Early-Morning Irritability

February 1, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

I try not to use my blog to rant about life’s trivial annoyances. But today I’ll risk sounding like a pouty child. This morning, a series of minor nuisances really ticked me off.

It began around 6:20, when I applied myself, with much concentration, to the vexing mystery of the moment—how to get the little rubber ring to stay put on the lid of my daughter’s new thermos. I persisted, but had no success. The bell of the toaster oven dinged. Because I had devoted too much pointless effort to the thermos, the mini-bagels I had been toasting for D’s breakfast were burned beyond rehabilitation.

It was at this inopportune moment that my husband wandered blithely into the kitchen. He remarked, in all innocence, that he couldn’t understand why D, who is in the process of choosing the classes she will take next year in high school (high school!), needs to continue studying English. She can read. She’s a good writer. What more does she need to know about English?

That comment, following so quickly on the heels of my thermos and bagel difficulties, was the last straw. My poor fragile camel’s back cracked sharply in half. Some say, I responded, through slightly clenched teeth, that there is value in literature. While reading good books is unlikely to lead to a well-paid career . . .no . . . it’s likely to ensure the absence of a well-paid career, it offers some help in coping with life’s disappointments. I stopped there. I did not add this further petulant bitterness: that reading offers the possibility of occasionally eking out some small measure of joy in a world rife with uncooperative thermos rings, annoying toaster ovens and clueless husbands whose idea of enlightening reading is an online windsurfing forum. H wisely kept quiet until he left for work.

And then Kiko and I went out for our walk. Another lovely light snow had fallen. I expected that the walk would lighten my mood. But no. Paved surfaces were far more slippery than I had expected, and Kiko insisted on attempting a break-neck pace, determined to run, if not in the road, then as close to it as possible, where the cars were hurtling by us more aggressively than usual. The salt from the road frequently stung his paws, prompting him to limp flamboyantly, one foot in the air, yet without lessening his speed. I had to repeatedly kneel down to brush the snow from his paw pads. An icy, gusty wind whipped the snow into my eyes, and the blue glare of the sun on the white ground was blinding. My ears were wet and freezing under my scarf, while my hands were too hot in my mittens. I was reminded vividly of why I find skiing so unpleasant. Our morning outing was an ordeal to be suffered through.

On a happier note, it sure is good to be back home. Alone, except for my silent dog, now sleeping peacefully in another room.

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H telephoned later, warning me about the icy roads and clearly trying to appease my irrational meanness. I’m feeling better now. As Gilda Radner’s Roseanne Roseannadanna used to say: Never mind.

Cold AM 006 — It was a beautiful morning to be annoyed.

Family, Walking the Dog

Why Not Just Let the Dog Out?

January 28, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

As suggested on my About Wild Trumpet Vine page, I often write about walking my dog. Those who can’t imagine why anyone would choose to write about dog walking are unlikely to be regular readers. There may be some of you who wonder why my dog has to be walked multiple times a day in every kind of nasty weather. Why not just let him out, occasionally, in the fenced back yard? Doesn’t he have the good sense to relieve himself, perhaps, as we had hoped, in the woodsy, secluded area behind the garage? These are good questions. The answer to the first is complicated; the answer to the second is simple: NO.

Kiko, true to his Shiba Inu nature, is emphatically clean and fastidious. This sounded like an excellent trait when we were considering our future family dog. And in many ways, it is a good trait. Our yard is never messy, and our carpets are holding up well. But obsessive cleanliness has its dark side. Kiko refuses to sully not only his home, but also the broad vicinity of home.

Several years ago we tried cutting down on the walks. After Kiko had injured his back leg in a reckless jump from our unfinished back porch (see A Puppy Days Delayed Replay, Nov. 2011), the vet advised keeping walks to a minimum. At the time, I was recovering from surgery, and the prospect of fewer winter dog walks was appealing.

Ever since he was a puppy, Kiko has indicated his desire to go out by staring fixedly at me, then pawing at the door. Instead of gathering my cold-weather gear and the leash, as I had typically done before, I began opening the door that leads to our porch and enclosed back yard. Kiko would rush through his doggie door with a great sense of urgency and purpose, make a speedy circuit of the yard, return immediately and begin pawing impatiently to come inside. This would be followed by another staring episode, another interior pawing at the door, another fast trip around the yard. We repeated the process so many times that I felt as though I was losing my mind. Kiko seemed to feel the same way. I could see his frustration: Why can’t we walk? I’ve got to get out of this stupid yard! This is my hunting and lounging area, not my potty place, for heaven’s sake!

NewYears001 — The Kiko Stare: Take me Out, Now!!!

I tried walking him on the leash in the back yard, but that only compounded the misery, adding mine to his. I invited neighborhood dogs over to visit, hoping they would mark and inspire Kiko. He remained uninspired and steadfast. His obstinacy is matched by the strength of his bladder; our dog is nothing if not continent. Kiko gave in a very few times, but only in the middle of the night and in hopeless, broken, pitiful desperation. The next day the routine would begin again. No break-through came, and the situation was intolerable. It wasn’t doing anything to further my recovery or my dog’s.

We went back to walking, much to Kiko’s relief, as well as mine. I brought new resolves of patience to the task. I’ve mentioned that despite the miles we cover together, Kiko’s on-leash behavior is generally less than stellar (see The Joys and Travails of Walking our Strange Little Dog, Oct. 2011). But I find it hard to blame him. My extremely social dog is under the thrall of his acute sense of smell. His nose serves as smartphone, Internet, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, all rolled into one neat package that he cannot set aside. Kiko smells great troves of valuable information about his friends—Buster turned left at this corner, Annie says hi, Shyla wonders where he’s been, Lucy is tolerating the new foster puppies, and sweet three-legged Raven is having a good day. I hate to block my dog’s vast friendship network by dictating exactly where he can and cannot go.

KikoLucy006 — Kiko’s nose often leads him to his buddy Lucy, who is similarly fastidious. A well-matched pair of old friends, they seem to be holding paws.

After the painful, failed trial period of not walking, it seemed that Kiko’s behavior improved somewhat, or perhaps I simply chose to believe that it did. I had missed walking my odd little dog even as I tried to avoid it. Now, it’s a given that on the most frigid of mornings, I will be out with Kiko. I walk with him because I consider it my duty. It’s in our contract now. I stay out far longer than necessary because I enjoy it, despite the weather. It wasn’t Kiko’s fault that the tendrils of hair at the side of my face froze one day last week when it was 15 degrees. I had been breathing into my scarf, and the condensation turned to ice. We didn’t need to wander for an hour and a half (although cold days are Kiko’s preference). But I was well-bundled, and once we were out, in the still-snowy, beautifully frozen woods, spotting Kiko’s double, the red fox, the watchful pair of hawks, the pileated woodpecker and the white deer that roams our area, I didn’t want to hurry home.

Community, Family, Nature, Parenthood

What is this White Stuff?

January 24, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

We woke up this morning, unexpectedly, to snow. It wasn’t a lot of snow, but it was enough to cover the yard and nicely powder the trees and shrubs, to give the world a sort of winter facelift. It’s been ages since we’ve seen snow here in northern Virginia, so it was a welcome sight. Schools were delayed two hours, giving my daughter, a snow fanatic, the chance to enjoy it. The snow piled up prettily on the nandina berries, above.

Today’s snow is pleasant, attractive and manageable. I don’t miss the winters of constant snow, as my daughter does. When she was in preschool and kindergarten, seems like every Friday from December through February brought just enough accumulation to shut down the schools. The prospect of another snow day overjoyed her as much as it exhausted me. I don’t look back fondly on the years of blizzard after blizzard. I hated the many transportation worries. Will the schoolbus make it through? Will the steeply winding road home be passable? Should I cancel that appointment? What havoc will be wreaked by those drivers who have no business venturing out in such weather? Will my husband get stuck behind someone who is unwisely inching up the long hill, again? Will D and I be left to try to shovel the driveway alone, anxiously awaiting roadside updates from H?

The snowy weather ceased, of course, once H bought a snowblower. While he’s been itching to give it a try, I wouldn’t mind if he doesn’t need it again this winter. Or, maybe, to please him and D, he could use it just once. For their sake, I wouldn’t mind one lovely deep snow. While I’m wishing, I’ll wish for the flakes to start falling some Friday night after we’re all safely home.

The yard was covered, just barely, with snow. The trees and bushes were powdered white.

Kiko seemed to have completely forgotten that he had ever experienced snow before. He found it strange but exhilarating.

The first glimpse of the sun in the sky this morning could have been lifted from a Currier and Ives print.

Walking the Dog

Again, Sunny Spots for (Cat) Naps

January 18, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

After four days of leaden skies and drizzle, followed by the false promise of snow, which disappointed and infuriated my daughter, the sun finally made an appearance. Kiko and I were both relieved to be out in a dryer, more colorful world, and we walked longer than usual this morning. The sunshine was accompanied by icy breezes, and once home, it took a while to warm up. Kiko seemed to be overwhelmed by the sudden abundance of cozy, sunny patches for napping. He tried out several of his usual spots in the playroom before wandering off to the living room. The sun was shining like a spotlight on a red upholstered chair. I’ve never seen Kiko even consider hopping up on that chair. But it clearly summoned him today, and his eyes were closed before he had put his head down. Further support was offered for my husband’s claim that we share our home with a cat rather than a dog.

KikoinSun002 — Our cat-dog at rest in the sun.

Community, Nature, Walking the Dog

Cold, Miserable Rainy-Day Dog-Walking

January 16, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

The recent cold, rainy weather here in Virginia has been the sort that tests even the most dedicated dog walker. The mornings have brought no pastel watercolor skies, no evidence, really, at all, of the existence of a distant, light and life-giving golden orb. There is only a gradual diminishing of the steely gray darkness. The atmosphere of pervasive gloom is not lessened as the day progresses. It’s hard to look on the bright side when no bright side is visible.

On dreary wet mornings like this one, Kiko’s enthusiasm for the first outing of the day is, thankfully, muted. If the sound of rain is loud and continuous, he might remain curled in his bed, small and fox-like, for several hours. We have postponed that initial walk as late as 11:00 AM on some rainy days. I was hoping this would be the case today, but unfortunately it was not. I was able to delay him for about an hour, but no longer.

I cannot complain of being poorly equipped for dog walking in inclement weather. Prompted either by tender familial devotion or a determination that none of us would have an excuse for not walking the dog on wet days, my husband has outfitted the whole family with extensive rain gear. In addition to hooded, high-tech jackets, we have waterproof boots and pants. If it’s pouring rain, and if I can locate my rain pants (that’s a big if), I’m glad to pull them on over my jeans. More typically, I decide that the rain isn’t steady or strong enough to warrant leg protection. I usually regret this decision, as I did today.

Rain seems to bring out the absolute worst in Kiko’s on-leash behavior. You’d never know he is a Puppy Obedience School grad. (But we have the photo of him, looking ridiculous in a mortarboard hat, to prove it.) The wet weather apparently enhances the depth and variety of earthy smells, so Kiko dawdles excessively, his nose working furiously. Rainy-day walks seem to be, for my dog, the equivalent of science labs. Unless I tug him unmercifully, we inch along. Every clump of grass beckons, begging to be sniffed and sampled, its delicate taste evidently heightened by the rain. Every messy smudge on the road asks to be examined and identified. Dangerous human snacks like bony chicken wings are more likely to be discovered on rainy days, and I must fish them out of his mouth with my fingers. At least Kiko has outgrown his taste for earthworms. If he finds nothing of interest directly in front of him, he tends to stand transfixed, a model of indecision, checking the air for enticing aromas nearby. Finally, there’s what I call his fake-out marking, more prevalent in the rain. He smells a spot lingeringly and intently; he pauses, looks up, almost lifts his leg, yet decides against it.

The more impatient and miserable I become during these rainy walks, the slower Kiko moves. This morning I opted against bringing an umbrella. No matter how often I tugged my hood forward, it kept slipping back, letting rain drop into my eyes, ears and hair. Water trickled into the gap at my wrist between jacket and glove. My gloves were soon heavy and cumbersome. My formerly watertight boots have recently developed a leak, and the first puddle admitted a small flood. One foot was immediately drenched.

The final part of the walk is the worst, along a narrow county road that winds along by the stream bed. It’s picturesque, but treacherous. The nearly nonexistent shoulder is muddy, rutted and overgrown. I’m continually amazed at the cars that fly by, mere inches from my shoulder. I have been known, I admit, to shake my head slowly from side to side, or even to gesture forcefully, if not specifically, in hopes that some may think to slow down, or perhaps, when there is no oncoming traffic, to move closer to the center line. If I ever turn up in the “Public Safety Notes” of our free local paper, I predict it will be due to my encounter with some driver along this stretch of road. I hope it will involve no bodily harm to either party. I expect it will mention something like a “heated verbal exchange.”

For those of you, who, like me, are out there with your dog on dismal mornings, I commiserate with you. And for those who have no dog that requires walking, be sure to count this today as one of your blessings!

He looks so sweet–why can’t he sleep all day long?

Nature, Walking the Dog

A January Dawn

January 9, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

In my last post, I was dwelling on the dying of the day, on the quick and early onset of the January evening, to be faced without benefit of Christmas candles. This morning, as Kiko and I set out on our walk, I realized it had been a while since I paid close attention to the onset of the day. This winter sunrise, I would be observant. I was not disappointed.

The morning didn’t appear especially promising as we began. The sky was stubbornly gray, the land dull and shadowy. The possibility of further light seemed unlikely. But before long, real signs of sunrise became evident. Soon the bare tree branches were silhouetted in inky black, as in a Magritte painting, against a sky that shaded from rose to lavender. A bright crescent moon hung, jewel-like.

These trees seem to lean in towards one another for company as they await the light.

I hadn’t planned on venturing into the woods, but Kiko was determined. Despite the difficulties of negotiating the brambles and unruly profusion of vines while being tugged along by my headstrong dog, I was glad he insisted. A perfect-looking January morning should be snow-covered, in my opinion. In the absence of the white fluffy stuff, a heavy frost is the next-best adornment. The tangled weeds along the banks of the creek were dressed up with a pearly iridescent coating. The woods and sky glowed with the same pale, elegant luminosity. Such winter mornings are among the early-rising dog-walkers’ best rewards; I’m glad I didn’t miss this one.

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Holiday, Nature

Moving On, Into a New Year

January 7, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

It’s the seventh of January, 2013. Epiphany has been celebrated; the Christmas season is officially over. The electric candles in our windows have clicked on and off for the last time this winter. Tonight’s early January dusk will have to stand on its own; there will be no soothing, quasi-magical boost of simulated candlelight. We are back in ordinary time. Yet again, the days sped by too quickly.

This is the dreaded week of my Christmas clean-up. I began the day by wandering remorsefully through the house, wishing we hadn’t put up six trees, wondering where to start the process of un-decoration. As always, I will resolve this year, for a change, to find the right boxes for the packing-up. When I can’t manage that, I will vow to locate an actual working marker to label the boxes. When even that proves undoable, I will tell myself that I’ll remember what I put where. Eleven months from now, I will be standing in our frigid attic, muddled and confused. The box that professes to contain miniature trees will be full of stockings and bead garlands. Where did the box of white lights go this time? Some crucial item, usually one of our star tree-toppers, will have vanished completely.

But it’s a new year, and it’s time to move on. The trappings of the holiday season have undergone an unmistakable, unsavory shift in essence. Five weeks ago, they were the stuff of joy and hope. Now they are clutter. The blue spruce is droopy and dry, its needles as sharp as steel.

I look forward, past the mess, envisioning the uncluttered, restful simplicity of mid-January. It’s an illusion, a vanishing mirage, of course. With a vengeance, this first month bursts with the business of everyday life. A glance at the calendar reveals an exhausting proliferation of church meetings, school volunteer meetings and appointments with doctors. All that and all the Christmas debris, still here.

Yet the reality of the new year brings a clearer, if starker, light. It gladdens my heart to think that the shortest, darkest day of the year has come and gone. The earth is turning, tilting toward spring. The leaves of the rhododendrons in our back garden shrivel in the cold, but their blooms are set, ready and waiting. Nature’s optimism and foresight promises renewal. It really is time to move on.

A rhododendron bud stands by for spring.

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Holiday

We’re All Family Here

December 25, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

I’ve noticed that when TV sit-coms and the annual crop of heartwarming holiday movies attempt to address the “real meaning of Christmas,” it often comes down to this lukewarm message: It’s about family. Not wanting to offend the secular audience, or those of other faiths, there is never a mention of Jesus, Christ, the Savior of the world, Emmanuel, or the Messiah. As a Christian, I wish this were not always the case.

But after some thought, I realize, the TV explanation isn’t completely inadequate. Christmas is about family. It’s not just about trying to tolerate, for one day or a long weekend, the nuclear and extended family that gathers with us for the annual gift extravaganza. It’s about being the family of God throughout the world.

God loves us so much that he sent his only son to live among us as a little baby. He came down to our level, took on a human body and human frailty, so he could show us how to live, how to give, how to share. Because he became one of us, we needn’t doubt that he understands our fears, our weaknesses and our shortcomings. God knows what it’s like to be mocked, unappreciated, mistrusted and reviled. He knows what it’s like when even our closest friends betray and abandon us. He understands suffering and death. He knows what it’s like to lose a child. He truly feels our pain.

God has made us his children. We are neither slaves nor possessions. It is not our own worthiness that has granted us this favored role, but his unfailing love and forgiveness. Through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, we are heirs to God’s eternal kingdom. As grateful heirs, we are to respond to his grace by cultivating the seeds of love he has sown within us.

Christmas reminds us that we are all God’s children. No matter how vast our differences in circumstance, appearance or culture, we are brothers and sisters. We’re all family here.

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Friendship

The Light Shines in the Darkness, No Matter What Happens

December 24, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

–Luke 1: 5

As I contemplated a post for Christmas Eve, I realized that the one I wrote last year still expresses my thoughts for the day. I modified the end somewhat, in response to recent tragedies, including that in Newtown, Connecticut.

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Our church’s candlelight Christmas Eve service is one of the highlights of the year. Each person receives a small white candle upon entering. Toward the end of the service, the sanctuary goes dark. The acolytes assist the congregation with the lighting of the individual, hand-held candles. Gradually, while we sing Silent Night, the light grows. By the final verse, the sanctuary is brightly glowing, as each member of the congregation holds high a lighted candle.

The process is a beautiful expression of God’s love. Into the darkness of the world, God sent a light. It appeared dim and insignificant at first. But soon it grew brighter and kindled countless other lights. When we allow the light of God’s gift to come alive within us, we glow. And we, in turn, have the power to spread the light. Our combined light is a mighty force. The darkness will not overcome it.

The source of the light is one baby, born to an unknown young woman and witnessed only by her trusting husband and perhaps the animals of a stable. In an unlikely juxtaposition, a multitude of angels announces the birth not to the ruling elite, but to shepherds in the fields outside of town. (This is nevertheless appropriate, because the baby’s great ancestor David was a shepherd boy when he was hand-picked to be king.) Before long, the birth of the child has attracted the attention of wise men from distant Eastern lands. Led by a singular star, they embark on a long journey to find the humble family. They bow down in awe before the baby and present him with rare and costly gifts.

God’s great gift turns the world upside down, upsets its expected order. There is no room in the comfort of any inn for God’s only son. Angels appear to lowly shepherds, and kings worship a baby. Allowing God’s light to shine within us may lead us to unexpected places. The tidiness of our lives is likely to be overturned. This is the difficulty in letting our inner light shine. Its power may summon us to go where we would rather not venture. It may be more convenient to quench that light, to hide it under a bushel. But knowing that the flame that dwells within us is from God, the light of salvation, ever-present, we can have the courage to go where it wills us.

The darkness of our world may seem impenetrable at times. When innocent children and their caring leaders are massacred on a crisp Friday morning two weeks before Christmas, our world appears almost unimaginably dark. It would seem that God turned his back that day in Newtown, Connecticut. What about the angels some say he sends? Where were they that day? No one, not the most learned theologian or the holiest, most enlightened human, can adequately explain why such terrible things happen. Certainly I can’t. But it helps me to realize that we lack God’s all-seeing perspective. We see through the glass dimly; we can’t grasp the big picture. Maybe God did send angels that day, but they didn’t work as we might expect. Maybe those who died in Newtown were needed elsewhere; maybe they were promoted early to a place of honor and privilege somewhere we might call heaven.

Despite the evil that is abroad in the world, God’s love is stronger. We are never alone; he is with us even in the worst of times. He is there to lead us to the light, out of the depths of despair. On this Christmas Eve, I pray for the light to be kindled and nourished in hearts throughout the world. And I pray that we will have the strength to let the light be our guide.

Do not be afraid; for see—I bring you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.

–Luke 2: 10b-11

Crafts, Family, Holiday

The Gingerbread Village Today

December 23, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

For several years it appeared that our gingerbread structures were none the worse for wear despite constant exposure to household elements. When I started to notice a few small flying moths, I searched the pantry, found nothing, and tried to ignore the problem. But the moths became more difficult to ignore. I began to spot them regularly in the vicinity of the playroom hutch, and I was soon led to the source of the dusty-winged pests. Our cheery, kid-friendly cottage, the first of my daughter’s and my combined efforts, had lost its battle with an invading army of mealworms. I remembered then that I had sprayed the house only once, instead of my customary twice, with acrylic fixative. It was time to rethink the year-round gingerbread display.

The pastel candy-covered house went in the trash (despite D’s pleas that it could be saved—the poor child, I fear, has inherited a potential hoarding gene from both sides of the family). I tried to seal and pack the other buildings as thoroughly as my mother would have done. The castle, though, exceeded the size of any box I could find. Mama would have painstakingly pieced together something that would contain it. I did not do this. I wrapped the castle in plastic, tried to tape over the unclosable box flaps, and hoped for the best. We stored all the boxes on shelves in the basement, which, incidentally, no longer flooded.

Just a few months after the village had been packed away, the inadequacy of my storage of the castle becamse dramatically apparent. During every quick trip to the basement, a rustling, scurrying sound could be heard. Before long, we had localized the noise to the castle box. Clearly, it was the pitter-patter of tiny feet. A multitude of mice had hit the housing jackpot; they were living large in a sweet, edible palace. When my husband carried the box to the back yard and opened it, five mice on a sugar high zipped out, ran right back down the steps and disappeared into the murky corners of the basement. The castle had been almost completely denuded of its abundant, exuberant royal icing.

We were forced to reckon with our mice-control system. Capturing them in humane traps, easing their nerves by feeding them Cheerios and then releasing them a couple of miles down the road at the edge of the woods was not yielding the best results. Sadly, we adopted more stringent measures, and we no longer found evidence of mouse parties. But the fate of the castle made me even less eager to unpack the remaining gingerbread houses as December rolled around each year. Seven years passed.

Just after Thanksgiving this year, I decided I had the time, energy and fortitude of mind to confront the stored boxes. Still, I dreaded what I might discover. I knew that our house played host to other creatures besides mice that were likely to enjoy dining on gingerbread.

One by one, I unsealed the boxes and brought out each house. The thatched cottage from 1989 had a few issues with its Shredded Wheat roof, but otherwise it had held up well. The Norman church tower from 1990 was missing only a few crenellations along its roofline. The manor house and its adjoining wing (’91 & ’92) had both survived mostly intact. The white Gothic tower, made to commemorate our wedding in 1995, showed few signs of age. All its surfaces had been completely covered in white royal icing, and I had expected it to have a long life. The replica of St. Kevin’s Kitchen (’96), a playhouse-sized eleventh-century Irish chapel, looked good as new except for having lost its conical chimney cap. Only one building was a loss. The nave of the Norman church (’93) had succumbed to a mealworm infestation like the one that had destroyed the candy cottage. I took each house outside to the back patio for a thorough coating of acrylic spray. The village is back on the playroom hutch again, at least for Christmas (and perhaps through Valentine’s Day).

The Manor House, St. Kevin’s Kitchen (so-called because of its chimney-like tower), the Gothic Bell Tower, and Manor House Wing.

A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.