Just the other day I was ‘talking’ to one of my ministers about being a musician. The email conversation started with the discussion over my availability to play for their church in the absence of their pianist. Alas, I was already booked and the response was, “That’s because you are toooooooo popular.”
My answer: No, just a cheap piano picker
Reply: At least not a cheap and easy piano picker!
Me: You may not know it, but I was a nightclub musician for many moons and we musicians have a reputation to live 'down to' ~ there's a very fine line that separates us from the dark side. As we mature, we graduate from the smoky stage to more respectable venues such as playing the church organ. As we age we get weaker, and the fine line is more difficult to walk. The dark side has a large vacuum just waiting for the frail and unsuspecting to walk that line dividing respectability and the previous life we lead in the caverns of secular life. About the time we retire from playing for the church, the automaton on the dark side switches on and drags us over. That's the only explanation for how we little old lady organists get siphoned from our side of the continuum to the other side where we take up drinking and cursing.
Reply: Oh, really?
Me: Well, maybe it only happened to me. Curses be upon that Canadian Whiskey!
Ah, back in the day of live music and not DJs with turntables.
In 1972, my best-guy-friend and trumpet section buddy, Steve, invited me to play in a band. I was all of sixteen years old and weighed about 75 pounds. I had long red hair and no shape to speak of, but I could play the trumpet as well as any upper classman and some college students. We played most of the music that was currently on the dance hit list and a lot of oldies from Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman” / Marvin Gaye's “Let’s Get It On” / The Temptations’ “Just My Imagination Running Away With Me” to the more contemporary music of bands such as Chicago and Blood, Sweat & Tears.
Most of our gigs were in local bars, er, uh, I mean establishments, including a club in Port Arthur on Hwy 73 just outside the city limits. I can’t for the life of me remember the name of it, but the stage was protected by chicken wire. For those of you who can remember the movie “The Blues Brothers” you will have a perfect mental image of this place. They had to bring me in through a back door to the stage because I was underage for front door entry. However, I was grateful that the chicken wire was a barrier between me and the creatures on the other side. I also had all six of my male band members to protect me. (My parents had no clue where we played most of the time. They were invited to venues like the Southeast Texas State Fair and church youth functions.)
Those years were an absolute blast. I had the freedom of an adult most young people wished for, and I was part of a music group that was really, really very good. We had a great sound. I was both proud and giddy to be part of the world of performing music live on stage. The late nights didn’t bother me. The later the hour the more pumped up I would get. Even considering the dark elements involved with nightclub musicians, the band was one of the things that kept me feeling alive. Music was also one of my escapes from a home life I considered unbearable.
The band stayed together through a number of member changes and the musical evolution of the seventies dance genre. It expanded to a ten member group named “The Sound Express” with three trumpets, one trombone, a keyboard/singer, lead guitar, rhythm guitar, bass guitar, a drummer and a soloist with several of us singing backup vocals. In 1974 I married the bass player, and several of the guys, including Steve, were in the wedding. I remained active in the band until 1977 when I decided to take a step back and concentrated my life on becoming a mother.
Fast forward to the year 2000. I was in the process of auditing the membership records of a large Methodist church in League City and utilized several good search engines to locate members who had moved away. While doing so, I searched high school web sites to look for old friends of whom I had lost sight. I tried several times to locate Steve. Last I knew he had moved to San Antonio to be a horticulturalist for Breckenridge Park. He was one of those friends who was probably the closest person to me during our junior high and high school band years. He was my sounding board and traveling companion on band trips. He was who I cried on when my boyfriend dumped me, and he is the person who introduced me to the young man I married - the father of my daughter. I had a nagging feeling that I needed to hear from him, just enough to say hello and talk about how the time had passed. For some reason it was important to me. Maybe I was just getting older and mentally reliving the glory days of the past.
I gave up the search because I hit brick walls at every turn. In the meantime, I found other friends like Gwen and Sheila. Life went back to normal routines, leaving the glamour of my young music days behind.
Until Facebook came along . . .
When Facebook is opened you find that one friend has logged on to invite you to be their friend, and a link to someone else is seen. Another friend is made and poof, you are back in high school and college, only now we are bragging on grandchildren or showing pictures of our children’s weddings, pictures of cars and motorcycles we would have loved to own in our younger days and sharing the joys of travels we couldn’t afford while we were starting families. On the click of the mouse I spotted Steve’s brother. I made the connection and asked the question I was afraid would have the response I felt in my heart I would hear, but still hoped “doing well and getting old like the rest of us” would be the words on the screen. Yet, it was not to be. I read the words that told me my dear friend left this earth about ten years ago - right about the time I was searching for him.
The news of his loss brought my day to a standstill. The ache that tightened my throat and around my heart was so strong I left my office and had to walk outside. I have lost so many music and art friends in recent years. I had bitter words for myself because I didn’t try harder to find him those many years ago. I never had the chance to tell him how much I cared for him, how much his friendship meant to me, how much he had influenced my life. Steve never knew that our shared laughter on those hot bus rides to and from band functions was often the only joy I had in my week. And, had it not been for his invitation to join a band, I would not have met the father of my daughter ~ I would have never known the joy of my daughter’s love and friendship.
For all these things, my dear friend Steve, I thank you. Someday I hope to embrace you, and you will know how much you meant. Until then, you will remain a fond memory for whom my heart will quietly weep.
Froggie Came A-Callin'
I had a visitor one night that took me by surprise. I opened my laundry room door and a creature bounced off the wall onto my shirt and zipped off me to land on another wall. Talk about a heart stopping moment! As soon as he landed I noticed it was a brown frog whose body was about an inch long with legs at least twice as long as his body. When he folded his legs in against his body to prepare for his next spring into the air he looked like a brown leaf on the wall.
Not wanting the poor creature to become dog fodder or dog entertainment until he expired from a heart attack, I quickly shut the door and began my attempts to catch him. I didn’t want to smash him or catch him by a leg and possibly injure him. My goal was to catch him with cupped hands and walk him out to the yard where he belonged. (Let us remember that I was 54 years old at the time.) This little guy was so fast and could spring from a dead sit to land somewhere more than three feet away in less than a second. He went around me, over me, past me, on top of me. After about fifteen minutes of Catch Me If You Can, we were both visibly breathing a little harder.
I decided I needed to think smarter. I needed to think like a frog. I opened the door to the garage and the garage door to the yard hoping he would sense, or smell, home and head that way. Didn’t happen. He hopped onto the washer. My next move was to cattle-rustle him the direction I wanted him to go. I flapped, I cooed, I talked to him. The only response I got was from the other side of the door where two large dogs were eager to find out what was so exciting on my side of the laundry room door. Now we have added the baying of the beasts on yonder side to the picture.
We managed to hop to the garage where he has now determined that Lil’ Buddy (the model A) would be a good home. I knew he would eventually die in the garage if I didn’t get him outside. I am sure the neighbors thought I was crazy dancing and whooping in the garage all alone with no music to be heard. Not to mention what it looked like when I made my dive under Lil’ Buddy when Froggie took off in that direction. I managed to get down on my hands and knees and herd him from under the car to a side wall where the recycling buckets were.
I knew I had him when he plopped down into the bottom of the recycle container! I covered the container with my whole body while he bounced around inside trying to escape. Heh, heh, I had him now. I waited until he tired, then angled my body such that I could get one hand cupped down on top of him. Then I gently brought the other hand down and maneuvered until he was safely nestled in my hands. Safely nestled was my term. His terminology would be vastly different. . . .something along the lines of “Oh #@#*! the monster’s got me.”
Okay, he was now in my hands. My body was still half on the recycling box with my knees grinding into the concrete floor and there was no-one to help hoist me up. I dropped to my haunches and landed on my backside, scooted to the wall and slid my body up the wall to gain vertical stance, groaning and moaning more than I did while giving birth to my daughter. Dang it, I do believe this was harder! This was no simple feat and took about five minutes, all the while this poor frog was whirling around in my hands emptying his bladder in pure panic.
I tried to console him as we walked to the yard where I set him free. He lost no time bounding away. As I washed my hands, I pondered on when and why my sense of protection and preservation swooped in so strongly. Why didn’t I just leave him locked in the garage? Why did I worry that I might back the car over him? Something about the defenseless creatures of the world makes me a big old softie. Now, if it had been a spider or a cockroach, one good whack with a shoe would have been well deserved. But a little frog . . . I just couldn’t resist the instinct to step in and save him.
So I burned the eggs in the pan. And I probably released him to the outdoors to the first creature that was waiting to snatch him up for a nocturnal snack. Or maybe he made it to the base of the tree to drop dead from heart failure over the ordeal. And there is the possibility that I would back over him the next morning in the driveway. But I made the attempt that night to do something good, and I felt a sense of accomplishment. It was a good feeling to hold the little frog and know that he was spared for the moment. I know he didn’t understand, but I wanted to save him. I needed to do an unselfish deed that day. I didn’t desire accolades from the heavens over an achievement, just needed a little frog to help me feel better about myself and the world.
Not wanting the poor creature to become dog fodder or dog entertainment until he expired from a heart attack, I quickly shut the door and began my attempts to catch him. I didn’t want to smash him or catch him by a leg and possibly injure him. My goal was to catch him with cupped hands and walk him out to the yard where he belonged. (Let us remember that I was 54 years old at the time.) This little guy was so fast and could spring from a dead sit to land somewhere more than three feet away in less than a second. He went around me, over me, past me, on top of me. After about fifteen minutes of Catch Me If You Can, we were both visibly breathing a little harder.
I decided I needed to think smarter. I needed to think like a frog. I opened the door to the garage and the garage door to the yard hoping he would sense, or smell, home and head that way. Didn’t happen. He hopped onto the washer. My next move was to cattle-rustle him the direction I wanted him to go. I flapped, I cooed, I talked to him. The only response I got was from the other side of the door where two large dogs were eager to find out what was so exciting on my side of the laundry room door. Now we have added the baying of the beasts on yonder side to the picture.
We managed to hop to the garage where he has now determined that Lil’ Buddy (the model A) would be a good home. I knew he would eventually die in the garage if I didn’t get him outside. I am sure the neighbors thought I was crazy dancing and whooping in the garage all alone with no music to be heard. Not to mention what it looked like when I made my dive under Lil’ Buddy when Froggie took off in that direction. I managed to get down on my hands and knees and herd him from under the car to a side wall where the recycling buckets were.
I knew I had him when he plopped down into the bottom of the recycle container! I covered the container with my whole body while he bounced around inside trying to escape. Heh, heh, I had him now. I waited until he tired, then angled my body such that I could get one hand cupped down on top of him. Then I gently brought the other hand down and maneuvered until he was safely nestled in my hands. Safely nestled was my term. His terminology would be vastly different. . . .something along the lines of “Oh #@#*! the monster’s got me.”
Okay, he was now in my hands. My body was still half on the recycling box with my knees grinding into the concrete floor and there was no-one to help hoist me up. I dropped to my haunches and landed on my backside, scooted to the wall and slid my body up the wall to gain vertical stance, groaning and moaning more than I did while giving birth to my daughter. Dang it, I do believe this was harder! This was no simple feat and took about five minutes, all the while this poor frog was whirling around in my hands emptying his bladder in pure panic.
I tried to console him as we walked to the yard where I set him free. He lost no time bounding away. As I washed my hands, I pondered on when and why my sense of protection and preservation swooped in so strongly. Why didn’t I just leave him locked in the garage? Why did I worry that I might back the car over him? Something about the defenseless creatures of the world makes me a big old softie. Now, if it had been a spider or a cockroach, one good whack with a shoe would have been well deserved. But a little frog . . . I just couldn’t resist the instinct to step in and save him.
So I burned the eggs in the pan. And I probably released him to the outdoors to the first creature that was waiting to snatch him up for a nocturnal snack. Or maybe he made it to the base of the tree to drop dead from heart failure over the ordeal. And there is the possibility that I would back over him the next morning in the driveway. But I made the attempt that night to do something good, and I felt a sense of accomplishment. It was a good feeling to hold the little frog and know that he was spared for the moment. I know he didn’t understand, but I wanted to save him. I needed to do an unselfish deed that day. I didn’t desire accolades from the heavens over an achievement, just needed a little frog to help me feel better about myself and the world.
Sisters
On the vanity of my sister Alicia’s hall bathroom you will find a framed picture of two little girls in a tub full of bubbles. One has bright red hair and the other has pale blonde hair. They have impish grins on their faces, and bubbles decorate their cheeks and noses. You can tell they are having a blast and can guess that more than a little bit of water would need to be mopped up when bath time ended. This photo is of Alicia’s two daughters, probably around the ages five and three. They have shared a sisterhood like many women do - close, strong loving bonds that will serve to fiercely defend each other if under attack of any sort, yet I have seen those two fight like screeching wildcats over next to nothing. They almost have a language of their own and often question and answer each other with one-word byplays only they can understand.
With a difference of over six years between us, I did not have that kind of relationship with Alicia. Alicia was only seven or eight when our mother suffered through an extreme illness. I doubt that she remembers much of that time period or the struggles surrounding it. I am certain she had no idea of the turmoil my selfish little being was going through. I spent my days walking all over town to visit friends and to escape the realities at home. I wandered while my head spun with visions of grandeur and dreamed of living a life far different from mine. I certainly did not spend much time at home with a little girl I could not relate to. Let’s be honest. How many junior high age girls want to hang out with their families? At that age, our heads are in the clouds or up our butts. What could someone fourteen years old have in common with a second grader?
Puh-leeeeezzzzz! I was grown and gone from home while Alicia was still a mere kid.
I married right after graduating high school. Other than my giddiness over the wedding, I remember very little of home life those months leading up to my marriage. What is in the back of my memory is that Alicia seemed to be present every time I turned around. I even discovered her hiding under a cabinet in the bathroom. I got angry and told my mother she was following me, bugging me, snooping on me and in general getting on my nerves. The age gap between us was monumental in my eyes. I had no time or patience to deal with a kid following me around. Mother told me that Alicia was simply insecure about losing me. She was too young to understand that I was not going to disappear from her life after I married.
As time passed, my relationship with Alicia evolved. I am not certain that I can put my finger on the turning point, either. I found myself feeling not so much like a sister, but feeling more like an older friend who carted Alicia and her friends to the fair, had them over for slumber parties and acted as her personal photographer for all the events in her life. Still, the age difference remained an invisible barrier. We never had that in-sync mind-set that Alicia’s daughters display. We were not confidants or shopping buddies. We didn’t talk on the phone routinely as most friends do. I was busy with my own life being a wife and mother. I had friends of my own and other interests on which I concentrated. Building a relationship with her never dawned on me as something I needed to do. I was a self-sufficient steam-roller laying the groundwork of my life and needed help from
no-one. However, life takes you places you never realize you need to go until you arrive. And that is where I find myself today.
As my life progressed, the divide of our years and lifestyles narrowed to become immaterial. When Alicia joined my world of married women and motherhood I found we had more in common to share. I came to appreciate her talent with arts and crafts. Alicia is a wonderful wife and mother to her husband and daughters. She loves openly and deeply. She is loyal, honest and forthright. Life’s hard curves, such as our father’s untimely death, forged bonds between us that can never be broken.
I am at a crossroad in life where I find myself in need of something I never needed before ~ that confidant, that companion, that person I can go to at any time for any thing. As mother’s Alzheimer’s progresses I am acutely aware that I could not handle daily life without Alicia. Just the simple act of sharing laughter with her gives me strength to continue. Where I needed no-one before, I now seek Alicia out for advice. I turn to her when in despair. I pick up the phone just to hear her voice for a few minutes of adult conversation. I eagerly participate in every aspect of the lives of her daughters as I watch them evolve into young women with unique qualities of their own. I have come full circle. Where many siblings grow up close in age and drift apart as adults, my journey has lead me to the discovery of this kindred spirit I call my very own. Thousands of women have sisters, but none can say they have my sister.
With a difference of over six years between us, I did not have that kind of relationship with Alicia. Alicia was only seven or eight when our mother suffered through an extreme illness. I doubt that she remembers much of that time period or the struggles surrounding it. I am certain she had no idea of the turmoil my selfish little being was going through. I spent my days walking all over town to visit friends and to escape the realities at home. I wandered while my head spun with visions of grandeur and dreamed of living a life far different from mine. I certainly did not spend much time at home with a little girl I could not relate to. Let’s be honest. How many junior high age girls want to hang out with their families? At that age, our heads are in the clouds or up our butts. What could someone fourteen years old have in common with a second grader?
Puh-leeeeezzzzz! I was grown and gone from home while Alicia was still a mere kid.
I married right after graduating high school. Other than my giddiness over the wedding, I remember very little of home life those months leading up to my marriage. What is in the back of my memory is that Alicia seemed to be present every time I turned around. I even discovered her hiding under a cabinet in the bathroom. I got angry and told my mother she was following me, bugging me, snooping on me and in general getting on my nerves. The age gap between us was monumental in my eyes. I had no time or patience to deal with a kid following me around. Mother told me that Alicia was simply insecure about losing me. She was too young to understand that I was not going to disappear from her life after I married.
As time passed, my relationship with Alicia evolved. I am not certain that I can put my finger on the turning point, either. I found myself feeling not so much like a sister, but feeling more like an older friend who carted Alicia and her friends to the fair, had them over for slumber parties and acted as her personal photographer for all the events in her life. Still, the age difference remained an invisible barrier. We never had that in-sync mind-set that Alicia’s daughters display. We were not confidants or shopping buddies. We didn’t talk on the phone routinely as most friends do. I was busy with my own life being a wife and mother. I had friends of my own and other interests on which I concentrated. Building a relationship with her never dawned on me as something I needed to do. I was a self-sufficient steam-roller laying the groundwork of my life and needed help from
no-one. However, life takes you places you never realize you need to go until you arrive. And that is where I find myself today.
As my life progressed, the divide of our years and lifestyles narrowed to become immaterial. When Alicia joined my world of married women and motherhood I found we had more in common to share. I came to appreciate her talent with arts and crafts. Alicia is a wonderful wife and mother to her husband and daughters. She loves openly and deeply. She is loyal, honest and forthright. Life’s hard curves, such as our father’s untimely death, forged bonds between us that can never be broken.
I am at a crossroad in life where I find myself in need of something I never needed before ~ that confidant, that companion, that person I can go to at any time for any thing. As mother’s Alzheimer’s progresses I am acutely aware that I could not handle daily life without Alicia. Just the simple act of sharing laughter with her gives me strength to continue. Where I needed no-one before, I now seek Alicia out for advice. I turn to her when in despair. I pick up the phone just to hear her voice for a few minutes of adult conversation. I eagerly participate in every aspect of the lives of her daughters as I watch them evolve into young women with unique qualities of their own. I have come full circle. Where many siblings grow up close in age and drift apart as adults, my journey has lead me to the discovery of this kindred spirit I call my very own. Thousands of women have sisters, but none can say they have my sister.
The Cloth of Life
I recently went on a trip to Wichita, Kansas to visit my friend Gwen. It was hot. It was humid. But it was wonderful. I rediscovered a high school friend, and it was an enriching experience.
It’s a funny thing - how we lose contact with people we grew up with, then find our way back to our pasts. Youth has a way of living only for the present and discarding anything not deemed important at the very instance of its importance. Does that statement make sense? I am a prime example of that ideology. I hated my surroundings as a teenager. I couldn’t wait to leave it all behind. Once I started living a new life as a married “woman” all things from the past faded away. I did not dwell on any of it. I maintained few contacts with friends from school because we were all so different. Our lives took different courses and their paths did not merge with mine. I lived singularly for the moment each day of my life. I never would have believed I would come full circle and seek out those who were part of the everyday life I thought I left behind.
Gwen and I lost contact with each other the day after graduating from high school in 1974. Thirty-five plus years rocked along with both of us living separate lives. One day I chanced upon her brother’s name on the alumni website and zipped him a note inquiring about Gwen. I almost didn’t send the email because one never knows if life has taken a bad turn for a family and that simple question of “how’s so and so?” might be answered with an awkward “dead long time ago” type of statement. In that moment of questioning myself about possibly opening wounds for a family I hesitated, but my curious nature got the better of me and I hit send.
Not more than a few days went by before I saw Gwen’s name in my inbox. We caught up via internet conversations, but it remained very casual for a long time. Another couple of years passed by, and I discovered that we were drawn to write more and more. I found myself sending written pieces to her to review before I would post them on the blog. I could rely on Gwen to be totally unbiased and completely honest in her reviews, and I valued that honesty. Suddenly I had the urge to physically see this person on the other end of the cable line. I wanted to hear the voice of this interesting, artistic individual who loves dogs as much as I do. Thus the trip to Wichita, Kansas was planned.
While preparing for my junket, I had a story come to mind that Gwen once ‘confessed’ to me. Gwen readily admits to not being a cook, hence she is not equipped with many of the tools of the trade. A skillet, a fork, a spatula, a plate and barbeque tongs are probably the only occupants of her kitchen cabinets. Well, many moons ago Gwen was given the task of baking a cake for a boss. I can't recall if she actually volunteered or if she was conscripted for the task. What I can remember is that she didn’t own a mixer. (Refer to list above) Not a problem. She took a fork, manipulated the handle and mounted it in the chuck of a drill and voila! Mixing with Black & Decker 18volt model BS24 will go down in history. Hey, she even had it easier than I did with my General Electric stand mixer because you just pull the trigger on a variable speed drill and it speeds up. You don’t have to turn a knob left handed while you scrape faster to keep the mix moving. Black and Decker with complimentary fork jammed in chuck did scraping, slow blending and mixing in one fell swoop. I could imagine her in the garage grinding the handle of the fork down to fit the chuck, jamming it in place and hitting the switch. Picture her pulling the variable speed trigger back and forth with the drill making its whir-whir sound as she revved it up, nodding her head and muttering, “Yeah, that’s the ticket. Mixers? We don’t need no stinking mixers.” [reference to an old movie for those of you too young to catch on] I laughed my ass off when she relayed the story and told it to everyone I knew.
While planning what I should take with me to Wichita I decided to treat Gwen to a few tastes from Texas. I wanted to start with a couple of bottles of a favorite local wine that I picked up on a recent road trip. A few months back I took a few friends to tour the Piney Woods Winery. Piney Woods has won several prominent awards, but it is a little bitty place in the woods north of Orange, Texas. Prior to my best friend’s arrival from Arizona I called the winery to get information on buying wine and to check on tour info. When the gruff voice of the elderly proprietor answered, the exchange went something like this:
“Piney Woods Winery. We do tastins’.”
“I would like to inquire as to which establishments in Houston sell your product.”
“You can buy wine here when you come for a tastin’.”
“We are not coming for a tour, yet, but we want to buy wine in Houston.”
“Oh, you’re in Houston? When do you want to come for a tastin’?”
“Not for a few months. Where can I buy your wine in Houston?”
“Oh, Specs would be the place. And some others. Let me find my pencil and I can write down when you want to come for a tastin’.”
At this point I hear mumbling and shuffling in the background.
“Hold on. Can’t find my pencil.”
“Oh, oh. Looks like my dog ate my pencil. Just ring the bell when you come for the tastin’.” And he hung up.
Maybe his product is so good because he is his own Quality Control department.
Along with the wine I thought I’d pack a few homemade goodies. I had to prepare food for mother for the weekend anyway, so I added a bit more to the pots and loaded freezer bags with spaghetti & hand rolled meatballs, baked chicken, my version of Salisbury steak & gravy and I can’t remember what else I cooked up. I also baked bread - orange beer sourdough bread and whole-wheat beer batter bread. I was in my element and enjoying every moment of it. I carefully prepared a seasoning bag for one of the baked chickens with fresh garlic, rosemary needles and basil fresh from my bush on the porch. Cooking tip: don’t bother with fancy seasoning bags. Get a coffee filter, wrap your seasonings in it and place it under the meat as it is cooking or heating. You will get all the aroma and flavor and don’t have to worry about picking off crunchy rosemary needles or wilted leaves of basil.
My battle plan was to pack a large suitcase with plenty of padding to protect two bottles of wine and to serve as insulation to help the freezer packs keep the frozen goodies from thawing. I didn’t want to chance smashing the bread, so I packed it in my carry-on with my clothes. Also in the carry-on went the seasonings wrapped in the coffee filter zipped air tight in a baggie. While it seemed to get heavier the further I toted it, the bag of food and wine hit the scales just under the limit where the airline can charge more for a checked-in bag. The checked bag proved to be the least of my worries. I dropped the carry-on in the tray, took off my shoes and stepped through the screening area. Behind me I hear, “Ma’m. Please step aside.” The guard with the magic metal detection rod waves me to the side. I turned. A group of TSA agents were at the screen viewing my bag. The questions began. “Ma’m, can you tell me what’s in the bag?” Oh, no. My brain zipped to the bread….did it look like I was toting two homemade bombs? I quickly said, “If you are seeing something funny I baked two loaves of bread.” Aiming for a little humor I added, “And it’s really good bread as you can tell from the shape of me.” The lady behind me was grinning. “No ma’m. That’s not what we are looking at. What, exactly, is in the bag?” My brain felt like cottage cheese. I began to panic. I verbally tick off the list, “Clothes, house shoes, granny sized panties…” The lady behind me was now laughing. I started to stammer like an idiot. Another agent joined the team. He was accompanied by a beautiful German Shepherd. The dog just smiled at me. He was as confused as I as to why we were all gathered together. Finally, they clarified the question. “There’s a bag INSIDE the bag ma’m.” The function switch has flipped back on in my noggin. I breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s a zip lock baggie with a coffee filter wrapped around fresh garlic, rosemary and some basil fresh from the bush on my porch. It goes with the frozen chicken that is traveling in the checked bag. I didn’t want it smashed.” You know me. Plenty o’ talkin’ to make everything perfectly clear. The most recent agent added to the gathering at the screen looked closer. He stated, “She’s right. My wife cooks. It’s rosemary, and Officer Barney’s not interested.” I walked away muttering, “That poor woman further down the line with the oregano is gonna get pummeled."
Gwen met me at the airport. We talked non-stop the whole weekend. At every turn in the conversations we discovered parallels in our lives. We already knew that we both have an affinity for animals. I was a foster home for my local humane society / Gwen has served as a volunteer assistant at her vet’s office. We both have an old car, although Gwen’s 1970 Mustang (which she got in high school and has kept all these years) is older than my 1981 Lil’ Buddy Roadster. Both of us have an appreciation of our land and our history. We both dabble in photography. Her photos on her internet collection are truly wonderful and inspiring. One photo of a misty morning at her lake home is so hauntingly lovely that I was drawn to write a poem about the images it brought to mind. It is posted on the blog and is titled The Mist. We lost our fathers to sickness and death all too soon in life. Photography, art, music, nature, food, relationships and loves lost - it was delightful to reveal pieces of the puzzles that made up our lives that were so much the same, and yet we are both so different.
I mentioned earlier that I lost sight of many friends because the roads we traveled didn’t intersect. I now realize that it wasn’t the differences in our lives that pulled us apart. We all have to grow and mature through some process before we can see past our personal wants and selfish needs. When I left home after graduation, I was too young to see the worth of those around me. I had no idea they would someday enhance my life. I have such a wealth of friends in these years compared to those of my youth.
Life truly is a tapestry, and I am but one thread of it. Many threads together are far stronger than one thread alone. They weave together to make art and beauty, provide warmth and bind around us in support when needed.
I am so glad I took the time to travel to Wichita and visit with Gwen. I am honored to have added another friend to the cloth of my life.
It’s a funny thing - how we lose contact with people we grew up with, then find our way back to our pasts. Youth has a way of living only for the present and discarding anything not deemed important at the very instance of its importance. Does that statement make sense? I am a prime example of that ideology. I hated my surroundings as a teenager. I couldn’t wait to leave it all behind. Once I started living a new life as a married “woman” all things from the past faded away. I did not dwell on any of it. I maintained few contacts with friends from school because we were all so different. Our lives took different courses and their paths did not merge with mine. I lived singularly for the moment each day of my life. I never would have believed I would come full circle and seek out those who were part of the everyday life I thought I left behind.
Gwen and I lost contact with each other the day after graduating from high school in 1974. Thirty-five plus years rocked along with both of us living separate lives. One day I chanced upon her brother’s name on the alumni website and zipped him a note inquiring about Gwen. I almost didn’t send the email because one never knows if life has taken a bad turn for a family and that simple question of “how’s so and so?” might be answered with an awkward “dead long time ago” type of statement. In that moment of questioning myself about possibly opening wounds for a family I hesitated, but my curious nature got the better of me and I hit send.
Not more than a few days went by before I saw Gwen’s name in my inbox. We caught up via internet conversations, but it remained very casual for a long time. Another couple of years passed by, and I discovered that we were drawn to write more and more. I found myself sending written pieces to her to review before I would post them on the blog. I could rely on Gwen to be totally unbiased and completely honest in her reviews, and I valued that honesty. Suddenly I had the urge to physically see this person on the other end of the cable line. I wanted to hear the voice of this interesting, artistic individual who loves dogs as much as I do. Thus the trip to Wichita, Kansas was planned.
While preparing for my junket, I had a story come to mind that Gwen once ‘confessed’ to me. Gwen readily admits to not being a cook, hence she is not equipped with many of the tools of the trade. A skillet, a fork, a spatula, a plate and barbeque tongs are probably the only occupants of her kitchen cabinets. Well, many moons ago Gwen was given the task of baking a cake for a boss. I can't recall if she actually volunteered or if she was conscripted for the task. What I can remember is that she didn’t own a mixer. (Refer to list above) Not a problem. She took a fork, manipulated the handle and mounted it in the chuck of a drill and voila! Mixing with Black & Decker 18volt model BS24 will go down in history. Hey, she even had it easier than I did with my General Electric stand mixer because you just pull the trigger on a variable speed drill and it speeds up. You don’t have to turn a knob left handed while you scrape faster to keep the mix moving. Black and Decker with complimentary fork jammed in chuck did scraping, slow blending and mixing in one fell swoop. I could imagine her in the garage grinding the handle of the fork down to fit the chuck, jamming it in place and hitting the switch. Picture her pulling the variable speed trigger back and forth with the drill making its whir-whir sound as she revved it up, nodding her head and muttering, “Yeah, that’s the ticket. Mixers? We don’t need no stinking mixers.” [reference to an old movie for those of you too young to catch on] I laughed my ass off when she relayed the story and told it to everyone I knew.
While planning what I should take with me to Wichita I decided to treat Gwen to a few tastes from Texas. I wanted to start with a couple of bottles of a favorite local wine that I picked up on a recent road trip. A few months back I took a few friends to tour the Piney Woods Winery. Piney Woods has won several prominent awards, but it is a little bitty place in the woods north of Orange, Texas. Prior to my best friend’s arrival from Arizona I called the winery to get information on buying wine and to check on tour info. When the gruff voice of the elderly proprietor answered, the exchange went something like this:
“Piney Woods Winery. We do tastins’.”
“I would like to inquire as to which establishments in Houston sell your product.”
“You can buy wine here when you come for a tastin’.”
“We are not coming for a tour, yet, but we want to buy wine in Houston.”
“Oh, you’re in Houston? When do you want to come for a tastin’?”
“Not for a few months. Where can I buy your wine in Houston?”
“Oh, Specs would be the place. And some others. Let me find my pencil and I can write down when you want to come for a tastin’.”
At this point I hear mumbling and shuffling in the background.
“Hold on. Can’t find my pencil.”
“Oh, oh. Looks like my dog ate my pencil. Just ring the bell when you come for the tastin’.” And he hung up.
Maybe his product is so good because he is his own Quality Control department.
Along with the wine I thought I’d pack a few homemade goodies. I had to prepare food for mother for the weekend anyway, so I added a bit more to the pots and loaded freezer bags with spaghetti & hand rolled meatballs, baked chicken, my version of Salisbury steak & gravy and I can’t remember what else I cooked up. I also baked bread - orange beer sourdough bread and whole-wheat beer batter bread. I was in my element and enjoying every moment of it. I carefully prepared a seasoning bag for one of the baked chickens with fresh garlic, rosemary needles and basil fresh from my bush on the porch. Cooking tip: don’t bother with fancy seasoning bags. Get a coffee filter, wrap your seasonings in it and place it under the meat as it is cooking or heating. You will get all the aroma and flavor and don’t have to worry about picking off crunchy rosemary needles or wilted leaves of basil.
My battle plan was to pack a large suitcase with plenty of padding to protect two bottles of wine and to serve as insulation to help the freezer packs keep the frozen goodies from thawing. I didn’t want to chance smashing the bread, so I packed it in my carry-on with my clothes. Also in the carry-on went the seasonings wrapped in the coffee filter zipped air tight in a baggie. While it seemed to get heavier the further I toted it, the bag of food and wine hit the scales just under the limit where the airline can charge more for a checked-in bag. The checked bag proved to be the least of my worries. I dropped the carry-on in the tray, took off my shoes and stepped through the screening area. Behind me I hear, “Ma’m. Please step aside.” The guard with the magic metal detection rod waves me to the side. I turned. A group of TSA agents were at the screen viewing my bag. The questions began. “Ma’m, can you tell me what’s in the bag?” Oh, no. My brain zipped to the bread….did it look like I was toting two homemade bombs? I quickly said, “If you are seeing something funny I baked two loaves of bread.” Aiming for a little humor I added, “And it’s really good bread as you can tell from the shape of me.” The lady behind me was grinning. “No ma’m. That’s not what we are looking at. What, exactly, is in the bag?” My brain felt like cottage cheese. I began to panic. I verbally tick off the list, “Clothes, house shoes, granny sized panties…” The lady behind me was now laughing. I started to stammer like an idiot. Another agent joined the team. He was accompanied by a beautiful German Shepherd. The dog just smiled at me. He was as confused as I as to why we were all gathered together. Finally, they clarified the question. “There’s a bag INSIDE the bag ma’m.” The function switch has flipped back on in my noggin. I breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s a zip lock baggie with a coffee filter wrapped around fresh garlic, rosemary and some basil fresh from the bush on my porch. It goes with the frozen chicken that is traveling in the checked bag. I didn’t want it smashed.” You know me. Plenty o’ talkin’ to make everything perfectly clear. The most recent agent added to the gathering at the screen looked closer. He stated, “She’s right. My wife cooks. It’s rosemary, and Officer Barney’s not interested.” I walked away muttering, “That poor woman further down the line with the oregano is gonna get pummeled."
Gwen met me at the airport. We talked non-stop the whole weekend. At every turn in the conversations we discovered parallels in our lives. We already knew that we both have an affinity for animals. I was a foster home for my local humane society / Gwen has served as a volunteer assistant at her vet’s office. We both have an old car, although Gwen’s 1970 Mustang (which she got in high school and has kept all these years) is older than my 1981 Lil’ Buddy Roadster. Both of us have an appreciation of our land and our history. We both dabble in photography. Her photos on her internet collection are truly wonderful and inspiring. One photo of a misty morning at her lake home is so hauntingly lovely that I was drawn to write a poem about the images it brought to mind. It is posted on the blog and is titled The Mist. We lost our fathers to sickness and death all too soon in life. Photography, art, music, nature, food, relationships and loves lost - it was delightful to reveal pieces of the puzzles that made up our lives that were so much the same, and yet we are both so different.
I mentioned earlier that I lost sight of many friends because the roads we traveled didn’t intersect. I now realize that it wasn’t the differences in our lives that pulled us apart. We all have to grow and mature through some process before we can see past our personal wants and selfish needs. When I left home after graduation, I was too young to see the worth of those around me. I had no idea they would someday enhance my life. I have such a wealth of friends in these years compared to those of my youth.
Life truly is a tapestry, and I am but one thread of it. Many threads together are far stronger than one thread alone. They weave together to make art and beauty, provide warmth and bind around us in support when needed.
I am so glad I took the time to travel to Wichita and visit with Gwen. I am honored to have added another friend to the cloth of my life.
Icy's Story
The following is not my typical scribblative telling you a tale of a true life event. It is told from the perspective of the cat the story is about. I have left my 'cartoon notes' for drawings in the body of the work in case I ever turn this into a little book. Heck, it might even be a movie. Then you can all say you knew me, ha ha.
Years ago my brother came home on a Christmas leave from the Navy. Along with his family, he brought a large German Shepherd dog and a little Calico cat. My daughter fell in love with that cat. Steve and his family left Bridge City and returned home to Charleston, South Carolina with everything except the cat. [On a side note, the dog was leashed to a washing machine on the back porch to keep him from escaping while we were out for a day. We came home from shopping to hear that dog in the very back of the back yard barking at something up a tree. He decided he needed to chase some poor creature, and he simply took the washing machine with him. Good thing the dog went home to Charleston.]
Right after Icy joined our family we acquired a large, long-haired orange Tabby cat we dubbed Puddin'. He was the color of butterscotch pudding. Puddin' was very large - the size of a poodle, and Puddin' thought he was a dog. I also had a huge Alaskan Malamute named Shadow. Shadow, weighing in at about 105 pounds, was a great dame of a creature. She was a magnificent animal. I will write more on Shadow and Puddin' later, but today is Icy's moment for the world to see her delightful personality.
This is not a children's story. It is a story I wrote from my heart when this precious little cat fell prey to cancer. It was a way to live through the grief we all felt when a long time member of our pet family left us. She arrived when Tina was in elementary school, and she departed a few years after Tina married and moved to Fort Worth. It's a work in progress because I constantly remember events of those wonderful days with children and their pets in the house. As the kids grew into their teen years and then young adulthood, the animals' places in everyone's lives remained a constant source of love and affection. Not a one of them has been easy to lose.
It's a long read at almost 5,500 words. But whose counting when you are an animal lover?
Years ago my brother came home on a Christmas leave from the Navy. Along with his family, he brought a large German Shepherd dog and a little Calico cat. My daughter fell in love with that cat. Steve and his family left Bridge City and returned home to Charleston, South Carolina with everything except the cat. [On a side note, the dog was leashed to a washing machine on the back porch to keep him from escaping while we were out for a day. We came home from shopping to hear that dog in the very back of the back yard barking at something up a tree. He decided he needed to chase some poor creature, and he simply took the washing machine with him. Good thing the dog went home to Charleston.]
Right after Icy joined our family we acquired a large, long-haired orange Tabby cat we dubbed Puddin'. He was the color of butterscotch pudding. Puddin' was very large - the size of a poodle, and Puddin' thought he was a dog. I also had a huge Alaskan Malamute named Shadow. Shadow, weighing in at about 105 pounds, was a great dame of a creature. She was a magnificent animal. I will write more on Shadow and Puddin' later, but today is Icy's moment for the world to see her delightful personality.
This is not a children's story. It is a story I wrote from my heart when this precious little cat fell prey to cancer. It was a way to live through the grief we all felt when a long time member of our pet family left us. She arrived when Tina was in elementary school, and she departed a few years after Tina married and moved to Fort Worth. It's a work in progress because I constantly remember events of those wonderful days with children and their pets in the house. As the kids grew into their teen years and then young adulthood, the animals' places in everyone's lives remained a constant source of love and affection. Not a one of them has been easy to lose.
It's a long read at almost 5,500 words. But whose counting when you are an animal lover?
Icy, The Calico Cat With Cancer
Chapter One: The beginning of my story
Let me introduce myself. My name is Icy, and I have a really cool job. Some days I get to enjoy a lazy day curled up on my soft bed soaking up the sunshine, but there are a lot of days when I am very busy. Every morning when I wake up I arch my back and stretch and yawn and curl my little pink tongue. Then I put on my halo and wings and get to work. You guessed it - I am an angel kitty, and I get to watch over little animals on earth to keep them safe.
Take Boomer, for instance. He’s an absolute scamp! He’s a scruffy little dog some nice people rescued. Every time his human mommy’s back is turned, he’s into something. For the most part, he’s pretty good, a little stinky after he comes in from outside, but okay for a dog. His people laugh at him all the time – even when he’s being slightly naughty. When they open the door he’ll come running in and zip down the main hall in a mad dash. If mom has just mopped the floor, look out! He’s going to go skidding into the back wall. And he knows this will happen every time! Personally, I think he likes the attention it gets him. But we’ll get back to Boomer soon enough. I want to tell you my story. [cartoon of Boomer skidding into wall – stars, etc]
I haven’t always been on duty on Cloud #764. I was once down there on earth with my very own human family. I was born in the summertime in a place called South Carolina. I had a bunch of brothers and sisters. My mom was great. She was warm and soft, and she had a purr that felt soooo good when I snuggled up to her.
We had a nice home a lady made for us on her sun porch. I learned to stretch and jump and chase dry leaves from the plants that sat on the shelves in the sun. We climbed in and out of the plants like they were our very own jungle. [cartoon of kittens in plants, chasing leaves] Sometimes it seemed a little crowded because we kept getting bigger each day, but we didn’t care. Our Mother told us that we would soon be big enough for homes of our own. She said we needed to show other people how delightful we were and how much love we had to give. I wasn’t sure I knew what she meant, but moms know best. [mother cat talking to Icy and others]
Soon after that, the mister-man in the house took us to work with him one evening. He was an auctioneer, whatever that meant. I could hear his big voice saying silly things really fast like, “Who’ll give me fifty? Who’ll give me fifty; there’s fifty, how bout fifty-five? Fifty-five on the floor, fifty-five, fifty-five, now going, now going, there’s sixty, sixty on the floor, who’ll give me sixty-five, sixty-five, sixty-five, going, going, going, gone. Sold to the man in the yellow hat!” Strange language, indeed.
Then he announced that they had a door prize for someone with ticket number 37. The man with ticket number 37 stood up and came to the platform and stood by mister-man. Mister-man’s big, warm hand reached down into our box, scooped me up and cuddled me against his chest. He looked at ticket number 37 and said, “Son, you can’t resist an adorable Calico like this one. She looks like a match made in heaven for you and your wife.” Everybody at the auction giggled and laughed. The young man stepped even closer, and his large hands with very long fingers took me ever so gently and held me up. He was a tall young man with red hair and a bushy red beard, but I could tell by the look in his eyes he loved animals. He held me close to him and talked to me so I wouldn’t be scared. I have to admit that I was a bit frightened – he was so tall, and it was a long way to the ground for a little kitten like me. I peered over his shoulder and said goodbye to my brothers and sisters. I mewed, “I hope you find a good home. Take care. I hope I will see you again, someday.” [young man with red beard and white sailor suit – auction scene with auctioneer handing over kitten – people laughing in background]
As we walked away from Mister Man, the young man rubbed me against his red beard and said, “I think I’ll call you Isis.” I thought to myself, “What kind of name is Isis? I look more like a Snuggles or a Sweetie-Pie or a Fluffy-Girl. Come on, give me a cute name that fits my cute little face.” But he picked Isis, so now I had a new name and was heading for a new adventure. He told me, “Little Isis, you are going home with us. How’s that sound? Home. You have a home.” I meowed to let him know that I thought that sounded nice. His wife held me in the car on the drive to my new home. The car ride was sort-of scary. In fact, the idea of a new home was sort-of scary. The thought that I wouldn’t be sleeping with my mother or my brothers or my sisters was sort-of scary. But he told me to be brave and said he was sure I would love my new home.
Home with them was different than my first home on the sun porch – I had the whole house to myself! The hallway looked like it was a mile long. I spent weeks exploring my big, new home. I jumped. I climbed. I turned flips in mid air while they laughed. It was great. [cat turning flips with string]
Early one morning, the young man with the red beard put on his white suit and kissed the lady goodbye. We didn’t see him for several months, and we really missed him. The lady always told me that he would be back soon. She would tell me how glad she was that I was there to keep her company. [I later found out that the young man with the red beard was a sailor in the United States Navy, and he was on a submarine underwater. Now, isn’t that just too cool?] [maybe picture of sub under water / maybe at his post with picture of wife with cat on his desk]
The weather turned cold as the weeks passed. The lady told me it was Christmas time and any day now the sailor would arrive. Sure enough, the day came when the doorbell rang, and his big, shiny patent leather shoes clicked on the kitchen tile. We spent the evening putting up a little tree that I thought was just for me. They put gifts underneath it and placed pretty things all over it. I got fussed at for batting at the ornaments and the shiny lights, but I did it anyway when they weren’t looking. I had no idea this tree was different from other trees. It was only for the Christmas season. Christmas is a wonderful time for humans, but I found out it would also be something for me to remember for the rest of my life. [cat playing with Christmas ornaments while they decorate]
The next afternoon the sailor and his wife packed me up and put me in the car for a ride. They were talking about going to visit family far away in Texas. They told me it was a long ride from South Carolina to Texas. Texas sounded funny to me. I didn’t think I would like it. I slept most of the way on that long, mysterious trip.
I woke up from my nice, long nap to discover that the car had stopped at the door of a large white house with a big front porch. I thought, “Thank goodness we’re finally there.” I needed to run and stretch. Besides, car rides generally meant that I ended up at the vet’s office, and I didn’t like those trips any more than I liked this one. [welcoming scene]
We were greeted at the door of the big white house by a lady the sailor called Granny. Granny hugged and kissed everybody. Granny took one look at me and said, “Oh, how cute. I think I have someone here for you to meet.” As Granny turned around, there she stood. A little girl with long brown hair, big hazel eyes with little bitty glasses perched on her little bitty nose. She was wearing a little red checked dress and she had little dots on her nose, kind of like some of my dots in my fur. She was adorable, and she asked if she could hold me. She was introduced to me as Tina. Her little, tiny hands took me. She snuggled her nose into my neck and I started purring just like my mom used to. “Wow!” I thought, “I’m purring! When did I learn to do that?” [image of Tina from photo when introduced]
Tina carried me all around the house that first day. She held me in her lap while we watched TV together that evening. And when it was time to go to bed that night, she snuck me into her room and let me curl up on a pillow. She stroked my fur until we both went to sleep. I started purring again. It was purrfect. I thought to myself as I drifted off, “I really like my sailor and his wife, but I feel something special for this little girl. I wish we could take her home with us and keep her.” [snuggled on a pillow beside sleeping child]
The next morning we woke up to a house full of people. Tina carried me everywhere so I wouldn’t get stepped on. There was another tree with lights and ornaments and presents in this house too. I thought it was absolutely great. There was a lot of laughter, music, singing and a whole lot of noise with everyone talking. You could tell they loved to be together. I didn’t think I could have had so much fun in that place called Texas. I didn’t want it to end.
But the day came when my sailor said we had to pack to go back to South Carolina. I looked at my sailor and thought, “Oh, please, can we pack the little girl? I would take good care of her. I promise.” About that time, another lady with red hair walked into the room to say goodbye to us. Her name was Cheryl. Cheryl was Tina’s mother and she was my sailor’s sister. That would explain the matching red hair, except she didn’t have a big red beard like my sailor had. They talked a while. I even heard my name mentioned. Then Granny came to say goodbye to us.
Granny said, “Oh, Cheryl, see how cute they are together. Surely you’re going to let her have a pet?” Cheryl said something about being a little worried making a change in someone’s home . . . going away from home, something about . . . WAIT A MINUTE! I just caught on! I was going to get to keep the little girl! They all seemed to agree and my sailor took me in his arms and asked me a question. “Isis, how do you feel about living with Tina?” I said to myself, “Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes!” Then he said, “Do you mind staying behind to live in Texas with Tina?” I thought, “Oh dear, Texas? Away from you?” I had to think for a second, but then I looked into Tina’s big, beautiful eyes and mewed a very happy, “Yes.” [sailor talks to kitten] [Tina takes kitten and hugs her]
Tina was so happy she squealed. She took me in her arms and we were together from that moment on. I knew then why the Christmas tree was special. You can have all those presents under the tree with their fancy bows and colored paper. I got the best gift of all. A special person all my own to love. I got Tina.
Chapter Two: Life with Tina
Tina quickly taught me several new games. My favorite was called “I see Isis.” Tina would hide around a corner and call me and I would sneak up quietly to surprise her. The minute she spotted me she would say, “I see you. I see Isis.” Before long, the game changed to “I See I-cee” and so did my name. I became known as Icy Kitty. I rather liked that. Tina would say my name in a little sing-song voice and I thought it was really cute. But, then again, I thought I was rather cute.
We also played ‘chase the string’ and boy, was I fast. She bought some busy balls with bells in them for me to roll around. After I chased them around during the middle of the night a few times the bells seem to disappear. I don’t know what was up with that.
Oh, but my life was so good. Every night I would get to curl up on the pillow next to Tina. I slept right beside her. The minute I knew she was about to wake up in the morning I would start purring. I learned to purr real loud, so if Tina tried to roll over and pretend she was still asleep, I would crank up the volume so she would have to get up and pet me. Sometimes she would roll over and mumble, “Icy, be quiet. I want to sleep five more minutes.” I was better than an alarm clock. Cheryl never had to call her twice. I would get closer and closer and breathe on her and purr as loud as a tractor. I did my job real well. She never got in trouble for sleeping late while I was on duty.
On a cold night in February, we had a guest show up on the porch of the big white house. He was a large, Orange Tabby cat with very long hair. He was very big, but very quiet. Cheryl said he was sick. He had pneumonia, which sounded very bad to a little cat like me. They took him in to the warm house and got him some medicine. I felt so sorry for him – he was so sick and didn’t look too happy about taking medicine, but he took it anyway. Cheryl kept telling him it would make him feel better. [the discovery of Puddin / giving him medicine]
It took him a while to get well, and by then he was another member of the family. They named him Puddin because he was the color of butterscotch pudding. He could barely meow after being so sick, but he seemed like a good guy. He and I soon became best friends.
Puddin and I had a lot of happy times. I was glad I had Puddin for my friend. If Puddin hadn't been there to keep me company I would have been very lonely during the day while Tina was in school. We would spend the day washing each other’s faces and curling up for naps together. We had games we played. Oh, it was the best two years you could have asked for…..that is…….until the dog arrived.
They told us they were getting a puppy. What they came home with looked like a fuzzy horse. She was an Alaskan Malamute named Shadow. Cheryl told us to be sweet to Shadow because she was a baby and was only two months old. TWO MONTHS OLD? She weighed 22 pounds and had feet bigger than my head! This was no baby dog. She even tripped over her own big feet as she came over to sniff me. I wanted her to know who was older and who was the boss, so I arched my back up high and gave her a real good hissing. Puddin and I laughed so hard when she turned her tail and ran yipping to Cheryl. We never did let her figure out that she was bigger than us. For years we ruled the roost. I was the boss, and that dog knew it. Even though she weighed over 100 pounds after she grew up, I remained queen of the house. [image of Shadow as pup compared to man’s work boots / then Icy hissing at puppy with puppy running away]
Time passed and the huge dog named Shadow had puppies. She had four boys and four girls. Every one of them was bigger than me, but I didn’t care. Since I was older than Shadow, I knew she might need help with that noisy brood. When they started to learn to eat on their own they made the biggest mess. They put their big feet in the bowls. They tipped the bowls over and walked in their food and smeared it all over their faces. Shadow would lick their faces clean and the puppies would have to wait in a playpen until everyone was clean and ready to go to the porch. They would whimper and cry after they were put in the playpen, so I gently crept into the playpen and snuggled with the puppies. I would purr softly, and they would get quiet. I was a good babysitter. I didn’t mind that they were dogs. All animals need to be cared for, especially when they are babies. [image of Icy in the play pen with the puppies]
The years flew by. Tina grew up to be a lovely young lady getting ready for college. She was going to study to be a ballet dancer. She would practice dancing all around the house. She would sail through the air in her pink ballet shoes like a fairy dancing on the wind. She would leap as far as I used to do when I was younger. I told Puddin that I was the one who taught her how to do that. I think he really believed me. [ballerina shot]
Chapter 3: Wretched Gretchen
Christmas after Christmas went by. Puddin and I started a tradition every year of moving the presents under the tree to make room for a place to hide. We would tap the ornaments on the lower branches of the tree until they dropped off. Then, we would gather them in our nests we’d made under the tree. Whoever gathered the most ornaments before Cheryl caught us was the winner. [two varmints caught in the act]
The years went by so fast. Before we knew it, all the puppies had grown up enough to go to homes of their own. Shadow was in heaven watching over us, and Tina was old enough to work at a grocery store in the evenings while she was going to college.
One year, we woke up on the day after Christmas just like we did every morning, yawning and stretching and playing with our new stuff we got for Christmas. It didn’t seem to be any different from any other day. While we thought that morning was no different than any other, evening came with what I considered to be a terrible, terrible thing. Nothing could have been more awful to an aging pair of cats like Puddin and myself than what happened that night. Nothing could have prepared me for this. Nothing you could do would have made me happy about Tina’s arrival after work at the grocery store on that night. She came home with another puppy!
She told us somebody left the puppy outside the grocery store. It was cold outside and the puppy was crying. Tina said she just couldn’t leave the puppy there all alone, so she brought it home. Cheryl said it looked like a German Shepherd puppy. I thought it just looked like trouble. They named it Gretchen. It cried most of the night. Then it woke up at two o’clock in the morning and thought we should all play. I told Gretchen to go back to bed and leave us old folks alone. She would not give up. She was a pest from day one. [Tina with puppy]
Gretchen spent the better part of her days chasing us. I think she even liked it when we hissed at her. She had a game she invented called ‘bump the cats’ which we certainly did not approve of. She would come running at us, lower her head and bump us hard enough to roll us over. Not at all our idea of fun. If Cheryl caught her doing this, she would shout, “Don’t bump the cats.” Gretchen would just wait until Cheryl wasn’t looking and – boomp – there we’d go again. Puddin and I gave the dog the nickname of ‘Wretched’ Gretchen.
If Puddin and I wanted to play Chase the String, Wretched Gretchen thought she had to be in on the game. Her big feet would come pouncing down on the string, and she would snatch it up in her big teeth and take off with it. She nosed in on every game we had. She didn’t respect nap time, either, and I think I’ve told you how important nap time was to a couple of old cats. We would just get comfortable on the sofa and guess what? She would jump up on the sofa with us and mess all the cushions up! And she was always sniffing us with that cold, wet nose of hers. She pestered us as bad as the neighbor boy used to pester Tina when he pulled her hair all the time.
It felt like it took Gretchen forever to grow up. Even after she got older, Gretchen was still bugging us. But there was hope she would turn out to be a well-behaved dog some day. Maybe. Maybe not. [bump the cats image]
Chapter Four: The Calico with Cancer
By the time I reached the age of 83 in ‘people years,’ Tina was no longer a little girl. She was now a beautiful woman. One evening near Thanksgiving time, Tina came out of her room modeling a long, white gown. It was a bridal gown, and the beads twinkled when she twirled around. I had never seen anything so lovely as Tina that day. Oh, I was so proud of her. She was going to be a bride. We were going to have a wedding! Everything was so exciting with everyone rushing around, going to parties and taking pictures. We were so busy getting ready for the wedding I didn’t have time to notice how tired I was. [bridal photo with cat looking on]
I used to jump all the way up on to the back of the lounge chair – that’s about four feet high. But, lately, I just couldn’t seem to be able to jump that high to get to my favorite perch. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t very hungry, and I was too tired to play with Puddin. I preferred to sleep all day long. My stomach hurt. My head hurt. I just didn’t feel good anymore.
Cheryl and Tina got worried about me. They told me I was going to go to the Veterinary Clinic. I thought, “Oh, no, not the Vet. I hate the Vet. I hate going to the doctor’s office. Please don’t take me.” But they made me go to the doctor. They said it was because they loved me and wanted me to feel good again.
I don’t know why I was afraid of the Vet’s office. All the ladies were sweet and talked to me. Everyone would pet me and tell me how pretty I was. Sometimes I even got a treat, but I was always scared when the Vet first came in wearing that spooky coat. Then he would speak softly and sweetly and touch me gently to calm me down. He seemed to be a very nice man, but I was still afraid because I didn't know what was wrong and why I was there. He and Cheryl talked for a long time in very quiet tones. I was tired and didn’t feel well. I just wanted to go home. I kept hearing the word cancer. That sounded terrible to me. What was cancer? Was that why I was there? I looked at Cheryl and Tina and meowed, “Take me home. Please.”
The vet looked at me and said the word ‘surgery.’ Everyone seemed upset by this word. One of the sweet ladies that worked for the vet picked me up and carried me to the back of the clinic. I could see Tina’s face as we left the room – she looked so sad. As we turned the corner I realized I couldn’t see Cheryl anymore. I couldn’t see Tina anymore. Was I going away for good? Oh, dear, what was I going to do? Even though the people at the clinic kept telling me not to be afraid, I was very frightened.
Then they came with needles to stick me. They put me through all kinds of tests with machines that looked like monsters. They even shaved off my lovely fur. I looked awful and was afraid everyone would think I was ugly. I was afraid Tina wouldn’t love me anymore if I wasn’t pretty like I used to be. I wanted to cry, “Let me out of here.” But they didn’t. They put me in a place to sleep and turned the lights out. It was dark and lonely. I could hear other animals crying about being left there, too. Oh, if only I could help those other little animals like I used to comfort Shadow’s puppies when I would purr for them. I went to sleep that night purring as loud as I could. Maybe the other animals would hear me and know that they were not alone in this dark, cold hospital. That night I had a dream about the big dog named Shadow. I dreamed she was telling me everything would be okay. She said I would be just fine and I would probably be able to do all the things I used to do. I was going to be alright, and she said Tina was waiting for me to come home. Shadow said she would be watching over me. Just dreaming about my old friend watching over me helped me drift off into a deep sleep.
I don’t remember my surgery, but I do remember the morning Tina and Cheryl came to pick me up at the animal hospital. I was so glad to see them. They were so happy to see me, too. Tina cradled me in her arms and told me how much she had missed me and how much she loved me! Even though I was sore and my stitches itched and bugged me, I was glad I was going home. The vet told them that he had removed seven tumors from my tummy. He told me I was very lucky that they did the surgery. I was a very sick little cat, and the surgery was the only chance I had to feel better again. I still had to take yucky medicine and go back to the vet for check-ups, but I soon started to feel better every day. [need some sort of image]
As I got well I discovered that I was able to jump up on my favorite lounge chair again. Puddin and I played games and chased the string all over the house just like old times. I didn’t even mind the fact that I was getting very old. We would curl up and take naps together – and you know old cats take a lot of naps. As a matter of fact, young cats take a lot of naps. Let’s just face it, cats like to nap – that’s why they call it a cat nap when humans take a little rest during the day.
At nap time I would dream about all the happy things I could remember. I would remember when I took care of Shadow’s puppies. That made me feel good. I even thought about all those sad little animals in the animal hospital. I dreamed it would be nice if there was something I could do to help them feel better. I dreamed about taking care of kitties and puppies that needed to be loved. I thought it would be wonderful to help them feel cared for the way Cheryl and Tina cared for me.
During one of my naps I dreamed Shadow came to visit me. She looked just the way she did when she was younger! She said, “Hello there, old friend. How would you like to come with me to a marvelous place where you will feel young forever and can do anything you would like to do?” I told her about how I would like to take care of other animals and asked her if there was a job like that for a little old lady cat like me.
She said, “Why, yes. We need someone with a good and loving heart who can help watch over animals, just the way I watched over you when you had cancer.” I said, “Really? That was really you? I thought it was just a dream. I was so afraid, but somehow I knew that everything was going to be alright. Do you mean to tell me that I can do that for other animals?”
Shadow said, “Most certainly. We even have little animals that need to be guided while they are growing up. I’ve got this one little guy named Boomer - he kind of acts like Gretchen did when she was a puppy. He needs someone with a lot of patience. I nearly gave up on Gretchen, but she finally learned to be a lady dog. Boomer will be good too, with someone like you to watch over him.”
I thought about it for a long time. I knew I had a good life with Tina and her mother, Cheryl. I watched Tina grow up and get married. I gave her love and comfort when she needed me. She did the same for me, and I learned about being loved, even when you’re sick with something like cancer. I thought to myself, “I do have a big heart. And I’m cute and funny and I have lots of love to give. I’m also patient. See how well I did with Shadow’s puppies? I can do that for lots of little animals.”
So I asked Shadow, “If I go with you, does this mean I will never see Tina and Cheryl again?” “Oh no,” said Shadow, “You will always be able to see them. And you will always have them in your heart, just like they will always have you in their hearts.”
“Will they be able to see me?” I asked. Shadow looked a little sad and said, “Not exactly. But they will know you are there, and their memories of you will be with them always. They will understand because they know about the place I am taking you to. It’s called Heaven. They plan on going there someday, and we will all be together sooner than you think.”
I decided I was ready for a new job, and I told Shadow I would like to see this place she was talking about. Before I knew it, we were flying high up into the clouds. Up Up Up we went and, for once, I wasn’t afraid of anything. Everything was as beautiful as Shadow said it was in animal heaven.
So now you know my story. Here I am with my new wings and my new job sitting on cloud #764 looking out for……Oh My Gosh! I completely forgot about Boomer! “Boomer, no, no, no. Not the trash. Please don’t pull the trash can over again! Oh, now look what a mess you’ve made. Just look. And you’re smearing creamed corn all over the floor. Oh, you are really trying my patience this time.”
Well, I guess it is back to work for me . . . . . just remember, when something seems like it might be bad -- be patient. Things will turn out alright, especially if I’m watching over you.
I just wish I could say the same for Boomer. [image of Boomer with trash strung out]
Let me introduce myself. My name is Icy, and I have a really cool job. Some days I get to enjoy a lazy day curled up on my soft bed soaking up the sunshine, but there are a lot of days when I am very busy. Every morning when I wake up I arch my back and stretch and yawn and curl my little pink tongue. Then I put on my halo and wings and get to work. You guessed it - I am an angel kitty, and I get to watch over little animals on earth to keep them safe.
Take Boomer, for instance. He’s an absolute scamp! He’s a scruffy little dog some nice people rescued. Every time his human mommy’s back is turned, he’s into something. For the most part, he’s pretty good, a little stinky after he comes in from outside, but okay for a dog. His people laugh at him all the time – even when he’s being slightly naughty. When they open the door he’ll come running in and zip down the main hall in a mad dash. If mom has just mopped the floor, look out! He’s going to go skidding into the back wall. And he knows this will happen every time! Personally, I think he likes the attention it gets him. But we’ll get back to Boomer soon enough. I want to tell you my story. [cartoon of Boomer skidding into wall – stars, etc]
I haven’t always been on duty on Cloud #764. I was once down there on earth with my very own human family. I was born in the summertime in a place called South Carolina. I had a bunch of brothers and sisters. My mom was great. She was warm and soft, and she had a purr that felt soooo good when I snuggled up to her.
We had a nice home a lady made for us on her sun porch. I learned to stretch and jump and chase dry leaves from the plants that sat on the shelves in the sun. We climbed in and out of the plants like they were our very own jungle. [cartoon of kittens in plants, chasing leaves] Sometimes it seemed a little crowded because we kept getting bigger each day, but we didn’t care. Our Mother told us that we would soon be big enough for homes of our own. She said we needed to show other people how delightful we were and how much love we had to give. I wasn’t sure I knew what she meant, but moms know best. [mother cat talking to Icy and others]
Soon after that, the mister-man in the house took us to work with him one evening. He was an auctioneer, whatever that meant. I could hear his big voice saying silly things really fast like, “Who’ll give me fifty? Who’ll give me fifty; there’s fifty, how bout fifty-five? Fifty-five on the floor, fifty-five, fifty-five, now going, now going, there’s sixty, sixty on the floor, who’ll give me sixty-five, sixty-five, sixty-five, going, going, going, gone. Sold to the man in the yellow hat!” Strange language, indeed.
Then he announced that they had a door prize for someone with ticket number 37. The man with ticket number 37 stood up and came to the platform and stood by mister-man. Mister-man’s big, warm hand reached down into our box, scooped me up and cuddled me against his chest. He looked at ticket number 37 and said, “Son, you can’t resist an adorable Calico like this one. She looks like a match made in heaven for you and your wife.” Everybody at the auction giggled and laughed. The young man stepped even closer, and his large hands with very long fingers took me ever so gently and held me up. He was a tall young man with red hair and a bushy red beard, but I could tell by the look in his eyes he loved animals. He held me close to him and talked to me so I wouldn’t be scared. I have to admit that I was a bit frightened – he was so tall, and it was a long way to the ground for a little kitten like me. I peered over his shoulder and said goodbye to my brothers and sisters. I mewed, “I hope you find a good home. Take care. I hope I will see you again, someday.” [young man with red beard and white sailor suit – auction scene with auctioneer handing over kitten – people laughing in background]
As we walked away from Mister Man, the young man rubbed me against his red beard and said, “I think I’ll call you Isis.” I thought to myself, “What kind of name is Isis? I look more like a Snuggles or a Sweetie-Pie or a Fluffy-Girl. Come on, give me a cute name that fits my cute little face.” But he picked Isis, so now I had a new name and was heading for a new adventure. He told me, “Little Isis, you are going home with us. How’s that sound? Home. You have a home.” I meowed to let him know that I thought that sounded nice. His wife held me in the car on the drive to my new home. The car ride was sort-of scary. In fact, the idea of a new home was sort-of scary. The thought that I wouldn’t be sleeping with my mother or my brothers or my sisters was sort-of scary. But he told me to be brave and said he was sure I would love my new home.
Home with them was different than my first home on the sun porch – I had the whole house to myself! The hallway looked like it was a mile long. I spent weeks exploring my big, new home. I jumped. I climbed. I turned flips in mid air while they laughed. It was great. [cat turning flips with string]
Early one morning, the young man with the red beard put on his white suit and kissed the lady goodbye. We didn’t see him for several months, and we really missed him. The lady always told me that he would be back soon. She would tell me how glad she was that I was there to keep her company. [I later found out that the young man with the red beard was a sailor in the United States Navy, and he was on a submarine underwater. Now, isn’t that just too cool?] [maybe picture of sub under water / maybe at his post with picture of wife with cat on his desk]
The weather turned cold as the weeks passed. The lady told me it was Christmas time and any day now the sailor would arrive. Sure enough, the day came when the doorbell rang, and his big, shiny patent leather shoes clicked on the kitchen tile. We spent the evening putting up a little tree that I thought was just for me. They put gifts underneath it and placed pretty things all over it. I got fussed at for batting at the ornaments and the shiny lights, but I did it anyway when they weren’t looking. I had no idea this tree was different from other trees. It was only for the Christmas season. Christmas is a wonderful time for humans, but I found out it would also be something for me to remember for the rest of my life. [cat playing with Christmas ornaments while they decorate]
The next afternoon the sailor and his wife packed me up and put me in the car for a ride. They were talking about going to visit family far away in Texas. They told me it was a long ride from South Carolina to Texas. Texas sounded funny to me. I didn’t think I would like it. I slept most of the way on that long, mysterious trip.
I woke up from my nice, long nap to discover that the car had stopped at the door of a large white house with a big front porch. I thought, “Thank goodness we’re finally there.” I needed to run and stretch. Besides, car rides generally meant that I ended up at the vet’s office, and I didn’t like those trips any more than I liked this one. [welcoming scene]
We were greeted at the door of the big white house by a lady the sailor called Granny. Granny hugged and kissed everybody. Granny took one look at me and said, “Oh, how cute. I think I have someone here for you to meet.” As Granny turned around, there she stood. A little girl with long brown hair, big hazel eyes with little bitty glasses perched on her little bitty nose. She was wearing a little red checked dress and she had little dots on her nose, kind of like some of my dots in my fur. She was adorable, and she asked if she could hold me. She was introduced to me as Tina. Her little, tiny hands took me. She snuggled her nose into my neck and I started purring just like my mom used to. “Wow!” I thought, “I’m purring! When did I learn to do that?” [image of Tina from photo when introduced]
Tina carried me all around the house that first day. She held me in her lap while we watched TV together that evening. And when it was time to go to bed that night, she snuck me into her room and let me curl up on a pillow. She stroked my fur until we both went to sleep. I started purring again. It was purrfect. I thought to myself as I drifted off, “I really like my sailor and his wife, but I feel something special for this little girl. I wish we could take her home with us and keep her.” [snuggled on a pillow beside sleeping child]
The next morning we woke up to a house full of people. Tina carried me everywhere so I wouldn’t get stepped on. There was another tree with lights and ornaments and presents in this house too. I thought it was absolutely great. There was a lot of laughter, music, singing and a whole lot of noise with everyone talking. You could tell they loved to be together. I didn’t think I could have had so much fun in that place called Texas. I didn’t want it to end.
But the day came when my sailor said we had to pack to go back to South Carolina. I looked at my sailor and thought, “Oh, please, can we pack the little girl? I would take good care of her. I promise.” About that time, another lady with red hair walked into the room to say goodbye to us. Her name was Cheryl. Cheryl was Tina’s mother and she was my sailor’s sister. That would explain the matching red hair, except she didn’t have a big red beard like my sailor had. They talked a while. I even heard my name mentioned. Then Granny came to say goodbye to us.
Granny said, “Oh, Cheryl, see how cute they are together. Surely you’re going to let her have a pet?” Cheryl said something about being a little worried making a change in someone’s home . . . going away from home, something about . . . WAIT A MINUTE! I just caught on! I was going to get to keep the little girl! They all seemed to agree and my sailor took me in his arms and asked me a question. “Isis, how do you feel about living with Tina?” I said to myself, “Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes!” Then he said, “Do you mind staying behind to live in Texas with Tina?” I thought, “Oh dear, Texas? Away from you?” I had to think for a second, but then I looked into Tina’s big, beautiful eyes and mewed a very happy, “Yes.” [sailor talks to kitten] [Tina takes kitten and hugs her]
Tina was so happy she squealed. She took me in her arms and we were together from that moment on. I knew then why the Christmas tree was special. You can have all those presents under the tree with their fancy bows and colored paper. I got the best gift of all. A special person all my own to love. I got Tina.
Chapter Two: Life with Tina
Tina quickly taught me several new games. My favorite was called “I see Isis.” Tina would hide around a corner and call me and I would sneak up quietly to surprise her. The minute she spotted me she would say, “I see you. I see Isis.” Before long, the game changed to “I See I-cee” and so did my name. I became known as Icy Kitty. I rather liked that. Tina would say my name in a little sing-song voice and I thought it was really cute. But, then again, I thought I was rather cute.
We also played ‘chase the string’ and boy, was I fast. She bought some busy balls with bells in them for me to roll around. After I chased them around during the middle of the night a few times the bells seem to disappear. I don’t know what was up with that.
Oh, but my life was so good. Every night I would get to curl up on the pillow next to Tina. I slept right beside her. The minute I knew she was about to wake up in the morning I would start purring. I learned to purr real loud, so if Tina tried to roll over and pretend she was still asleep, I would crank up the volume so she would have to get up and pet me. Sometimes she would roll over and mumble, “Icy, be quiet. I want to sleep five more minutes.” I was better than an alarm clock. Cheryl never had to call her twice. I would get closer and closer and breathe on her and purr as loud as a tractor. I did my job real well. She never got in trouble for sleeping late while I was on duty.
On a cold night in February, we had a guest show up on the porch of the big white house. He was a large, Orange Tabby cat with very long hair. He was very big, but very quiet. Cheryl said he was sick. He had pneumonia, which sounded very bad to a little cat like me. They took him in to the warm house and got him some medicine. I felt so sorry for him – he was so sick and didn’t look too happy about taking medicine, but he took it anyway. Cheryl kept telling him it would make him feel better. [the discovery of Puddin / giving him medicine]
It took him a while to get well, and by then he was another member of the family. They named him Puddin because he was the color of butterscotch pudding. He could barely meow after being so sick, but he seemed like a good guy. He and I soon became best friends.
Puddin and I had a lot of happy times. I was glad I had Puddin for my friend. If Puddin hadn't been there to keep me company I would have been very lonely during the day while Tina was in school. We would spend the day washing each other’s faces and curling up for naps together. We had games we played. Oh, it was the best two years you could have asked for…..that is…….until the dog arrived.
They told us they were getting a puppy. What they came home with looked like a fuzzy horse. She was an Alaskan Malamute named Shadow. Cheryl told us to be sweet to Shadow because she was a baby and was only two months old. TWO MONTHS OLD? She weighed 22 pounds and had feet bigger than my head! This was no baby dog. She even tripped over her own big feet as she came over to sniff me. I wanted her to know who was older and who was the boss, so I arched my back up high and gave her a real good hissing. Puddin and I laughed so hard when she turned her tail and ran yipping to Cheryl. We never did let her figure out that she was bigger than us. For years we ruled the roost. I was the boss, and that dog knew it. Even though she weighed over 100 pounds after she grew up, I remained queen of the house. [image of Shadow as pup compared to man’s work boots / then Icy hissing at puppy with puppy running away]
Time passed and the huge dog named Shadow had puppies. She had four boys and four girls. Every one of them was bigger than me, but I didn’t care. Since I was older than Shadow, I knew she might need help with that noisy brood. When they started to learn to eat on their own they made the biggest mess. They put their big feet in the bowls. They tipped the bowls over and walked in their food and smeared it all over their faces. Shadow would lick their faces clean and the puppies would have to wait in a playpen until everyone was clean and ready to go to the porch. They would whimper and cry after they were put in the playpen, so I gently crept into the playpen and snuggled with the puppies. I would purr softly, and they would get quiet. I was a good babysitter. I didn’t mind that they were dogs. All animals need to be cared for, especially when they are babies. [image of Icy in the play pen with the puppies]
The years flew by. Tina grew up to be a lovely young lady getting ready for college. She was going to study to be a ballet dancer. She would practice dancing all around the house. She would sail through the air in her pink ballet shoes like a fairy dancing on the wind. She would leap as far as I used to do when I was younger. I told Puddin that I was the one who taught her how to do that. I think he really believed me. [ballerina shot]
Chapter 3: Wretched Gretchen
Christmas after Christmas went by. Puddin and I started a tradition every year of moving the presents under the tree to make room for a place to hide. We would tap the ornaments on the lower branches of the tree until they dropped off. Then, we would gather them in our nests we’d made under the tree. Whoever gathered the most ornaments before Cheryl caught us was the winner. [two varmints caught in the act]
The years went by so fast. Before we knew it, all the puppies had grown up enough to go to homes of their own. Shadow was in heaven watching over us, and Tina was old enough to work at a grocery store in the evenings while she was going to college.
One year, we woke up on the day after Christmas just like we did every morning, yawning and stretching and playing with our new stuff we got for Christmas. It didn’t seem to be any different from any other day. While we thought that morning was no different than any other, evening came with what I considered to be a terrible, terrible thing. Nothing could have been more awful to an aging pair of cats like Puddin and myself than what happened that night. Nothing could have prepared me for this. Nothing you could do would have made me happy about Tina’s arrival after work at the grocery store on that night. She came home with another puppy!
She told us somebody left the puppy outside the grocery store. It was cold outside and the puppy was crying. Tina said she just couldn’t leave the puppy there all alone, so she brought it home. Cheryl said it looked like a German Shepherd puppy. I thought it just looked like trouble. They named it Gretchen. It cried most of the night. Then it woke up at two o’clock in the morning and thought we should all play. I told Gretchen to go back to bed and leave us old folks alone. She would not give up. She was a pest from day one. [Tina with puppy]
Gretchen spent the better part of her days chasing us. I think she even liked it when we hissed at her. She had a game she invented called ‘bump the cats’ which we certainly did not approve of. She would come running at us, lower her head and bump us hard enough to roll us over. Not at all our idea of fun. If Cheryl caught her doing this, she would shout, “Don’t bump the cats.” Gretchen would just wait until Cheryl wasn’t looking and – boomp – there we’d go again. Puddin and I gave the dog the nickname of ‘Wretched’ Gretchen.
If Puddin and I wanted to play Chase the String, Wretched Gretchen thought she had to be in on the game. Her big feet would come pouncing down on the string, and she would snatch it up in her big teeth and take off with it. She nosed in on every game we had. She didn’t respect nap time, either, and I think I’ve told you how important nap time was to a couple of old cats. We would just get comfortable on the sofa and guess what? She would jump up on the sofa with us and mess all the cushions up! And she was always sniffing us with that cold, wet nose of hers. She pestered us as bad as the neighbor boy used to pester Tina when he pulled her hair all the time.
It felt like it took Gretchen forever to grow up. Even after she got older, Gretchen was still bugging us. But there was hope she would turn out to be a well-behaved dog some day. Maybe. Maybe not. [bump the cats image]
Chapter Four: The Calico with Cancer
By the time I reached the age of 83 in ‘people years,’ Tina was no longer a little girl. She was now a beautiful woman. One evening near Thanksgiving time, Tina came out of her room modeling a long, white gown. It was a bridal gown, and the beads twinkled when she twirled around. I had never seen anything so lovely as Tina that day. Oh, I was so proud of her. She was going to be a bride. We were going to have a wedding! Everything was so exciting with everyone rushing around, going to parties and taking pictures. We were so busy getting ready for the wedding I didn’t have time to notice how tired I was. [bridal photo with cat looking on]
I used to jump all the way up on to the back of the lounge chair – that’s about four feet high. But, lately, I just couldn’t seem to be able to jump that high to get to my favorite perch. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t very hungry, and I was too tired to play with Puddin. I preferred to sleep all day long. My stomach hurt. My head hurt. I just didn’t feel good anymore.
Cheryl and Tina got worried about me. They told me I was going to go to the Veterinary Clinic. I thought, “Oh, no, not the Vet. I hate the Vet. I hate going to the doctor’s office. Please don’t take me.” But they made me go to the doctor. They said it was because they loved me and wanted me to feel good again.
I don’t know why I was afraid of the Vet’s office. All the ladies were sweet and talked to me. Everyone would pet me and tell me how pretty I was. Sometimes I even got a treat, but I was always scared when the Vet first came in wearing that spooky coat. Then he would speak softly and sweetly and touch me gently to calm me down. He seemed to be a very nice man, but I was still afraid because I didn't know what was wrong and why I was there. He and Cheryl talked for a long time in very quiet tones. I was tired and didn’t feel well. I just wanted to go home. I kept hearing the word cancer. That sounded terrible to me. What was cancer? Was that why I was there? I looked at Cheryl and Tina and meowed, “Take me home. Please.”
The vet looked at me and said the word ‘surgery.’ Everyone seemed upset by this word. One of the sweet ladies that worked for the vet picked me up and carried me to the back of the clinic. I could see Tina’s face as we left the room – she looked so sad. As we turned the corner I realized I couldn’t see Cheryl anymore. I couldn’t see Tina anymore. Was I going away for good? Oh, dear, what was I going to do? Even though the people at the clinic kept telling me not to be afraid, I was very frightened.
Then they came with needles to stick me. They put me through all kinds of tests with machines that looked like monsters. They even shaved off my lovely fur. I looked awful and was afraid everyone would think I was ugly. I was afraid Tina wouldn’t love me anymore if I wasn’t pretty like I used to be. I wanted to cry, “Let me out of here.” But they didn’t. They put me in a place to sleep and turned the lights out. It was dark and lonely. I could hear other animals crying about being left there, too. Oh, if only I could help those other little animals like I used to comfort Shadow’s puppies when I would purr for them. I went to sleep that night purring as loud as I could. Maybe the other animals would hear me and know that they were not alone in this dark, cold hospital. That night I had a dream about the big dog named Shadow. I dreamed she was telling me everything would be okay. She said I would be just fine and I would probably be able to do all the things I used to do. I was going to be alright, and she said Tina was waiting for me to come home. Shadow said she would be watching over me. Just dreaming about my old friend watching over me helped me drift off into a deep sleep.
I don’t remember my surgery, but I do remember the morning Tina and Cheryl came to pick me up at the animal hospital. I was so glad to see them. They were so happy to see me, too. Tina cradled me in her arms and told me how much she had missed me and how much she loved me! Even though I was sore and my stitches itched and bugged me, I was glad I was going home. The vet told them that he had removed seven tumors from my tummy. He told me I was very lucky that they did the surgery. I was a very sick little cat, and the surgery was the only chance I had to feel better again. I still had to take yucky medicine and go back to the vet for check-ups, but I soon started to feel better every day. [need some sort of image]
As I got well I discovered that I was able to jump up on my favorite lounge chair again. Puddin and I played games and chased the string all over the house just like old times. I didn’t even mind the fact that I was getting very old. We would curl up and take naps together – and you know old cats take a lot of naps. As a matter of fact, young cats take a lot of naps. Let’s just face it, cats like to nap – that’s why they call it a cat nap when humans take a little rest during the day.
At nap time I would dream about all the happy things I could remember. I would remember when I took care of Shadow’s puppies. That made me feel good. I even thought about all those sad little animals in the animal hospital. I dreamed it would be nice if there was something I could do to help them feel better. I dreamed about taking care of kitties and puppies that needed to be loved. I thought it would be wonderful to help them feel cared for the way Cheryl and Tina cared for me.
During one of my naps I dreamed Shadow came to visit me. She looked just the way she did when she was younger! She said, “Hello there, old friend. How would you like to come with me to a marvelous place where you will feel young forever and can do anything you would like to do?” I told her about how I would like to take care of other animals and asked her if there was a job like that for a little old lady cat like me.
She said, “Why, yes. We need someone with a good and loving heart who can help watch over animals, just the way I watched over you when you had cancer.” I said, “Really? That was really you? I thought it was just a dream. I was so afraid, but somehow I knew that everything was going to be alright. Do you mean to tell me that I can do that for other animals?”
Shadow said, “Most certainly. We even have little animals that need to be guided while they are growing up. I’ve got this one little guy named Boomer - he kind of acts like Gretchen did when she was a puppy. He needs someone with a lot of patience. I nearly gave up on Gretchen, but she finally learned to be a lady dog. Boomer will be good too, with someone like you to watch over him.”
I thought about it for a long time. I knew I had a good life with Tina and her mother, Cheryl. I watched Tina grow up and get married. I gave her love and comfort when she needed me. She did the same for me, and I learned about being loved, even when you’re sick with something like cancer. I thought to myself, “I do have a big heart. And I’m cute and funny and I have lots of love to give. I’m also patient. See how well I did with Shadow’s puppies? I can do that for lots of little animals.”
So I asked Shadow, “If I go with you, does this mean I will never see Tina and Cheryl again?” “Oh no,” said Shadow, “You will always be able to see them. And you will always have them in your heart, just like they will always have you in their hearts.”
“Will they be able to see me?” I asked. Shadow looked a little sad and said, “Not exactly. But they will know you are there, and their memories of you will be with them always. They will understand because they know about the place I am taking you to. It’s called Heaven. They plan on going there someday, and we will all be together sooner than you think.”
I decided I was ready for a new job, and I told Shadow I would like to see this place she was talking about. Before I knew it, we were flying high up into the clouds. Up Up Up we went and, for once, I wasn’t afraid of anything. Everything was as beautiful as Shadow said it was in animal heaven.
So now you know my story. Here I am with my new wings and my new job sitting on cloud #764 looking out for……Oh My Gosh! I completely forgot about Boomer! “Boomer, no, no, no. Not the trash. Please don’t pull the trash can over again! Oh, now look what a mess you’ve made. Just look. And you’re smearing creamed corn all over the floor. Oh, you are really trying my patience this time.”
Well, I guess it is back to work for me . . . . . just remember, when something seems like it might be bad -- be patient. Things will turn out alright, especially if I’m watching over you.
I just wish I could say the same for Boomer. [image of Boomer with trash strung out]
Starving Dogs
One spring a few years ago I attended a study series on angels hosted by Rev. Dottie Dumas of First United Methodist Church in Brookshire, Texas. Brookshire is a small community west of Katy, which is just west of Houston. I know this fact is probably completely off the map of interesting to the reader. But if you are familiar with the Houston area, you know most of our cities blend into each other almost seamlessly. In fact, in many cases, you aren't even aware you have left Houston city limits and have entered a totally new community. However, there is a fair space of land between Brookshire and Katy. Hence, Brookshire has a rural feel to it that is experienced in many of our outlying communities. You leave tall buildings in your rear view mirror and, within minutes, enter farmland vistas. You know for a fact that you have left the city and have arrived in the country. While one can be only a few short miles from bustling city lights, there is a provincial aura in rural Texas.
We all know that big city oil tycoons wear ten gallon hats and cowboy boots to look the part of a Texan, but the folk in the country wear cowboy boots because they really ride horses to work the ranch. The cowboy hat isn't a fashion statement to say, "I'm a Texan, ya'll." It is a chapeau of vital necessity in the Texas sun. All this rambling of mine is merely to make it clear that, even though Brookshire was a good one hour drive from my office in Missouri City at that time, I really, really, really wanted to attend this study regarding angels and their role in the Bible and their role in our world. I had a definitive reason for wanting to know about angels.
On October 15, 2006, I was in a terrible car accident. It was a stormy Sunday afternoon. The weather was disastrous, and my path home required that I navigate the Fred Hartman suspension bridge. The downward side of the north bound lanes are notorious for holding water. Ninety-six wrecks were reported for 2006 in the first nine months - all on this one section of the bridge. While I won't go into details of the accident in this blog, suffice it to say, I should not be alive today. The impact from the truck that plowed me backward down the bridge ended with my car shoved (backward) up onto the concrete retaining wall, and the truck's tailgate a mere eighteen inches from my windshield. The whole incident was surreal. It didn't happen in slow motion as many people say, but I had an acute sense of a presence sitting in the passenger's seat.
When everything came to a halt, the hackles came up on the back of my neck. I actually turned to look at the person sitting next to me. Within seconds the sensation of the presence lifted. It took a few moments to recover from the initial shock, but the remembrance of a presence in the car stayed with me for days. I wondered if it was my father who died in 1986. Was it my Aunt Jackie who had died a few years prior? Was it my guardian angel? I wanted to know. So, when Brookshire announced they were going to study angels, I was determined to go. The only problem I had was mother. I simply could not leave mother at home alone all day and all night. I needed to get her out of the house a little for socialization on even a small scale. Thus, braving the knowledge that she might say or do anything unpredictable, I made plans to attend.
We rocked along a couple of weeks just fine. Mother was content to sit and listen. It was apparent that she didn't understand most of the conversations going on around her. Everyone at the tables knew she had Alzheimer's. Rev. Dottie, who is at all times gracious, welcoming and wonderful with people, did her utmost to make mother feel comfortable and included.
As we approached Easter, the sessions had to be moved around to different nights to accommodate church events. This included the evenings scheduled for choir rehearsals, which I was also participating in for Easter Sunday. One particular night we ran long in order to get to a certain point before the holiday break. As the night wore on, mother started to look at her watch and tap it. I quietly inquired if she was alright. She indicated the time and was whispering about how late it was. I assured mother that we would be home in time to check her blood sugar, take her insulin and pills before bedtime. This didn't ease her mind. She got frustrated with me. She tapped her watch pretty firmly and said, "The dogs." I told mom the dogs were quite used to being in the house for long periods of time - they were fine. She was not buying it. By now the majority of the people in the session could see our little byplay. Mother's whispers were becoming louder. Everyone clearly heard, "Those dogs need to be fed. It's late." I, once again, whispered back that the dogs would be fine until we got home.
Mother was becoming more agitated and obsessed over the passing of time. The singular issue of needing to feed the dogs at a specific hour every evening was the only thought she was grasping. Thankfully, everyone in the room acted as if they didn't hear a thing. Fifteen more minutes passed and, in the loudest of theatrical whispers that would do an off Broadway actor justice, mother turns to me and says, "Those dogs are going to starve to death. They're going to die!" Trying to quell her response, I also fell into loud whisper mode and retorted, "Mother, Bella weighs a hundred and nineteen pounds. I don't think she'll starve before 9:15!"
The lady beside me lost it. She had her face turned away. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably with laughter. Her hand was clamped over her mouth in an attempt to stifle the noise trying to erupt. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. I thought she was going to collapse under the table.
Dottie calmly called a halt to the study. I didn't know if she intended to wrap up the evening at a specific section in the study, or if she was calling a cease fire due to the torture taking place on our side of the room. After all, how could she continue with mother gesturing at her watch, tapping her finger loudly on the bezel and practically talking out loud? How could she compete with those imaginary little conversation bubbles appearing over everyone's heads? I could see the balloon clouds from the cartoons floating in the air filling with phrases such as, "What kind of dog weighs 119 pounds?" "Is that woman signaling to the preacher that she's running long? I wonder if that would work during the sermon on Sunday?" "Geeze, Suzy's really losing it over there. If she were drinking milk it would be spewing from her nose."
Class dismissed. The grand study of angels would go on a back burner. Starving dogs in Richmond got the same billing as starving children in China. I did not get closure that evening regarding the presence in the car on the day of the accident. I arrived home that night to be greeted by two fat and happy pooches who were ecstatic at my return. They were eagerly dancing around their dinner bowls as if they hadn't seen food in a month. Mother did not resist. She said, "See, I told you those dogs needed to eat!" She preened herself on being right. I sagely squashed all the arguments I had ready. Like a dutiful child put in her place, I put on my poker face and fed my starving dogs.
We all know that big city oil tycoons wear ten gallon hats and cowboy boots to look the part of a Texan, but the folk in the country wear cowboy boots because they really ride horses to work the ranch. The cowboy hat isn't a fashion statement to say, "I'm a Texan, ya'll." It is a chapeau of vital necessity in the Texas sun. All this rambling of mine is merely to make it clear that, even though Brookshire was a good one hour drive from my office in Missouri City at that time, I really, really, really wanted to attend this study regarding angels and their role in the Bible and their role in our world. I had a definitive reason for wanting to know about angels.
On October 15, 2006, I was in a terrible car accident. It was a stormy Sunday afternoon. The weather was disastrous, and my path home required that I navigate the Fred Hartman suspension bridge. The downward side of the north bound lanes are notorious for holding water. Ninety-six wrecks were reported for 2006 in the first nine months - all on this one section of the bridge. While I won't go into details of the accident in this blog, suffice it to say, I should not be alive today. The impact from the truck that plowed me backward down the bridge ended with my car shoved (backward) up onto the concrete retaining wall, and the truck's tailgate a mere eighteen inches from my windshield. The whole incident was surreal. It didn't happen in slow motion as many people say, but I had an acute sense of a presence sitting in the passenger's seat.
When everything came to a halt, the hackles came up on the back of my neck. I actually turned to look at the person sitting next to me. Within seconds the sensation of the presence lifted. It took a few moments to recover from the initial shock, but the remembrance of a presence in the car stayed with me for days. I wondered if it was my father who died in 1986. Was it my Aunt Jackie who had died a few years prior? Was it my guardian angel? I wanted to know. So, when Brookshire announced they were going to study angels, I was determined to go. The only problem I had was mother. I simply could not leave mother at home alone all day and all night. I needed to get her out of the house a little for socialization on even a small scale. Thus, braving the knowledge that she might say or do anything unpredictable, I made plans to attend.
We rocked along a couple of weeks just fine. Mother was content to sit and listen. It was apparent that she didn't understand most of the conversations going on around her. Everyone at the tables knew she had Alzheimer's. Rev. Dottie, who is at all times gracious, welcoming and wonderful with people, did her utmost to make mother feel comfortable and included.
As we approached Easter, the sessions had to be moved around to different nights to accommodate church events. This included the evenings scheduled for choir rehearsals, which I was also participating in for Easter Sunday. One particular night we ran long in order to get to a certain point before the holiday break. As the night wore on, mother started to look at her watch and tap it. I quietly inquired if she was alright. She indicated the time and was whispering about how late it was. I assured mother that we would be home in time to check her blood sugar, take her insulin and pills before bedtime. This didn't ease her mind. She got frustrated with me. She tapped her watch pretty firmly and said, "The dogs." I told mom the dogs were quite used to being in the house for long periods of time - they were fine. She was not buying it. By now the majority of the people in the session could see our little byplay. Mother's whispers were becoming louder. Everyone clearly heard, "Those dogs need to be fed. It's late." I, once again, whispered back that the dogs would be fine until we got home.
Mother was becoming more agitated and obsessed over the passing of time. The singular issue of needing to feed the dogs at a specific hour every evening was the only thought she was grasping. Thankfully, everyone in the room acted as if they didn't hear a thing. Fifteen more minutes passed and, in the loudest of theatrical whispers that would do an off Broadway actor justice, mother turns to me and says, "Those dogs are going to starve to death. They're going to die!" Trying to quell her response, I also fell into loud whisper mode and retorted, "Mother, Bella weighs a hundred and nineteen pounds. I don't think she'll starve before 9:15!"
The lady beside me lost it. She had her face turned away. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably with laughter. Her hand was clamped over her mouth in an attempt to stifle the noise trying to erupt. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. I thought she was going to collapse under the table.
Dottie calmly called a halt to the study. I didn't know if she intended to wrap up the evening at a specific section in the study, or if she was calling a cease fire due to the torture taking place on our side of the room. After all, how could she continue with mother gesturing at her watch, tapping her finger loudly on the bezel and practically talking out loud? How could she compete with those imaginary little conversation bubbles appearing over everyone's heads? I could see the balloon clouds from the cartoons floating in the air filling with phrases such as, "What kind of dog weighs 119 pounds?" "Is that woman signaling to the preacher that she's running long? I wonder if that would work during the sermon on Sunday?" "Geeze, Suzy's really losing it over there. If she were drinking milk it would be spewing from her nose."
Class dismissed. The grand study of angels would go on a back burner. Starving dogs in Richmond got the same billing as starving children in China. I did not get closure that evening regarding the presence in the car on the day of the accident. I arrived home that night to be greeted by two fat and happy pooches who were ecstatic at my return. They were eagerly dancing around their dinner bowls as if they hadn't seen food in a month. Mother did not resist. She said, "See, I told you those dogs needed to eat!" She preened herself on being right. I sagely squashed all the arguments I had ready. Like a dutiful child put in her place, I put on my poker face and fed my starving dogs.
History Meets Today
At the confluence of the Big and Little Arkansas Rivers, smack in the middle of downtown Wichita, Kansas, towers the presence of a great work of art that is a monument to our Native American Indian heritage. It was created in 1974 and is a forty-four foot high sculpture weighing 5 tons. It is a contemporary styled sculpture of an Indian Chief designed by Native American artist Blackbear Bosin (1921-1980). In 2006, the statue was raised another 30' to the top of a man made rock promontory. It can be visited by crossing pedestrian suspension bridges from the far shore of either river. For brief periods in the evening, the Keeper is surrounded by a "ring of fire." The curves of the Keeper of the Plains echo in the design of the pedestrian bridges, as well as other art and buildings along the Arkansas River corridor through Wichita.
With friend Gwen as my tour guide, we motored around from downtown Wichita to the park area. As we neared the Keeper of the Plains, the statue could easily be seen for miles. It was immense from a distance, but it was nothing less than breathtaking in size when I found myself standing at its base. We took our place across the river at nine that evening to watch as the flames of the torches that ring the base of the rock were lit. The heat was intense. The view was impressive. But more consuming than all the immediate visuals were the images and thoughts racing through my mind. I sat in wonder and awe trying to understand a nation of people who survived this land without modern amenities. It saddened me to think that their inherent knowledge and understanding of the earth may have been lost as generations modernized and blended with society. Their abilities were apparent in the shape and size of their weapons and tools. There was a note on an exhibit that told that the length of a warrior's spear was evidence of his bravery. I marveled at the brevity of one such weapon and tried to visualize the man holding the piece. What manner of man was he? What legacy did he leave?
While my own heritage is Irish and Dutch, I couldn't help but feel a strong and compelling empathy for the many nations and tribes this one statue stood to represent. It is a firm reminder that their contribution to our country has made it all the more richer. The colors of their fabrics and the designs in their weavings can be found across our land and in our homes. Their imagery and art are a staple from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast and all points north and south in this nation. Blackbear Bosin's work is only one example of the wondrous things the people of the Native American Indian left for us to have and to hold. I shall forever have different eyes with which to see the marks their walk in life have made upon my world.
With friend Gwen as my tour guide, we motored around from downtown Wichita to the park area. As we neared the Keeper of the Plains, the statue could easily be seen for miles. It was immense from a distance, but it was nothing less than breathtaking in size when I found myself standing at its base. We took our place across the river at nine that evening to watch as the flames of the torches that ring the base of the rock were lit. The heat was intense. The view was impressive. But more consuming than all the immediate visuals were the images and thoughts racing through my mind. I sat in wonder and awe trying to understand a nation of people who survived this land without modern amenities. It saddened me to think that their inherent knowledge and understanding of the earth may have been lost as generations modernized and blended with society. Their abilities were apparent in the shape and size of their weapons and tools. There was a note on an exhibit that told that the length of a warrior's spear was evidence of his bravery. I marveled at the brevity of one such weapon and tried to visualize the man holding the piece. What manner of man was he? What legacy did he leave?
While my own heritage is Irish and Dutch, I couldn't help but feel a strong and compelling empathy for the many nations and tribes this one statue stood to represent. It is a firm reminder that their contribution to our country has made it all the more richer. The colors of their fabrics and the designs in their weavings can be found across our land and in our homes. Their imagery and art are a staple from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast and all points north and south in this nation. Blackbear Bosin's work is only one example of the wondrous things the people of the Native American Indian left for us to have and to hold. I shall forever have different eyes with which to see the marks their walk in life have made upon my world.
The Keeper of the Plains
Oh valiant warrior silent, still,
hailing the spirits of your past
as dancers move in rhythmic drill
while chant is called and spell is cast.
Arms extend to majestic skies
as eagles soar in sun’s bright haze.
No more to hear those battle cries,
he lifts his voice in song to praise.
With freedom bound by history’s ties,
Mankind’s time is now at hand.
He calls them to unite and rise,
for this is as the great one planned.
Mortal of might from ancient days
guides his people through the land.
Defiant of winds that ravage and raze,
upon this earth he’s pledged to stand.
Staunch vigil prays for peace to spill
and bathe the fields with blessed rains.
From grassland vast to rolling hill,
behold, the Keeper of the Plains.
The Keeper of the Plains
Cheryl Earles
June 28, 2009
hailing the spirits of your past
as dancers move in rhythmic drill
while chant is called and spell is cast.
Arms extend to majestic skies
as eagles soar in sun’s bright haze.
No more to hear those battle cries,
he lifts his voice in song to praise.
With freedom bound by history’s ties,
Mankind’s time is now at hand.
He calls them to unite and rise,
for this is as the great one planned.
Mortal of might from ancient days
guides his people through the land.
Defiant of winds that ravage and raze,
upon this earth he’s pledged to stand.
Staunch vigil prays for peace to spill
and bathe the fields with blessed rains.
From grassland vast to rolling hill,
behold, the Keeper of the Plains.
The Keeper of the Plains
Cheryl Earles
June 28, 2009
Maggie
Not exactly a beauty portrait from a studio - maybe even a face that only a mother could love, but she gives love without condition.
Tough Beginning with a Happy 'Tail' of an Ending
I was a foster home for the Baytown Humane Society (BHS) for a number of years. That is how I acquired my beloved Bella, short for Bellisima, a Rottweiler who thinks she is a nine pound lap poodle. However much as I love my Bella dog, today I want to write about another dog whose life would have, otherwise, had a far different ending than the happy tale that goes with the funny face posted on the web.
A few years ago the president of BHS called me to report that they had rescued a dog off Interstate 10 at Magnolia in Houston. The story that unfolded was horrifying, and it is another confirmation that dog fighting on any level needs to end in this country.
One busy morning, someone spotted a small dog sitting under the Magnolia Street underpass. She was not moving very much. First thoughts could have been that she was lost or was left by someone and was waiting for owners to return to save her. A call was placed to another humane group, but there was not much response to the pre-weekend call. I was told lame excuses were given among other facts unknown to me as to why they couldn’t do the rescue. This little dog remained all day in the heat with no water, in the same position, and not one single individual stopped to check on her. The original person who observed the little dog holding vigil under the overpass earlier that morning crossed the same path that afternoon and noticed she was still there. She appeared injured in some manner, because her movements, little though they were, seemed very slow. Disappointed that the humane group contacted earlier that morning made no effort to rescue the dog, the good-hearted ambassador contacted the president of BHS. BHS went directly to the scene. A request for assistance from the Sheriff’s department was made, just in case there was an issue with the injured animal.
Upon the arrival of her rescuers the dog seemed demur. The were uncertain as to whether her apparent gentle disposition was natural or if it was due to the damage and ensuing shock from her ordeal involving the highway traffic. Her condition revealed that she must have bounced out of the back of a pickup truck. Her left hip was shattered. Her front leg was opened to the bone, drawing another conclusion that she was struck by a vehicle after she fell out of the truck. Unfortunately, her obvious breeding was pit bull mix. [I say 'unfortunately' because a large majority of rescue organizations will not rescue pit bulls.] There were dozens of bite marks, both fresh and scarred over, all along her body to indicate that she was a bait pup upon which the other pit pups honed their biting aggression skills. There were more horrors to be revealed later, but the urgent decision to be made was, “Was she worth saving in the condition she was in?” and “Will there be a danger if they tried to adopt her out if they did save her?” The dark question hanging in the balance was, "Should we just put her down?"
She was very nearly put to sleep because of all the questions floating in the air, but the president of BHS had a big heart and a trusting soul. She knew some of these were questions that only time could answer. The decision was made to take the chance and they rushed her to the clinic that served BHS. Surgery was done on the hip with full knowledge that shattering in six places would leave lifelong damage with possible disabilities. The front leg was repaired and sewn shut. Her smaller injuries were tended to, and the call was placed to me for a possible foster spot.
I did not hesitate. As soon as I heard her story I said yes. My heart absolutely ached over her circumstances. Since she appeared to be a medium sized dog with unknown future growth, I was the home of choice. The president of BHS was well aware of my affinity for large animals, which gives me a confidence that can overcome their fears. With a large, fenced back yard I had room for them to grow and recuperate. Regardless of an incoming dog’s temperament, with Bella in the picture, we could bring any animal in to our home. No matter their past experiences, Bella's behavior set the example and pace. If new dogs arrived snapping and growling, Bella just looked at them through the fence, backed up to make room, sat down and looked at them as if to say, “Whoa, buddy. You are alive and you are gonna like it here. Stop the barking and come on in.”
The new arrival was named Maggie by BHS - short for the Magnolia Street overpass from which she was rescued. We had a tough couple of first nights. Maggie was a stalwart little nut. She did not whimper once to indicate pain. She seemed to be afraid to make any sound at all. Her ragged breathing was the only clue she gave to her suffering. I tried to console her, but she was confused by the attention. If I lifted my hand, she shrank back and sat still, as if waiting for the inevitable strike.
I made myself be extremely patient and moved with caution. It took a bit, but I finally got her to settle on a soft, padded bed. Petting her was still foreign to her. I was desperate to get her to the point of trusting me. If I wasn’t successful, then she would not qualify for adoption and, BHS’s stance on whether they should have saved her life would have been in even more question.
Several trips to the vet indicated she was healing nicely, but would have lifetime damage to the hip. The more active she became, the more her personality came to light. This dog may have been a fighter for her own life, but this was no ‘fighting’ dog. She followed Bella’s every lead. Maggie imitated everything Bella did. Those two clowns raced about the yard and played like gladiators. Bella’s favorite activity was to leap up on top of the picnic table and oversee the world, then spring down and zoom across the lawn. That flattened, injured hip didn’t stop Maggie from doing the same thing. I held my breath the first time I saw Maggie fly off that picnic table behind Bella. She hit the ground with a thud. I ran across the yard to check on her, but Maggie was gone in a flash and back to Gladiator Play with full force.
Following Bella’s example, it was easy to house-train Maggie. She did everything she was told without question. When we were training on how to take treats nicely, she took one look at Bella and did exactly as Bella did. I had no fear of losing a finger as long as I kept her attention. She didn’t trust strangers at all, but I soon realized how much she was trying to bond to me. This can be difficult for a foster parent.
While I was doing everything in my power to get her to trust me and learn that humans can be good, her first eleven months of her life left a deep impression on her that presented an uphill battle. I found that out the first time I grabbed a fly swatter to kill an invading bug. Maggie went back to her original position of head down, body frozen and quivering - waiting for the blows. My heart dropped like a stone. I ran to her, wrapped her in my arms and pulled her stiff body up onto my lap as I rocked her to and fro. I tried to rub her belly and cooed words of affection, but all these actions were new experiences. She remained stiff. I held her and held her and held her. She finally relaxed a little. Then the tail thumped. Then it thumped again. I continued to sweet talk her. Nine weeks after harboring her, I had my first positive response of affection. She seemed surprised by the actions of her own tail. I kept up the ‘honey girls’ and ‘sweetie pies’ as the tail continued to wag. I knew in my heart that this could be a loving dog given half a chance, but she still had a lot of nurturing to go through.
Her picture remained posted on the BHS web site for many months. There were no calls. Her nose and the shape of her head were clear marks of a pit mix. Our region of the country has such a dreadful reputation. We knew it would be a long ordeal to overcome and find a home for Maggie. The months fostering Maggie stretched to well beyond the normal time for dogs in the foster system. Mag had become an absolute gem and attached herself to me as if she were my conscience. Her presence at my side, and her curiosity for anything and everything going on, soon netted her the nickname "Supervisor Number Nine." It mattered not if it was laundry, cooking, moving things around in a room - Supervisor Number Nine had to oversee all actvity in the house. All through this, Bella was understanding and patient. The girls had become close friends. The older dog, Gretchen, was also tolerant and understanding, giving Maggie more dog friends than she ever realized could be possible. Where the world had been set against Maggie before, our world had molded around her to wrap her in love and affection.
The more I was able to get Maggie to have faith in me, the more I discovered about her dreadful past. I knew that she was a bait puppy by the numerous scars on her body. Those scars were soon becoming part of a distant world as she put on weight. Her coat filled out and started to gleam a mahogany red brown with white splotches. The gash on her leg was long gone. All she had to show for her terrible beginning was that funky, flat hip, which didn’t stop her from bounding up on the couch beside me or up on the bed to oust Bella from a section of the mattress. She soon learned the phrase, “Come Cuddle!” and would leap up onto my lap and stretch out for a session of good lovin’. I thought her original story was banished to another time, another place. I was wrong. There was more to learn about my Maggie gal. I only thought I knew the abominations she had experienced, and abomination is the perfect word to describe what I discovered.
One night we were cuddling on the couch watching a movie. Baring her belly for me to scratch was now a ritual that had to be followed. No more flinching for this girl. She would toss from side to side and bump my hand with her head. When I slowed down, she would do anything to get my attention. On this occasion, she grabbed my hand in her mouth as if to tug it toward her again. I noticed how gentle her mouth was - surprisingly so. However, I noted that her teeth felt odd. It took me a few minutes to get her to be still and cooperate, but I managed to get her to play smiley with me and let me really look into her mouth. I sucked my breath in when I realized the full extent of what it meant to be the docile bait puppy in the pit. It meant that the dog had to have no way to really defend itself by using the power to latch onto an opponent with their jaws. Several of Maggie’s main teeth had been ripped from her mouth while she was just a puppy. There were huge gaps in her jaw line. My blood ran absolutely cold with the knowledge that this must have been done as cruelly as possible - with pliers and no anesthetics. In my mind, I could see her callous masters throwing her back in the pit still bleeding and whimpering in pain.
I looked at the calendar. It had been thirteen months since Maggie had been found on I10. Her age was estimated at eleven months old at rescue, making her now two years old and no longer a puppy who would be the apple of a family’s eye. I picked up the phone, and, with a catch in my throat and a trembling voice, I informed BHS that I was taking her out of foster care and adopting her myself. No one could love this funky little dog as much as I did at that moment. She had captivated my heart and worked her way into my soul. I could never make up to her what she had endured at the hands of others, but I could certainly make life different and wonderful from that day forward.
A few years ago the president of BHS called me to report that they had rescued a dog off Interstate 10 at Magnolia in Houston. The story that unfolded was horrifying, and it is another confirmation that dog fighting on any level needs to end in this country.
One busy morning, someone spotted a small dog sitting under the Magnolia Street underpass. She was not moving very much. First thoughts could have been that she was lost or was left by someone and was waiting for owners to return to save her. A call was placed to another humane group, but there was not much response to the pre-weekend call. I was told lame excuses were given among other facts unknown to me as to why they couldn’t do the rescue. This little dog remained all day in the heat with no water, in the same position, and not one single individual stopped to check on her. The original person who observed the little dog holding vigil under the overpass earlier that morning crossed the same path that afternoon and noticed she was still there. She appeared injured in some manner, because her movements, little though they were, seemed very slow. Disappointed that the humane group contacted earlier that morning made no effort to rescue the dog, the good-hearted ambassador contacted the president of BHS. BHS went directly to the scene. A request for assistance from the Sheriff’s department was made, just in case there was an issue with the injured animal.
Upon the arrival of her rescuers the dog seemed demur. The were uncertain as to whether her apparent gentle disposition was natural or if it was due to the damage and ensuing shock from her ordeal involving the highway traffic. Her condition revealed that she must have bounced out of the back of a pickup truck. Her left hip was shattered. Her front leg was opened to the bone, drawing another conclusion that she was struck by a vehicle after she fell out of the truck. Unfortunately, her obvious breeding was pit bull mix. [I say 'unfortunately' because a large majority of rescue organizations will not rescue pit bulls.] There were dozens of bite marks, both fresh and scarred over, all along her body to indicate that she was a bait pup upon which the other pit pups honed their biting aggression skills. There were more horrors to be revealed later, but the urgent decision to be made was, “Was she worth saving in the condition she was in?” and “Will there be a danger if they tried to adopt her out if they did save her?” The dark question hanging in the balance was, "Should we just put her down?"
She was very nearly put to sleep because of all the questions floating in the air, but the president of BHS had a big heart and a trusting soul. She knew some of these were questions that only time could answer. The decision was made to take the chance and they rushed her to the clinic that served BHS. Surgery was done on the hip with full knowledge that shattering in six places would leave lifelong damage with possible disabilities. The front leg was repaired and sewn shut. Her smaller injuries were tended to, and the call was placed to me for a possible foster spot.
I did not hesitate. As soon as I heard her story I said yes. My heart absolutely ached over her circumstances. Since she appeared to be a medium sized dog with unknown future growth, I was the home of choice. The president of BHS was well aware of my affinity for large animals, which gives me a confidence that can overcome their fears. With a large, fenced back yard I had room for them to grow and recuperate. Regardless of an incoming dog’s temperament, with Bella in the picture, we could bring any animal in to our home. No matter their past experiences, Bella's behavior set the example and pace. If new dogs arrived snapping and growling, Bella just looked at them through the fence, backed up to make room, sat down and looked at them as if to say, “Whoa, buddy. You are alive and you are gonna like it here. Stop the barking and come on in.”
The new arrival was named Maggie by BHS - short for the Magnolia Street overpass from which she was rescued. We had a tough couple of first nights. Maggie was a stalwart little nut. She did not whimper once to indicate pain. She seemed to be afraid to make any sound at all. Her ragged breathing was the only clue she gave to her suffering. I tried to console her, but she was confused by the attention. If I lifted my hand, she shrank back and sat still, as if waiting for the inevitable strike.
I made myself be extremely patient and moved with caution. It took a bit, but I finally got her to settle on a soft, padded bed. Petting her was still foreign to her. I was desperate to get her to the point of trusting me. If I wasn’t successful, then she would not qualify for adoption and, BHS’s stance on whether they should have saved her life would have been in even more question.
Several trips to the vet indicated she was healing nicely, but would have lifetime damage to the hip. The more active she became, the more her personality came to light. This dog may have been a fighter for her own life, but this was no ‘fighting’ dog. She followed Bella’s every lead. Maggie imitated everything Bella did. Those two clowns raced about the yard and played like gladiators. Bella’s favorite activity was to leap up on top of the picnic table and oversee the world, then spring down and zoom across the lawn. That flattened, injured hip didn’t stop Maggie from doing the same thing. I held my breath the first time I saw Maggie fly off that picnic table behind Bella. She hit the ground with a thud. I ran across the yard to check on her, but Maggie was gone in a flash and back to Gladiator Play with full force.
Following Bella’s example, it was easy to house-train Maggie. She did everything she was told without question. When we were training on how to take treats nicely, she took one look at Bella and did exactly as Bella did. I had no fear of losing a finger as long as I kept her attention. She didn’t trust strangers at all, but I soon realized how much she was trying to bond to me. This can be difficult for a foster parent.
While I was doing everything in my power to get her to trust me and learn that humans can be good, her first eleven months of her life left a deep impression on her that presented an uphill battle. I found that out the first time I grabbed a fly swatter to kill an invading bug. Maggie went back to her original position of head down, body frozen and quivering - waiting for the blows. My heart dropped like a stone. I ran to her, wrapped her in my arms and pulled her stiff body up onto my lap as I rocked her to and fro. I tried to rub her belly and cooed words of affection, but all these actions were new experiences. She remained stiff. I held her and held her and held her. She finally relaxed a little. Then the tail thumped. Then it thumped again. I continued to sweet talk her. Nine weeks after harboring her, I had my first positive response of affection. She seemed surprised by the actions of her own tail. I kept up the ‘honey girls’ and ‘sweetie pies’ as the tail continued to wag. I knew in my heart that this could be a loving dog given half a chance, but she still had a lot of nurturing to go through.
Her picture remained posted on the BHS web site for many months. There were no calls. Her nose and the shape of her head were clear marks of a pit mix. Our region of the country has such a dreadful reputation. We knew it would be a long ordeal to overcome and find a home for Maggie. The months fostering Maggie stretched to well beyond the normal time for dogs in the foster system. Mag had become an absolute gem and attached herself to me as if she were my conscience. Her presence at my side, and her curiosity for anything and everything going on, soon netted her the nickname "Supervisor Number Nine." It mattered not if it was laundry, cooking, moving things around in a room - Supervisor Number Nine had to oversee all actvity in the house. All through this, Bella was understanding and patient. The girls had become close friends. The older dog, Gretchen, was also tolerant and understanding, giving Maggie more dog friends than she ever realized could be possible. Where the world had been set against Maggie before, our world had molded around her to wrap her in love and affection.
The more I was able to get Maggie to have faith in me, the more I discovered about her dreadful past. I knew that she was a bait puppy by the numerous scars on her body. Those scars were soon becoming part of a distant world as she put on weight. Her coat filled out and started to gleam a mahogany red brown with white splotches. The gash on her leg was long gone. All she had to show for her terrible beginning was that funky, flat hip, which didn’t stop her from bounding up on the couch beside me or up on the bed to oust Bella from a section of the mattress. She soon learned the phrase, “Come Cuddle!” and would leap up onto my lap and stretch out for a session of good lovin’. I thought her original story was banished to another time, another place. I was wrong. There was more to learn about my Maggie gal. I only thought I knew the abominations she had experienced, and abomination is the perfect word to describe what I discovered.
One night we were cuddling on the couch watching a movie. Baring her belly for me to scratch was now a ritual that had to be followed. No more flinching for this girl. She would toss from side to side and bump my hand with her head. When I slowed down, she would do anything to get my attention. On this occasion, she grabbed my hand in her mouth as if to tug it toward her again. I noticed how gentle her mouth was - surprisingly so. However, I noted that her teeth felt odd. It took me a few minutes to get her to be still and cooperate, but I managed to get her to play smiley with me and let me really look into her mouth. I sucked my breath in when I realized the full extent of what it meant to be the docile bait puppy in the pit. It meant that the dog had to have no way to really defend itself by using the power to latch onto an opponent with their jaws. Several of Maggie’s main teeth had been ripped from her mouth while she was just a puppy. There were huge gaps in her jaw line. My blood ran absolutely cold with the knowledge that this must have been done as cruelly as possible - with pliers and no anesthetics. In my mind, I could see her callous masters throwing her back in the pit still bleeding and whimpering in pain.
I looked at the calendar. It had been thirteen months since Maggie had been found on I10. Her age was estimated at eleven months old at rescue, making her now two years old and no longer a puppy who would be the apple of a family’s eye. I picked up the phone, and, with a catch in my throat and a trembling voice, I informed BHS that I was taking her out of foster care and adopting her myself. No one could love this funky little dog as much as I did at that moment. She had captivated my heart and worked her way into my soul. I could never make up to her what she had endured at the hands of others, but I could certainly make life different and wonderful from that day forward.
The Mist
poised upon the waters
cast in time ‘til sunlight’s break
misted lake with lone boat rocking
i stand breathless in its wake
bear witness to the wonders
of earth at first light’s dawn
be cautious of its mighty spell
for man is merely nature’s pawn
threads of light soon arrive
to banish the somber scene
tendrils of gold will soon kiss
this place so muted, serene
lured by mystic beauty
i chance to dream and wander
transfixed in dusky silence
lost to the world I ponder
on the verge of lake and sky
alone with thoughts of yore
i contemplate upon love lost
across on distant shore
cast in time ‘til sunlight’s break
misted lake with lone boat rocking
i stand breathless in its wake
bear witness to the wonders
of earth at first light’s dawn
be cautious of its mighty spell
for man is merely nature’s pawn
threads of light soon arrive
to banish the somber scene
tendrils of gold will soon kiss
this place so muted, serene
lured by mystic beauty
i chance to dream and wander
transfixed in dusky silence
lost to the world I ponder
on the verge of lake and sky
alone with thoughts of yore
i contemplate upon love lost
across on distant shore
Pv 2 Patricia Juneau
All too soon, she grew from a child to a woman in charge of her own destiny. The image you see posted is not the image of my head and heart. My eyes see a little girl with bright red hair, arms folded across her chest. Defiant. Determined. Holding out to win a battle of wits as I worked hard to cajole her into doing what she was told to do. She was only three at the time, which puts the date about fifteen years ago, but that day remains carved into my memory as if it were yesterday.
I write often of my sister and have briefly mentioned her two daughters. Back when we were younger, if you didn’t know us and happened upon us in the mall with our children gathered around us, you couldn’t be blamed for assuming that Alicia’s two girls belonged to me and that my daughter belonged to Alicia. Alicia has dark hair and eyes with a complexion that leans toward warmer in tone. My daughter, being half Hispanic, has the same dark coloring. However, the genes traveled odd paths and Alicia ended up with a redheaded daughter and a blonde daughter. Both of her girls also have personality traits that resemble mine. This would not have been a good thing if they had actually been my daughters. God knew what he was doing. He gave me Alicia’s true daughter knowing that, if I had a child just like myself, I would have ended up in a loony bin crazy with frustration.
We were scheduled to go to lunch one cold, stormy day. Patricia was dressed in a denim outfit and was wearing delightful little matching denim boots. While the outfit was okay, the boots would have been soaked in minutes, so she was told to go change her footwear. Her eyes locked with her mother’s and she said, “No.” That started the round of yes you will, no I won’t, please, no, please, no, I said now before I count to three…….we’ve all been there. Patricia turned and headed for her room. Aunt Cheryl, with all her ‘I know how to get around this redhead wisdom’ followed the tike to the bedroom. I tried to reason with her. I gave great explanations to her. I offered to help find shoes that would protect her feet from the cold. She was matching and not budging. She stoically crossed her arms, turned her three-year-old back to me and clearly enunciating each word said, “Leave My Room.” I said, “Fine. I will leave your room, and I will leave you here while we go to lunch.” I walked out. (Actually, I was more graphic than that and told her I would leave her donkey’s rear end at home, but I didn’t tell her mother that part.)
I told my sister to get in the car. I made it appear that we were really going to leave without Patricia. Older sister, Rebecca, was fretting in the back seat, but tears would not sway me. I was bent on proving which one of the two of us could be more obstinate. Not only was I not going to yield to another redhead, I wasn’t going to let a three year old get the better of me.
The car was started and put in motion. We didn’t go four feet before that little red head was in the garage with brown leather boots on her feet. I will give her credit. She didn’t say a word. She gave the appearance that the change in footgear was not due to anyone else’s desires or wishes. She did not acknowledge any remarks from anyone regarding the shoes, nor did she make eye contact with any of us who had offended her fashion sensibility.
That tenacity served her well a decade and a half later when she made the decision to join the National Guard, giving up weekends most seniors in high school spend sleeping or hanging out with friends. Instead of shopping or primping for dates, she was running miles in the heat. Patricia graduated high school early and went straight to boot camp for the U. S. Army. The beret she donned at the end of those grueling eight weeks of boot camp was earned via hard work, determination and perseverance. I have no doubt she will succeed in her quest to work with the Apache helicopter, or anything else she sets her mind to.
I write often of my sister and have briefly mentioned her two daughters. Back when we were younger, if you didn’t know us and happened upon us in the mall with our children gathered around us, you couldn’t be blamed for assuming that Alicia’s two girls belonged to me and that my daughter belonged to Alicia. Alicia has dark hair and eyes with a complexion that leans toward warmer in tone. My daughter, being half Hispanic, has the same dark coloring. However, the genes traveled odd paths and Alicia ended up with a redheaded daughter and a blonde daughter. Both of her girls also have personality traits that resemble mine. This would not have been a good thing if they had actually been my daughters. God knew what he was doing. He gave me Alicia’s true daughter knowing that, if I had a child just like myself, I would have ended up in a loony bin crazy with frustration.
We were scheduled to go to lunch one cold, stormy day. Patricia was dressed in a denim outfit and was wearing delightful little matching denim boots. While the outfit was okay, the boots would have been soaked in minutes, so she was told to go change her footwear. Her eyes locked with her mother’s and she said, “No.” That started the round of yes you will, no I won’t, please, no, please, no, I said now before I count to three…….we’ve all been there. Patricia turned and headed for her room. Aunt Cheryl, with all her ‘I know how to get around this redhead wisdom’ followed the tike to the bedroom. I tried to reason with her. I gave great explanations to her. I offered to help find shoes that would protect her feet from the cold. She was matching and not budging. She stoically crossed her arms, turned her three-year-old back to me and clearly enunciating each word said, “Leave My Room.” I said, “Fine. I will leave your room, and I will leave you here while we go to lunch.” I walked out. (Actually, I was more graphic than that and told her I would leave her donkey’s rear end at home, but I didn’t tell her mother that part.)
I told my sister to get in the car. I made it appear that we were really going to leave without Patricia. Older sister, Rebecca, was fretting in the back seat, but tears would not sway me. I was bent on proving which one of the two of us could be more obstinate. Not only was I not going to yield to another redhead, I wasn’t going to let a three year old get the better of me.
The car was started and put in motion. We didn’t go four feet before that little red head was in the garage with brown leather boots on her feet. I will give her credit. She didn’t say a word. She gave the appearance that the change in footgear was not due to anyone else’s desires or wishes. She did not acknowledge any remarks from anyone regarding the shoes, nor did she make eye contact with any of us who had offended her fashion sensibility.
That tenacity served her well a decade and a half later when she made the decision to join the National Guard, giving up weekends most seniors in high school spend sleeping or hanging out with friends. Instead of shopping or primping for dates, she was running miles in the heat. Patricia graduated high school early and went straight to boot camp for the U. S. Army. The beret she donned at the end of those grueling eight weeks of boot camp was earned via hard work, determination and perseverance. I have no doubt she will succeed in her quest to work with the Apache helicopter, or anything else she sets her mind to.
Just prior to her departure for boot camp, Patricia penned the poem posted below. With wisdom beyond her years, she crafted a work that brushed the hearts and souls of everyone in her life. While her words were meant to reach out and reassure others, they revealed a poise, dignity, inner beauty and innate sense of loyalty that we had only had a glimpse of before.
If you board a helicopter someday in the future, don’t be surprised if you see a copper-headed pilot at the helm. You can rest assured she will get you where you need to go. Just don’t bother trying to change her mind. That's a dead end trip.
If you board a helicopter someday in the future, don’t be surprised if you see a copper-headed pilot at the helm. You can rest assured she will get you where you need to go. Just don’t bother trying to change her mind. That's a dead end trip.
If I ever go to war…
If I ever go to war Mom, please don’t be afraid.
There are some things I must do,
to keep the promise that I made.
I’m sure there will be some heartache,
and I know it might bring a tear,
But your daughter is a Soldier now, Mom,
There is nothing you should fear.
If I ever go to war Dad, I know that you’ll be strong.
And you don’t have to worry,
cause you taught me right from wrong.
You kept me firmly on the ground,
yet still taught me how to fly.
Your daughter is a Soldier now, Dad,
I love you, that is not a lie.
If I ever go to war Sis, don’t you worry about me,
You’ve always looked out for me,
but this is what I want to be.
I’ll keep you with me always,
it will never be good-bye
Your sister is a Soldier now, Sis,
so keep your spirits high.
If I ever go to war my Friends, We’ll never be apart,
Though we may not meet again,
I’ll hold you to my heart.
Remember all the times we had,
don’t let your memories cease,
Your friend is a Soldier now, my Friends,
I’d fight to bring you peace.
And when I go to heaven to see that pearly gate,
I’ll gladly decline entrance,
then stand my post and wait.
I’m sorry Sir I can’t come in,
I’m sort of in a bind,
You see I’m still a Soldier, Sir,
I won’t leave them behind.
~ Patricia Juneau
There are some things I must do,
to keep the promise that I made.
I’m sure there will be some heartache,
and I know it might bring a tear,
But your daughter is a Soldier now, Mom,
There is nothing you should fear.
If I ever go to war Dad, I know that you’ll be strong.
And you don’t have to worry,
cause you taught me right from wrong.
You kept me firmly on the ground,
yet still taught me how to fly.
Your daughter is a Soldier now, Dad,
I love you, that is not a lie.
If I ever go to war Sis, don’t you worry about me,
You’ve always looked out for me,
but this is what I want to be.
I’ll keep you with me always,
it will never be good-bye
Your sister is a Soldier now, Sis,
so keep your spirits high.
If I ever go to war my Friends, We’ll never be apart,
Though we may not meet again,
I’ll hold you to my heart.
Remember all the times we had,
don’t let your memories cease,
Your friend is a Soldier now, my Friends,
I’d fight to bring you peace.
And when I go to heaven to see that pearly gate,
I’ll gladly decline entrance,
then stand my post and wait.
I’m sorry Sir I can’t come in,
I’m sort of in a bind,
You see I’m still a Soldier, Sir,
I won’t leave them behind.
~ Patricia Juneau
Mother's Day 2007
Mother was not diagnosed with Alzheimer's until Fall of 2007. Prior to that we kept a chronicle of events to show the doctors what she was forgetting and what she was doing different from her usual habits. I knew the day would come when social activity would no longer be possible.
In the effort to maintain a semblance of normal life, I took mother on a trip to Fort Worth to see Tina for Mother's Day in Spring of 2007. Tina and I went shopping to buy matching outfits for the three generations. The night before the planned photo shoot at the Botanical Gardens in Fort Worth we showed mother the cute clothes we were to all wear the next day. She smiled and nodded her head.
The next morning mother walked out in a pink pantsuit with pink shoes and pink jewelry. She was completely confused when we told her to go change into the garments that matched ours. She complied, but made remarks the whole time we traveled to the gardens. In her mind she is supposed to dress up every day like it is Easter Sunday. She matches from head to toe in the same color and wears a full compliment of jewels. On this day she was wearing three different colors and for reasons she did not understand.
She seemed to have fun taking pictures. She smiled when prompted, but she didn't always look at the camera until we called her attention back to us. Her mind easily wandered, which was a clear indication of the dementia. Her gaze was vacant in many of the pictures. In the few we did snap that were good, the difference in her look in 2007 compared to just a couple of years prior was disheartening. The photos were strong evidence that she had changed.
As we were leaving, a family remarked on how adorable we all looked. They jokingly asked, "What's the occasion?" Mother's Day and three generations was the obvious answer hanging in the air like a neon sign. Mom's answer, "I have no idea why we did this."
I later voiced my thoughts on the day. I tried to second guess myself on whether or not she would have been more comfortable in the pink suit, if she would have smiled more, if she would have enjoyed the day more. But, deep in my heart, I knew the photos would have still reflected the same image - a portrait of a mother, a daughter and a granddaughter. Of the three faces, one set of eyes would be looking right through and past the eye of the photographer without recognition or understanding - confused, unsure, yet smiling all the while and trying desperately to appear normal when the comprehension of normal has slipped away.
Mother, What In Tarnation Are You Doing Now?
First off, I want my readers to understand that I am not belittling the state in which Alzheimer’s puts its victims. It is a terrible, tragic disease that robs people of their memory and their ability to function as it progresses. However, I have learned that, as my mother has regressed to a level much like a child’s, there are times when her actions lead me to laughter. I also have the philosophy that you should laugh at some of this. If you do not, you will just sit down and cry until you are useless to the person you are caring for and worthless to the rest of the world. We don’t hesitate to tell everyone when our children perform some antic that causes us to grin. We should also do this with our parents. It offers great release and will leave you better memories to fall back on when life becomes a deep, dark hole that has swallowed the once vibrant personality you knew as your loved one.
Don’t think that the care of an elderly parent comes easily to anyone. You grow into the life of caring for your children. You mature as they do. You learn as they do. Then they leave the nest behind. Suddenly you have time to do things like take a bubble bath undisturbed, dawdle in the store no kid wanted to be dragged through, eat junk food without guilt. You can drink a few margaritas and go home to fall asleep in front of the TV without fear of hearing, “You fussed at me for that.” You develop a lifestyle that erases the memories of childhood particulars. With the care of a parent one will find oneself going back in time, quite often questioning how difficult those child years really were. The catch is the fact that we were young in those child-rearing days. With age we lose speed, astuteness and thought processing on that level. It is something we have to re-learn as we deal with our parent when those child-like attributes arise, and it appears I must be a slower "re-learner" than I thought.
When my sister, Alicia, and I had the ‘family discussion’ about what we were going to do about mother as she steadily slipped into the troubled waters of Alzheimer’s, we had few conclusions available to us. My brother was already caring for a ninety-plus mother in law. My sister had one child in college and one was still home. She certainly could not afford to move to a larger house and there was no room for mother in Alicia’s home. The biggest stumbling block was the fact that I lived in Baytown one hour away. Mother lived in Richmond in the same neighborhood as Alicia, and mother was comfortable with her church family and all her doctors were in that area. To move mother to Baytown would mean a new start with physicians, friends, church, etc. Added to that, I would be too far away for Alicia to help with medical appointments and social activities. The logical answer for everything was for me to be the one to make the move. Knowing that change can throw a kink in family life, I looked at possible road blocks. There were none. All I had to consider were the dogs, and I knew the dogs wouldn’t care what school district I moved them to in the middle of their high school years.
I had a plan in place for the day the doctor would tell mother that she could no longer live alone. I leased a good sized home with a separate master suite. When the doctor was to say those specific words I was going to chime in and say, “Oh mother, look here. I just moved to this big, empty house. How perfect.” With the help of Hurricane Ike (2008) it all played out exactly as I planned. Mother weathered the hurricane with me in the Baytown house because the Richmond property had just been readied for the move, but the impending storms of 2008 put off the actual move date several times. Once Ike hit, Baytown was without power and running water for several days. The power was back in service in Richmond three days after the storm. Heading for better living conditions made the excuse to move a blessing. Mother ended up moving without the tension that oft times accompanies these decisions. In fact, she moved in without knowing she was actually doing so. She was under the impression it was all due to the storm. Within weeks the doctor made the prepared speech and it was simply a matter of saying, "So, you're already staying with me. Let's make the best of it."
I should clarify that I didn’t plan well enough. I was unprepared for a number of issues. I had no idea how much I would have to oversee when it came to her blood sugar. Mother has suffered from diabetes and insulin dependency for years. She knew the things that are bad for her but had the mind set that she could eat whatever she wanted and just take more insulin - wrong attitude. My first goal was to get her diet in check and control the amount of insulin she was taking. She was a screaming roller coaster on the diabetic chart. I couldn’t believe she didn’t stroke out or go into a diabetic coma before I started regulating her. I took all the treats away. Bread, sugars and starchy foods vanished from my cooking routine. Everything went from pallet pleasing to boringly bland. I was a bad, mean daughter who took away all the good things to eat. I soon learned I wasn’t clever enough to think ahead of her on a good number of levels. Reflecting back, I should have moved into my new house with only oatmeal, lettuce and coffee in the pantry.
Shortly after the move to Richmond, Halloween rolled around. Halloween was one of mom’s favorite times of the year. She always planned for the kids and decorated the front door with a large witch. This year was different. After explaining the event several times I simplified the story with, “Tonight’s the night we feed the neighborhood children candy.” I could have just as easily said, “Tonight’s the night I destroy their parent’s lives by putting the little gremlins in a sugar rush that will leave them puking through the evening and too sick to go to school tomorrow.” It would have made the same amount of sense to mom. The costumes simply blew her mind. After one goblin left with his axe murderer buddy and the princess in cowboy boots, I gave up trying to explain their appearance and told mother that the kids' mom just dressed them funy.
After the evening wound down, I caught mom with her hand in the candy bowl. No, mom, ain’t gonna happen. I waited until she went to bed and put the bowl on the highest shelf in the kitchen cabinet as far back as I could place it. I went to work the next morning feeling assured that I was a clever girl. When I returned from work, I found mother puttering around in the kitchen checking her insulin before dinner. 385!!!! Why on earth was her blood sugar so high? All I left her for lunch was steak and broccoli. I questioned her. “Mom, did you use sugar in your tea? Like about two cups of sugar?” “Did you eat something out of my shelf you weren’t supposed to eat?” Her answer was No to everything. Then I noticed the step stool was out instead of resting in its folded position beside the refrigerator. I pointed to it and asked why it was out . . . oh, she said she used it to put away dishes . . . . I asked, “You mean the dishes on the bottom shelf you can easily reach?” . . . . yes . . . the light bulb hovered over my head, glowing dimly as I asked more dim-witted questions. I remembered that I took the trash out the night before. I yanked the lid off the trashcan and said, “Voila! Mom, how did all these candy wrappers get in the trash?” “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, “maybe those funny looking children left them there last night.” Busted. I packed up the candy and locked it in the car. Then I proceeded to pour out all the jams and jellies. I squeezed the little plastic honey bear until he was empty and weeping from my bruises on his rotund belly. My precious, delicious pumpkin butter for my Saturday morning toast had to go. I wept as I sent goodies down the disposal. Girl Scout Cookies were tossed - even the good ones with the chocolate and the coconut. It was a snack travesty. Chocolate became a casualty of the war over high blood sugar. Desserts suffered a disastrous end. I even had a thought running through the back of my mind that I should wait until she went to bed. Then I could wrap all the treats in foil, pack them in unlabeled zip lock bags and hide them in the back of the freezer to enjoy alone in the dark of the night, but it was for mother’s own good that she witness the bad stuff going away.
Food wasn’t the only thing I had to ride herd on. I thought nothing of what mom watched on television. She usually landed on an old movie channel. Even though she could no longer follow the story line on most movies and programs, the TV blared constantly. She actually spent one whole day on the Spanish channel. When I walked in the door she informed me the TV was broken and talking funny - she couldn’t understand a word those people were saying. That was a quick fix. I gave her some lame explanation and showed her what to do with the remote if they started talking funny again. The movie I came home to on Halloween weekend was another story. It was the typical B movie for that time of year. It was set in a haunted mansion and featured a popular wrap artist and his gang doing drugs and slashing throats. Blood was spraying everywhere. The poor actor playing the part of the drug mule who swallowed the balloon full of cocaine expired a writhing death with the theatric elements only a truly bad actor can pull off. He died just in the nick of time because the gang had just run out of milk, bread and cocaine. They promptly sliced him open and got the soda straws out, sniffing cocaine out of his internal cavities as his heart chugged out its last beat. I walked in with my eyes bugged out. “Mom, do you have any idea what you are watching?” “Oh, it’s a movie.” “Any clue what they are doing in this movie?” “Just a movie.” She wasn’t phased by the horror. Maybe she knew it was all fake. Perhaps she thought everything on TV must be fake. The real-life reindeer on the Christmas show last season didn't seem real to her. I could not convince her that it was. It was the darndest argument I gave up trying to win. She actually thought someone nailed a tree branch to some poor creature’s head to make it look that way. Taking the remote away, I tried to explain they were bad people in the Halloween movie. She just looked at me. “I always watch that channel. There’s nothing wrong with it.” was her response. I added television to my growing list of things to monitor.
Little did I know. . . . remember that line about being a slow learner and that I didn’t think ahead of her enough? I couldn’t believe my eyes the evening I came home to the Playboy channel. How on earth did she find that? Here she was, the prim little Baptist lady just a-watching the bunnies bouncing around the pool. I know they had to glue those strings in place on their tops - well, on the ones that had strings on the top. My voice got a little shrill when I said, “Mom, what are you watching?” “Just a movie.” “Mom, do you know what kind of movie?” “Oh, they’re just showing some stuff.” “Yeah, mom, those girls are showing all their stuff to those men who aren’t very nice.” She innocently said, “Oh yes they are nice. That man right there is nice to all of them. He pets them and they go, hee, hee, hee, and tell him he’s sweet.” Just visualize an aging Hugh H. shuffling from girl to girl in his bathrobe acting like he’s still got it. Well, he does still have the mansion and the money, but he looks like a withered old toad stumbling from one lily pad to the next literally waiting to croak. Mother would have been horrified at the scene just a few short years ago. I grabbed the remote and quickly learned to implement Parental Controls on my PARENT. And can I just tell you the conversation I had with the cable company trying to get the charges for the eight hours the Playboy Channel ran that day. "Yes, ma'm, we get this all the time from parents of teenage boys. We simply can't believe you are blaming your elderly mother for this."
In the Spring of 2009 my sister took mother on a trip to Oklahoma to visit family. Before they departed I gave her five words of wisdom, “Think Five And You’ll Survive.” She looked perplexed and walked away from me with mother in tow. We loaded the car with mom’s suitcase filled with more clothes, jewelry and shoes than would be needed for the four day trip. [I begged for a week but Alicia claimed work, husband, church obligations, etc. prevented her from being gone any longer. Smart gal.] The house was quiet. The dogs looked at me like I was Hard Hearted Hannah because I sent away the woman who fed them from her plate every day at lunch. They were the beneficiaries of the fact that mother no longer remembered that she was the one who scolded me for years saying, “Don’t feed the dog from the table!” On the second night of mother’s trip the quiet was shattered by the ringing of the telephone. I answered to hear my sister whining, “Can I come home? My children weren’t this bad when they were five.” The story was that they went to a restaurant with my aunt. Mother was admonished that she could not have a peppermint from the bowl by the exit. Well, I could have told Alicia that, unless she taped mother’s arms to her sides with duct tape, there would be purloined candy hidden somehow, somewhere. Alzheimer's affects everyone differently. While mother has succumbed to much memory loss, she has the cunning of an eight year old. I should have warned Alicia to be on her guard. A stop at the grocery store left Alicia and mother in the car while our aunt went in for eggs. Alicia heard a rustling sound coming from the back seat. “Mom, what are you doing?” “Oh, nothing.” Seconds later the rustling was heard again. “Mom, do you have a candy?” “No.” Then mother pointed toward the window and excitedly shouted, “Oh, look at that dog out there!” As she pointed out the window with one hand she popped the candy in her mouth with the other. Alicia was torn over whether she should just shout at her to spit it out or crawl over the seat and fish it from her mouth like a child who just ate a bug. I merely said, “Welcome to my world. What are you watching on TV tonight?”
Don’t think that the care of an elderly parent comes easily to anyone. You grow into the life of caring for your children. You mature as they do. You learn as they do. Then they leave the nest behind. Suddenly you have time to do things like take a bubble bath undisturbed, dawdle in the store no kid wanted to be dragged through, eat junk food without guilt. You can drink a few margaritas and go home to fall asleep in front of the TV without fear of hearing, “You fussed at me for that.” You develop a lifestyle that erases the memories of childhood particulars. With the care of a parent one will find oneself going back in time, quite often questioning how difficult those child years really were. The catch is the fact that we were young in those child-rearing days. With age we lose speed, astuteness and thought processing on that level. It is something we have to re-learn as we deal with our parent when those child-like attributes arise, and it appears I must be a slower "re-learner" than I thought.
When my sister, Alicia, and I had the ‘family discussion’ about what we were going to do about mother as she steadily slipped into the troubled waters of Alzheimer’s, we had few conclusions available to us. My brother was already caring for a ninety-plus mother in law. My sister had one child in college and one was still home. She certainly could not afford to move to a larger house and there was no room for mother in Alicia’s home. The biggest stumbling block was the fact that I lived in Baytown one hour away. Mother lived in Richmond in the same neighborhood as Alicia, and mother was comfortable with her church family and all her doctors were in that area. To move mother to Baytown would mean a new start with physicians, friends, church, etc. Added to that, I would be too far away for Alicia to help with medical appointments and social activities. The logical answer for everything was for me to be the one to make the move. Knowing that change can throw a kink in family life, I looked at possible road blocks. There were none. All I had to consider were the dogs, and I knew the dogs wouldn’t care what school district I moved them to in the middle of their high school years.
I had a plan in place for the day the doctor would tell mother that she could no longer live alone. I leased a good sized home with a separate master suite. When the doctor was to say those specific words I was going to chime in and say, “Oh mother, look here. I just moved to this big, empty house. How perfect.” With the help of Hurricane Ike (2008) it all played out exactly as I planned. Mother weathered the hurricane with me in the Baytown house because the Richmond property had just been readied for the move, but the impending storms of 2008 put off the actual move date several times. Once Ike hit, Baytown was without power and running water for several days. The power was back in service in Richmond three days after the storm. Heading for better living conditions made the excuse to move a blessing. Mother ended up moving without the tension that oft times accompanies these decisions. In fact, she moved in without knowing she was actually doing so. She was under the impression it was all due to the storm. Within weeks the doctor made the prepared speech and it was simply a matter of saying, "So, you're already staying with me. Let's make the best of it."
I should clarify that I didn’t plan well enough. I was unprepared for a number of issues. I had no idea how much I would have to oversee when it came to her blood sugar. Mother has suffered from diabetes and insulin dependency for years. She knew the things that are bad for her but had the mind set that she could eat whatever she wanted and just take more insulin - wrong attitude. My first goal was to get her diet in check and control the amount of insulin she was taking. She was a screaming roller coaster on the diabetic chart. I couldn’t believe she didn’t stroke out or go into a diabetic coma before I started regulating her. I took all the treats away. Bread, sugars and starchy foods vanished from my cooking routine. Everything went from pallet pleasing to boringly bland. I was a bad, mean daughter who took away all the good things to eat. I soon learned I wasn’t clever enough to think ahead of her on a good number of levels. Reflecting back, I should have moved into my new house with only oatmeal, lettuce and coffee in the pantry.
Shortly after the move to Richmond, Halloween rolled around. Halloween was one of mom’s favorite times of the year. She always planned for the kids and decorated the front door with a large witch. This year was different. After explaining the event several times I simplified the story with, “Tonight’s the night we feed the neighborhood children candy.” I could have just as easily said, “Tonight’s the night I destroy their parent’s lives by putting the little gremlins in a sugar rush that will leave them puking through the evening and too sick to go to school tomorrow.” It would have made the same amount of sense to mom. The costumes simply blew her mind. After one goblin left with his axe murderer buddy and the princess in cowboy boots, I gave up trying to explain their appearance and told mother that the kids' mom just dressed them funy.
After the evening wound down, I caught mom with her hand in the candy bowl. No, mom, ain’t gonna happen. I waited until she went to bed and put the bowl on the highest shelf in the kitchen cabinet as far back as I could place it. I went to work the next morning feeling assured that I was a clever girl. When I returned from work, I found mother puttering around in the kitchen checking her insulin before dinner. 385!!!! Why on earth was her blood sugar so high? All I left her for lunch was steak and broccoli. I questioned her. “Mom, did you use sugar in your tea? Like about two cups of sugar?” “Did you eat something out of my shelf you weren’t supposed to eat?” Her answer was No to everything. Then I noticed the step stool was out instead of resting in its folded position beside the refrigerator. I pointed to it and asked why it was out . . . oh, she said she used it to put away dishes . . . . I asked, “You mean the dishes on the bottom shelf you can easily reach?” . . . . yes . . . the light bulb hovered over my head, glowing dimly as I asked more dim-witted questions. I remembered that I took the trash out the night before. I yanked the lid off the trashcan and said, “Voila! Mom, how did all these candy wrappers get in the trash?” “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, “maybe those funny looking children left them there last night.” Busted. I packed up the candy and locked it in the car. Then I proceeded to pour out all the jams and jellies. I squeezed the little plastic honey bear until he was empty and weeping from my bruises on his rotund belly. My precious, delicious pumpkin butter for my Saturday morning toast had to go. I wept as I sent goodies down the disposal. Girl Scout Cookies were tossed - even the good ones with the chocolate and the coconut. It was a snack travesty. Chocolate became a casualty of the war over high blood sugar. Desserts suffered a disastrous end. I even had a thought running through the back of my mind that I should wait until she went to bed. Then I could wrap all the treats in foil, pack them in unlabeled zip lock bags and hide them in the back of the freezer to enjoy alone in the dark of the night, but it was for mother’s own good that she witness the bad stuff going away.
Food wasn’t the only thing I had to ride herd on. I thought nothing of what mom watched on television. She usually landed on an old movie channel. Even though she could no longer follow the story line on most movies and programs, the TV blared constantly. She actually spent one whole day on the Spanish channel. When I walked in the door she informed me the TV was broken and talking funny - she couldn’t understand a word those people were saying. That was a quick fix. I gave her some lame explanation and showed her what to do with the remote if they started talking funny again. The movie I came home to on Halloween weekend was another story. It was the typical B movie for that time of year. It was set in a haunted mansion and featured a popular wrap artist and his gang doing drugs and slashing throats. Blood was spraying everywhere. The poor actor playing the part of the drug mule who swallowed the balloon full of cocaine expired a writhing death with the theatric elements only a truly bad actor can pull off. He died just in the nick of time because the gang had just run out of milk, bread and cocaine. They promptly sliced him open and got the soda straws out, sniffing cocaine out of his internal cavities as his heart chugged out its last beat. I walked in with my eyes bugged out. “Mom, do you have any idea what you are watching?” “Oh, it’s a movie.” “Any clue what they are doing in this movie?” “Just a movie.” She wasn’t phased by the horror. Maybe she knew it was all fake. Perhaps she thought everything on TV must be fake. The real-life reindeer on the Christmas show last season didn't seem real to her. I could not convince her that it was. It was the darndest argument I gave up trying to win. She actually thought someone nailed a tree branch to some poor creature’s head to make it look that way. Taking the remote away, I tried to explain they were bad people in the Halloween movie. She just looked at me. “I always watch that channel. There’s nothing wrong with it.” was her response. I added television to my growing list of things to monitor.
Little did I know. . . . remember that line about being a slow learner and that I didn’t think ahead of her enough? I couldn’t believe my eyes the evening I came home to the Playboy channel. How on earth did she find that? Here she was, the prim little Baptist lady just a-watching the bunnies bouncing around the pool. I know they had to glue those strings in place on their tops - well, on the ones that had strings on the top. My voice got a little shrill when I said, “Mom, what are you watching?” “Just a movie.” “Mom, do you know what kind of movie?” “Oh, they’re just showing some stuff.” “Yeah, mom, those girls are showing all their stuff to those men who aren’t very nice.” She innocently said, “Oh yes they are nice. That man right there is nice to all of them. He pets them and they go, hee, hee, hee, and tell him he’s sweet.” Just visualize an aging Hugh H. shuffling from girl to girl in his bathrobe acting like he’s still got it. Well, he does still have the mansion and the money, but he looks like a withered old toad stumbling from one lily pad to the next literally waiting to croak. Mother would have been horrified at the scene just a few short years ago. I grabbed the remote and quickly learned to implement Parental Controls on my PARENT. And can I just tell you the conversation I had with the cable company trying to get the charges for the eight hours the Playboy Channel ran that day. "Yes, ma'm, we get this all the time from parents of teenage boys. We simply can't believe you are blaming your elderly mother for this."
In the Spring of 2009 my sister took mother on a trip to Oklahoma to visit family. Before they departed I gave her five words of wisdom, “Think Five And You’ll Survive.” She looked perplexed and walked away from me with mother in tow. We loaded the car with mom’s suitcase filled with more clothes, jewelry and shoes than would be needed for the four day trip. [I begged for a week but Alicia claimed work, husband, church obligations, etc. prevented her from being gone any longer. Smart gal.] The house was quiet. The dogs looked at me like I was Hard Hearted Hannah because I sent away the woman who fed them from her plate every day at lunch. They were the beneficiaries of the fact that mother no longer remembered that she was the one who scolded me for years saying, “Don’t feed the dog from the table!” On the second night of mother’s trip the quiet was shattered by the ringing of the telephone. I answered to hear my sister whining, “Can I come home? My children weren’t this bad when they were five.” The story was that they went to a restaurant with my aunt. Mother was admonished that she could not have a peppermint from the bowl by the exit. Well, I could have told Alicia that, unless she taped mother’s arms to her sides with duct tape, there would be purloined candy hidden somehow, somewhere. Alzheimer's affects everyone differently. While mother has succumbed to much memory loss, she has the cunning of an eight year old. I should have warned Alicia to be on her guard. A stop at the grocery store left Alicia and mother in the car while our aunt went in for eggs. Alicia heard a rustling sound coming from the back seat. “Mom, what are you doing?” “Oh, nothing.” Seconds later the rustling was heard again. “Mom, do you have a candy?” “No.” Then mother pointed toward the window and excitedly shouted, “Oh, look at that dog out there!” As she pointed out the window with one hand she popped the candy in her mouth with the other. Alicia was torn over whether she should just shout at her to spit it out or crawl over the seat and fish it from her mouth like a child who just ate a bug. I merely said, “Welcome to my world. What are you watching on TV tonight?”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)