that's me and my dad

“Dad taught me everything I know. Unfortunately, he didn’t teach me everything he knows.” – Al Unser

“I yell because I care,” was my dad’s motto when my brother and I were growing up. We were a busy pair and there was always plenty to yell about. The angry-sounding decibels never bothered us, though, because the love that was their undercurrent was always so clear.

My dad is a skilled man, knowledgeable about many things, and a perfectionist. He was also a teacher, well aware and often weary of the ways of youngsters. Pleasing him wasn’t easy, but I don’t remember that bothering me much either. Again, it was just so obvious how much he loved us that all the gruff stuff wasn’t scary; it just masked how much he cared.

My first memory of my dad is riding on his shoulders. I don’t know how old I was, but I remember how broad and strong his shoulders felt. It seemed like I was on top of the world, riding there, so safe and tall in his arms. In a way, that’s how I’ve always felt about my dad. I knew he’d never let me fall and if I slipped, he’d catch me, even if there was some yelling along the way.

The first time I got really mad at my dad I was five. He was teaching me how to swim and we were having a great time. We were in the shallow end of a bright blue pool. He backed a short ways away and told me to swim to him. I paddled and he encouraged, and I paddled and he encouraged. After what seemed like an awful lot of kicking and splashing, I finally reached him only to find that we were at the far end of the pool – in the deep end. He’d been slowly walking then treading water backwards, making me swim the entire length of the pool - even through the dreaded deep end. I was furious.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again!” I cried, feeling like my trust had been forever betrayed.  

He just laughed and said, “I knew you could do it and now so do you.” That’s my dad, ever willing to do what it took to teach us and build our confidence, even when it made us mad at him.   

I don’t have a lot of clear memories of one-on-one time with my dad because he was always working. His teacher’s wage only stretched so far and my mom didn’t work while my brother and I were growing up. My parents always wanted the best for us, so my dad farmed a wheat farm for extra money in the summer. He often had a side job to pay for Christmas or our braces or new band instruments or whatever. He also maintained everything that needed maintaining in our lives – the vehicles, the house, the yard - you name it, he could fix it. The thought that he should be spending more time with us never occurred; we knew he did what he did because he cared.      

Some dads cut their kids loose once they’re grown, but my dad never did. Even though age has tempered some of the yelling, his support and willingness to guide and help us whenever he can remains as true today as it has always been.

There was the time he flew from Colorado to help us paint our house. Here he came with a suitcase full of tools, including a paint sprayer, and three days, 50 gallons of primer and 50 gallons of paint later, the job was done. Years later, there’s my dad hunched over some brown fuzzy cloth, reading glasses sliding down his nose, hand-sewing a bear costume for my daughter’s wedding. The little boy who was the ring bearer wanted to be a “Ring Bear” instead and so, with the blessing of the bride and groom, my dad made it so. And, there’s the beautiful pergola/gazebo he built in our backyard for our son’s wedding. One of us mentioned the idea or showed him a magazine picture and there it was, done.    

As long as I can remember, my dad has been like those shoulders I remember riding on - a strong and loving foundation on which I could depend, there to catch me when I fall, always expecting, indeed yelling for, the best of me.   

Yes, ours is a loud family - we yell because we care. We’re also a group of people who can work hard, get things done right, and keep family first. So, thanks, Pop, for all that you are and all that you do. And, HAPPY FATHER’S DAY! (I yelled because I care…)   

spring...again!

“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.” – John Steinbeck

I just talked to my Dad in Colorado. They are buried in snow there - high today of 18 degrees, low tonight, 12. In contrast, I am sitting in my office, windows open, warm breeze blowing through – the high today here will be 84, the low tonight 60. The birds are singing so loudly my Dad asked if I was in “some kind of bird sanctuary.”  Nope, just my yard; it’s a busy time of year for birds here…springtime in the South.

I grew up in Colorado where April blizzards are the norm. My daughter was born in early April; she was born in a blizzard and celebrated more snowy birthdays than bright ones until we moved to the South. Once here, those spring blizzards drifted away as possibilities in our minds; my daughter grew up with the dog wood tree outside her bedroom window in full bloom, rather than a storm, proclaiming her birthday.

Contrast is odd that way - wherever you are is the middle of everything. It’s hard to visualize all the different places and circumstances other people are in. My poor ole’ Dad’s out shoveling snow while I’m donning shorts and flip flops...It’s the same with so many other things. When my family is all well, it’s hard to remember there’s illness in the world. When an accident happens to one of us, it’s hard to remember what all those healthy days felt like.

The worst, for me, is trying to wrap my head around the truly big disasters like catastrophic storms, floods, tornadoes, mass shootings, wars, murdered children…I see images of the aftermath, the devastation and need, and I’m paralyzed - even writing a check to the Red Cross seems like too much. It’s as if, if I really look at those images and then do something even as minor as write a check in response, the catastrophe has become real and somehow touched my life. I don’t want catastrophe to touch my life.

It’s the same with regard to serious illness or injury. I broke my shoulder, had a few months of pain and inconvenience, and it was as if the world was ending. There are people with terminal cancer, people who have a loved one who is very sick, people who have suffered terrible accidents, or watched their loved ones suffer from the same…Somehow they manage to go on, and on, and on, so bravely. I fear that I could not do that, so I turn away. I’m not proud about this, but it is, at least so far, how I am.   

That’s the thing about spring, though. It always brings hope – hope that things can be different, better, changed, not the same. If those tiny seeds can turn into those huge tomato plants, then maybe we can grow, too. Maybe there’s some seed of something inside me just waiting to sprout, something unexpected that makes me stronger, wiser, more joyful or more useful than I am.

I planted my garden a few days ago and for me, that is a powerful, spiritual experience, in a light-hearted sort of way. Every year I curse the weeds and dirt clumps and compost as I prepare the soil. Every year I fret about how tiny and lost those seedlings look out there in that big garden, trying to get used to the sun, wind and rain. Every year I marvel at how quickly the seeds sprout and the plants become tall and strong. Every year I grow weary of continued weeding and watering at about the time the fruit starts coming in. Then, there’s the bounty of the ongoing summer harvest…Where did all these veggies come from and what in the world are we going to do with them?

Like life and the seasons, gardening is cyclical and wonderful for being that way. I like to think even the sickest or most broken people, victims by no fault of their own, still glean a moment of peace or comfort when the sun shines just right on their face, or when, for even a moment, a spring breeze blows by…Maybe the sight of a tiny plant pushing through the devastation or a bright bloom outside their window gives them hope, hope for a better whatever comes next...I like to think that, anyway.    

Petey wants to be a good boy...!

“Choose faith over worry.”

If I ever write a novel it will be called “Ursula’s Dogs.” One of the themes will be how people, like rescued dogs, only begin to show their true nature once they feel safe and become completely comfortable. Sometimes that true nature is a pleasant surprise; other times it’s the equivalent of getting in the garbage or chewing a favorite pair of shoes.

I started thinking about this book years ago after adopting the first of several “Ursula dogs” we’ve had over the years. (“Ursula dogs” are rescues taken in by Barrow’s infamous animal savior, Ursula Miller, now turned non-profit organization Pup & Cat Co.) The dog’s name was Purdy and she was a delight, until she settled in. Then she started chewing – only expensive things like eyeglasses, small electronics, larger electronics, TV remotes, cell phones, etc. She would only do it on the sly and had a remarkable ability to destroy without making a sound. Her favorite time to strike was when we were asleep.

Ruining Mr. Clark’s portable computer was the last straw; Purdy had to go. So, I found her a home on a farm with an older woman who said she had so few electronics she wasn’t worried about Purdy’s bad habit. I assume their story had a happy ending because I never heard from either of them again.   

Since then, we’ve had many rescued animals and like Purdy and Ursula’s other dogs, they all start out happy, humble and thankful, then as the “honeymoon period” (as my sister the dog trainer calls it) wears off, the quirks emerge…Sounds sort of like some of the men (or women) you’ve known, right?

My most recent rescue is a smallish Yellow Lab named Petey. I adopted him because he’s seven and has arthritis and is heartworm positive, which means his chances of finding a “forever home” were pretty slim. He was picked up as a stray and was at the shelter for three months before I found him. Poor boy! His time was almost up.

Because we have cats, part of the pre-adoption process was taking Petey into the cat room at the shelter to see what he did. Nothing is what he did - absolutely no reaction to cats at all. However, the moment we walked into our house, Petey took off after one of our cats and it was not in a playful way; it was in an “I want to kill you!” way. Wow! Not even a “honeymoon period” with Petey. Hour one and his dark secret is already revealed…(This could be because I didn’t get him from Ursula; it could also have something to do with his name, which just happens to be what we call the mischievous ghost who makes an occasional appearance at our house.)

Anyway, long story short, my sister gave me a stringent training program for Petey and it seems to be working. I have to correct him with “Leave it!” every time he shows interest in a cat. This is followed by “Look!” and a hand signal telling him to make eye contact; then he gets a treat. Because Petey is very interested in cats and our cats, belligerent creatures that they are, tempt Petey almost constantly, I’m going through bags of dog teats at an alarming rate, especially since the other dogs have learned to “Look!” which means treats all around!  

Petey also has to be on a leash anytime the cats aren’t safely locked away. In the interest of getting a few things done, I keep Petey carabiner’d to my belt loop…Answer the door with a dog carabiner’d to my waist? No crazy here; none at all.

We’re not sure how this is going to turn out, so Petey’s currently listed as one of Ursula’s dogs on the Pup & Cat Co. website. Dear as he is, and as good a boy as he is in all other ways, I can’t help but wonder if Petey might have a more pleasant life in a cat-free home…

Another of “Ursula’s dogs” just had a very happy ending to his sad story. Buddy, a beautiful, smart, pure-bred German Shepherd fell on hard times and ended up at Animal Control when he was only one. Ursula rescued him, but Buddy, like Petey, likes to chase things. He also wasn’t very friendly to other dogs, so he never found a foster home. Harriet, the kind owner of a local kennel, took Buddy in and kept him – for two years.

We featured Buddy time and time again in the Barrow Journal Pets of the Week, but no one seemed to want to take on such a young, strong, enthusiastic dog. Then, something wonderful happened. The Oglethorpe County Sheriff’s Department chose Buddy to be trained as a school “resource dog.” “Officer Buddy” will work and live with a human officer, spending week days patrolling schools and the rest of his time as a beloved and well-trained pet.   

“Sometimes it takes a while, but that’s what fostering is all about,” Harriett said…Ursula and her lucky dogs…Maybe “Officer Buddy’s” honeymoon period will never end.

is this scar making me whole?

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” – Rumi

Just over three months ago, I fell down the long, narrow, hardwood staircase in our old house and broke my right shoulder. “Shattered” was actually the word the medical people used, which told me it was pretty serious. My pleas for no surgery fell on deaf ears (thankfully, as there was apparently no healing without such intervention.) So, now I’m the proud bearer of a shoulder full of “hardware” as the medical people call it - two plates and nine long screws. The x-ray is scary to look at.

Before this mess with my shoulder, I had never been in the hospital – not even to have my kids. They were born at home with skilled and licensed midwives (this was back in the Hippie days…) There was a doctor standing by, but he was not needed. Due to good health, good habits and germophobic behavior that rivals Howard Hughes,’ no one in my family has been to the doctor much. We’re just not “doctor people” and so far, with a few minor exceptions, the Good Lord has blessed us with being able to carry on that way.

So, you can imagine how all this shoulder havoc affected me – poorly, very poorly. Suddenly I was someone I never thought I’d be, someone I almost didn’t recognize. I was this person with multiple medications and way too many medical and physical therapy appointments, barely able to move my right arm (I am right handed,) living in near constant pain. Oh! Woe was me!

Obviously this is no way to live, but with time and some admittedly lack luster efforts on my part, things have improved. I’m off all the meds, am able to do a fair number of things with my right arm again, and have become nearly ambidextrous. I have also learned a lot about the shoulder, in general, and much of it is interesting in an almost Zen-like way.

Did you know the shoulder is the most complex joint and set of corresponding muscles in the body? That’s why shoulder injuries are so difficult to diagnose, treat and recover from. Instead of a ball joint encased in a bone socket, like all of our other joints, the shoulder ball floats freely in a sort of socket made by the muscles of the shoulder, back and arm. That’s why it has such an amazing range of motion – it’s free to swivel every which way, with only the muscles governing its movements - and the way they do so turns out to be quite complex.  

The muscles all work together in an intricately orchestrated way, so when something happens to one of them, the others react by trying to compensate. In the case of a major injury, such as mine, the muscles, first traumatized, then immobilized, shut down. After a few weeks, they stop “talking” to each other. They form a tense, protective ball around the injured area and stay that way. Then, they actually forget how to communicate, so they can’t work together at all; hence, the need for physical therapy.

My therapist says what we’re doing, during our biweekly time together, is not only working on strengthening the muscles, but also helping them learn to “talk” to each other again, which is turning out to be an elusive task. I’m making good progress on the strength exercises, but the mobility ones aren’t going so well. I believe that’s because my cranky shoulder and its cranky muscles don’t want to communicate yet. They’re like a bad family on a long car trip - it’s not going well and no one’s having fun.       

Part of this probably has to do with my attitude. Spoiled as it may be, (I realize there are people struggling with very real medical challenges that put my little shoulder issue to shame…) I’ve been so resentful of all this that I’ve not applied myself to the process of healing - as in it’s MY process and if I don’t participate, I’m not going to heal. I’ve been so busy feeling sorry for myself that I’ve not paid much attention to the process of getting better and I am getting better, at a surprisingly steady pace, in spite of myself.

If the Good Lord gives you what you can handle, my theory that I’m a weakling holds true with this shoulder thing. I’ve been so busy bemoaning my fate I’ve not focused on the bright side, which is, it could be worse, a lot worse.

Add to my New Year’s resolution list, “Get squared away attitude-wise so those tight-lipped, balled-up, stubborn muscles can start communicating again.” China Mieville wrote in The Scar,

“Scars are not injuries. A scar is healing. After injury, a scar is what makes you whole.”  I’ve got a big ole’ scar on my right shoulder and it’s time to see it as the healing it is, rather than the burden and reminder it has been.

it turns out money can buy happiness...

“Plants want to grow; they are on your side as long as you are reasonably sensible.”- Anne Wareham

It turns out money can buy happiness. I just spent $86 plus shipping on two grow lights, each with a nifty adjustable stand and I believe this purchase is going to change my life. You see, I am a gardener and last year I switched from buying plants to growing seeds. It was a big adjustment and, quite frankly, a pain in the you know what, but by the end of the season my garden looked so good and was so productive that I became a seed convert.

The quality and hardiness of the plants was much better than those often sad and disease-prone vegies, herbs and flowers I used to get at the big box stores. And, paying about $3 for each 3-inch peat pot plant makes a $2 pack of seeds look like a real bargain. Plus, with seeds, I had so many plants that I could be generous in giving them away.  

The problem with seeds is that they take a lot of fussing; hence, the grow light purchase. Last year I started my seeds in mid-February in these spiffy things I found online called Biodomes. The Biodomes came filled with handy little seed starting cubes and a booklet featuring detailed instructions and some glossy photos of hardy, healthy plants. Boy! Was I inspired!

When the seeds began sprouting it became clear the window the Biodomes were sitting by didn’t provide enough light. Within days, the seedlings became leggy, spindly and bent, exhausted in their effort to reach for the sun.

That led to me move the Biodomes from window to window during the day, so as to maximize the light for my poor baby plants. That worked well enough until it was time to put the little guys in bigger pots. Then, instead of carting two Biodomes around the house, I had to tote several too-easily-bendable foil or plastic trays of peat pots around, spilling water and dirt along the way.      

By the time it became time to “harden” my plants by putting them outside during the day and bringing them back in at night, I had WAY too many plants and a WAY inadequate way to move them about. Plus, I had the same problem with the porches I had with the windows – not enough light. That resulted in a daily routine of plant tray shifting that had gotten on my last nerve by the time it was time to actually plant the little fellas in the garden. If it’s true that plants react to the energy around them, it’s a miracle any of my plants survived. But, survive they did and thrive.

The garden grew so quickly and beautifully that I began to pat myself on the back, such a successful gardener was I! So, you can imagine my thrill when the seed catalogues started appearing in my mailbox on those cold December days.     

But, as I sat by the cozy fireplace, perusing those colorful pages, dreaming and dog-earing, so many exciting prospects, a sense of dread set in. Is it really time to start fussing with seeds again? When the orders arrived and Mr. Clark got out the Biodomes again, my heart sank. “I really can’t face this seed nonsense again!” was my secret and silent cry…

Because we’ve been married a long time, and because he’s a decent guy, Mr. Clark sensed a “disturbance in the force” and asked why I wasn’t excited about the seeds. I told him and within minutes, he had researched and priced grow lights and peat pot toting trays. Kaboom! Problem solved.

This year my seeds will sprout and grow in their Biodomes, sitting in one spot, under the grow light’s glow. When it’s time to transplant them, I’ll have some sturdy trays to put the peat pots in and they, too, will sit in one spot, in the glow of the other grow light. Then, when it’s time to “harden” my little buddies, I’ll move them to a really keen, four shelf “green house” that will stand in the sunniest spot of our sunniest porch. No more in and out of the house, just drop the plastic walls at night and Viola! hardened plants. I’m all done with the toting, dragging and cussing. No more bad energy flying at my little plants. It’s all ease and convenience this year…I’ll admit, the cost was closer to $150, but it’s money well spent.    

I’m excited about gardening this year. I planted my first round of seeds; they’re starting to come up and they look really good so far.  Seeds hold such promise and I get so much pleasure from watching them sprout and grow. Gardening is like a lot of things - it takes patience, practice, research and a willingness to make mistakes. But, the rewards reaped and the lessons learned make it well worth the while.   

I used to struggle with depression this time of year - nothing to look forward to, everything so dreary and cold – but, no longer. I found the optimism I need to get me through to spring in the pages of seed catalogues and in those tiny bright green plants, just starting to peek over the edge of their Biodomes, warm and happy under the glow of those wonderful new grow lights.   

"the piano is not firewood yet..." a bit of a late post, but maybe still useful as the New Year unfolds?

“The piano is not firewood yet, but the cold does get cold, so it soon might be that. I’ll take it apart, call up my friends and we’ll warm up our hands by the fire…” – Regina Spektor lyrics, “Firewood”

Christmas is less than two weeks away and the Winter Solstice is on Dec. 21. Getting past the shortest day of the year always seems like an accomplishment, as does completing all of those holiday tasks. These next 10 days or so are when the real frenzy happens for me because I try to get everything (or at least most things) done so that I can relax and truly savor the last few days before Christmas, then really languish in the day itself.  

The other day, I heard Garrison Keillor describe what I hope to experience with all this frantic prep work on “A Prairie Home Companion” from 2011. He said, “One of the best parts of Christmas is the part before it starts, where there are these whole patches of serenity that open up and you feel this peace…You sit and enjoy this quiet…You breathe it all in…that’s the peace of Christmas.”  

Striving early in order to experience the peace of Christmas later is a luxury of age. Years ago there was no peace at Christmas - only excitement, anticipation and stress. When the kids were growing up, the holiday season was hectic, often too busy, and making the money stretch far enough to make the dreams come true was a challenge.     

It seems like only yesterday my kids were lying under the Christmas tree in pajamas with feet, shaking their presents, giggling together, trying to guess what was inside. We kept the belief in Santa alive as long as we could at our house because we just didn’t want the magic to end…Baby Jesus, the Star of Bethlehem, angels singing on high…It’s so much easier to see miracles through children’s eyes.  

Now my kids are grown and a dinner, an overnight and a breakfast with them is all we get – not that that is not blessing enough – it is. It’s just that sometimes I miss the month of anticipation and laughter Christmas used to bring.

I’m not sure why that Regina Spektor song about the piano not being firewood yet hit such a chord in my heart. It’s not a very happy thought nor is it very “Christmassy.” It’s so poignant, though; the notion that something as beloved as a piano might have to end up keeping one warm, but at least there’ll be friends by the fire.

The same song has the lines, “Love what you have and you’ll have more love…though there’s still no cure for crying…Everyone knows it’s going to hurt, but at least we’ll get hurt trying.” Another sad, yet somehow uplifting thought…There’ll be more tears, but there’ll also be more love.

As you can tell, the holidays are an emotional time for me. Tears well up in my eyes and I find a lump in my throat more often this time of year. Everything is so beautiful and bright, yet fragile and fleeting. It’s the juxtaposition of glory and miracles against the frailty of a newborn, a special son whose mother knows his fate, while blessed, will not be easy.

There’s that bright star with its warmth and light, shimmering against the cold of the night…The riches the Wise Men offer, in the face of such poverty. One of the messages Christmas brings, so loud and clear, is that we are blessed with such bounty and yet, there is such need…Life is fragile; the future is unknown. The piano is not firewood yet, so as long as we are blessed to do so, let’s keep playing… 

Sandy Creek...thoughts, prayers and Christmas?

"These tragedies must end. And to end them, we must change." —President Obama at a vigil for the victims at Sandy Hook Elementary

Christmas is less than a week away and a few days ago 26 people, 20 of them  children, were massacred at an elementary school in Connecticut. How does one juxtapose these two realities? One doesn’t; at least, I don’t.  

I have no way to process tragedies like the one that happened at Sandy Hook. I can’t possibly imagine what those parents, teachers, families and friends are feeling. My thoughts just stop when I try to wrap my head around it…All I can do is pull my loved ones close and do what I can to create a few warm moments for every person and animal that I possibly can, as often and as generously as I can. Life is so brief and beautiful…

Since the massacre, we’ve been trying to process the un-processable, to express thoughts about the un-thinkable. The news is full of our attempts at this, as are Facebook, the blogs, private conversations and emails. One of the most comforting thoughts comes from Mr. Rogers.

He said, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers - so many caring people in this world.”

That thought has comforted so many that it has “gone viral” and been shared on Facebook over 100,000 times. Thank you, Mr. Rogers, thank you.

In addition to hugging and praying and sharing comforting thoughts, we, as a nation, are looking at guns – our love affair and use of them. Should they be controlled? If so, how? Opinions on both sides of this issue are firmly held and fervently debated.

A friend of mine, Matt Perry, shared his thoughts eloquently and knowledgably in his blog, The Poor Wayfarer. His piece is called “The American Disease,” a reference to the term an Australian Prime Minister gave our “overabundance of guns and mania equating gun ownership with freedom, allowing military human-killer weapons to fall into the hands of anyone, including the mentally ill.”

Perry hunts and owns “quite a few guns.” His position is that, “We can hunt and protect our homes with average deer rifles and shot guns, weapons that are difficult to conceal and which have a low rate of fire…What is the purpose of an assault rifle? It's to kill people…The design of an assault rifle is to simply, chillingly, kill people efficiently…And, when we talk of  ‘assault rifles,’ we mean any weapon capable of semi-automatic fire, chambered for high velocity rounds and capable of mounting clips up to 30 rounds.”

My friend’s most powerful point is this: “We currently live in a society where it’s easier to buy an assault rifle and an extended magazine than to get medications for mental illness…Hand in hand with our problems with gun control is our unspoken tragedy of untreated mentally ill citizens.”

And, that my friends, based on my observations during eight years as an emergency room social worker, is true. I can’t tell you how many families I worked with who were facing similar issues to those the Sandy Hook killer’s family faced. How to get care and medication for the escalating mental illness of a loved one who is an adult and does NOT want care?

I watched “Love Actually,” a Christmas movie from 2003, starring Hugh Grant and Laura Linney (among others) the night of the Sandy Hook massacre. It is my tradition to watch that movie while I wrap gifts and I was in particular need of comfort that night.

My favorite part of the movie is the opening line, when Hugh Grant, (the Prime Minister of England) says: “Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion... love actually is all around.”

I couldn’t agree more.

It’s time to rethink our love affair with assault weapons and retool our failing mental health care system. It’s time for a fresh debate on gun control. And, this Christmas, perhaps more than ever, it’s time for us to hold our loved ones near and do what we can for those whom we can.