Love in Eyes of Brown

He was all tumbly, his skin pink, brown spots all over.  His eyes were still closed but he followed his Mama blindly trying to nurse constantly.  Poor Rosie, his Mama, was not yet a year old and this was her second litter.  Now she had three small hungry pups, and one large pup who never seemed to get enough food.

Quickly Sarah and I knew that this adorable boy was ours!  He was the giant of the litter, easily twice the size of his other three siblings.  He was supposed to be a pure bred, pedigreed black poodle.  It was easy to see that the breeding practices in the puppy mill his Mother had been rescued from were not credible.  He looked far more Bichon Friese than Poodle.

What IS a Bichon Friese?  That is a good question.  We all have heard of poodles with their qualities both good and bad.  Bichon Friese's are not known quite as commonly.  They are distant cousins to the Poodle.  Oftentimes they are not quite as intelligent.  On the flip side, they are also not as high strung.  They have very loving dispositions.

I will use a little story as a demonstration of how blessed we were with Rolly's combo parentage.  Sir Oliver Wendell Holmes was a prominent attorney in the changing of the 19th to the 20th century.   His intelligence was well documented.

One day he received a letter from a beautiful actress on the theatrical stage.  Her letter said (paraphrased), Sir...I propose that we make a match.  With your brilliant mind, and my grand beauty, I believe that we could create a child of superior abilities.  Please let me quickly know your decision regarding this matter.

Sir Oliver wrote back, (again paraphrased), Madam...I am honored by your proposal and your compliments in regards to my intelligence.  Unfortunately, there is a possibility that you have neglected to consider.  What if this child were to inherit MY looks and YOUR brains?

We were ever so blessed with our lucky little hybrid.  He had the brilliance of a Poodle mind.  His heart was equally brilliant.  His grin was guaranteed to lift a soul in despair.

At 5 weeks old the owner asked us to take him home.  Traditionally you leave a pup with its Mom and siblings until at least 8 weeks.  Poor little Rosie could not keep up with Rolly's demands for sustenance, and she had three other pups.

We brought home this tiny piece of fluffiness.  His brown eyes seemed to welcome me into his heart.  One of our kitties welcomed him by adoption.  We were stunned.  This kitty had been feral when we brought her home, still a kitten.  She taught him where to eat.  She groomed him, and taught him to groom himself.  She was even patient when he would gambol about her trying to get her to play with him.  He played in the awkward, tooth and wrestle way that puppies have.  It was plain that she was quietly ENDURING his play.  After about 5 minutes she would stand up, shake herself, and in a dignified manner RUN from this little hoyden.

Far too quickly seventeen years came and went.  The world rotated, our family dynamic changed drastically, and now our adorable pup was old.  His front legs didn't really want to work anymore.  He could no longer traverse the two short staircases in our house.  Yet he was no burden.  We had another small dog, and a cat, and they both adored him.

A block before our daughters would arrive home he would begin to bark, and nothing stopped him until they walked through the door.  He would then begin a dance of delight, even when he had to drag one leg about because it no longer worked properly.

We tried medicating him for pain.  We started in the daytime.  He HATED IT!  It made him feel unlike his usual self.  So we switched to medicating him at night.  This was a success as he slept better and had more energy the next day.

I knew that he would not last forever.  We conversed as a family, it's such a tender line when caring for an elderly pet.  Is there more of suffering than joy in his life?  Is it the responsible thing to euthanize a pet when old age has caused so much change?

We had made that oh so difficult decision two years previous with our beloved Katty.  She developed bladder cancer so it was not really a difficult decision.  She was MISERABLE!  Surgery could have helped, MAYBE, or it could have made her even worse.  At  18 years old she might not even survive the anesthesia.  It was with a heavy heart that we made the heart breaking decision to euthanize her.

I could NOT make that decision for Rolly.  My husband used to tease me that Rolly was my favorite child.  He was NOT my favorite human child.  He WAS my favorite fur child.  Over 17 years of life and love he had wrapped himself oh so warmly into my heart.

I was reading when I heard his breathing become labored.  He had been a happy normal just two hours previous when I took him outside to the "bathroom."  As usual he had turned his smiling face into the breeze.

Now it was obvious that he was dying.  I did not know if it would be soon or later.  At 17 there were no life saving practices given.  We all will die sometime, and I knew that this was his time.  Knowing that, did not bring me much comfort as I watched my sweetie dying by degrees.

We had purchased a special doggy stroller to take him for walks when his legs no longer would make it further than the driveway.  He would sit up in his stroller with a firm and happy smile attached to his beautiful face.

Gently I eased him into the stroller and took him for a very short walk.  Next I put him in our backyard and dashed inside to get a sheet for both of us to lie on.  When I returned it was ever so obvious that his life had ended.  Sobbing I held him and rocked him, just as I had done when he was a puppy.  Time ceased to exist as I realized that my life was now going on without his gentle love.

Our family and a dear friend went through the process of preparing a grave on the hillside.  It is a lovely place that Rolly loved, under trees, and close to the path of deer.  Wrapped in an oh so soft blanket we placed him tenderly in his last resting place.  In with him went one of his favorite toys, and a charming wood cookie inscribed with his name, dates of birth and death.  Covering his grave with dirt was excruciating.  We collected beautiful rocks and placed them over his grave.

I loathe washing the dishes.  This week it has been an unbearable task because now the window before me reveals Rolly's grave.  Each new viewing is a jolt as I once again face the inevitability of death.  It has been all the excuse I have needed to ignore those nasty dishes.

Yesterday I lay down for a nap.  A wonderful dream filled my sleeping.  I saw Rolly, perfect, with his magnificent grin firmly in place.  He was standing on the hill where we buried him.  There were no markings of age.  Once again he was the magnificent, adorable, and ever so happy doggy that we adored.  The gentle breeze tangled and tickled in his fur.

I will keep this image firmly imprinted on my mind.  His grin of love will also stay with me, until once again I hear his bark as he races to meet me again.  I love you Rolly, and you ARE my favorite fur child of all time!

Pain - A Blessing?

When you break your leg it hurts.  From all that I understand it hurts A LOT!  There is a good reason behind this experience.  There are three types of pain that our body can produce, muscle, nerve, and skeletal.  All three of these parts of our body are impacted when a bone breaks.

The pain tells us that something is very wrong, we need help.

Now imagine that same broken leg.  It doesn't hurt.  There are no body alarms systems warning you to receive care.  You continue to walk about, live your normal life, all the time you are causing more and more damage to your body.  Quickly the damage would reach a point where you couldn't function.

Pain actually can be a blessing.  It is our bodies early warning system telling us that we need to care for something.  When an injury occurs, the injury sends signals to the brain.  The brain then sends signals to the injured part of our anatomy.  This pain signal impels us to a doctor, or emergency room.  In doing this we can prevent further, and possibly more permanent injury.

What if these normal pain signals become OVER sensitive?  What if a simple hangnail impels your body to send out signals of pain EVERYWHERE in your body?  How do your approach such a wide range of symptoms?

Welcome to the world of many autoimmune disorders, and long term body injuries.  There are injuries that science does not know how to repair.  These injuries can become cumulative.  Over time they may become more serious.  They can disrupt each and every part of life as you frantically run from clinician to clinician trying to discover what is wrong, and how to cope with it.  The usual approach to injury is to fix it.  What if the injury is far too widespread to ever be fixed?

One of my friends was awakened in the night by severe pain all down her left leg.  When she tried to get up to go to the bathroom, the leg would not hold her weight.  It collapsed leaving her on the floor, frightened, and uncertain.

 Surgery was able to fix some of this injury.  It could not heal all of the nerve damage in that leg,and in many of her internal organs.  She lost her job, her home, her car, and for awhile she was homeless, on the streets with two small children, and a leg that did not always hold her upright.

Somehow she found her way through the social system.  She was able to gain Social Security Disability, housing, food, and the medications that she needed.  People reached out to her and her family with assistance.

She in turn, knowing just how flawed the system can be, blessed the lives of others whenever she could.  She helped distribute food to the needy.  She educates people that need help with insurance or the social systems for medical assistance.

Finding methods to help others gives her great joy.  She still reaches out with love whenever possible.  She is the type of friend who always has a gift for you, a cookie, a fridge magnet, meaningful, loving gifts.  Has her pain stopped?  No.  She has learned ways and means to make her pain more bearable.      

Can there possibly be any positive thing to gain from experiencing pain and/or disability?  If I could change my life, never face the pain, illness, challenges that have been my personal journey I would also have to give back the lessons, wisdom, and intelligence I have gained from my experience on earth.  I would not wish to do that.

Having said that, would I wish anyone to face pain that would continue for their rest of their lives?  NO!  Yet I am grateful for the things that have taught me about the human condition, and have pushed me towards understanding the commonalities of life.

I wish that I could reach through this computer to anyone facing a frightening diagnosis and say, "You can find a way.  There are others who will be able to help you.  YOU ARE NOT ALONE!

I can't do that, but I can hope and pray that in my small way I can reach someone with a message of hope.  There is love, and light, and joy even in times that seem completely hopeless, times of deep darkness, of pain. If you read this and know someone that needs that hope please give them a hug, send them a funny card, do something to reach out to someone else with hope for the future.

     

Petrified or Drifty?

Looking at these two images you might wonder what they are.  I use them to help me meditate.  Both items began as wood.  They grew upward and outwards.  They were impacted by the sun, wind, rain, and heat.  both of them grew quite large.  Then some force acted upon them.  They were cut down, or knocked down. 

The one on the left was tossed into the ocean.  It received tremendous pressure as the water pushed it down, down, down.  Water began to seep inside changing the trees texture.  The pressure was so tremendous that the strong, healthy, tree began to break apart into pieces.  Eventually this small part of a tree was washed to shore.

The piece of wood on the right was also interrupted in its growth.  It may have been knocked down by a tremendous storm.  Regardless of the method that caused it to fracture, it broke apart into many, many pieces.  Earth settled down over it.  Years, and years, and years went by.  The wood went further and further and further down under earth.  The deeper the earth upon it became, the more pressure that the wood experienced.  The pressure became so intense that what was once a live tree, wood, now became stone.

Now you recognize that the left piece of wood is driftwood.  I found it on a beach in Oregon.  The right piece of wood is petrified.  It was located in southern Utah.  It's interesting to me that although they came from very different locations the color of the wood is almost identical. 

The consistency of the wood is incredibly different.  The driftwood can be be broken into pieces with just the brush of a finger.  The petrified wood has become even stronger than it's origins.  It is stone.  You could not break it apart.

Both began the same way.  Both were similar creations.  Both faced damage, destruction, and pressure.  What happened to the driftwood?  It floated about with each thing that acted upon it.  As the water filled it, it became porous, soft, unusable for its original purpose.

The petrified wood is strong, resilient.  The intense pressure that it faced made it stronger, firmer.  If I throw it to the ground nothing happens to it. 

If I throw the driftwood to the ground it would shatter into many, many tiny pieces.

Which are we, the driftwood, or the petrified wood?  We all face pressure, difficulty, struggle.  Do we use the challenge to become better?  Or over the years of life do we allow things to weaken us, make us unable to fulfill our original function?

If you have found yourself drifting through life, allowing all things to act upon you, instead of being a force that is becoming stronger, it is never too late for change.  Growth is often less than pleasant.  I'm certain that the tree that was under the soil for so many years felt the pain of pressure and change.  Yet it emerged even better than it began.

What are you today...now...driftwood?  Or petrified rock?   

I Love You

Three little words.  They hardly seem adequate to convey the wealth, the explosion of emotion that they represent.  What things do they mean to you?

My Papa was my hero.  He represented all things wonderful in the world.  He was at my side when I couldn't breathe in the middle of the night, even if he had to get up and go to work the next day.  I knew that I would be ok if Daddy was there with me.

When he passed, I sincerely did not believe that the sun could still rise in the sky.  I felt as though the best part of me died with him.

I grieved with all that is within me.

That changed one day at work.  I was speaking to one of my co-workers.  She said, "I'm certain that you're very sad about your Father's death.  I'm so sorry for your loss."

Then she continued, "I never knew my Father.  He was never a part of my life.  He left my Mother before I was born.  Maybe you can find comfort in the fact that you had a great Dad for so many years."

That idea changed my perspective.  I was blessed!  I had a Father who loved me in the most active of ways.  He sacrificed constantly for me, and yet never, ever complained.  He always made me feel as though I was an intrinsic, joyous part of his life.

He took me on my first date.  He explained how a young man should treat me.  He opened the car door for me, took my arm to walk into a church party.  We were there with other Father's and daughters.  He pulled the chair out for me to sit in.  He opened doors for me to walk through.

He never made me feel as though somehow I was less than, and that was why he opened my doors, pulled the chair out for me and took my arm.  He made me feel cherished, important, and showed me how young men should treat me when I dated.

It bothered me a bit that he hardly EVER said, "I love you."  Actually, I counted once and discovered that he had told me a total of four times.  I would always say, "I love you," at the end of a phone call with Papa.  His response would be, "Likewise," or "Ditto."  Somehow those three words were too large for him to use.

On the other hand, he showed his love, his constant, and unconditional caring in many other ways.  I came to understand that to him these words were not, and could not be, spoken casually such as the phrase, "Have a good day."  Those three words meant the world and more to him.

He was a tender, gentle man.  He was also a World War II Vet.  He was a paratrooper, and combat soldier.  He was very proud of the service that he gave to our country.  On the other hand, I know that he was tortured by the idea of harming another human being.  I marveled that a man who could not stop tears from forming in his gold brown eyes at the beauty of music, holding a new grandchild, or other poignant life experience, this tender man had once fought on a battlefield.

He helped to teach me that the world is filled with wondrous ways of saying the words, "I love you," that aren't words at all.  We say "I Love You," by washing the dishes for a sick friend.  We say "I love you," by listening to someone needing to vent the poisons of a broken soul.  There are as many ways to say, "I love you," as there are people.

Today...the very moment that you read this...say I love you.  Maybe not in those exact words.  Write a letter to someone and express reasons that you treasure your friendship.  Wash the dishes for your child, your Mother, your spouse.  Make a meal and take it to a sick friend.  Find some way to express what those three words mean to you.  You may be surprised to find that you will receive more love than you give. 

Do You Have Good Taste?

I adore fashion.  I love watching the flips and fads that have occurred over my lifetime.  I also enjoy studying fashion history here in our country and abroad.  I also enjoy watching home makeover programs .  It fascinates me how they turn a dud of a house into a home of wonder.  I also enjoy looking through fashion magazines.

Having said that, I do NOT always find the styles that are promoted as pleasant or appealing.  In fact, some of the good folks who act as fashion judges on "Project Runaway," have the most appalling taste in clothes.

Do I have good taste?  According to me, I do.  On the other hand, as a writer I relish the sheer joy of being in my jammies as I write.  For over thirty years I woke up early, put on clothes that fit the job image (often a fitted suit, and a shirt that was also fitted...come on, it was the corporate fashion of the time).

My taste has often been driven by sheer financial need.  As a small child my fragile health caused our family serious financial problems as they struggled to keep me alive.  We would purchase most of our clothes from a thrift store, long before that became a fashionable thing.

We would go through an entire rack of clothing looking for a gem amongst the dross.  Often the clothes that I would bring home would receive rave reviews from my friends.  They would ask, "Where did you buy it?"  I would straighten up, look them in the eye, and say, "A thrift shop."  That offended some people.  Those folks who were stressing and straining to be popular did not find that appealing.

Throughout my life, even when it was no longer a matter of need I have continued my treasure seeking.  Nyle also enjoyed a good hunt.  He would look through electronics, I would head for the craft session for yarn, fabric, and/or patterns.

When Nyle was hired for the position of Associate Dean of Career Services at a prestigious Northwest College he walked daily with folks of a much higher class than I was used to.  Sitting at a luxurious round table one night, the good people began introducing themselves.  They would list the work that they did.  There were District Attornies, State and Federal judges, people of quality, and status.

And then it was my turn.  I stood up straight looked around the table at the distinctive people and announced, "I have my own childcare business, "Harmony Home.  Oh, and I'm married to this marvelous man."

There was an awkward silence.  Then people went back to chatting in legalese.  I simply enjoyed the delicious salmon dinner, and making small talk with the people around me.

By the end of the evening, every single person around that table came to me to ask about childcare, or childcare issues.  My own estimation of the work that I did rose.

Even though our status in the world had risen, I still shopped at Thrift Stores.  Who wants to pay $200.00 for a suit when they can get one that is a designer original for $20.00?  I admit, the style is usually so, last year.  I don't care!  I try to wear classic pieces of clothing that never leave the fashion market.  Then I dress it up with current types of jewelry.

When Nyle's elevated friends would compliment my clothes and inquire where I purchased them it made Nyle uncomfortable sometimes when I would calmly say, "Goodwill, or Saver's."  He like to go to the thrift shops himself, but he didn't want people to think that we couldn't afford to shop in regular stores.

By the time he passed away at fifty-four, he had overcome that mindset.  He was THRILLED to discover a thrift store that sold GORGEOUS men's shirts in his larger than life size for $4 to $6 dollars.  We had paid as much as $60.00 for one shirt for Nyle.  He passed away the proud owner of about 40 beautiful, high quality, 3XL shirts.  We have and will continue to make quilts out of those beautiful shirts.

Is there a point to this post?  I realize that as I write I often ramble from this topic to another.  Sometimes at lightning speed.  Are you ready?  Here we go.  Taste is dictated by the person who is viewing.  I spent a great deal of my life trying to fit in.  I loved the cozy cottage that we lived in while our children grew up.  I heard from others that it was too, "country," or "awkward."  I would remind myself, that they did not live in my house, I did.  My taste said it was charming!

One of my current favorite quotes says this, "What other people think of me, is none of my business!"  Did you hear that everybody?  We are NOT square pegs trying to fit into round holes.  We are people who have taste.  I don't need to try to be what someone else might like.

The other day on Facebook I saw a man who was determined to be different.  He had circles cut away in his cheeks exposing some of his back molars.  He had also had his tongue sliced so there were two slim pieces like a snake's.  I found his choice unhygenic and grotesque.  I mean, come on with holes in your cheeks your salivary gland would excrete saliva out the side of your face!  Having said that, I pulled myself up and thought, "Everybody is entitled to express their fashion sense in this world, and their own sense of reality.  It is not my place to judge anyone else...NO MATTER HOW MUCH I MIGHT DISAGREE.  If other people's thoughts are none of my business...that truly works in reverse as well.

My final words, viva la difference!

I Don't Want to Wash the Dishes!

The counter is piled high with bits and pieces of meals that my family has eaten.  Stubbornly those bits and pieces cling to the plates, cups, and pans.  I HATE washing dishes.  I've had plenty of experience.  When I was in my teens my brother and sister married within six months of each other.  Soon Sunday dinner became my parents and I, them and their spouses, and then one nephew, two nephews, and so on until the full compliment was eight children for my sister, and seven children for my brother.  How is your math doing?  That is twenty-two human beings sitting down at one table.  Twenty-two plates, twenty-two forks, knives, and spoons, and twenty-two glasses or cups.

Inevitably, the adults would finish the meal, gather their progeny, and depart to go home for a nap before church.  My parents would also need a nap.  We DID have an automatic dishwasher...ME!  I would scrub the sink clean, then fill it with hot soapy water.  It took about two hours to wash them all, dry them, and put them away.

Then my parents and I managed a motel with kitchenette units.  That meant that each time we rented a kitchenette we had to wash all the dishes and utensils and glasses when they checked out.  We had to wash them in clorox (it just ate my skin), then dish detergent (more skin eating) then last but certainly not least, we had to boil them in the hottest water we could create.

Summers were the worst.  We had air conditioning in our unit but it didn't seem to be able to keep up to 110 degree heat AND dish washing, sometimes all day long.  My Father worked at a warehouse for a retail chain during the day.  One day Mother called him at work.  She told him succintly to either bring home a dishwasher or not come home.  The dishwasher came home that night.  That was much better...but it did not load or unload itself.  This was in the 1980's and you basically had to wash the dishes before you put them in the dishwasher to sterilize them.  Better than handwashing only, but still a chore.

Then came marriage, children, and many, Many, MANY more dishes.  I would have no problem using paper plates if I did not realize what using them does to our environment, via our landfills.  It would also help if my hands did not crack, bleed, and then throb with each beat of my heart.

I can't use latex gloves, they worsen the situation.  I have a beautiful view out of the window while I wash the dishes.  It's always a good feeling when they are done, and organization and cleanliness is restored, until the minute that we are hungry again, and create more dirty dishes.

One of my Papa's cousins grew up in a two room cabin with six siblings.  They had to haul water in a bucket from 1/4 mile away.  After hauling the heavy water, they had to heat the water on the stove.  Then they would pour it over the dirty dishes, and add soap flakes.  She LOVED to wash the dishes.  She said, "It's so easy.  You just turn on the faucet, and VOILA, all the hot water you could possibly want is right there at your disposal.

One of my dear Grandma's would tell me that she couldn't go to sleep if there were dirty dishes in her sink.  She had ten children so there were always dishes to wash.

Sigh...I guess I've talked about it enough.  Now I must go and face them!  At least they'll be ready to use tonight when we eat whatever we eat tonight!

Even a Miracle Needs a Nap

My beloved Mama.  She always told me that all birth is a miracle, but that I'm 3 or 4 types of miracles.  She couldn't conceive.  She couldn't carry.  She couldn't deliver.  Yet here I am?  Then to add to the general stack of couldn'ts and shouldn'ts I was born with very little immune system, and allergic to literally the world.  I could only eat three foods without becoming ill, life threateningly ill.

I do not recite all of this to say, "Wow, look at me world.  I'm a MIRACLE!"  OK, maybe just a little bit.  However, being a miracle is exhausting!

Being a miracle means that I should spread joy, love, and warmth all the time, everyday, all day and all night, right?  I hate to admit it but I am not Mother Theresa!  She was a woman of driving passion for love, service, and sacrifice.  I...well, I like a good nap in the afternoon.  The time is two hours, and it involves lying in a comfy bed, letting my thoughts fly about in my head, and then AHHHH the delicious, exquisite nirvana of slumber.

Generally speaking I wake up automatically two hours later renewed, and ready to tackle the world again for 4 or 5 hours.  I call it breaking life up into bite sized pieces.  My beloved husband called it, "A waste of time."  I personally believe that he was just jealous.

Without that two hour break in living I become a slug in a chair, albeit a MIRACLE slug in a chair, unable to function other than knit or sew, and watch the television.  The programs I watch during that time would be close to what my hubby called "A waste of time."  I would call relax and enjoy.  Things like "chick flicks," or murder mysteries, or British telly.  They have such amazing programs!

I am unable to do much in the way of movement.  That includes movement in my brain.  (Apparently in my brain movement is required.  Brain aerobics are out of the question if that precious nap has been ignored)!

As a small asthmatic child, my Mother always insisted on an afternoon nap.  At the time, I resented it with all within me.  As a sixty year old adult I am aware that SHE probably needed the nap, possibly even more than me!  She had three wonderful children, and one of us was special needs.  She rarely slept through the night.  Asthma tends to erupt during the night for multiple reasons.  There was NOTHING to treat it with except a trip to the ER to obtain oxygen until the lung spasm passed.

Napping?  My husband said that it made him feel sluggish, and groggy.  Again I maintain, AHHHH Nirvana.  For two entire hours I completely give myself over to rest, and renewal.  I truly believe that we are all miracles, and as I stated in the title of this post, "Even a Miracle needs a nap!"