I don't do well with death. Odd as it is, at 48 years old, I've only really experienced the death of family pets. Yes, I've known people who've died and while it's saddened me, nothing has surpassed the death of my dogs, in particular, and even the death of a baby lamb just 3 days old who we tried desperately to nurse back to life in, of all places, our kitchen.
Fossilguy is not dead, but as we wait to hear the prognosis -- lung cancer or not, operable or not -- death is on my mind. My life feels like a disconnected montage. There are the routines -- getting up, making coffee, walking to work on these surprisingly cold, crisp mornings, teaching, coming home, making dinner, and then reading or writing before bed. But then there are moments like this:
A friend of a friend is trying to get her daughter accepted to our school. I see her in the hallway with her daughter, the applicant. A, the daughter, is bright, friendly, and very sweet. J, her mother, is loud, brash, and slightly irritating. 6 years ago she fought off breast cancer. "How are you doing?" I ask, yet instantly I know that something's not right. J is not brash or irritating and she says, in almost a whisper, "Not so good. They've found spots on my lungs." And all of the sudden I can feel tears in my eyes. I'm not thinking about Fossilguy (well, I am sort of), I'm thinking about A -- the bright, cheerful kid who is being raised by a single mother and then I think of Aleister, Fossilgut's grandson and what pops up is a 5th grade whiny voice (one I hear almost daily from my students) yelling inside my head, "It's not fair!"
Or this moment --
Our friend, L is in Mexico on vacation. She has owned a house in a small village on the water for 30 years and she journeys south 5 or 6 times a year. We've offered to watch her dog, an 11-year old shepard/chow mix who is slightly crippled and a bit crotchity. Her name, of all things is Salal like the bush that grows prolific in these parts and is an impossible mouthful when you're calling her at the dog park. She's been with us for almost a week and goes home on Saturday night. She sleeps mostly, but gets excited and barky when she hears the house keys or the car keys or watches one of us put on our shoes. When we walk, she grabs the leash in her mouth and pulls herself down the street. At night, she sleeps by the front door and then eventually hauls her stiff back legs upstairs and sleeps on her bed at the foot of ours.
Last night, while she was in her downstairs by the front door position, I was reading in bed while Ann was getting ready to join me.
Me: Can you feel it?
Ann: What?
Me: There's a dog in the house. She's not making a single sound, but you can feel her presence here just the same. I miss that.
Ann: Yeah, me too.
And then my eyes welled up with tears again remembering Chester, remembering my old dog Abbie, remembering all the pets in my past whose presence grounded me to my life.
Fossilguy grounds me to my life. I've known him since I was about 8 or maybe 10. I played with his daughters. I laughed at his jokes. He's like an uncle only closer. He's like this wise philosopher who dabbles in bones and photography and who turned me onto Louise Erdrich and even to blogging. Even if I can't hear him...even if I don't see him very much...his presence is there and I can feel it. He's like the dog at the front door of my life.
And then there's this moment:
A student from last year who is in 6th grade now comes by my classroom almost every day to say hello and give me a hug. She drove me crazy last year. She and her family live in chaos and every drama known to humankind falls in their laps almost daily. During Thanksgiving she was rushed to the hospital and diagnosed with Leukemia. For awhile they didn't think she'd make it, the treatment was not working. Now, she comes to school for half a day, wears magnificently crazy hats to cover her extremely large bald head, and smiles at me every morning with puffy, drug-induced cheeks. Some days she comes in and throws herself at me demanding a hug. Other days she can barely drag herself through the door to wave at me. She loves my library and I'm certain half the books I'm missing are under her bed at home.
Yesterday she came in to peruse my bookshelves.
E: What's new in your library?
Me: Ummm, I'm not certain. It's been awhile since I've updated the collection.
E: What's this book about?
She holds up a book about a boy who is wheelchair bound, can't talk, but is able to think quite clearly, which he does in his first-person telling of the worries he has about his father trying to kill him and he's not sure how to explain to his father that, even though he can't walk or talk, he still wants to live.
Why do I have that book on my shelf, I'm thinking after E. holds up the cover to show me.
Me: Well, to be honest, it's about death and not being able to control your own destiny.
E: (Looking more closely at the cover) I don't think I need to read it. (Long pause because I can't really think about what to say in response and she's still looking at the cover.) Besides, I'm already kind of living that story.
Death, I think, isn't so bad if you're the one dying. Yes, it can be long and painful or it can be short and quick, but then it's over and you don't experience the aftermath. It's everyone else who does, everyone who's left behind, everyone who didn't die with you. What are we supposed to do with all the absence? What are we supposed to do with the hole that's left? I think that's why sometimes I fear death...I don't want to leave a hole in somebody's life.
I knew what it was like when Chester died. For weeks, months even, I kept thinking I heard him -- his dog tags, his licking lips, his deep and heavy sighs at night. I'd wake up from sweaty dreams because I could feel the weight of his body on the bed with me only to realize it was a dream and he really wasn't there. For a long time the hole he left behind in my life had a very painful weight. Now it's just there, a simple hole reminding me of what I had and what I lost. Somedays the hole makes me laugh with funny memories. Other days it makes me cry because I'd rather have the dog than the hole.
I imagine the same things happen when someone close to you dies, but so far I haven't had to experience that. I'm still holding out hope that Fossilguy will get better. I've even started to pray, which is something I've never done because I thought, like an unused library card, my account with whatever god there may be was closed.
I want Fossilguy to be well, but more than anything I just want to know that his weight, his presence will be in my life. That even if I can't see him every day, even if I can't hear his witty under the breath comments, he's still there, resting at the front door of my life.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Dreaming Memories
For about 10 years of my life I lived on a small farm on the Olympic Peninsula. We dug up an old horse corral filled with sandy soil and years of horse manure and built 20 foot long raised beds where we grew peas and squash, artichokes and beans. In the pasture, we provided a home for a variety of rescued animals and my ex-partner's old, old mare.
Farm life was part chop wood/carry water, but it was also part overwhelming and exhausting. When my relationship broke up (over 5 years ago), I was thankful in one way to be done with farming. Most of the heavy tasks fell to me (part of the reason why the relationship didn't work though there were many other reasons as well) so my days on the farm began feeding sheep and llamas and ended cleaning stalls and clearing the pasture of unwanted debris. In between it all was tilling and planting, weeding and harvesting.
Most of the animals who lived with us were rescues. Our friend, Jan the large animal vet, was always the recipient of half-eaten and close to death critters. Two of the llamas, for instance, had been chased by dogs who ripped out the back end of one llama and scarred the other. The wounds did not heal easily and required flushing out of cavernous holes and picking out maggots that formed almost overnight. That llama, Paco, survived but spent most of his life with limited vision learning to depend upon the other llamas as his guides around the pasture and on our excursions through the woods.
The llama he depended upon the most was Lupine, a skinny, short-haired ruffian with the temper of a snake. Lllamas spit, it's true, but generally at each other and usually only after serious provocation. Lupine, on the otherhand, spit as a matter of principle, hurling green slime at anyone who dared to test his patience. This became interesting when Lupine developed acid reflux, not a pretty picture in a long-necked llama. Anything chunky got stuck in Lupine's throat and he'd gag and choke until we put a tube down his throat to clear whatever was dislodged there. This made feeding Lupine difficult as he couldn't eat hay or fresh spring grass.
But he had to eat so we cordoned off sections of the pasture with sheep fencing and confined him to the parts of the field that had short grasses or had been eaten down by the other llamas. He could have no hay, which is the main staple for llamas and his grain had to be made into a goopy mush in order for him to eat it.
Atticus was the third lllama. Spunky and graceful, he had an overbite that made him look even more like a Dr. Seuss character than llamas already do. Atticus eventually went to live with friends who raised sheep where he served well as a guardian of their flock, chasing off coyotes and even once, a mountain lion.
We had rescued sheep, too who were also chased down by a pack of dogs. The sheep were part of a large flock used primarily for dog herding practice. The flock was about 30 sheep strong when a pack of domesticated dogs gathered together and broke into their pasture. Fueled by instinct and shared energy, the dogs turned ruthless and violent killing all the sheep except for two ewes. Those two ewes came to live with us where their gashed and bloody loins were nursed back to relative health. After a few weeks of care, I finally decided to name the sheep knowing they were most likely permanent residents.
Dotty received her name for the brown dot on her right hind leg while Fiesty was named for her temper. A black-faced sheep with spiraled horns, she protected Dotty from any human contact by stamping her front hoof hard against the floor of the barn and then lowering her head and charging. I was hit once by those horns and the brusie left me limping for a week.
What we didn't know about Dotty and Fiesty is that they were pregnant. Of course, it became obvious quickly as the grew in size and developed swollen teats. Then one day, when I got home from work, I found the ewes tucked away in the corners of the barn each nursing twins. Our flock went from two sheep to six and soon we were naming the new lambs just as we'd named their mothers. Truth, Justice, Honor, and Ukelele.
Now that I live in the city, there are parts of farm life I miss. The smells mostly -- the warmth of a llama's neck, the breath of a new lamb, the dust of hay, even the sour smell of the mush I'd mix three times a day for Lupine. I even miss the blistered hands and the sore shoulders from lifting 100 pound bales of hay or 50 pound sacks of grain or from repairing broken fences or clearing away brush.
Sometimes, when I'm deep asleep, I dream of the animals on the farm. In addition to the horse and the llamas and the sheep, there were four cats, two dogs, and a parrot. My dreams are ethereal with llamas galloping in the sky above me and cats lined up like birds on the barn rafters. I can smell all the scents I miss in those dreams and I float around the garden and pastures with my arms outstretched trying to hug a lamb or a dog.
Things did not end amicably with my ex. I was the "leaver" and so I was seen as the evil one. My old dog, Abbie, had died a few years before I left and though I wanted to take a cat or two or even the German Shepard, Ali, I left the house without any of the animals in tow. Perhaps that is why I dream about them or why sometimes my dreams are filled with worry -- who is feeding Lupine? Is anyone scratching Paco on the warm white spot on his chest? Is Bella (the cat) still catching swallows from the rafters of the barn or is Ali digging holes in the garden searching for moles? And what of Rico, the parrot? My ex purchased him before our relationship began, but he was difficult and demanding and instead of committing time to him, she ignored him, which made Rico all the more difficult and demanding. What has become of him?
Recently, Jan (the vet) got ahold of me. I'd loaned her some money years ago and through some wheeling and dealing she'd managed to scrape together the funds to pay me back. She called to get my current address and we talked, not about my ex but about the animals I've missed so much.
Paco and Mesmer (a llama who came into the picture later) still live with a family I found for them after I left. Lupine died shortly after I'd moved to Seattle. Unable to keep food down any longer, Jan helped euthanize him to end his suffering. Rico, the parrot, was given to a woman who rescues birds and is much happier now that someone is paying attention to him. All the cats are gone except for Kiffa, the 25 pound calico who adores Jan and rolls on her socks whenever she visits the farm. Ali the shepard was put down this last Christmas after suffering from bad hips and crippled legs. All the sheep died except two -- Dotty, the stalwart mother, and her fat, round daughter, Ukelele. They live with Jan now. Jan's old dog Vern is still alive, but crippled and aging.
And my ex? Well, I didn't ask about her. She's rarely in my dreams though when I do dream about her I am always struggling to correct the dream. "This is not my life," I say to myself, "She doesn't belong here." And then I wake up, roll over and look at Ann to make certain the dream was just a dream.
The animals on the other hand, are always in my dreams though since Jan's phone call, I haven't dreamt of them once. Perhaps Jan's report provided closure or now that I know their fates, my dreams no longer need to be filled with worry or concern or the heavy weight of responsibility to feed and care for them.
There are days when I miss the farm and there are days when I'm glad I live in a city. There are days when I long to nuzzle the warm neck of a llama or stroke the rough muzzle of lamb, and there are days when I marvel at the creativity and ingenuity of city crows. There are days in the city when I know I haven't worked hard enough and there are days when I am thankful there isn't wood to stack or stalls to clean. There are days when I wish the city weren't so loud, when the sound of the wind down a long valley whistles in my memory. But there are also days when I hear the organ from the church, the whine of the electric bus, and the songs of Avery, our neighbor, singing along with his iPod as he walks to or from work that make me appreciate the diversity of city life.
What I miss the most... if there were one thing I could bring with me to the city it would be the brillance of the stars at night. On warm summer nights I loved to lie out in the pasture with the musky smell of llama dung all around me and the black shadows of the tall trees above me, and just blur my eyes to the silvery sparkles cast like dust across the sky. Often the llamas or the sheep would lie close by, close enough to hear their breathing. The dogs would lie down too, and in the spring, when the lambs were trusting and curious, they'd curl up with their butts tuck into the dogs' bellies like some biblical scene.
Sometimes, in those dreaming memories late at night, I'm spread flat in that pasture pretending to count stars when in actuality I'm counting the heartbeats of all the different animals around me. Though it's sad to know Bella is no longer chasing birds and Rico is no longer calling my name, in my dreams everyone is right where they should be -- nearby, content, breathing -- and so am I.
Farm life was part chop wood/carry water, but it was also part overwhelming and exhausting. When my relationship broke up (over 5 years ago), I was thankful in one way to be done with farming. Most of the heavy tasks fell to me (part of the reason why the relationship didn't work though there were many other reasons as well) so my days on the farm began feeding sheep and llamas and ended cleaning stalls and clearing the pasture of unwanted debris. In between it all was tilling and planting, weeding and harvesting.
Most of the animals who lived with us were rescues. Our friend, Jan the large animal vet, was always the recipient of half-eaten and close to death critters. Two of the llamas, for instance, had been chased by dogs who ripped out the back end of one llama and scarred the other. The wounds did not heal easily and required flushing out of cavernous holes and picking out maggots that formed almost overnight. That llama, Paco, survived but spent most of his life with limited vision learning to depend upon the other llamas as his guides around the pasture and on our excursions through the woods.
The llama he depended upon the most was Lupine, a skinny, short-haired ruffian with the temper of a snake. Lllamas spit, it's true, but generally at each other and usually only after serious provocation. Lupine, on the otherhand, spit as a matter of principle, hurling green slime at anyone who dared to test his patience. This became interesting when Lupine developed acid reflux, not a pretty picture in a long-necked llama. Anything chunky got stuck in Lupine's throat and he'd gag and choke until we put a tube down his throat to clear whatever was dislodged there. This made feeding Lupine difficult as he couldn't eat hay or fresh spring grass.
But he had to eat so we cordoned off sections of the pasture with sheep fencing and confined him to the parts of the field that had short grasses or had been eaten down by the other llamas. He could have no hay, which is the main staple for llamas and his grain had to be made into a goopy mush in order for him to eat it.
Atticus was the third lllama. Spunky and graceful, he had an overbite that made him look even more like a Dr. Seuss character than llamas already do. Atticus eventually went to live with friends who raised sheep where he served well as a guardian of their flock, chasing off coyotes and even once, a mountain lion.
We had rescued sheep, too who were also chased down by a pack of dogs. The sheep were part of a large flock used primarily for dog herding practice. The flock was about 30 sheep strong when a pack of domesticated dogs gathered together and broke into their pasture. Fueled by instinct and shared energy, the dogs turned ruthless and violent killing all the sheep except for two ewes. Those two ewes came to live with us where their gashed and bloody loins were nursed back to relative health. After a few weeks of care, I finally decided to name the sheep knowing they were most likely permanent residents.
Dotty received her name for the brown dot on her right hind leg while Fiesty was named for her temper. A black-faced sheep with spiraled horns, she protected Dotty from any human contact by stamping her front hoof hard against the floor of the barn and then lowering her head and charging. I was hit once by those horns and the brusie left me limping for a week.
What we didn't know about Dotty and Fiesty is that they were pregnant. Of course, it became obvious quickly as the grew in size and developed swollen teats. Then one day, when I got home from work, I found the ewes tucked away in the corners of the barn each nursing twins. Our flock went from two sheep to six and soon we were naming the new lambs just as we'd named their mothers. Truth, Justice, Honor, and Ukelele.
Now that I live in the city, there are parts of farm life I miss. The smells mostly -- the warmth of a llama's neck, the breath of a new lamb, the dust of hay, even the sour smell of the mush I'd mix three times a day for Lupine. I even miss the blistered hands and the sore shoulders from lifting 100 pound bales of hay or 50 pound sacks of grain or from repairing broken fences or clearing away brush.
Sometimes, when I'm deep asleep, I dream of the animals on the farm. In addition to the horse and the llamas and the sheep, there were four cats, two dogs, and a parrot. My dreams are ethereal with llamas galloping in the sky above me and cats lined up like birds on the barn rafters. I can smell all the scents I miss in those dreams and I float around the garden and pastures with my arms outstretched trying to hug a lamb or a dog.
Things did not end amicably with my ex. I was the "leaver" and so I was seen as the evil one. My old dog, Abbie, had died a few years before I left and though I wanted to take a cat or two or even the German Shepard, Ali, I left the house without any of the animals in tow. Perhaps that is why I dream about them or why sometimes my dreams are filled with worry -- who is feeding Lupine? Is anyone scratching Paco on the warm white spot on his chest? Is Bella (the cat) still catching swallows from the rafters of the barn or is Ali digging holes in the garden searching for moles? And what of Rico, the parrot? My ex purchased him before our relationship began, but he was difficult and demanding and instead of committing time to him, she ignored him, which made Rico all the more difficult and demanding. What has become of him?
Recently, Jan (the vet) got ahold of me. I'd loaned her some money years ago and through some wheeling and dealing she'd managed to scrape together the funds to pay me back. She called to get my current address and we talked, not about my ex but about the animals I've missed so much.
Paco and Mesmer (a llama who came into the picture later) still live with a family I found for them after I left. Lupine died shortly after I'd moved to Seattle. Unable to keep food down any longer, Jan helped euthanize him to end his suffering. Rico, the parrot, was given to a woman who rescues birds and is much happier now that someone is paying attention to him. All the cats are gone except for Kiffa, the 25 pound calico who adores Jan and rolls on her socks whenever she visits the farm. Ali the shepard was put down this last Christmas after suffering from bad hips and crippled legs. All the sheep died except two -- Dotty, the stalwart mother, and her fat, round daughter, Ukelele. They live with Jan now. Jan's old dog Vern is still alive, but crippled and aging.
And my ex? Well, I didn't ask about her. She's rarely in my dreams though when I do dream about her I am always struggling to correct the dream. "This is not my life," I say to myself, "She doesn't belong here." And then I wake up, roll over and look at Ann to make certain the dream was just a dream.
The animals on the other hand, are always in my dreams though since Jan's phone call, I haven't dreamt of them once. Perhaps Jan's report provided closure or now that I know their fates, my dreams no longer need to be filled with worry or concern or the heavy weight of responsibility to feed and care for them.
There are days when I miss the farm and there are days when I'm glad I live in a city. There are days when I long to nuzzle the warm neck of a llama or stroke the rough muzzle of lamb, and there are days when I marvel at the creativity and ingenuity of city crows. There are days in the city when I know I haven't worked hard enough and there are days when I am thankful there isn't wood to stack or stalls to clean. There are days when I wish the city weren't so loud, when the sound of the wind down a long valley whistles in my memory. But there are also days when I hear the organ from the church, the whine of the electric bus, and the songs of Avery, our neighbor, singing along with his iPod as he walks to or from work that make me appreciate the diversity of city life.
What I miss the most... if there were one thing I could bring with me to the city it would be the brillance of the stars at night. On warm summer nights I loved to lie out in the pasture with the musky smell of llama dung all around me and the black shadows of the tall trees above me, and just blur my eyes to the silvery sparkles cast like dust across the sky. Often the llamas or the sheep would lie close by, close enough to hear their breathing. The dogs would lie down too, and in the spring, when the lambs were trusting and curious, they'd curl up with their butts tuck into the dogs' bellies like some biblical scene.
Sometimes, in those dreaming memories late at night, I'm spread flat in that pasture pretending to count stars when in actuality I'm counting the heartbeats of all the different animals around me. Though it's sad to know Bella is no longer chasing birds and Rico is no longer calling my name, in my dreams everyone is right where they should be -- nearby, content, breathing -- and so am I.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Ivy in the Hood
Yesterday I walked to the store to get a half gallon of milk for our morning coffee and pick up a newspaper since we cancelled our service while on vacation. In the shopping complex we have a Neighborhood Service Center where people can do all sorts of business like buy stamps, pay their phone and water bills, or even apply for or renew their passports. A stout older woman works at the center with her cushy rolling desk chair and every piece of office equipment surrounding her. Her little box of an office is cluttered with reams of forms, every kind of pen imaginable, and two computer monitors, an equal number of keyboards, and an ancient manual typewriter. She's obviously a smoker, coughing her way through the forms, stamping them with one of those metal stampers that looks more like a garden tool for planting bulbs than it does an official city document stamper. Her voice is raspy and when she laughs, she rattles.
I've been in a couple of times to check on a bill or pick up some stamps and even to apply for my passport. She's helpful and kind, but rarely looks up from her busy hands to look anyone in the eye. She's truly a fount of information and refers to everyone as "hon" or "darling" even the elderly women who totter on their walkers.
But yesterday morning, I arrived at the grocery store before it opened (didn't grocery stores used to be open 24 hours a day?). So I stood in the parking lot, scanning my options and contemplating a trip to Starbuck's across the street so I could just order coffee instead of get milk to make it. The sign above the Neighborhood Service Center is a bold neon sign, but like most of the signs in the shopping center, many of the letters are burned out. The same is true for the Army and Marine recruiting center just three doors down from the service center, where the sign reads "...ecruiting ..my..rine..." It's a wonder anyone signs up with an advertisement that always makes me look twice because I swear it says "...my urine..."
The Neighborhood Service Center sign, though, made me really laugh as it read "...hood Service Center" and frankly, that's exactly what it is...the service center for our 'hood.
Once the grocery store opened, I got my milk and checked out with June, the grocery clerk who looks like Annie Lennox. I've told her so and she claims everyone tells her that though she doesn't have the paycheck to back it up. June is warm and wonderful and I don't care how long her line is, I always get in it because she cheers up my day. But yesterday morning, no one was in the store but me and so I pointed out to June the funny signs in the rest of the shopping center. "Well, ya know," she flashed her Annie Lennox smile, "I believe everything happens for a reason. Someone out there has a sense of humor about this area of town, that's for sure!"
And now, the sun has pushed away the threat of rain and Ann is sweating in the backyard ripping out thick beds of English Ivy, the bane of our existence. Ivy grows invasively all over the city, but finds a particularly healthy environment here in the 'hood. Most of our neighbors don't pull it out so it spreads almost as quickly as the rats. So even though Ann may clear out the jungle of vines in our backyard, the ivy will creep back through the fence from the neighbor to the east who never does any yard work and when she does, it's certainly not ivy clean up.
Still, Ann loves ripping and stacking all the vines in addition to tearing down the shaky wooden fence between our new neighbor to the south and us. With a new dog on the way we're getting ready to put in another new fence along the south side to match the one we built last spring on the north side. The whole yard needs landscaping and I'm thankful Ann is excited about the project. She's drawn sketches of what she wants it to all look like and even mapped out which plants she'll put where. Her biggest dilemma, next to the ivy though, is the neighbor's insistence on having a compost bin where he throws food scraps.
"Rats," Ann complains, "He's just inviting rats."
But that's life in the 'hood, ya know? Burned out signs, overgrown ivy, and fat rats. There's no place like home...or perhaps that should be h...me.
I've been in a couple of times to check on a bill or pick up some stamps and even to apply for my passport. She's helpful and kind, but rarely looks up from her busy hands to look anyone in the eye. She's truly a fount of information and refers to everyone as "hon" or "darling" even the elderly women who totter on their walkers.
But yesterday morning, I arrived at the grocery store before it opened (didn't grocery stores used to be open 24 hours a day?). So I stood in the parking lot, scanning my options and contemplating a trip to Starbuck's across the street so I could just order coffee instead of get milk to make it. The sign above the Neighborhood Service Center is a bold neon sign, but like most of the signs in the shopping center, many of the letters are burned out. The same is true for the Army and Marine recruiting center just three doors down from the service center, where the sign reads "...ecruiting ..my..rine..." It's a wonder anyone signs up with an advertisement that always makes me look twice because I swear it says "...my urine..."
The Neighborhood Service Center sign, though, made me really laugh as it read "...hood Service Center" and frankly, that's exactly what it is...the service center for our 'hood.
Once the grocery store opened, I got my milk and checked out with June, the grocery clerk who looks like Annie Lennox. I've told her so and she claims everyone tells her that though she doesn't have the paycheck to back it up. June is warm and wonderful and I don't care how long her line is, I always get in it because she cheers up my day. But yesterday morning, no one was in the store but me and so I pointed out to June the funny signs in the rest of the shopping center. "Well, ya know," she flashed her Annie Lennox smile, "I believe everything happens for a reason. Someone out there has a sense of humor about this area of town, that's for sure!"
And now, the sun has pushed away the threat of rain and Ann is sweating in the backyard ripping out thick beds of English Ivy, the bane of our existence. Ivy grows invasively all over the city, but finds a particularly healthy environment here in the 'hood. Most of our neighbors don't pull it out so it spreads almost as quickly as the rats. So even though Ann may clear out the jungle of vines in our backyard, the ivy will creep back through the fence from the neighbor to the east who never does any yard work and when she does, it's certainly not ivy clean up.
Still, Ann loves ripping and stacking all the vines in addition to tearing down the shaky wooden fence between our new neighbor to the south and us. With a new dog on the way we're getting ready to put in another new fence along the south side to match the one we built last spring on the north side. The whole yard needs landscaping and I'm thankful Ann is excited about the project. She's drawn sketches of what she wants it to all look like and even mapped out which plants she'll put where. Her biggest dilemma, next to the ivy though, is the neighbor's insistence on having a compost bin where he throws food scraps.
"Rats," Ann complains, "He's just inviting rats."
But that's life in the 'hood, ya know? Burned out signs, overgrown ivy, and fat rats. There's no place like home...or perhaps that should be h...me.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Security
This is to RJ (and anyone else who may be worried about my blogging silence)...I am here, I am well, but I appear not to be on your (RJ) "approved" comments list for I can't seem to sign in even with the correct word verification. So I shall write here what I've attempted to write on your blog three times.
First attempt: I am well, just busy with vacation and blank in the word department, but my fingers are getting itchy so I will post soon. The news on the homefront is that we've put money down on a puppy (soon to be born) that we shall bring home (if the gods are with us) in early May. We chose a hyp0-allergenic breed though it's not so much a breed as a mixed "designer" dog -- a labradoodle. After reading your latest post, I was thinking we may have to call him or her Cissi or perhaps Sissy, but Ann prefers Nellie!
Just kidding.
Actually, since the dog is a designed mutt we've jokingly chosen names like "quasi" and "seque" and my personal favorite, "pseudo" but those will depend on the dogs "dog"anality I think.
Anyway, I am well and thanks for thinking of me from so far away!
Second attempt: How is living in the second largest state in the Union?
Third attempt: This must be the charm!
First attempt: I am well, just busy with vacation and blank in the word department, but my fingers are getting itchy so I will post soon. The news on the homefront is that we've put money down on a puppy (soon to be born) that we shall bring home (if the gods are with us) in early May. We chose a hyp0-allergenic breed though it's not so much a breed as a mixed "designer" dog -- a labradoodle. After reading your latest post, I was thinking we may have to call him or her Cissi or perhaps Sissy, but Ann prefers Nellie!
Just kidding.
Actually, since the dog is a designed mutt we've jokingly chosen names like "quasi" and "seque" and my personal favorite, "pseudo" but those will depend on the dogs "dog"anality I think.
Anyway, I am well and thanks for thinking of me from so far away!
Second attempt: How is living in the second largest state in the Union?
Third attempt: This must be the charm!
Sunday, February 11, 2007
The End of Kissing
It's amazing to me how, when given time, my mind can wonder, making odd connections. These were my thoughts as I kneaded this week's bread...
On NPR this morning, they interviewed the author of a book on the history kissing. 90% of the world kisses the way we, Americans, have come to define it -- the use of the lips against the skin of someone else...perhaps their lips or their cheek or the top of their head. Some cultures, though, consider "the exchanging of saliva" as dirty, our mouths afilled with bacteria, transmitters of viruses. Other cultures, especially in Africa, see the mouth as the portal to the soul and kissing is seen as inviting death or worse, the possible loss of the soul.
With the current flu virus making its way through our school, we've spent class time and community meeting time discussing appropriate protocol for sneezing and coughing. We've stressed again and again the importance of washing hands with warm water and soap, vigorously scrubbing while singing Happy Birthday. We've even banned the sharing of food, which above all has been the most difficult burden our students have had to bear.
Kissing, of course, is not a problem. As an all-girls' school, we have had our share of "dating" among the students (girls holding hands or cuddling in the hallways), but no more than a co-ed school and no one has been bold enough to kiss, at least not in public.
But this morning's story got me thinking -- will we ever get to the point where kissing is banned, seen as the most dangerous transmitter of deadly viruses, viruses that adapt and become resistant to medical advancements or the latest version of antibiotics?
Kissing doesn't rank up there with the likes of clean air, water, food, or adequate shelter, but its possible loss feels even more dire than the threats we'll face from global warming, terrorism, or the depletion of our fresh water supplies around the world. Certainly no one is proposing the end of kissing, but with the recent proposal to ban cell phone and iPod use in of all places the streets of New York city, I suppose anything is possible.
It's silly to speculate about something that no one is even considering, but I find that in this day and age I am considering my choices every minute of every week. I suppose I have Al Gore to thank for that. While I've enjoyed the recent spat of snow and chilly weather as well as the equally odd timing of our recent spring-like temperatures, there's an omnious feeling that comes from wearing shorts on my morning walk in the middle of February. When I run the faucet waiting for the water to get hot enough to wash the pots and pans that will not do well in the dishwasher, I worry about my overconsumption of such a valuable resource. It's not like I'm obsessed by my contributions to environmental degradation, but my concern is always there, like a haunting melody I can't seem to shake.
So to consider the loss of kissing is just another refrain and for me, the saddest verses of all. Kissing allows us to get lost. It's Zen. During my yoga sessions I concentrate on my breathing trying to block out my worries about the Iraq war or the papers I have yet to grade or the friend who has been recently diagnosed with breast cancer. I try to be "present" as the instructor on the yoga video asks of me.
This is something I can do when kissing. I can be present. I can shield my mind from the past and stop projecting my worries onto a future I cannot predict or control. I can just feel the softness or the passion or warmth or the longing. I can be in the moment. My breathing is exactly what the yogi asks of me -- steady, deep, and life-giving.
If Rod Serling were alive today, I bet he could write this amazing episode for the Twilight Zone on the End of Kissing. It would star Kim Novak as a librarian. She'd live in a time of no kissing, a time when all kissing had been forgotten. Until one day, while searching through a stack of dusty manuscripts she'd see this picture, faded and yellowed.
Only through the camera angle or the music or the movement of Ms. Novak's eyes would the viewer realize the dangerous excitement she'd feel, electric and pulsating. She'd search the ancient stacks for explanations, supportive evidence that such activity was not an anomaly. Until one day, while being courted by Robert Young or Robert Mitchum, she'd boldly press her lips on his, igniting an underground revival in kissing.
Of course, it wouldn't be the Twilight Zone unless there was a twist and the twist would be that Kim or one of the Roberts would fall ill, shaking and sweating in a sterile hospital where doctors looked on stymied by the tenacity of the virus, its unknown origin, and the rapidity with which the hospital filled with the network of closted kissers. And in this age of fear, the government would blame terrorists for introducing a deadly virus through something so personal and passionate. Passion would be outlawed, of course, controlled by the state and kissing, once simply banned, would now be punished by death. The military would invade homes, place the latest spy technology in the most unlikely of places. And while Kim Novak sweated her final breaths in the hospital, Rod Serling's throaty voiceover would surmise...
A kiss is but a kiss, but in an age of fear, when our doubts control our once rational minds, a kiss can become the deadliest symbol of our intolerance. "The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs, and explosions, and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, ideas, predjudices, to be found only in the minds of men. For the record, predjudices can kill and suspicion can destroy. A thoughtless, freightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all its own for the children yet unborn. And the pity of it is, these things cannot be confined to the Twilight Zone.” (actual Rod Serling quote)
On NPR this morning, they interviewed the author of a book on the history kissing. 90% of the world kisses the way we, Americans, have come to define it -- the use of the lips against the skin of someone else...perhaps their lips or their cheek or the top of their head. Some cultures, though, consider "the exchanging of saliva" as dirty, our mouths afilled with bacteria, transmitters of viruses. Other cultures, especially in Africa, see the mouth as the portal to the soul and kissing is seen as inviting death or worse, the possible loss of the soul.
With the current flu virus making its way through our school, we've spent class time and community meeting time discussing appropriate protocol for sneezing and coughing. We've stressed again and again the importance of washing hands with warm water and soap, vigorously scrubbing while singing Happy Birthday. We've even banned the sharing of food, which above all has been the most difficult burden our students have had to bear.
Kissing, of course, is not a problem. As an all-girls' school, we have had our share of "dating" among the students (girls holding hands or cuddling in the hallways), but no more than a co-ed school and no one has been bold enough to kiss, at least not in public.
But this morning's story got me thinking -- will we ever get to the point where kissing is banned, seen as the most dangerous transmitter of deadly viruses, viruses that adapt and become resistant to medical advancements or the latest version of antibiotics?
Kissing doesn't rank up there with the likes of clean air, water, food, or adequate shelter, but its possible loss feels even more dire than the threats we'll face from global warming, terrorism, or the depletion of our fresh water supplies around the world. Certainly no one is proposing the end of kissing, but with the recent proposal to ban cell phone and iPod use in of all places the streets of New York city, I suppose anything is possible.
It's silly to speculate about something that no one is even considering, but I find that in this day and age I am considering my choices every minute of every week. I suppose I have Al Gore to thank for that. While I've enjoyed the recent spat of snow and chilly weather as well as the equally odd timing of our recent spring-like temperatures, there's an omnious feeling that comes from wearing shorts on my morning walk in the middle of February. When I run the faucet waiting for the water to get hot enough to wash the pots and pans that will not do well in the dishwasher, I worry about my overconsumption of such a valuable resource. It's not like I'm obsessed by my contributions to environmental degradation, but my concern is always there, like a haunting melody I can't seem to shake.
So to consider the loss of kissing is just another refrain and for me, the saddest verses of all. Kissing allows us to get lost. It's Zen. During my yoga sessions I concentrate on my breathing trying to block out my worries about the Iraq war or the papers I have yet to grade or the friend who has been recently diagnosed with breast cancer. I try to be "present" as the instructor on the yoga video asks of me.
This is something I can do when kissing. I can be present. I can shield my mind from the past and stop projecting my worries onto a future I cannot predict or control. I can just feel the softness or the passion or warmth or the longing. I can be in the moment. My breathing is exactly what the yogi asks of me -- steady, deep, and life-giving.
If Rod Serling were alive today, I bet he could write this amazing episode for the Twilight Zone on the End of Kissing. It would star Kim Novak as a librarian. She'd live in a time of no kissing, a time when all kissing had been forgotten. Until one day, while searching through a stack of dusty manuscripts she'd see this picture, faded and yellowed.
Only through the camera angle or the music or the movement of Ms. Novak's eyes would the viewer realize the dangerous excitement she'd feel, electric and pulsating. She'd search the ancient stacks for explanations, supportive evidence that such activity was not an anomaly. Until one day, while being courted by Robert Young or Robert Mitchum, she'd boldly press her lips on his, igniting an underground revival in kissing.
Of course, it wouldn't be the Twilight Zone unless there was a twist and the twist would be that Kim or one of the Roberts would fall ill, shaking and sweating in a sterile hospital where doctors looked on stymied by the tenacity of the virus, its unknown origin, and the rapidity with which the hospital filled with the network of closted kissers. And in this age of fear, the government would blame terrorists for introducing a deadly virus through something so personal and passionate. Passion would be outlawed, of course, controlled by the state and kissing, once simply banned, would now be punished by death. The military would invade homes, place the latest spy technology in the most unlikely of places. And while Kim Novak sweated her final breaths in the hospital, Rod Serling's throaty voiceover would surmise...
A kiss is but a kiss, but in an age of fear, when our doubts control our once rational minds, a kiss can become the deadliest symbol of our intolerance. "The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs, and explosions, and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, ideas, predjudices, to be found only in the minds of men. For the record, predjudices can kill and suspicion can destroy. A thoughtless, freightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all its own for the children yet unborn. And the pity of it is, these things cannot be confined to the Twilight Zone.” (actual Rod Serling quote)
Thursday, February 08, 2007
The Blog Across the Street
Neighbors are a curious species in the city. In many ways, I felt much closer to my neighbors when I lived in the "country" even if their houses weren't up against mine. I left the said country because I got tired of watching trees get leveled to make room for enormous houses or worse, resorts and equally as tired of watching farmers, who could only sell their land in 10 acre plots, continously vote conservative Repubican because they wanted the right to develop their cow-pooped pastures in small subdivisions.
My first night in the city was here at this house. It was the Fourth of July and I remember staring out the bedroom window gaping at the pyrotechnics showering up and down the streets. It went on like that for hours and the next morning, when we pulled ourselves awake, the street was covered in about 4 inches thick of fireworks leftovers.
Later that summer, I remember watching gangs (and I mean this in terms of numbers, not necessarily identification) young black men swarming in the middle of the streets, the music thumping from 20 different cars, and their voices rising up, cresendo after cresendo until I was certain someone was going to get killed.
Every Sunday, there isn't an inch of space for parking as the congregates of the Ethopian Coptic Church flock dressed in their white veils into the neighborhood for long services that usually include food (roasted goat on some occasions that they broil on a spit in the parking lot), drums and the most amazing chanting followed by the high-pitched throat warble of the women.
It was on such a Sunday and the morning after another enormous party in the streets that I met our neighbor across the street. He was in his little white car driving nowhere, just pulling forward then backward again and again and again, ramming the car behind him with greater and greater force. He was pissed that the church-goers had parked in his driveway, which I found ironic as his car was not even parked in the driveway. It was, as I've describe, on the street rocking back and forth, back and forth into the car behind it.
I wasn't used to such behavior, so I did what any good citizen of the city does. I ignored him. Ann, (being from Wisconsin where good neighbors don't let neighbors act stupid) on the otherhand, took up arms and went straight out into the street to tell the neighbor to knock it off. I didn't hear the whole conversation, but as Ann walked away from the scene I heard her say "mother fucker" and I knew, if it was loud enough for me to hear it, it was loud enough for him to hear it.
Ironically, the mother fucker's name is Dick and more than once we've been party to his liberal brand of racism. Liberal in that he sees himself a raging leftist all the while spouting racist quips about welfare and gangs and thugs.
Over the years, we've watched Dick and his wife, whom we call Mrs. Kravitz, weild their prowess in the neighborhood. At neighborhood meetings, they are the first to complain inciting angry confrontations with the mothers of the kids who run freely in the 'hood. They aren't innocent, these kids, but in the meeting, it's amazing to me how brazen Dick can be in calling them names, making assumptions, and spewing his often racist, privileged opinion in their direction. My favorite comment came from Mrs. Kravitz who, clearly still miffed about the parking on Sundays, said, "Can't they just have their churched in their own neighborhood?" She was not just referring to the Coptic church around the corner, but to the four other black churches scattered within a four block radius of our particular street.
I countered, cautiously with "But this was their neighborhood until we moved in!" She just threw up her hands and gave me a list of reasons why that argument didn't hold water.
Part of the neighborhood group's work is to send out newsletters via email to everyone who signs up. They keep us up-to-date on meetings with the police department, problems with mail delivery, the latest robberies, and their efforts to stop cheap liquor from being served in the neighborhood stores. Dick contributed last week and at the end of his posting was a website for his blog. Yes, the man blogs. I suppose, since he was "let go" from Amazon (we have many suspicions why they let him go...intolerant bigoted asshole top of the list) he has time on his hands and he fills this time by blogging.
I couldn't resist. I read his posts and in them detected the same tone with which he reacted to Ann calling him a mother fucker. He rails against the president, spews mighty fire about the war, and in the same breath, complains about, yes, the parking on Sunday and the crack house on the corner.
I once had a student, years and years ago, who brought me a list of words she felt I should assign for the next vocabulary test. She told me she put "audacity" at the top of the list because she thought every high school student should use it when referring to the corrupt adults who rule the country. I'm not sure whatever happened to her, but I loved her spunk so "audacity" landed on the next week's vocab list and has been on just about every vocab list I've assigned every year since.
Dick has audacity. Mrs. Kravitz, too. She has her nose in everyone's business and he has his nose perpetually bent out of joint.
We're civil neighbors. We smile and wave and say, "Good morning" and last summer we even went to one of their "Concerts in the Garden" series. Still, when we talk about them in the confines of our own home, they are simply Dick and Mrs. Kravitz, though now I think it shall be Mrs. Kravitz and the Blog Across the Street.
My first night in the city was here at this house. It was the Fourth of July and I remember staring out the bedroom window gaping at the pyrotechnics showering up and down the streets. It went on like that for hours and the next morning, when we pulled ourselves awake, the street was covered in about 4 inches thick of fireworks leftovers.
Later that summer, I remember watching gangs (and I mean this in terms of numbers, not necessarily identification) young black men swarming in the middle of the streets, the music thumping from 20 different cars, and their voices rising up, cresendo after cresendo until I was certain someone was going to get killed.
Every Sunday, there isn't an inch of space for parking as the congregates of the Ethopian Coptic Church flock dressed in their white veils into the neighborhood for long services that usually include food (roasted goat on some occasions that they broil on a spit in the parking lot), drums and the most amazing chanting followed by the high-pitched throat warble of the women.
It was on such a Sunday and the morning after another enormous party in the streets that I met our neighbor across the street. He was in his little white car driving nowhere, just pulling forward then backward again and again and again, ramming the car behind him with greater and greater force. He was pissed that the church-goers had parked in his driveway, which I found ironic as his car was not even parked in the driveway. It was, as I've describe, on the street rocking back and forth, back and forth into the car behind it.
I wasn't used to such behavior, so I did what any good citizen of the city does. I ignored him. Ann, (being from Wisconsin where good neighbors don't let neighbors act stupid) on the otherhand, took up arms and went straight out into the street to tell the neighbor to knock it off. I didn't hear the whole conversation, but as Ann walked away from the scene I heard her say "mother fucker" and I knew, if it was loud enough for me to hear it, it was loud enough for him to hear it.
Ironically, the mother fucker's name is Dick and more than once we've been party to his liberal brand of racism. Liberal in that he sees himself a raging leftist all the while spouting racist quips about welfare and gangs and thugs.
Over the years, we've watched Dick and his wife, whom we call Mrs. Kravitz, weild their prowess in the neighborhood. At neighborhood meetings, they are the first to complain inciting angry confrontations with the mothers of the kids who run freely in the 'hood. They aren't innocent, these kids, but in the meeting, it's amazing to me how brazen Dick can be in calling them names, making assumptions, and spewing his often racist, privileged opinion in their direction. My favorite comment came from Mrs. Kravitz who, clearly still miffed about the parking on Sundays, said, "Can't they just have their churched in their own neighborhood?" She was not just referring to the Coptic church around the corner, but to the four other black churches scattered within a four block radius of our particular street.
I countered, cautiously with "But this was their neighborhood until we moved in!" She just threw up her hands and gave me a list of reasons why that argument didn't hold water.
Part of the neighborhood group's work is to send out newsletters via email to everyone who signs up. They keep us up-to-date on meetings with the police department, problems with mail delivery, the latest robberies, and their efforts to stop cheap liquor from being served in the neighborhood stores. Dick contributed last week and at the end of his posting was a website for his blog. Yes, the man blogs. I suppose, since he was "let go" from Amazon (we have many suspicions why they let him go...intolerant bigoted asshole top of the list) he has time on his hands and he fills this time by blogging.
I couldn't resist. I read his posts and in them detected the same tone with which he reacted to Ann calling him a mother fucker. He rails against the president, spews mighty fire about the war, and in the same breath, complains about, yes, the parking on Sunday and the crack house on the corner.
I once had a student, years and years ago, who brought me a list of words she felt I should assign for the next vocabulary test. She told me she put "audacity" at the top of the list because she thought every high school student should use it when referring to the corrupt adults who rule the country. I'm not sure whatever happened to her, but I loved her spunk so "audacity" landed on the next week's vocab list and has been on just about every vocab list I've assigned every year since.
Dick has audacity. Mrs. Kravitz, too. She has her nose in everyone's business and he has his nose perpetually bent out of joint.
We're civil neighbors. We smile and wave and say, "Good morning" and last summer we even went to one of their "Concerts in the Garden" series. Still, when we talk about them in the confines of our own home, they are simply Dick and Mrs. Kravitz, though now I think it shall be Mrs. Kravitz and the Blog Across the Street.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Sour
Ann and I have both come down with the stomach flu. It's mild compared to our co-workers and friends who've had serious bouts with the virus spending their sick days running to the bathroom. We just feel queasy, as if we've just gotten off a swaying boat and must now walk on land. There's a knot in our stomachs and food seems unappealing. We've made a diet out of toast and bananas and last night we attempted mashed potatoes. Worst of all, we smell funny. Sour, like bad milk. I can't stand the skin I'm living in because it reminds me of baby slurp and nursing homes. Even my clothes are a bit rancid and no matter if I shower or put on new pajamas, the air around me, the air exuding from me smells curdled.
On top of all of it we're extraordinarily tired. It's amazing, in one way, how the body puts up a fight, battling with sleep against the armies of unknown bacteria that float through our systems. It's remarkable, really, but right now neither of us have the energy to marvel at any of it.
Instead, we lie around correcting papers, planning lessons, watching bad television, and making attempts to steady our sea legs every time we get up off the couch. It's a bummer in many ways, but most of all it's caused us to cancel our venture to B-town to visit my parents. Bread baking was planned and pizza making was scheduled all while we screamed at the television on Super Bowl Sunday. But, seeing how I came down with the bug first and then Ann woke up with the same queasiness, we decided it was best to keep our bugs and germs on this side of the Sound. Bread and pizza shall have to wait, though we do plan to lounge in front of the TV later this afternoon to watch the game.
We also have a four-footed visitor staying with us. Salal, an Australian/Chow mix, is staying for the weekend while her mother skis in Idaho. Luckily, Salal is an elderly dog and after short walks, she's as ready to sleep (and snore, I might add) as we are.
Meanwhile, life goes on outside our windows. The Ethopian Coptic Church Congregation has blocked the streets with attempts to find parking and beautiful veiled women stream up and down the sidewalks heading to the chanting church just around the corner. Our neighbors are cleaning up garbage from the empty lot at the end of the street and Mrs. Kravitz (the nosy neighbor) has just gone for a walk with her husband and their dog. It gives me hope to know that others are not riding the waves of this flu and that someday I shall feel better, but for now, it's more toast, a glass of watered down apple juice, and my feet up on the couch.
Yuck.
On top of all of it we're extraordinarily tired. It's amazing, in one way, how the body puts up a fight, battling with sleep against the armies of unknown bacteria that float through our systems. It's remarkable, really, but right now neither of us have the energy to marvel at any of it.
Instead, we lie around correcting papers, planning lessons, watching bad television, and making attempts to steady our sea legs every time we get up off the couch. It's a bummer in many ways, but most of all it's caused us to cancel our venture to B-town to visit my parents. Bread baking was planned and pizza making was scheduled all while we screamed at the television on Super Bowl Sunday. But, seeing how I came down with the bug first and then Ann woke up with the same queasiness, we decided it was best to keep our bugs and germs on this side of the Sound. Bread and pizza shall have to wait, though we do plan to lounge in front of the TV later this afternoon to watch the game.
We also have a four-footed visitor staying with us. Salal, an Australian/Chow mix, is staying for the weekend while her mother skis in Idaho. Luckily, Salal is an elderly dog and after short walks, she's as ready to sleep (and snore, I might add) as we are.
Meanwhile, life goes on outside our windows. The Ethopian Coptic Church Congregation has blocked the streets with attempts to find parking and beautiful veiled women stream up and down the sidewalks heading to the chanting church just around the corner. Our neighbors are cleaning up garbage from the empty lot at the end of the street and Mrs. Kravitz (the nosy neighbor) has just gone for a walk with her husband and their dog. It gives me hope to know that others are not riding the waves of this flu and that someday I shall feel better, but for now, it's more toast, a glass of watered down apple juice, and my feet up on the couch.
Yuck.
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