I Am (Sorta) Ready

A year ago April, my little dog Caliente died in my arms after a long illness and heroic efforts to save her. She was a sweet, kind, silly and devoted little bit of life force that touched my heart and my person daily for over ten years. Losing her left a void in my heart, and by my side in my chair.

I think I am now ready. No, not to have another dog, but to change my introductory description of this blog. I have not been able to delete 'an old Chihuahua'. Today, I will.

I poured out my pain on this blog as she progressed in her illness, and I wrestled with my decisions and tried to decide how much help is too much, how much medicine is futile, how I could bear to make the ultimate decision for her. It seems appropriate that I address the pain of deleting yet another reminder of her mark on my life.

I have given away the doggy beds, the electric warming pads, the toys, collars and laser pointers she loved so much, except for a few raggedy toys she shared with her sister, Gordita, and her foster mother, Lacey the Beagle, both of whom predeceased her in the two years prior. I was moved to tears when I found her pirate shirt last weekend in my Wii bowling bag that matched mine. I have washed the blankets she slept on in her warm little crate. She has slowly been leeching out of the topsoil of our daily lives.

And, I have noticed, fought, acknowledged, and finally accepted the fading. Today, another.

I won't let her be gone, nor will my family. She is here, along with the others that made our pathetic humanness more bearable, more fun, more joy-filled. Just, now, not in the blog description.

No encore

In this season of joy, anticipation, hope, healing and birth, our friend is dying. Will die, today.

Because he has deteriorated in two short weeks from being a vibrant, handsome, talented man of fifty to a wasted patient in intensive care, connected to tubes and drains and monitors. Because the doctors have concurred that he will never make it.

If a miracle occurred and he did somehow find a way to support his own life, he would be blind and deaf. He is a professional musician with a voice like a god. He might cope with the blindness, but to silence his music would be to lock him in a living hell. In this performance, he gets no encore, though we are applauding as loudly as we can through our tears.

But, he cannot live without the machines right now. And they will be stilled as soon as the family gathers later today.

For the songs, the smiles, the encouragement, the decades of friendship, thank you, Dan.

You have been more than a friend. You have been music to our ears.

God bless, Danny Boy.

Old dogs, children and watermelon wine

'How old do you think I am?', he said,

I said 'Well I didn't know'
He said, 'I turned sixty five about eleven months ago'
I was sittin' in Miami pourin' blended whiskey down
When this old grey black gentleman was cleanin' up the lounge

There wasn't anyone around 'cept this old man and me
The guy who ran the bar was watching Ironsides on TV
Uninvited, he sat down and opened up his mind
On old dogs and children and watermelon wine

'Ever had a drink of watermelon wine?' he asked
He told me all about it though I didn't answer back
'Ain't but three things in this world that's worth a solitary dime,
But old dogs and children and watermelon wine'

He said 'Women think about theyselves when menfolk ain't around
And friends are hard to find when they discover that you're down'
He said 'I tried it all when I was young and in my natural prime
Now it's old dogs and children and watermelon wine'.

'Old dogs care about you even when you make mistakes
God bless little children while they're still too young to hate.'
When he moved away I found my pen and copied down that line
'Bout old dogs and children and watermelon wine

I had to catch a plane up to Atlanta that next day
As I left for my room I saw him pickin' up my change
That night I dreamed in peaceful sleep of shady summertime
Of old dogs and children and watermelon wine.

--Tom T. Hall, singer and storyteller

Divesting

Google image

I was raised poor, if you haven't picked that up by now... Really poor. So, without going into the details, we'll leave it at that. And, I have had a hoarding thing. You know, I love stuff. I can find a reason to buy or keep just about anything.

Not like the first time mom of a four month old I met In Baja, who saved her son's first booger, but like someone who is afraid that each possession is the last of that they will ever have...

I spent my twenties and thirties (okay, and maybe some of my forties...)... acquiring. Stuff. Shit. Things.

And, now, I have decided that I have evolved beyond that. I am now divesting. I will no longer be help captive to my possessions, my stuff, my things...

At what point do things that we save begin to possess us? When do we say 'Enough'?

Well, I have reached that point. I have said, 'Enough'. And, man, does it feel good. During the garage sale, as I watched the Stuff leave my storage barn in other people's cars, I felt lighter, freer, saner. I feel accomplished, just by letting go.

The past week of sorting, cleaning, pricing, bargaining and arguing with myself, has been an ordeal. But with each decision to let go, I gained power. I no longer feel ruled by things, anchored by objects. It is cool, let me tell you.

We now have room in our storage barn to house George's travel trailer (Scruffy), the quad, our jet skis, the riding lawn mower, all of our outdoor equipment (scuba, mountain climbing, camping, hunting, snowboarding), and various antiques thrust upon us by the in laws.

How about that?

So, officially, I am no longer a packrat. I am part of a lean, mean, cut-to-the-chase operation.

And I am proud!

Happy birthday, Jennie May

Happy birthday, Mom. This is the day I will celebrate your birth, eighty seven years ago today. You got to see your sixty-third birthday, and three days more. You got to see your children grown, and some of their children grown. You got to see what a big beautiful family you had created. You expressed pride and contentment at the family reunion in your honor that last birthday weekend.

In the chaos that was our family life, you taught me love. To love a child or a handicapped person or an old person or an animal. To love a man who is flawed. To 'have a little talk with God' when things crashed in around me.

I miss you, Mom. You are always in my heart, and often on my mind. Your voice is the voice I hear when I need strength and guidance at a patient's bedside. Your hands guide mine as I soothe the sick and vulnerable. Your dedication and uncompromising standards of patient care helped set my own standards. You are never forgotten and always with me.

I only wish you could have been here to see my kids. They are awesome. I know you are with us, I know you can see and feel them from where you are now. I have tried to bring you to life for them through stories and favorite objects of yours. But, I just wish you were here, for them, for us, for me.

Thank you for being my mom, my friend, my example. Happy birthday, Momma.

Indiscriminate rodent behavior

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In cleaning the storage area of the barn, I am continuing to unearth treasures from the past and the memories attached to them. In addition to the memories, I am getting a few surprises, too. There has been a lot of mouse damage, some of it heartbreaking.

I am trying to be pragmatic and a grown-up, but, it is not easy when I see holes chewed in a beloved old plaid shirt last worn by my father, dead these past thirty years. Or foul urine staining a tiny baby gown. Or a nest with grain, feces and shredded paper filling a decades old hat, the veil now in tatters. 'These are only things', I tell myself, and silently give thanks for the memories.

When I set off to do this job, I vowed to be ruthless in lightening the load that my family packs around and stores. The bins and tubs and boxes represent the changes in our family, the changes in the children's sizes and interests, and the changes in our living situation. We have gone from soccer practices and parties to snow boarding and mountain climbing. We have gone from having little folks around to having a family consisting of five six-footers. We have gone from a big house with formal dining area in an upscale neighborhood to a farm with free-range chickens.

I was prepared to deal with the off-loading that those changes necessitated. I am not prepared to being forced to throw stuff out based purely on the free operant behavior of rodents. I mean, they don't care where they poop or pee or nest or chew or drop a load of offspring. Yet, the end result of their behavior is my disappointment, at best, or heartbreak, at worst.

Cleaning out and clearing out is not for sissies. It is hot, dirty, nasty work. Work that falls to women most often, have you noticed that?

Report card

I have been doing empty nest duty, that is, going through old boxes of clothing, toys, books, school papers and craft projects to thin out the amount of Stuff we have to store and shlep.  It is a slow process, each item assessed for it's uniqueness, it's value as a memento and it's ability to evoke a particular memory.  Slow and rich and sad and heart wrenching.

Like excavating layers of strata to uncover historical evidence of a natural area, I am uncovering the important epoch periods of my children's lives.  I find evidence of comfort objects formerly inseparable from each toddler, of initial efforts in writing and drawing, of first love letters, usually to Mommy.  It is the collected evidence of happy, contented lives in a middle class American home.

I also find report cards that summarize the accomplishments of bright, motivated kids.  They are also my report cards, telling me whether my efforts as the primary care giver and mom were effective. They tell me that, like my kids, I mostly got A's.