returned after a few years. H and I were in a packed U-Haul, with my little Rabbit convertible behind on a trailer. Because we left later in the day, we spent a night on the road in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. When I called home to report our safe arrival, Daddy quickly picked up the phone. He’d been worried about us. (He didn’t yet know that I’d perhaps married as capable and confident a driver as he.)

My husband and I with the moving van in Atlanta, November 1995.

“I’m so relieved to hear your voice!,” he exclaimed. “I think I drove every mile with you!”

Daddy was not a man who cried easily or often. But Mama said she remembers him shedding some tears that evening, as he worried over the map.

H with the van in Carlisle. The trailer for my small car was huge, and could easily have held a Cadillac. As H said, “We were long.”

On this Father’s Day, and every day, I’m grateful to be my father’s daughter. I know that wherever life takes me, no matter how treacherous the road, Daddy is there beside me, every mile.

My husband and my father in Atlanta, December 1996.

Somehow now the years have spun by like the numbers on the oven timer, and H and I are a married couple past middle age, with a daughter of our own. She’s twenty-five, a young career woman, living in another state. But it’s Maryland, and she’s still nearby. So far, we’re lucky that way. I know that she, too, counts herself fortunate to be her father’s daughter. She can be sure that her Dada, like her dear Papa, will be forever at her side, driving with her every mile.

For another post on my sweet Daddy, see here.

Community, Holiday, Memorials, Travel

Once Again, and Daily, May We Honor our Hometown Heroes

The Hometown Hero banners are up again along the quiet main streets of little towns throughout upstate New York. They honor men and women currently serving in our armed forces. Most of the faces are young. So, so very young. They look down from flag-draped lamp posts along Union Street in the little village of Spencerport. Some are smiling, appearing hopeful and excited. Others are stoically stern. All of them should break our hearts.

Let’s carry such young faces with us, every day. May they be living reminders of the reality of the ongoing sacrifice taking place continually, here and in far-flung spots, for our precious American freedoms. Let’s honor these soldiers, like my twenty-one year old nephew in the Marines, who offer up years of their youth so that we may remain the unique country that our founders envisioned.

Keeping these young faces in our minds and hearts, let’s behave better toward one another. Let’s remember that they’re toiling now to keep us free. Free to voice our own opinions, and free to disagree with one another. But when we disagree, let us strive to do so with grace, thoughtfulness and kindness, recognizing our common humanity. So that we might discover common ground. And so that we won’t take impulsive actions that will jeopardize the republic for which these young heroes fight.

Also on Spencerport’s Union Street lies peaceful Fairfield Cemetery, which I first explored on a walk five years ago with my dog Kiko. As Memorial Day approaches, the graves of the war dead are decorated with American flags. Pictured above is the monument to those from the area who gave their lives defending our Union during the Civil War. Let us remember the devastating cost of a nation divided, and of going to war against one another.

As this viciously polarized election season ramps up, let’s take a deep breath and consider that our hard-won democracy might indeed be fragile. Let’s make choices that show we value the sacrifice of all our hometown heroes, of today and generations past. Let’s remember that they have fought and died, and continue to fight, to protect us from falling prey to tyrants. Let’s pay close attention. Let’s not be misguided by anger and spitefulness. Let’s be informed and seek the truth, even when it’s not the truth we want to hear. Let us not be fooled. Let us recognize those who try to manipulate us into willingly laying down our invaluable freedoms.

Long may our land be bright with freedom’s holy light!

–America, Samuel Smith, 1832

Family, Memorials, Nature, Walking the Dog

An Elegy for Fall in her Prime

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We’ve been treated to several weeks of beautiful Fall Bonus Time this year in Northern Virginia. The temperatures have been mild, the sunshine plentiful, and nature’s colors absolutely brilliant. Today’s persistent rain, the remnants of Hurricane Nicole, is gradually, steadily, washing away the season’s brightest jewels. Therefore, I offer a look back on this glorious Autumn as we will remember her, in her dazzling, long-lived prime.

Leaves of burnished copper and gold gleamed in the morning sun in our neighborhood woods,

and in my mother’s front yard. On her porch steps, the summer’s red impatiens rubbed shoulders with later blooming yellow chrysanthemums.

The small sassafrass tree in our front yard put on an exuberant, outsized show.

The season’s glowing colors were often set, to dramatic effect, against a flawless blue sky.

But they were equally spectacular with the addition of a few strategically placed white clouds.

And then there were the exquisite, luminous mornings when an early fog was in a constant state of flux, rising here, settling there. These were days that vividly evoked Keats’ ode To Autumn, that “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.” While the poet’s words hung in the misty air, the painted images of John Constable’s ever-shifting, cloud-filled skies danced in my head.

A bounty of fall berries will be with us, still, for a while. Like the red, bubble-like jewels of honeysuckle,

and the Nandina clusters that mingle with red double knock-out roses along our fence row.

These hearty daisies, always late-blooming, took their good sweet time this year. Although their foliage has been towering high for months, they waited until late October to bloom. They play host to a variety of pollinators, like the insect above, which appears to be a beetle dressed in Halloween attire. It does, indeed, wear a sort of costume, as it’s really a moth, the ailanthus webworm. In flight, a pair of dark gray wings emerges from below the outer ones of orange, white and black. With every closer look, nature’s fantastic eccentricities become more evident.

Carpenter bees often embrace the daisy centers for long minutes at a time, as though in a love-sick stupor.

As leaves fall, dark, bare branches emerge, and the earth gains a carpet of warm bronze, copper and gold.

As I was looking at these photos, I realized that one familiar element is absent: my autumn-colored dog, who left us in July. The view above, along the home stretch on a morning walk, always reminds me of my dear, odd Kiko, a near-constant companion for the past nearly fifteen years. Most days, I don’t actively miss him. I certainly don’t miss him in the weakened, anxious state of his final weeks. But then, in my mind’s eye, I get a flash of my young, spirited dog. I see him bounding up the driveway, or on high alert in the pine straw, watching a squirrel, pointed ears straight up. I’m reminded of his first fall, when he was our brand-new puppy, and my parents had come up from Atlanta to visit. I see my father, his arms around our daughter. She’s holding Kiko. He’s so little. His fur is dark velvety red, his belly still hairless and mottled. Daddy and D look completely, perfectly happy. Kiko looks, well, a little crazy. And he was.

My father and daughter with Kiko. November 1, 2007.

Grief is tenacious and sly. It creeps up and catches us unprepared. But, as I find myself smiling through sudden tears, I understand that it’s mixed with joy. In every image from the past, our loved ones are alive again in the present. In every cherished memory, they’re with us.

On this dreary day, I can still glimpse fall’s flying colors through the rain. Likewise, I can envision our puppy in my daughter’s arms, and I can hear my father’s laughter. Fall is bittersweet, just like memory.

Holiday, Memorials

Skeleton Crew 2022

Soon after our old family friend Slim awakened from his eleven-month slumber a few weeks ago, he began to roam, as usual, from room to room, searching out familiar sights and new attractions. His five loyal pups followed, sniffing the rugs and furniture with interest. “Where’s the honorary leader of the pack?,” he asked. “Too lazy to get off his favorite porch hassock to bid his buddies a happy October? ” The news of Kiko’s passing was quite the unexpected blow for Slim and the dogs. They’d come to cherish our furry one’s calm, quiet presence. They’d been looking forward to his condescending glances. “Who will ride shotgun during our Halloween joyride?,” Slim asked, a tear in his eye.

“I so move that Kiko’s customary spot in the front seat remain vacant,” decreed Fluffy, the eldest and largest of the pack. He hung his big, bony head in sadness. Champ, the second-most senior dog, seconded the motion. Rocky, Ruth and Elfrida nodded their heads in agreement. The pack stood forlornly and out of sorts for a while, their heads downcast.

“But we must carry on in a festive Halloween spirit,” Slim said, with resolution. “Our man Kiko would expect nothing less.” Gathering around the Red Panda House, they swapped stories that celebrated the uniqueness of their departed friend.

Rummaging through boxes of fall decorations, Slim seized on a length of bright orange ribbon and a garland of autumn leaves. “We need some extra touches of holiday cheer this year, gang!” he proclaimed. “This ribbon almost matches the shade of Kiko’s fur.” Halloween sugar cookies further helped to lighten the mood of the pack.

And so Slim and his jauntily adorned pups set about their usual Halloween tasks.  They assembled a fine showing of pumpkins and gourds.  They decorated.  They made merry.  They basked in the warm October sunshine, much as their friend Kiko had enjoyed doing. 

At our church’s Trunk or Treat, on a particularly warm and gorgeous Saturday, Slim and the pack welcomed all manner of ghouls, goblins and crazy creatures, offering candy to young and old alike. Slim’s big-hearted belly laugh mixed pleasantly with the jubilant music provided by our virtuoso pianist, who played a keyboard from the back of a pickup truck.

When Slim smiles, the whole world smiles with him.

“Will Kiko be dropping by?,” Slim asked. Then he shook his head in dismay. “I forgot.”

When it was time to jump in the convertible for the top-down joyride, the pack piled in, somewhat less ebulliently than in previous years. Their furry friend’s place of honor in the front seat remained unoccupied. “Kiko’s like Elijah,” Slim joked. “We save him a place, and we’ll see him again.”

Happy Halloween from the Skeleton Crew!

For a previous Skeleton Crew post that shows how Kiko participated in the festivities, see here. And here, for the time that Slim drove the whole gang, including Kiko, to Charlottesville.

Crafts, Memorials

A Red Panda Sanctuary, A Sanctuary for Kiko

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In May I started work on another dollhouse project, an Orchid House kit from Greenleaf.  This was to be my Red Panda House.  I envisioned it as  home to an extended family of red pandas, to be painted on the house, inside and out.  The red panda is a strong contender for my vote for world’s cutest animal.  I first learned of the existence of this delightful-looking critter when it was featured in the Pandamania curriculum for Vacation Bible School used by our church in 2011.   Since then, it’s become a fixture in pop culture, as in this year’s Disney Pixar film, Turning Red.   Development and climate change increasingly threaten the animal’s native habitat, the high-altitude forests of Asia.  As a result, the red panda is now considered endangered.  I felt the need to build a little painted house that, in my mind, at least, would be a sanctuary for several of these distinctively marked, adorably furry charmers.

This summer, my thoughts rarely strayed too far from Kiko, as I watched his health decline precipitously.  My formerly aloof little dog,  who typically preferred his own, undisturbed space, had become my constant, needy, anxious shadow.  I couldn’t concentrate enough to write much of anything.  Few subjects seemed worthwhile or interesting.  Plus, it was nearly always time to take Kiko out for another hot, uncomfortable walk.  He would be miserable, but perhaps less miserable than he was pacing the house.  My mind was a muddle of discordant and undisciplined thoughts.  The task of stringing together even a few sentences was often too daunting to tackle. 

But work on the Red Panda House helped unclutter my brain.  I could cut out a few balsa wood pieces, do some gluing, a touch of  painting.  I could do it little by little, here and there, a few minutes at a time, yet still know I was making progress.  It was slow going, but that didn’t matter.  I proceeded methodically, step by small step.  Assembling my Red Panda House became, therefore, a therapeutic venture.

In July,  as I began to see that we’d be heartless and selfish to let our beloved dog continue to suffer much further in this life, my mother said, “When Kiko is gone, you should paint a picture of him.”  She was right, of course.  I started thinking about how best to memorialize him.  I’d paint a big picture, at some point.  But I could also, more immediately, give him a place among the red pandas on the house in progress. I’d completed the front, but the sides still needed inhabitants. 

One of the reasons I find the red panda so emphatically appealing is that it reminds me of Kiko.  They could be cousins.  While the face of the  panda is flatter, more like that of a teddy-bear, the muzzle less pointed, the distinctive, perfectly symmetrical markings are similar, as are the ever-perky ears.  Like my dog, they have thick, primarily dark red, double-coated fur.  Kiko would appear to be very much at home with a group of red pandas, at least when that home was a cozy painted dollhouse of my own creation. 

Not long after we said our final goodbye, I painted Kiko onto the house, twice.  On one side, he’s a puppy, at about twelve weeks.  On the other, he looks as he did on his last day in this realm, at fourteen years, eleven months and three weeks.  And like his companions the red pandas, he’s out of harm’s way among the brightly colored flowers and foliage. Never at risk, never worried, never confused.  Always present, always confident, always content.  And when I’m at home, never far from me. 

Puppy Kiko on an exterior side. The house interior is partially visible as a reflection in the mirror.
Old Man Kiko, with two red pandas.
Two red pandas, a cub and an adult, at home inside.
Faith and Spirituality, Family, Memorials

Goodbye, to Grandpa

I hadn’t planned to dwell on the theme of saying goodbye. But life, and death, rarely go according to our plans.

My husband’s father left this world on September 21. We gathered with family and friends in Rochester for his memorial service last weekend, on the day before his eighty-third birthday.

I wrote about H’s dad ten years ago, in a series of Father’s Day posts. (See here.) I referred to him then as Grandpa, because that was who he was to my daughter. As a grandfather, and as a person, he was kind, caring, and fun-loving. Till the very end, he carried with him a jumbo-sized cache of jokes, puns and silly remarks. Many were eye-rolling bad, but some were hilarious, and all of them were offered with the best of intentions. Grandpa understood the value of humor, of never taking oneself too seriously, and he loved laughter.

My husband delivered a tribute to his dad at Saturday’s service, on behalf of himself and his siblings. He wasn’t sure he could get through the talk without breaking down. Our daughter was on point to take over, should he find himself choked with tears. He made it through, with a few pauses to collect himself. He touched on several key aspects that made his father unique. He spoke of how his dad’s interest in science (including his obsessive talent for electrical wiring), his love of animals and music, his devotion to his family and to God, were manifested in unusual and unexpected ways. These were the qualities that made all those who knew him well nod their heads and smile: Yes, that was Dad. That was Grandpa. That was Jim.

My husband spoke of one particularly admirable attribute his father possessed. This was his gift for discovering something good about nearly every person he met. He always claimed to be shy, but he seemed to love nothing better than striking up a conversation with a complete stranger. Wherever he went, no matter the circumstances, he tended to run into “the most wonderful people.” The doctors, nurses and medical staff who treated him (quite successfully) for two types of cancer about ten years ago–they were all “wonderful people.” As were the car salesmen, the repair guys, and the elderly couple behind him in line at Tops Market.

Grandpa treated those around him with kindness and compassion. He sought out and encouraged those qualities in others. When he recognized that goodness within, as he so often did, we were sure to hear about it. Grandpa took to heart, and put into practice, Jesus’s advice to “love one another.” My husband concluded his talk with this question: What would Jim say about me? Am I living as one of those “wonderful people” he valued so highly?

To honor Grandpa’s memory, we’ll try to do just that.

Grandpa with our daughter in Cape Cod, August 2008.

Family, Memorials, Walking the Dog

Time to Say Goodbye (To Kiko, August 15, 2007 – July 24, 2022)

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Kiko, on his final day, July 24, 2022

Four weeks ago, we said goodbye to our beloved dog Kiko. It was twenty-two days before his fifteenth birthday. The time had come, and it would have been cruel to deny it.  He wasn’t suffering from a catastrophic illness, but he was clearly suffering, nonetheless. Over the course of this last year, our family witnessed his decline.  It was a gradual descent, with a smattering of upward blips, typically when least expected.  Out on a walk, he’d occasionally harness a sudden burst of energy and run all the way home.  We could hear the plague-stricken old man in Monty Python’s The Holy Grail declaring, “I’m not dead.”  The last of Kiko’s rallying efforts occurred in mid June.  After that, it was all slow motion. We had taken steps, of course, to improve his condition, to alleviate his pain and anxiety.  None had any substantial effect.  Toward the end, it seemed that our dog was more than simply uncomfortable. He appeared to be perpetually and profoundly uncomfortable, both physically and emotionally. He was as handsome as ever.  His body was as trim and lean, his thick, waxy coat as luxurious, his face, though faded from dark red to white, just as beautiful. Yet he apparently could find no peace, no place of solace, in his skin or in what had been the familiar surroundings of home.

We watched as Kiko’s former pastimes lost their appeal. As his agility decreased, it became difficult for him to access his prime window-level viewing spots. In early May, I wrote about how a ride in a car, once the ultimate thrill, had morphed into just another source of anxiety. His favorite hassock on the screened porch, the site of long pleasant snoozes in summers past–he avoided it. He had given up all interest in wandering our fenced back yard. Instead of alternately baking on the hot bluestone of the patio and cooling in a patch of shady mulch, he tended to stand uncertainly before heading back up the stairs, which he climbed with difficulty. He seemed to have completely forgotten that he ever lay in the pine straw by the bird feeder and kept watch on the wildlife. After getting stuck in the doggy door a couple of times, he no longer attempted to enter or exit the porch on his own. He used to revel in having the freedom to cross the courtyard to my mother’s house for a sausage biscuit or some other tasty snack. Sometimes he’d sleep for hours in his bed in the chill of her family room. More recently, when he reluctantly accompanied me there, he seemed to be particularly worried, pacing endlessly in a circle. He wanted to be home.

But home had become elusive. More and more, he was anxiously pacing in our house, as well. Over and over, he made a circuit from the playroom to the back door. Even when he ate, he’d take a bite of food and walk away. When inside, he wanted to be out, and when outside, he wanted to be in.

For a while, he could retreat to a safe haven upstairs, in his fluffiest, coziest nest of a bed, the one in my room in a secluded spot next to the armoire. After circling a few times, he’d settle and sleep for a while, something he found impossible in any of his assorted beds downstairs.

Kiko’s eyesight and hearing must have been significantly impaired. But his sense of smell apparently remained acute. Because of that, and his general restlessness, we were out five or six times a day on what should have been short walks. We covered small distances, but at a snail’s pace. He still seemed to derive satisfaction from savoring the party platter of neighborhood smells. With his nose deep in the grass, I could imagine that he was fully alive and well again. But before long, he’d look overwhelmed and disoriented. The oppressive heat during his final days didn’t help.

After returning from such a walk, though obviously exhausted, Kiko couldn’t stretch out on the kitchen floor to relax and cool down. Instead, his restlessness continued, to a heartbreaking degree. My once self-assured little dog, who, for so many years, preferred to go his own way, on his own terms, now followed me insistently from room to room, with a plodding gait, panting, questioning, distressed. Holding him, cuddling him–that did no good. He’d pull away, more uneasy than ever. It was as though he refused to be comforted.

Except in the very early hours of the morning. Maybe that was when his desperation or weariness peaked, or when he let his defenses down. During Kiko’s last months, he’d awaken me around two or three AM, standing beside my bed, nosing the covers. He was no longer able to make the leap, but he’d allow me to pick him up and put him in bed with me. He’d circle round and round a few times, but then he’d curl up near me. Sometimes he’d almost snuggle. And then he’d sleep, deeply, and well into the late morning. On his final night, he actually did cuddle close. He slept most of the night with his head resting on my leg. It’s a sensation I hope I never forget. My odd little dog gave me a precious parting gift. He finally let me comfort him.

Kiko has his wings now. He soars as he did in his puppy days. That thought is my present comfort.