Jumping off cliffs

Now where was I?

2011-12-13T21:51:00.002-06:00

Oops. 'Got busy decorating for the holidays, hand making gifts, and enjoying my break from classes, and lost track of the time.

Did you know that you can't paint over oils with acrylic? Ask me how I know.

Did you know that stencils aren't as easy to use as they seem like they should be? Especially when you're using them on a curved surface?

Remember all those gourds I grew back in 2010?

This is what they looked like that fall after harvest:

And here's an example of what they look like now (I still have work to do on the ones that are hanging up--especially the one on the end with the swirling pattern--I call that one the Nebula Gourd--you had to see it naked to understand that reference). By the way, I gave up on the stencils. Free handing it was a lot easier. If Grandma Moses can do it, I can.

I am obviously a much better gardener than I am an artist. Why oh why does this always seem like a good idea in mid-July? I'm no artist. Heck, I barely count as crafty. I haven't even started pouring candles yet. And, of course, I thought it would be cool to try something new there too. Back in July. When my confidence was high and Christmas was months away. I guess I thought I would suddenly become adept with a paint brush and I probably imagined that teaching myself how to do something on the fly would be fun. (Someone point me toward this blog entry, next year, will you?)

Oh--and just in case you wanted to see my Christmas tree. And sixteen year old Joseph--who is obviously in fine form.

I'll be back after some of the craziness fades. I've got some writing to do over this break--some editing (I haven't forgotten my promise to send you the short story) and other bits and pieces to report. I hope all is well with you and yours, dear friends. Merry Christmas and God Bless.

Rest Stop

2011-11-24T22:27:00.001-06:00

Holidays are like rest stops if we treat them right--places where we can take our eyes off the road, stretch our legs, look around, and recharge. Last Sunday was a good example of this.

We spent it with extended family having an early Thanksgiving celebration so we could all have the day itself at home with our kids and our mates. This was my sister-in-law's solution to what is often a ticklish problem. We all love one another, but it's hard to tear ourselves away from our own traditions and routines during the holidays.

My sister-in-law is brilliant like this. She is also an extraordinary cook, loves entertaining large groups of people--especially family--and knows exactly how to arrange space for everyone to enjoy themselves. So there was plenty of food and tables carefully organized so everyone could see everyone else, pretty settings, and an atmosphere that lent itself to eating plenty, sharing, and laughter.

Shortly after we arrived, my tall teenage boys took their young cousins outside to play. I spotted them on the trampoline, playing tag, carrying my nine year old niece around like a foot ball, and playing hide and seek.

"Your boys are so good with kids," I heard several times. "It's really nice of them to babysit."

Babysitting? The boys said later. We weren't babysitting. We were just playing.

Just after hearing this, I looked over to see Gary with my niece Ellie, who is eighteen months. They were playing with the handiest object--Gary's ever present baseball cap and a tiny plastic lid Ellie had found in the kitchen. They were swapping "hats" and modeling them for one another. Ellie discovered that she could see through the mesh in the hat and held it up to her face, peering through it, giggling. Ellie then placed it against Gary's face so he could share in the experience and fell over giggling at the results. My very reserved husband wore a broad unguarded smile. When she hugged him, putting her small head on his shoulder, he wrapped his arms around her and held her, each of them patting one other's backs.

If someone had thanked him for playing with her, Gary's reply would have sounded a lot like the boys'.

My sisters and brothers and I laughed, our talk was filled with childhood stories, detailing our personal worries and adventures over the last year. One brother recently had a minor stroke (which they discovered by accident while checking for something else) and has had to make some lifestyle changes. My sister, who you know from Cooking with Karma , has gone back to college and is doing well while working and raising three kids (along with her husband who is a terrific full-time dad). My youngest brother has recently separated from his wife and is learning how to be a single Dad (and doing an awesome job of it). My youngest sister was working and couldn't make it, but the family grapevine has it that she and her female companion are happy.
We all had challenges waiting for us at home--a few unpaid bills, housework, jobs we aren't always in love with, arguments with our mates, and health concerns--but for those few hours around the table, we were able to pause for a minute, take our eyes off the road and look around at how far we've all come.

I hope that your Thanksgiving was a good rest stop for you as well.

TV

2011-11-19T22:43:00.002-06:00

So after better than ten years of no network television and four years of nothing other than Netflix and (recently) Amazon, we finally hooked up an antenna. The reason we had satellite at all was simply because we were in "black hole"--the analogue signal simply couldn't reach us. Thanks to the digital signal, we now have ten channels (half of which are public television stations). The menfolk were really pushing for it and as it wasn't going to add to our monthly expenses, I decided that it couldn't hurt.

But guess what?

There's still nothing on.

The funny thing is--the boys are irritated by the constant noise of commercials and hate canned laughter and talk shows and find much of PBS to be boring. Even funnier--Gary, who was the one who was at all upset about losing the satellite, is annoyed by everything except the news and PBS.

This morning I went in search of cartoons (it was Saturday, after all and I was hoping for Bugs Bunny) and found only educational shows and some show with brightly painted people, in bright costumes, sitting on a brightly colored set, talking (with extreme brightness) about jumping and how much they loved it. Sam strolled into the room and watched about thirty seconds.

"I want to know what kind of crayons the writers of this show were smoking," he said dryly and strolled out. I agreed, turned it off, and took Story for a walk.

However, later on, I introduced him to Bob Ross's show "The Joy of Painting" (obviously a very old rerun). Bob is a little like Mr Rogers for grown ups; a kind of ordering of the universe takes place whenever we watch his show. Can't pay the bills? No matter. Watch Bob and you'll feel better. Had a fight with your mate? That's okay, Bob will paint right over your troubles.

Sam complained that the show was boring, but didn't leave the room. In fact, his eyes never left the set.

Gary and I were mesmerized as Bob took an empty canvas, put a tree on it, an icy pond, a cabin, and snow--all with just a few simple brush strokes. As he talked, Bob was using welcoming, soft phrases like, "This is your world, you find the place a tree should be and put it there. Ahh! Look, there's one in there, see it?" We nodded our heads. "And I think there's a happy little cloud right over there that just needs a little encouragement to come out. So lets take a little titanium white on our brush and mix it with . . . " We gasped as the cloud appeared, barely refraining from clapping. "See? Painting is all about finding the things hidden in your world and giving them color. Really, a lot things are like this . . . " We snuggle closer. "Sorry about sniping at you earlier." "No. No. I'm the one who's sorry . . . "

I looked over at Sam who was doing his best to look disinterested, but was making no move to get up. "Makes you think you could do it too, doesn't he?"

"Yeah. Strangely enough," he answered. "I'm bored silly, but I don't want to look away and I'm starting to think I'd like to paint something." Ahhh Bob, even posthumously, you haven't lost your touch.

Honestly, I was trying to understand the push to hook the antenna up if nobody really liked TV, but this afternoon Jeremiah climbed up on the roof and spent two hours adjusting the antenna so that the signal was crystal clear.

He then came in and turned on football. All five men crowded into the living room carrying sandwiches and drinks and sat in front of the TV. Not a single one complained about the commercials.

Ohhhh.

Lisa Irwin

2011-10-29T09:32:00.009-05:00

Like the rest of the nation I've been following the case of the missing baby, Lisa Irwin , closely. And, like most, I have my opinions concerning the issue. Personally, I believe the parents are innocent (apart from the very poor choice of drinking too much when one is the only parent at home). While that may influence my take on things,this is not what this entry is about.

I've been all over the internet as I've followed this case and have never been more dismayed by the behavior of strangers than I have been of late, reinforcing my deep suspicion that, as a group, people are mean, small creatures with a limited ability to see life from another person's point of view. But the thing that gets me the most is people's sense of entitlement and their certainty that they know what is happening in someone's life based on a few fragments of information given out at random by the media, the police, and a well-meaning lawyer who perhaps said too much. Somehow or another the vast majority of people who are following this case have reached the conclusion that they are owed something by these people. And when they don't get what they want, they write off the parents as obviously guilty because people who are innocent play by the rules set out for them by the public. They justify this by using the bits and pieces they do know to prove their point.

The story that inspired me to write this entry concerns a woman named Tina Porter whose own children were murdered by her ex-husband several years ago. I am terribly, terribly sorry for her loss and I'm sure she's suffering too, but . . . Late yesterday evening she showed up--apparently without an invitation--on the Irwin's doorstep asking to see them while the media stood outside as they have for weeks, cameras rolling. She was incensed when whoever answered the door (presumably another relative) told her to contact their lawyer and closed the door on her. When she knocked again--claiming that she wanted to know who their lawyer was--they called the police.

And what was the oh-so-helpful message that she wanted to deliver? "You're doing it wrong." According to her, they should be outside talking to the media (you know, the ones who've been digging through their trash, rummaging around in their pasts, knocking on their doors, and constantly calling them for the last three weeks). And then they should throw themselves at the feet of the "so very understanding" investigators and beg to be accused--again. All so they can prove themselves innocent in the eyes of millions of strangers who probably won't believe them anyway. The media (who still needed a story, I guess) has vilified them for this action--as if not letting a total stranger into one's house to tell one what to do somehow proves one's guilt.

To be completely blunt. I'd have called the cops too. And while I was at it, I'd have turned the dogs loose on the reporters. Enough already. Leave them alone.

I'm human. I want to know stuff. But I don't believe anyone owes it to me to give me that stuff and I certainly couldn't imagine standing on someone else's doorstep and demanding entrance to their lives at the worst possible time.

Whether they are guilty or innocent, these people have lost a child. They are devastated. They are grieving, they are terrified, they are suffering from waves of guilt (because every parent does--no matter how hard they tried, no matter how many or how few mistakes they've made). I''m not sure most of us understand the scope of the emotions this kind of tragedy creates and I'm not sure we even have a word for the depths of their pain. However I do have a pretty good imagination and I can picture being up all night praying, bargaining with God, crying incessantly, pacing the floor and wishing we could take back those hours previous to the child's disappearance.

These people don't owe anyone a press conference. They don't owe us any information at all. We've chosen to involve ourselves in this drama in a voyeuristic sort of way and though many of us are praying that Lisa will be found, and are scanning the faces of babies in grocery stores and at parks in hopes of finding her, we must understand that this belongs to them--not us. This is their real life, their family this is happening to. This isn't being done for anyone's entertainment. Why on earth would they want to stand in front of a camera with people out there stating nasty things about them--ranging from what kind of mother Deborah is, to whether she was justified in getting her hair done or not, and trying to decide she and Jeremy's guilt based on how exhausted they do or do not look. I had no idea there were so many closet detectives, psychologists, and body language specialists in the world. So far every public appearance has sparked only more criticism--nothing they say is right, everything they say is suspect based on minor gestures or awkward wording.

As bystanders watching this tragedy we need to remember that we don't have all the facts. We don't know what's going behind closed doors or what they are doing from day to day right now. The ability to Google strangers and collect facts about their lives or find articles put out by supposed authorities concerning them does not make us omniscient. We don't have all the facts and chances are (even if they find this baby alive or not) we never will. Our role in this tragedy can only be that of bystanders. Period.

So if you're a praying sort, pray for this family. They have that much coming to them (so do we all). And you're not--then at least do some wishing. And if you really want to help them--If you can't think of something nice to say, don't say anything at all.

The Gene Pool (Room cleaning day)

2011-10-24T09:03:00.002-05:00

A simple statement of fact: I have four boys. Each one is different, an island unto himself. Their various responses to being corrected or called out for rule breaking never ceases to fascinate me--after the fact.

Yesterday I had to step into Joe and Sam's room. Note I said "had to". Those two words alone should tell you what fears this action strikes in this mother's heart. I typically ask them to clean their room once a week--sometimes I check behind them, sometimes I don't. This should keep them on their toes and should keep them on task and honest. Two days ago I was assured that it was clean and I had chosen to believe them because I was busy studying. Joe is largely an honest soul and Sam is inclined to be orderly in his habits so it is easy to let this kind of thing slide with them.

In brief,yesterday the room wasn't clean. In fact, messes I'd pointed out then were still in place.They'd chosen to toss some items behind furniture, kick it under their beds, and so forth. I felt betrayed and angry.

I roused the two boys telling them as their feet hit the floor why they were in trouble (room not clean, lying) and that they would be grounded from TV and computer for a week.

Had this been Jeremiah he would have a) argued that he didn't understand the rules of "clean" as I had laid them out. b)argued that the room was indeed clean and I just wasn't looking at it right. c)argued that those messes weren't there when he went to sleep the night before d)argued that I had not been clear that those particular messes should have been cleaned up so he cleaned up other messes. He would continue this throughout the day, would even--sometimes successfully--go to his father to argue his case (it took a few years for Gary to realize he was being played, but he did catch on) and would finally, amid much continued grousing would do the job. He would never, ever admit culpability.

I do wish the boy would consider a career in law. Or politics.

Daniel would have stared at me looking vaguely deer-caught-in-the-headlights-like. He wouldn't argue, but he'd require very specific directions as to how to manage the situation. He would stand around between jobs unsure of what to do next. He would be the target of Jeremiah's frustration. But what he did organize would be perfectly lined up. We didn't find out until Daniel was given his own room three years ago that Daniel was in fact a neat freak.

Joseph tried Jeremiah's method of argument first. a) They had cleaned and those messes had accrued since then. b)(this one came along later on in the day and is my favorite) he was not aware that he was supposed to clean out the closet when he cleaned the room as he didn't understand that the closet was actually part of the room. But he didn't gripe at me or argue beyond this. He squared his shoulders, reverted to being Joseph (thank goodness) and decided it was time to rearrange his room anyway. This was when they discovered the closet (even I'm not brave enough to go in there) and also came to the conclusion that they had far too many clothes and weeded them out on their own--going the extra mile as Joe is typically inclined to do.

Sam (thirteen now by the way) quietly got moving, did his morning chores, and approached me after breakfast. "I'm sorry we didn't do what we said were going to do," he said. I accepted his apology and told him to make it right. He then set about cleaning his room without another word of protest. A few hours after they'd put a sizable dent in the mess (and uncovered the disaster in their closet), he approached me again. "If we get this all cleaned up today, and rearrange it so that it doesn't happen again, can we get off grounding early?"

I frankly didn't know quite what to say. None of them have ever been this reasonable, accepted responsibility for his actions, and then attempted negotiate a settlement before. "We'll talk," I said. He smiled and returned to his room.

They did a very, very good job--going the extra mile with no urging from us. Gary and I talked quietly. We take a dim view of being deceived, but recognize that effort (however tardy) should have some reward. We shortened the grounding by two days. Had this been Jeremiah, he would have continued to argue his case until one of us threatened to lengthen the sentence. Daniel would have been silently relieved. Joseph (who still insisted he didn't entirely understand what I was upset over) accepted the reward politely. Sam--who I'm sure wasn't happy--thanked us and said that seemed like a reasonable compromise.

Maybe he should be the lawyer.

Letter to my English teacher and his response

2011-10-12T18:51:00.002-05:00

So I sent off my short story last night. It turned into a monster of a project and I will not be posting it here (for reasons stated below). If anyone is interested I'll be happy to share the polished version at the end of the semester--just email me. Accomplishing months of work (at least the way I write) in less than two weeks is both heady and frightening. I have no idea if what I sent him was any good or not.

The title of the story is "Chroma" and it's about an elderly painter named Lily who has moved into a cottage near her daughter-in-law and son who run a resort. We never actually meet Lily herself, but get to know her through her daughter-in-law's eyes beginning the morning that Jenny knocks on the door of Lily's cottage to find her gone. The only clues to her whereabouts are in a box in her bedroom and the paintings she created in the two months before her disappearance.

Though I've never apologized in so many words to Mr. Stokes for anything, he's a bright fellow and seems to recognize my terrible habit of doing so too often and has called me on it three times now. At forty-six I'm finally beginning to see why I do this--it's a hold over from a childhood with constantly angry, impossible to please parents. I don't think I realized it was that apparent--even in print.

In any case, I thought you'd appreciate the exchange.

Mr Stokes,

A disclaimer and and a warning and a few other notes.

1) I find I need distance from a project in order to truly see its weaknesses and am accustomed to having months in which to put a story to rights. Until then I'm either in love with it or I hate it. I'm wavering on this one. Sometimes it's awful. Sometimes it's the best thing I've ever written. Today I think it is awful, but then I also have a sinus infection, a sick husband, and hate everything except my puppy and she's walking a fine line (I liked that pair of shoes too . . .)

2) This sucker is windy--just over 10,000 wds. I swear I went into it with a plan, I just didn't expect it to take so many words to get to the end. I know this is going to make work shopping for your purposes difficult. If you need me to, I can attempt to select the strongest excerpt and offer that up instead.

3) The ending isn't right yet.

4) On a brighter note, I experimented with indirect characterization in this. I've used this technique before, but not to this degree.

Okay. Sending it off now.

Have a nice break.

Mary Paddock

***********************************

Re: Paddock's Short Story

Mary--

Stop apologizing! I haven't even read the thing yet :-)

I'm sure it will be fine. Have a good break!

Caleb Stokes

Where I've been and where I'll be

2011-10-03T20:45:00.000-05:00

Not the best picture of her--she's heavier and darker than this picture makes her seem--oh and the dog background is stealing a toy while Story is sitting pretty for the camera (and a cookie)

Busy with puppy training--house breaking, leash work, no-you-can't-chew-on-that-lessons. This eats ups a surprising amount of my day. Story is getting easier though--beginning to suspect that we mean it when we say no and she occasionally finds time in her busy schedule to cuddle with us.

I am writing a "short" story for my short fiction class. The process required for this is different--awkward and unnatural. Short fiction is a right brained thing for me (I start with a big picture and a character--wind it up and let it run and edit out the parts that aren't the story later); longer projects require some plotting. This instructor required an idea and a general sense of direction two weeks ahead of time. I very much like this instructor and am impressed by his approach to teaching--the problem with the change in approach is entirely mine. I am a superstitious writer--set in my ways and absolutely sure that my process is the best way. I was absolutely dead in the waters for two weeks without an idea in my head. Fortunately I met an elderly artist at the vet's office who unwittingly gave me an idea and a character to work with. But I've spent better than a week trying to find a way into it--writing openings and scrapping them (Have I mentioned that this approach is unnatural?), staring at the blank page and cussing. Finally, two days ago, I realized I was trying to tell the story from the wrong point of view. Once I discovered that, the opening was easy.

As of today it's moving forward--slowly, but it's getting there. The whole thing is due the 12th and it's clear that it's going to exceed the 6 page minimum. However in order to finish it and proof and polish it on time, I'm going to have to keep my head down this week. I'm not confident of this story so I've been relying on Gary's encouragement far more than I usually do. He tells me it's going to be a winner--maybe or maybe not one of my best pieces, but definitely solid.

The remaining remnant of my elementary ed major, an intro to special ed course, is a bit of a head ache, though I'm weathering it well enough. The instructor is nice, but a little disorganized and apparently doesn't understand how blackboard works. He is using someone else's course materials which means he doesn't always know what's in the quizzes so we are often presented with questions that are not covered by the assigned materials (book, outside readings, previous classes, etc). I have pointed this out to him and I am sure the other students have too (judging from his comments in emails). Sometimes he fixes this, sometimes he doesn't. When he does fix it, instead of giving us the points, he requires us to take the quiz over again with new questions (no added points, no extra credit--just to change the score of the test we've already taken). Last week I had to take a 27 question quiz over the same material three times because of this. I was not happy. I have an A in the class, but it is a low one because I've gotten annoyed enough a couple of times to refuse to take it again (especially when I open the test up to find that he's left three questions in that don't belong there). At another point, answers were marked incorrect when they were quotes from the book and the "correct" answer was opposite what the book said. My suspicion is that he's never taught an online course before and thought it would be easier than it is. Apparently he's great in the classroom, just all thumbs online.

I am exercising five days a week now--including my stop and go walks with Story twice a day and the speed walks at the park, I'm up to three miles a day. Once Story is big enough to join us, Clancy, Story and I will be walking all three miles together in the national forest nearby. Last Thursday I actually bought small hand weights. I'm feeling stronger and my head is clear, but my body doesn't always cooperate. Ibuprofen is a vitamin, right?

Anyway, I'm off to bed--got an early morning and another long day ahead.

PE Class (Rant)

2011-09-24T07:13:00.004-05:00

Remember my grousing about this class? Remember how I was worried about the exercise part of it? I found my groove, so to speak, in walking, doing sit ups, and using Jeremiah's resistance bands (tubes?). It also helps that I've acquired a high energy puppy who needs a lot of exercise. Early next week I'll start digging the trench for the path around my rose bed. Exercising four to five times a week? With a German Shepherd puppy and a yard to landscape? Easy-peasy. Apart from some muscle soreness, I'm feeling good and I love turning in my weekly exercise logs.

What is not easy, and may be my undoing is--of all things--the written tests. It seems this particular coach is seriously worried about people cheating on his tests so he goes to great lengths to make sure it doesn't happen. I have to have a test proctor, someone outside the family who has a college degree and access to a computer. So I tapped into the local librarian who was only too happy to help (he then required that she give out her private email address instead of using her official business email which was actually attached to her job. When I questioned him on this, he explained that he didn't want anyone else to have access to the information he was sending her. Really? So Yahoo is more secure than a business email?). Quizzes, however, can be taken at home.

I've taken two quizzes now and bombed both which is depressing for this over achiever. His tests and quizzes are made up of "case study" type questions and those questions contain word problems--requiring the use of lengthy mathematical formulas and an in depth understanding of types of exercises (like weight training and the kinds of lifts) and their very specific benefits, not to mention how to apply them. Just one question left my head spinning.

After I bombed the first test, I contacted the coach and asked if we could see which questions we missed on the test. I have other online courses and the instructors allow this so I know it can be done. He replied that he runs the online classes just like he does his classroom and he doesn't let them see the correct answers to their quizzes or tests either. This too is structured to avoid cheating. Again, this made my head spin a bit. How can a student "fix it" if they don't know what's broken?

I came armed for this week's quiz--with notes containing the formulas, etc. And I still bombed it. I didn't recognize any of the information presented to me. This time I sent him a lengthier email asking some serious questions about the advisability of continuing this course. I also stated that during my first round at college I took numerous PE classes of various types and asked if I could get a waiver based on this. It's not my style to quit, but this is rapidly descending in into the realm of stupid. I'll be damned if I let a two hour PE class blow my 4.0. His response? No--not unless I could prove that the syllabuses in those classes reflected his.

In the first paragraph, he chastised me for missing questions that were contained in the content of the video lecture (suggesting that I'd have done better if I'd watched it). Then, later on in the email, he admitted what I already knew, that there was no video lecture posted this week. He stated that he "gave" everyone two points because of this. I don't even know which questions I missed or why.

For the first time since coming back to college a year and a half ago I am extremely stressed over an upcoming test (covering six chapters). Though we're allowed to use a calculator, we're not allowed to use notes or the book. This would be fine if the formulas we're required to use didn't look like this:

132.853 - (0.0769 × Weight) - (0.3877 × Age) + (6.315 × Gender) - (3.2649 × Time) - (0.1565 × Heart rate)

There are variations on this formula with different numbers depending on what kind of exercise one is doing. And this is just the cardiorespiratory aspect of the test. There are even more formulas connected with the strength training chapter and the one on flexibility. And they're all buried in what he calls "case study" questions--aka lengthy word problems.

If I was a PE major, needing to know all this would make sense. But as I'm not, I cannot imagine any scenario involving my need to exercise in which I would need any or all of these formulas. In other words, I am never, ever going to need to know most of what I'm (supposed to be) learning in this class.

I didn't sign up for this class looking for an easy A, but I didn't expect it to be impossible. I guess I expected to cover the facts and concerns surrounding diet, different kinds of exercise, stress management, and the benefits of all. I expected to have to demonstrate an understanding of how to exercise for specific benefits. But at some point in the last twenty-five years, PE has evolved into an advanced math class--my other "favorite" subject.

Just when I was beginning to think it might be safe to come out of the library and try out the gym . . .

Change of Major . . . Maybe . . .

2011-09-18T16:15:00.000-05:00

My creative writing teacher is saying some head turning things about the work I'm turning in. 'Makes me feel all kinds of good. Pardon me if this sounds arrogant--I didn't need to be told that I can write. I think I know that I can do that. The question in my head is always, Can I do it if I have to? If I don't want to? And if I don't have any good ideas when I sit down? And I think the answer is becoming yes.

A few days ago I told Gary that the last time I enjoyed a class this much was when I took a Children's Lit class last fall. He squinted at me and asked, "Why are you an elementary education major?"

"Because I like teaching well enough to do it full time. I love kids and I enjoy the classroom. Because it makes sense and it means that I can take some pressure off you."

"So why aren't you an English major? You could teach it on a high school or college level, right?"

"I could. And I'd love to do that, but English majors are a dime a dozen and I'm worried about finding work."

"You could substitute teach until something comes open somewhere couldn't you?"

"I could."

"Then why don't you go where your passion leads you?"

"It could be an expensive mistake."

"Or not."

I'd rather teach people about words, about books, and about writing. There. I've said what I've been circling for a year and a half. But it's just not that simple. I went down this path because I want to contribute to the household income and enable Gary to work less. Not to acquire more debt and not so there can be a second person in this house with a college degree that isn't paying for itself. I need to be practical. I must be practical.

Sigh. Why can't I stay on the path? Because of words . . . Because I like them almost as much as I do puppies . . .

Story

2011-09-16T10:56:00.003-05:00

This is Story. She is half German Shepherd and half Catahoula (or Australian Cattle Dog--there's some question about that). And, yes I have lost my mind, thank you very much.

We were just going to look--I've done this hundreds of times over the years and I handed the puppies back without hesitation. First I held another puppy from the same litter, and she was lovely, but distracted and unhappy in my arms. And then I held Story and she was calm, thrust her face into mine, and nuzzled me with quiet curiosity. And rubbed my face against her fur, and she smelled like Solomon (who never, ever smelled like a dog--just himself) and I wound sitting in the van sobbing. Gary said, "Do you want her?"

I stared at him disbelievingly through my tears.

He sighed. "Give it an hour. Compose yourself and think it over. If you still want her, we'll go get her."

The woman--a homeschooler like myself--just beamed when we returned. All the other puppies were gone. They'd held her back for me because she was the woman's favorite and she wanted me to have her. She hugged me when she handed her over and thanked me.

Clancy is--surprisingly--thrilled. He brings her his toys and watches as she plays with them. She is too big for my lap so he doesn't have to compete for that. It will be several months before she'll be strong enough to tag along on our morning walks so he doesn't have to share that either. And the bed--well as she is ten weeks and already twenty-one pounds, something tells me she won't be sharing that either.

She rock solid calm, playful but not hyper. Quick to catch on to what we want and loves everyone in the family. I am extremely pleased that she's not showing any signs of needing to be the boss of anyone.

Vacation pictures to come. This just sort of seemed more important.

Our Turn for a Break

2011-09-08T20:12:00.001-05:00

Eureka Springs , Arkansas, located about an hour southwest of us, is a terrifically artsy, touristy, historical town and Gary and I love to visit when we can get away--which isn't often. A few days ago we did an extravagant thing and decided to get a room and spend a couple of days there next week.

In particular we reserved a room at the Basin Park Hotel . Though less well known than the Crescent Inn, which was featured on Ghost Hunters a few years ago, BPH is supposed to be just as haunted (so much so that the two offer a package that allows people to spend one night at each in order to experience the ghosts at both). The Crescent Inn is simply out of our price range this year (for a few years, probably). As Gary puts it, "Instead of the ghosts of famous people, we're going to be hanging out with the film crew and the roadie ghosts" which is just fine with me. I'll probably have more in common with them anyway.

We've rented a King Jacuzzi Room and plan to wander through shops, tour a couple of local museums, eat out a bit, and mostly just enjoy one another's company. One of the charms of BPH is that it is located in the middle of down town Eureka which means we won't have to drive anywhere if we don't want to. And, frankly, I don't. This is part of why I usually opt to go camping when we take breaks like this. The idea is to get out of the car and not get back in until it's time to come home.

My Heartbeat

2011-09-03T22:16:00.004-05:00

Clancy's preferred lap position is to sit upright and sideways against me with his head resting on my chest, where I swear he is listening to my heart. I sometimes wake up at night when Gary is at work to find the little dog laying next to me, his head in the same place, his eyes watching my face in the semi-darkness. If I speak, his tail wags, but he doesn't move. He's listening, and more than that, he seems to be making sure that my heart is doing its job. On the nights that Gary is home, he crawls under the covers to sleep by my feet or he wedges himself between our knees. Apparently, in his mind, Gary is on guard duty on those nights.

I am apparently wound like a clock spring a good part of the time and it's not getting better as I get older. This is a hold over from my ADHD childhood and as it's not generally acceptable for grown ups to jump on the furniture, interrupt conversations to tell wild, outlandish tales (what? I do not), or play the drums on every flat surface, I have to satisfy myself with constant fidgeting, and border-line high blood pressure. PE class requires that we track our blood pressure throughout the semester so we bought a new blood pressure cuff. Today we discovered that my blood pressure drops to a nice normal place when Clancy sits with me like this, his head in the center of my chest two inches below my collar bone, eyes closed, breathing in and out. He is better than any medication on the market. And, yes, I suspect he does know what he's doing.

I'm also finding it easier and easier to go for those long walks I used to take with Solomon when he was younger and we were both in good shape. Because, like Sol, Clancy keeps track and he's at the door waiting on those mornings. If dogs could tap a foot, he would. So there's no skipping the workout. I'm feeling better, watching my diet (very, very closely), and exercising regularly. Do we have Clancy to thank for this? Maybe. Maybe it's his optimism, maybe it's his youth. Regardless, he's been a big aid in awakening a part of me that's been asleep for a long time.

I mentioned this on a dog forum I sometimes frequent and one of the women there commented that if anyone ever wants me to justify Clancy' existence (For some unfathomable reason, people sometimes require this of the owners of small dogs), I can simply tell them that Clancy has a job and his job is me.

Clancy has turned the title "heart dog" into a profession.

Filtering Blue Oxen

2011-08-31T21:48:00.010-05:00

My writing instructor posts video lectures every week. They're brief but well done. So far most of what he's covered is not new to me. I didn't take this class looking so much for lessons in how to write as opportunities to exercise some atrophied muscles. But he did touch on something during one of his lectures that I am guilty of and if I get nothing else out of the rest of the course (and of course I will) this will be worth the time I invested in it.

He addressed "filtering" which means to describe all surroundings and events through the POV of the MC. There's a place and a time for this, but doing it too much weakens the effect. For example:

He looked out the window and realized that there was a blue ox stood in his drive way. He was sure it was not there a moment before. His coffee flew everywhere as he jumped backwards in surprise. Now he'd never get to read that paper, which was a shame because the headline would have explained the ox.

vs

He looked out the window. A blue Ox stood in his driveway; one that wasn't there a moment before. Odd thing about blue oxen; no one ever expects them. He yelled and jumped backwards. His cup flew from his hands, coffee fleeing the scene like it will when startled--down his front, into his lap, across the table, and onto the morning newspaper he hadn't read yet and now probably never would. Which was a shame because the headline would have explained the ox.

Notice the stark difference? I did. Filtering weakens the effect of the image. And yes, I got excited about the second para. Excuse me.

This week we learned about the power of metaphors and had to do an exercise that involved a list of intangible and tangibles words (love, park bench, jealousy, video games . . . ) that we were required to make similes with. We were then supposed to use our best metaphor and extend it by a sentence or two. Using a prefab list is harder than you might think (it's a little like Scrabble). I wrote a lot of weak ones that brought to mind greeting cards and I'm still not happy with the final results (sentimental fluffy tripe). Still--it could be worse (and was):

Love is a park bench—where we sit and watch others who are hurrying past to all the places we all have to go—to the office to work late again because our boss believes in hiring martyrs; to the store to buy the only food the damn cat will eat; home to answer emails, to pretend we didn’t get that phone call from our great aunt, and eat our leftover ravioli in front of the TV. And those of us on the park bench (in love) feel sorry for them because we beat them to the best seat in the park—and while we still have to go all those places and do all those things when we get up, we won’t have to do them alone anymore.

Rex and Lola

2011-08-27T23:03:00.008-05:00

I did not learn about Rex until Gary and I had been dating for a couple of months. It makes sense, really. If you have an evil twin, you certainly don't want the girl of your dreams to learn about him too soon. It might scare her off--especially if she isn't the sort who understands how much trouble an identical counterpart (especially an evil one) can get you in to.

This was the weekend I took a big risk and made an unannounced visit to the campus where he was attending college. In brief, he was delighted (whew!) which tells you a lot about the kind of guy he was.

After he'd taken me to dinner, we were sitting in the TV room watching a movie. One of his buddies strolled in and asked Gary if he still had the textbook he'd borrowed.

Gary assured him that if hadn't been returned, it certainly wasn't him that borrowed it. "That's funny," said his friend. "I'm pretty sure someone who looked just like you came into my dorm room and asked if he could used it."

"It must have been Rex," Gary replied.

The friend rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I need that book, Gary. Some of us are here to get an education. Not just to score chicks." He cast a grin in my direction.

Gary said he'd go see if he could get the book back from Rex--before it he sold it or something.

The friend sat down across from me and waited.

Of course I asked. "Who is Rex?"

"Gary's evil twin." This friend gave me a sidelong look that included another smile. "Be sure and ask him about it. You'll be glad you did."

Gary returned a moment later with the book reporting that he'd just caught Rex on his way out the door to Tahiti--and he was carrying the book so it was a good thing that he'd moved as quickly as he had.

After the friend left, I asked Gary about this "Rex fellow". He was a little reticent at first, but I reminded him that I'd told him all about the secret lives of my Mollies (After many hours of observation, I can assure you fish only look like they're just floating around in there.Most fish tanks are regular Peyton places).

Gary, my quiet, reserved, rule abiding almost to the point of being boring, boyfriend opened up. Yes, he had an evil twin and his name was--sigh--Rex and he'd been an albatross around Gary's neck since childhood. Rex stole cars, robbed banks, romanced women out of their money, ate the last piece of pizza, hung the toilet paper on the roll backwards, and put the milk carton back in the fridge empty. He was rich, but rotten to the core (he'd have to be to put that milk carton back like that, right?)

What a relief to finally meet someone who would understand, I said. Because I too, had an evil twin named Lola who'd been the bane of my existence as well. She was forever stealing famous artwork, robbing jewelry stores, and shutting off my alarm clock so I was late for class.

Naturally we introduced the two and it wasn't long before we could tell they were made for one another (they stole a cop car and went on a joy ride on their first date). After that, Lola regularly played Bonnie to Rex's Clyde and they lived out many adventures, which we frequently regaled our friends with.

Shortly before we got married we sent them off to live on a tropical island with the money they took from Sam Walton's secret vault--hidden in a mine shaft beneath Zinc, Arkansas--coincidentally (but only coincidentally) the small former mining town I grew up in. Life is much less complicated without outlaw twins hanging around, don't you think?

I guess it's no real wonder that Little surfaced when Jeremiah was about eighteen months old. Though at that point all we knew as that "Lil" had--broken the knob off the space heater, eaten Dad's last fig newton, and wanted to watch Sesame Street so much that she talked him into turning on the TV at six am. Imagine our surprise when we learned a few months later that Little was a girl with long brown hair and glasses.

Over the next four or five years we heard a lot about Little and her family--Bob,Rhonda, and her little brother, Boy (who arrived shortly after Daniel did). Daniel and Jeremiah played with Little and Boy for many hours in the front yard. Along the way the boys explained that they all lived in the tree near the front gate, that Bob was a Mariachi player, and that Rhonda wore dresses, baked cookies, and kept the tree clean. Though Boy seemed contented to just hang out with Daniel and build block towers, Little had many adventures--car chases and bank robberies and traveled to many foreign lands. Yet somehow she found the time to steal cookies, break things, and play with my jewelry. Her day-planner must have been packed.

I must confess was somewhat disappointed when she and her family decided not to join us in Shell Knob, but the boys explained that they didn't like any of the trees in our new yard and felt it was best to stay where they were happiest. Jeremiah did confide in me that Little was going to college to become a spy like her father, who wasn't really a Mariachi player after all.

If you want the truth (?), I suspect Bob and Rhonda weren't Little's parent's real names. I think they were Rex and Lola in disguise, looking out for their less exciting counterparts as they worked out how to be happy with their more mundane, but certainly rich lives. It was just luck and good fortune that their children became my children's playmates. When they determined that we didn't need them anymore, they packed up and went back to their tropical island where--the last we heard--they were living quietly off the interest of their invested stolen bounty. A fitting retirement for middle aged, former criminal, mariachi playing spies, don't you think?

Doing what you don't want to do . . .

2011-08-25T20:46:00.003-05:00

The older he gets, the more I like Jim Carrey. If you get a chance, check out his website here: http://www.jimcarreytrulife.com/ . It's a vlog of his various insights and life moments made up of surprising little profundities and Jim Carrey humor. Unfortunately I can't place the video here (Am I the only one who finds Vimeo annoying?), but I can point you toward the link to it---http://vimeo.com/user7185696/waiter-job It's about the blessing we get from letting go of something we shouldn't have been hanging on to in the first place. Note that even movie stars look unshaven and tired sometimes.

Clancy and I are up to a mile a day together, which is a far cry from the 3 to 4 a day I was doing just a couple of years ago, but the point is, we're doing it. I like the park early in the morning--cool damp grass under my feet, huge spider webs (housing equally huge spiders) across the walking paths, lots of birds and and squirrels and few to no humans. Except for the ladies who tend the flower beds and smile and wave when they see me, and the man who came and sat in the otherwise empty parking lot in his black mustang this morning and then followed me halfway home.

No, that wasn't weird at all.

I think I'll bring my mace tomorrow--if I can find it. And I'll dig out my Tae bo tape too (in case I need to to throw something at an assailant of course). In truth, I kind of suspect he was an undercover cop--drug deals do go down at that park occasionally and you know how suspicious middle-aged women walking small dogs look. I'm sure after he ran my plate (which was probably why he was following me, but I'm still going to dig out my mace), he read my rap sheet "Most boring person ever. Even signals when she's backing out of her own driveway. Talks too much. Avoid." And remembered that he was supposed to be pursuing someone far more interesting on the other side of town.

Creative Writing Assignment

2011-08-23T21:31:00.001-05:00

I like my writing teacher so far--smart and funny and comfortable with his own humanity. It will be fun learning from this guy.

Our first assignment in my short story class was to write a scene that relies largely on physical description. The goal was to "get rid of the essay voice" and to give the reader a sense of having been where the narrator is. We were to rely on a place we'd been. Me? I chose our living space because it was handy. And--as a disclaimer--I've pulled together moments from our living room and dining room's past and interlaced them with moments from the present. It does not always look like this. I thought it would be fun to share it with you.

Where did I put it?

It’s early morning; the sun is just up and a few disheveled strands of light have fallen through the window and across the sofa where I’m sitting, sipping my coffee. Except for one of the cats dashing back and forth across the wood floor trying to entice someone into playing with her, the house is still quiet. My to-do list is in front of me, but I’m not awake enough to actually write anything on it yet.

The phone rings. I answer it to have a radio disc jockey identify himself, and then explain that they’re giving away large sums of money. All I have to do is answer some very simple questions. Am I amenable? You betcha.

Mary, do you have a dining room table?

“I do.”

Great. Now! For one thousand dollars, can you locate it and tell us about it?

“Give me a second.”

Clutching the phone, I set my coffee down on the end table and glance frantically around the room. I am momentarily too dazed to think and repeat the words D-i-n-i-n-g-r-o-o-m T-a-b-l-e to myself while I look for it. I look south first, toward the tall oak china cabinet that displays everyone’s small treasures—china, yes, but also--Sunday school awards for perfect attendance, one boy’s collection of handmade pottery, two collectible matchbox cars, and, in the center, a thick leather collar with the name “Solomon” embossed on its brass plate.

I look west, toward the red recliner and the entertainment center-made up of an old TV on a large TV stand, the computer we use to watch it, and two large speakers that have been sitting “temporarily” on chairs since June when my husband bought them at a rummage sale and promised to hang them on his next day off. Finally my eyes travel north, to the front door where the coat rack stands, with coats from last winter still hanging on it as though we never quite gave up hoping for one last snow. Just beside it is the 20 gallon hermit crab tank on an iron stand. One of the residents is clinking against the glass as it burrows in the sand.

The D-i-n-i-n-g-r-o-o-m T-a-b-l-e is just to the left of it—aligned with a strip of faux red and white brick paneling, over hung by a 1970s style swag lamp. It’s barely recognizable under the mound of clean laundry, an open laptop, a rack of sweet smelling mint almost dry enough to be crushed and used to make tea, birdhouse gourds waiting to be painted Christmassy colors, and someone’s two foot tall leaning tower of Legos. Beneath the table resides an ancient snoring Bloodhound, identified by his collar as Oscar. There is a single desk type chair with arm rests and wheels—pulled up to the end nearest the front door, in front of the lap top.

“I found it!”

Laughs. Great! Now, can you tell us what it looks like?

The last time I saw my table unencumbered by everyone’s projects, was at Thanksgiving. Just before we put a lace table cloth on it and set out our mismatched vintage flea market china. We had a 20lb turkey, and stuffing, and green bean casserole, and green salad, stuffed mushrooms, and rolls and pies . . . pies . . . pies . . .

Focus, Mary. Focus. The table is solid oak, the surface dinged and scratched by the pencils of four homeschooled boys, dotting “i”s , crossing “t”s, and carrying the one over and over, and is staunchly supported by thick, ornately carved legs, each shaped like a treble clef.

I relay this description to the guy on the phone.

CONGRATULATIONS MARY! We have another question for you. And this one is for 5000 dollars! How many chairs does it have around it?

I stare at the single chair. “One.”

One?

“Just one.”

We can’t give you five thousand dollars for only having one chair.

“Oh! I have others. They just aren’t at the table.”

Where are they then?

I do the math. One is being used at—of course—the boys’ computer desk in the adjoining classroom, near the kitchen. Another is in the opposite corner, being held together with clamps while the wood glue dries. Someone used it to stand on while they retrieved a cat off the top of the china cabinet and the cat didn’t appreciate it much. The boy and the cat survived the fall unscathed, the chair didn’t. Two are off in bedrooms being used at other desks (there are a lot of those in this house), and the last two are (still) holding up the entertainment center’s speakers.

I relay this information.

The announcer falters. I just don’t know if we can award someone five thousand dollars for only having one chair at their table.

“Would it help if I told you that they’ll all be back there by Thanksgiving?”

I don’t know. This is most unusual. Let me check with my boss.

He is gone a long time. I drink more coffee, glance out the window at the half-dozen birdfeeders hanging from the ancient cedar tree in the front yard. A goldfinch clings to one, picking at the seed. Nearby a downy woodpecker is chipping away at a suet cake.

You promise they’ll be back by Thanksgiving?

Yes!

OKAY! Then Mary—we have one more question for you. Everything rests on getting this question right. Are you ready to win a MILLION DOLLARS?

“Oh yeah!”

WHAT does the desk in your office look like Mary?

I hang up. With a sigh, I pick up my coffee and my to-do list and write 1) “Find desk.”

Why I hate Gym Class

2011-08-21T06:05:00.002-05:00

I am taking-of all things--an online PE class. I laughed when I saw it listed as a course option too, so go right ahead and chuckle. What it means to me is that I don't have to travel back and forth to Springfield five days a week to use the school gym. It also means I'm on the honor system to do what I say I'm going to do and to report accurate results. As I am by nature an honorable sort, I didn't think this would be an issue.

This morning, by the time I finished reading the requirements, I began to rethink my honor. I have to find a test proctor, borrow a blood pressure cuff and calipers, buy a new bathroom scale, keep a food diary, chart my weight, keep an exercise log and a few other things. This is a lot more intrusive than I had counted on and I can't help but feel resentful. And of course there's that whole fear of being judged and found wanting. And what follows that? Irritation at the thought of being judged and found wanting. Following that? Angst.

As I sat there going back over the list, flashbacks came rolling in like tidal waves and anxiety came with it. Every lousy gym class I was in from middle school forward rushed up to greet me, reminding me of every failure. Calisthenics were boring and sometimes painful. I came in last (or nearly last) in most races. I was always chosen last for teams-- and usually played right field for very good reasons. One disapproving coach after another glared at me and lectured me on "trying harder" (though I was--sadly--very often doing my best). I learned to hate going to the Gym and ducked out at every opportunity.

I now know there were some very good physical (correctable) reasons for most of my limitations (other than the obvious fact that I'm no athlete). I now catch and throw passably well and can even swing a bat when necessary, thanks to good glasses. And while I have zero interest in running, I've walked and hiked for exercise for most of my adult life, thanks to corrective shoes.

So where's all this going? I was fretting out loud to Gary about everything above--about being good enough and having to reveal so much information that I consider private.

"So construct a believable lie," he said.

What?

"It's just PE--and it's an online class. How hard can it be to make up the stats? You're already doing the diet thing and you're exercising--so that won't be a lie. If you don't want them to have YOUR personal information don't give it to them. This isn't your doctor or your priest we're talking about. They don't have a right to any of it and the only benefit you're getting out of it is a grade. This is an instructor who you will probably never meet. I'll even help you, if you want." And he would too, though it would violate his own principles.

It was all so rational. And so helpful. And so not honorable.

No. I'll tell the truth. I just won't like it very much.

He kissed me on the top of the head with a smile. "That's why I love you."

Huh?

"You do the right thing even when no one is looking."

Thanks, says the girl who is wishing it was still as easy as sneaking off the library.

Strange Children

2011-08-18T20:59:00.004-05:00

This morning, I noticed that Sam looked a little out of sorts.

What's the matter with you? I asked.

"I'm bored," he replied.

Bored is a bad word in our house. It means you need more chores, or more school work. The boys all know this and will shush one another if someone forgets themselves and uses it.

I was not planning to start schooling Sam until week after next. Yes, I believe starting school before Labor Day is a sin. So there.

So I teased him. Well, we could always start school a little early.

The normal response to this is, "Oh! Wait! I just remembered I want to go: play outside/write a letter to a friend/or ask Dad to take me fishing."

Sam's response? "I was hoping you'd say that. Can we start tomorrow?"

Seriously?

"Seriously, Mom. Can I have new science curriculum this year? Alpha/Omega sucked." (He's right, I'm afraid.)

Rotten kid. Now I've got to go find all the curriculum I put away for the summer. *Kicks the box* I don't want to go back to school yet. *Wanders off grumbling under her breath*

Joseph was actually excited about going back to school and loves his classes: Biology, World History, Geology, Comm Arts, Choir, Algebra I, and French II. He tells me he was one of two kids in the class who actually did the extra credit work over the summer in French. (I am not looking forward to another year with that particular teacher, but Joe thinks French is the greatest). Have I mentioned that he wants to go to Harvard? Have I also mentioned that we are NOT related to the Rockefellers?

Excited about going back to school. Loves algebra and French. And Biology. Wants to go to an Ivy League School.

And another one that wants to go back to classes a week early. And wants better science curriculum.

What have I done?

The Way of Things: A Dog Story, the final chapter

2011-08-17T21:08:00.003-05:00

Done, done, and done. These entries will very likely disappear over the next few days or so. (I'm beginning to think book and short story stuff might need a separate blog?)

I have much to report over the next week or so: An impatient man who didn't have enough time for own his mother, a patient man who took time out of his day to hug someone else's mother, several excellent books, but especially- "Nickle and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America" by Barbara Ehrenreich, and why I don't want to be a minister's wife.

XXXII

Inside the Boy and the Visitor had awakened to find the Hound and the Small Dog asleep beside them, their bodies carefully arranged around his. Without disturbing them, he climbed carefully out of bed and went to the front window.

Outside he could see his mother holding her dog in her lap, and he could see her tears. His own heart ached.

“So it wasn’t just a dream after all,” He said to the Visitor.

No Boy. It wasn’t.

“And I really do have a job to do.”

You do.

“I wonder if she’d believe me.”

Probably not.

He watched his mother for a moment, unwittingly echoing the dog. “Probably not.”

He exhaled. “I guess I’d better get started.”

And he opened the door and went to the crying woman in the front yard.

The Visitor stood at the window and watched his Boy embrace his mother.

The Hound came up behind him. You need a better name. We cannot go on calling you the Visitor. You’re obviously staying.

Names were earned, not claimed, so the Visitor waited while the Hound considered him. I believe we will call you the Boy’s Dog.

A high honor indeed.

The Hound continued to inspect him. Though I suspect the rest of the world will call you the Little Warrior.

I prefer to be the Boy’s Dog.

Good.

They were silent, staring out the window, each caught in his own memories of the battle.

I am sorry about the Old One.

He knew the Way of Things and he lived it exactly as he should have. Then he died doing exactly what he wanted to do most: protecting them.

The Boy came in the door and went back to the bedroom to get his father out of bed.

The Small Dog joined them and the three quietly watched as the Humans carefully dug a grave under the old tree and buried their friend.

Later they would all go to the rise at sunset and listen as the dogs on the surround hills sang homage to the Old One, joining in, telling the story of him, and giving thanks to the Whole.

The song would go on for a long time, much longer than usual.

And then they would return to the house and take up their positions. Each doing his own job. All being attentive. Always.

THE END

The Way of Things: A Dog Story, Chapter XXXI

2011-08-16T08:36:00.003-05:00

Busy (but fulfilling) few days. Sorry about the delay in posting. There is one more chapter after this. Do let me know if you want the entire story (still 1st draft and probably will be for a while). I will email it to you.

XXXI

The Old One was struggling to stand and failing. Help me.

The other two did what they could, offering him a shoulder, a head, and nudging his feet into place.

I have one last thing to do.

The Hound whined It will be dawn soon.

This won’t take long. I know the way this time.

He staggered and stumbled and dragged his reluctant failing body out of the room, across the house, falling often, and out the back door. And he didn’t so much go down the stairs as tumble there.

The cat was waiting for him. I am coming with you. She wasn’t asking.

Silently, he made his way across the back yard and into the woods with the tortoise shell at his side. Together they made their way past the boundaries, through the trees, through the suffocating hopelessness, and followed their noses to the place of darkness, where the stench of evil was greatest. And finally entered the clearing.

The Old One could hear the hum of the frightened and lost Creepers and he followed it to its source where he found an entrance.Stay here, he ordered the cat.

She followed him anyway.

He couldn’t see them, but on either side, Creepers hissed at him, a few shrieked, but none of them touched him. They seemed oddly afraid of the Cat whose eyes glowed, for cats bring their own light wherever they go.

By the glow of her eyes, the Old One found what he was looking for. A nest bearing a wiggling, twisted mass of flesh bound in a cocoon.

The Creepers howled as he picked it up in his jaws and shook it as though it was a rag doll and continued to shake it until stopped moving. He then placed it on the ground, held it with one paw, and ripped it into pieces. The shrieks around him rose, but none of the Creepers attempted to stop him. Without the will of the Queen to direct them, they were little more than shadows.

After he’d finished, the Old One slowly turned and limped toward the entrance with the Cat just ahead.

That was the next Queen. The Cat exited and waited for him to join her.

It was.

Will they leave now?

For a while. A long while.

Then what? She led the way through the forest.

He was moving more slowly now. Then they’ll come back with a new Queen. But by then, the Boy should be old enough to protect them all.

The Cat did not say anything else for the rest of the trip. The Old One fell down more often on the way back, often having to sit and rest for several minutes before resuming the journey.

When they finally arrived at the edge of the yard, he stopped and looked toward the house. He was panting, his sides heaving and his legs barely holding him erect.

Then the Cat made a very un-catlike offer. Would you like me to wake the Woman?

And he responded in a very un-doglike way. I would like that very much.

She turned and scanned his eyes for a moment, then stood on her hind legs to nuzzle him under the chin, pressing her entire face, both sides of it, seeming to inhale him and leaving her scent with him as well. Then trotted toward the house, tail held high.

The Old Dog got as far as the tree in the center of the front yard where he had so often laid watching the Woman work in her flowerbeds, and lowered himself to the ground.

The porch light came on and the door was open. The Woman’s voice floating out into the early morning air. “Just a minute you idiot cat, just a minute.”

Meowing loudly, the cat ran out the door, jumped onto the porch railing and looked toward the dog lying in the shadow of the tree.

“Solomon? Is that you?”

It was his favorite voice. He wagged his tail weakly.

Her voice changed. “Oh Solomon. No.” She emerged from the house, half running across the yard, and fell down beside him. “What have you done?”

My job.

The Woman sobbed softly, raising his head and placing it in her lap. This was what he’d hoped for. He could see her face now, which was all he wanted. They won’t hurt you anymore.

Each breath that left his body now was taking his last minutes with it.

She leaned in close to his ear and whispered, “I love you.”

And I you.

He gently licked her cheek.

To the left he could see the Brown Dog waiting, her tail wagging. Behind her it was a terrain filled with light, a window into a forest without shadow.

He took one last look at his favorite human's face and heard her voice in his ear. “It’s okay. You can go now.”

And his last breath carried his life with it.

A moment later, he joined the Brown Dog at the brink, his coat glowing, his step light. He stopped and looked back, his tail wagging.

The woman sat unmoving in the shade of the tree, still stroking the old head, staring off in the direction the two dogs had gone, as though she could see them. Though her face was still wet, she had stopped crying.

“I dreamed about you,” she said out loud and to no one in particular. “I dreamed that you saved us."

She paused, her brow furrowed weighing dream against reality, then shook her head. “Thank you.”

The Old One barked joyfully and charged into the forest of light.

The Way of Things: A Dog Story, Chapter XXX

2011-08-13T22:11:00.003-05:00

XXX

With the death of their queen, the Creepers shrieked, scattered, and vanished, each in a puff of smoke. In a matter of moments, the Boy, the Visitor, and the Old One were alone. Then in a flash of light, the Queen’s body was gone too.

The Boy cheered and hugged both the dogs, waving his bright stick in the air. He was happier than either of them had ever seen him and they abandoned themselves to his joy, cavorting, leaping and spinning with him. It was a heroes party and everyone was guest of honor. The dogs chased one another, bumping shoulders in mid-air, howling, yodeling and licking the Boy’s face whenever they could reach it without knocking him down.

Slowly the celebration came to an end and the three stood in the empty football field.

The Boy looked at his surroundings and for the first time questioned them. “This isn’t just a dream, is it? It’s not all in my head?”

Not all of it. The Queen was real. The Creepers were too. And the door—the door is very real. Everything else you made up, replied the Visitor.

“Am I still in my body?”

Both the dogs were at a loss as to what to say. They both knew about walking between worlds as all dogs do, but only a few could accomplish it and fewer still understood it. To them it was simply something that was done. But the Visitor tried. You can wake up if you want to, but you are also somewhere else.

The Boy seemed satisfied with that explanation. “Can I come back any time I want?”

Again the Visitor made a valiant guess. I don’t think so. I think you only come here if the door needs protection.

The Boy turned his attention to the Old One. “How did you know I needed help?”

The Shepherd sat down in front of the boy and studied his face. I didn’t. I was sent.

“By who?”

By the Greater Whole.

“Do you mean God?”

I think so.

Realization dawned. “You’re dead, aren’t you?”

I will be soon.

The Boy began to cry. He knelt by the Shepherd and placed his arms around him, burying his face in the dog’s fur. “I don’t want you to die.”

The dog said nothing. He inhaled the Boy’s scent, tucking it away for later. Slowly, warmly, he licked every inch of the Boy’s face, his own eyes closed as he did so, gathering his tears up, taking the Boy’s grief into himself.

He looked at the Visitor. Be Attentive.

Always, the Visitor replied.

Carefully detaching himself from the Boy’s grip, he stepped back and looked up into the Boy’s face, taking in every detail. His tail wagged once and he vanished.

The Way of Things: A Dog Story, Chapter XXIX

2011-08-10T20:21:00.002-05:00

It poured down rain today and, after months of next to none, all the inhabitants here are singing its praises. We'll be sleeping with the windows open tonight with expected temperatures in the 60s, which is just extraordinary after three months of 90 degree nights and 100 plus degree days (that's Fahrenheit to you Aussies out there in Celsius it would be . . . well . . . just as hot).

I finished the dog story today. Ordinarily I'd be jubilant, looking to sip a little wine and cheer and dance around. But this time not so much. Mostly I'm just drained.

There are five more "chapters"--I may post a couple of them together. If anyone would like to read the first draft in all its raw typo-riddled glory, please feel free to drop me a line and I'll send it to you. Thank you for reading so far. And I really mean that.

XXIX

As they had years before, the Creepers rose as one unit as though they all heard the same sound at the same second, and fled, leaving their dead and wounded behind.

The dogs stood in the gore of the remains, their sides heaving, all of them battle-weary and unsure of what had just happened. Around them lay the bodies of at least a hundred Creepers. Nearby lay the Old One.

The Coyote carefully stepped through the dead and dying and rose on his hind legs to look out the window. Gone. All Gone.

He dropped to the floor, gave a nearby dying Creeper a final fatal shake, and trotted out of the room as silently as he had arrived. Outside was the sound of many retreating feet.

The bodies of their enemies melted as though they hadn’t been there in the first place.

After a moment, the Border Collie limped over and investigated the boy in the bed, ruffling his hair with her nose. This is what all the noise is about?

He’s a door keeper, answered the Hound.

I thought he’d be older.

The Small Dog jumped lightly up onto the bed and nuzzled him, checking his breathing. So did we.

The remains of the dead Creepers were fading and the gore along with them. In a matter of moments, the room would look as though nothing had happened, as long as no one noticed the few broken toys and drawer front hanging loose. All of which, the dogs knew, the Woman would blame on the Boy’s carelessness.

They surrounded the Old One’s motionless body. The Hound placed his head close to the Shepherd’s muzzle, touching him lightly. He moved to his feet and did the same to all four. He is breathing, but cool to the touch.

The Small Dog, still sitting by the Boy’s head, peered into the night sky. It will be dawn soon.

And I must go. The Border Collie shook herself off and moved slowly toward the door.

Do you need someone to see you home? The Hound, though limping himself, and aching from head to hip, made as if to follow her.

She looked back at him, her gold eyes glimmering in the semi darkness. Do I seem like a dog that needs looking after?

The Hound stopped where he stood. Then I will speak your name at prayer time.

And I will listen. She padded silently out of the room.

The Small Dog looked at the Hound. One of us needs to go get the Woman.

Both of them would have preferred to have been beaten than make the trip back to that bedroom and neither moved.

A faint sound from the floor, a raspy breath. Not quite yet.

Garden 2011

2011-08-10T08:11:00.001-05:00

It's been the kind of gardening year that makes gardeners appreciate the good ones. First it was flooding and super cool temps, then it was extreme heat, and then drought and extreme heat. No one I've talked to locally has been happy with the results. A lot people who have been gardening for more years than I've been alive have quietly let their gardens go this year. I don't blame them--my water bill last month was awful. But I sank my heart into this project every year and I get attached.

As usual, rough situations have a lot of teachable moments if one is receptive to them. I learned that watering plants is about more than just providing hydration--it's also about keeping the soil cooler. I learned what heat stress is and how to prevent it, as well as how to help the plants heal from it. And last but not least, I learned that it is perfectly okay to start over. I pulled up half my garden in early July and replanted.

This year the pests were worse than I've ever seen them--Japanese Beetles, Aphids, Squash Bugs, Vine Borers, and Fruit Worms, were out enforce and were devouring everything in sight. None of my organic solutions worked, and I finally broke down and took (by my standards) extreme action. After visiting with a friend who keeps bees, I learned how to safely apply liquid Sevin (at night after the bees have all gone home). Armed with my pump sprayer (which is usually filled with soapy water mixed with things that taste bad to bugs) and a flashlight, I went out just after dusk and sprayed. I only had to do this three times over the course of six weeks and my problems were solved.

Within the last two weeks, I've seen my garden turn a corner. After an entire summer with little to show for all my work, I'm seeing the fruits of it everywhere. Tomatoes are bearing, there are baby cantaloupe, the pole beans are blooming like crazy and the pumpkin vines are galloping across the garden. My squash plants are standing tall and ready for their marching orders.

Early this morning, after two inches of the most amazing rain, I slipped out to take some pictures. Everywhere I turned I saw the word "Yes" etched into leaves and blooms and vines.

Cantaloupe vine

Bean Cave (Kinda like the Bat Cave--only no Bat Mobile)

Tomatoes--I've got a feeling these are the results of accidental cross pollination

Pumpkin Vines (I think . . . One of these days I'll learn to tag the markers)

More tomatoes (I wish this one had come put better)

Asiatic Dayflower--came in a packet of native wild flower seeds, which is ironic as it's not native, nor is it actually wild.

"Thanks For The Downgrade. You Should All Be Fired."

2011-08-09T15:44:00.000-05:00

Roughly five years ago I suggested that we fire everyone up there, but you all laughed at me.

Too much inbreeding, I said. That's what happens when royalty marries its own kind too often.

Obviously, like so many other geniuses, I was just ahead of my time.

The world would be a much better place if everyone would just listen to me.

The Way of Things: A Dog Story--chapter XXVIII

2011-08-09T00:08:00.000-05:00

I am unsatisfied with the following scene, but I suspect it will require weeks before I will be. Though this isn't the end yet, it's close enough for me to say this, "Endings are hard work". Especially in this minimalist storytelling style. I hate sloppy wrap ups so much that I agonize over every word. I'm aware that I need to maintain the tension for longer than I have, but that's what rewrites are for, right?

XXVIII

The Queen shrieked in fury as the Shepherd sank his teeth into her arms, her talons striking him again and again. They rolled around on the ground together a writhing twist of darkness, the Queen’s blood, and glowing fur.

The Creepers fell on them en mass attempting to help their Queen and the two were quickly buried beneath the boiling mound of darkness.

Now we will help, the Visitor said.

The Creepers, distracted by their Queen’s distress, were frantically clawing their way over one another, trying to get to her. They were completely oblivious to the Boy and his shining stick and the little dog. Together the two sliced through the Creepers like they were chaff, tossing their limp bodies in every direction.

The Queen finally flung the large dog away and attempted to stand, pushing off dead and living Creepers alike. Only half rising from the ground she stared at the Shepherd who was on all fours, his muzzle smeared with her blood, and his jaws parted in a garish grin. He bore not a single wound.

The Queen saw and understood the truth for probably the only time in her short reign. You’re dead, she hissed.

Shepherd shook himself off as though all they’d done so far was spar, and almost casually launched himself at the Queen of the Many for the second time since his mother birthed him.

The Queen didn’t even have a chance to scream.

The force of the leap drove them both over backwards, and he grappled for just a second with her limbs, striking her throat with long white canines, twisting, ripping, and ripping again. She gurgled one last curse and was still.

The Shepherd stood back and looked at his handiwork as the handful of living creepers fled. He was luminous now, every marking brighter. And now so are you.

Birthday Present to myself

2011-08-08T09:05:00.007-05:00

Three ago, my Mom gave me a handmade purse as a birthday present and it immediately became my favorite. Over time it's grown steadily more worn and I really should have replaced it a long time ago, but couldn't find anything I liked as much. Gary knew I'd been looking, and knew what I wasn't saying--that I wasn't going to be satisfied with anything other than another purse made by Mom. So yesterday he and the boys gave me a gift certificate for one of Mom's handmade purses (which she actually makes money on). Such an insightful bunch they are.

I've given myself a birthday present as well. I do this every year, I just don't always discuss it. My presents to myself are rarely tangible and this year is no different. Some people might think of these as a new year's resolution (in August?), but I like to think of them as gifts.

In brief, I need to lose weight. It's not just about vanity--in fact that has very little to do with it. It's about health and well-being. My blood pressure is up (my dad is suffering from heart failure as a result of this, as his mother did before him) and diabetes runs in the family (my mom, my sister, a grandfather, etc)--this I don't have a problem with--yet. But more than that, it's getting in my way, slowing me down, and this alone is annoying enough to make me seek out a change.

I'm a visual sort--I keep a written household budget in part to track expenses and keep records of which bills I've paid. And while record keeping is always a good thing, I do also do it as a stress management technique. When (note I did not say "if") I wake up late at night worrying about how we're going to pay this bill or that, I can refer to this budget page, bump numbers around if I need to, or see where I can trim spending, etc. I've been doing this on paper intermittently throughout our marriage, but just started doing it on the computer in 08. It is a major help.

In the beginning of July I began keeping a food diary using the same format as I do for budgeting (this is a psychological thing). It didn't take more than 48 hours to see where the pitfalls were. It is not anyone's fault but mine that I'd fallen into eating like this, but it didn't help that my husband, who likes to cook and probably prepares a third of our meals, refused to compromise and skimp on ingredients (meaning he wouldn't cut fats or sugars no matter how much I pleaded). It also doesn't help that he (like an Italian mother) stands over those he serves and presses them to eat more. The boys and I affectionately referred to him as the devil with respect to diets. He thought it was funny--until I showed him the food diary (without accusation--again, this is my fault). It had a sobering effect. Suddenly he was all about cooperating.

It didn't take more than a day or two to make the necessary changes and it's taken a month to teach myself to not mind the distinctly smaller portions and ferret out the extras--like mayonnaise on sandwiches, salad dressing, glasses of wine, margarine . . . and so on. I've lost a little weight already (only noticeable to me and the who loves me most, but it's a start) and I already feel better. Gary is a big help--mostly by serving me the portions I asked for, not adding extra fat to my diet, and by not pressing more food on me when I state that I'm done. Oh--and for anyone who's wondering--yes, there is more exercise involved as well.

In case you haven't already guessed, my birthday present to myself this year is a change in lifestyle and weight loss. And, no, I won't be reporting on this very often, if at all. When I succeed, I'll say so. That's all the reporting I feel is necessary for me. Believe it or not, I don't blog about everything and, as strange as it may sound, weight loss is kind of a private issue for me and it actually bothers me when people make statements like "Oh! You look so much better!" I feel like telling them, "Nothing important has changed. I'm no better or worse, just healthier."

Tomorrow and the next three days will be all about posting the ending of "The Way of Things: The Dog Story".

Birthdays and Stuff

2011-08-07T10:19:00.000-05:00

At the insistence of those around me, who claim that I may not remain the same age for more than 365 days in a row (who makes up this stuff?), I am having one of these today.

It is only 10AM and I've already been thoroughly spoiled. God even sent a rain storm last night (the first rain we've had in over a month) so I wouldn't have to water my garden this morning. Gary made me breakfast and gave me a lovely card and flowers. The boys are filing through, half awake, and all of them have remembered to wish me a Happy Birthday without being prompted by their father or Facebook.

In summary--there are pink roses on my desk, the world has been washed clean, and I am newly 46. What a great way to begin a new year.

The Way Of Things: A Dog Story, Chapter XXVII

2011-08-06T15:55:00.001-05:00

The end is near . . .

XXVII

The Hound only had a second to take in the loss of the OldOne before he had to face more Creepers. Surging now, they were clearly confident that they could finish off theremaining two dogs without a struggle. And the two dogs were beginning toconsider joining their friend on the floor.

A slightly larger than average Creeper materialized in themiddle of the room, took in the body of the Old One on the floor and laughed.

We have the door! It shrieked to the other Creepers. Finishwith these nothings and return to our Queen.

Cheering the rest of the Creepers intensified their attack.The two dogs were now fighting just to stay alive. They were too busy to hearthe flap on the dog door as it flew open again and again. Too busy to hear the sound of paws paddingthrough the house.

And they didn’t notice the strange female Border Collie, emerge from the doorway. She plowed into the mass of Creepers and tookup the battle as though she fought them every day. Just after that, a large, male Coyote didn’tso much seem to enter as to fade into the room. Outside the house they couldhear more paws pounding through the leaves and judging from the sound of theirsnarls, they’d found more Creepers.

The Hound howled, and the outsiders joined voices, theirbaying reverberating off the walls, rattling the windows.

The Small Dog neared the Hound, grappling with a Creeper’sclaws. The Creeper was bleeding and screaming. He looked at their newcompanions and back at the Hound.

I prayed for help. The Hound rolled another Creeper, shookit until it stopped moving.

The Border Collie glanced their way as she drove a smallpack of Creepers into a corner and began picking them off one by one. Someone heard you.

We will enemiestomorrow. The Coyote leapt between the Small Dog and a Creeper, destroyedit with relish, and moved on to the next. Tonightwe are Whole.

Seeing Clearly

2011-08-05T07:54:00.000-05:00

Gary, Jeremiah, and I went to the eye doctor's yesterday. Gary and I both needed new glasses. I generally only replace mine when I've either A)broken them beyond what tape or super glue can do or B) lost them and lost them "good" (like the pair I left on a tomato cage in the garden last year and never saw again. To this day I wonder if there is a raccoon somewhere modeling them for laughs). For once Gary was the one with the broken set, not me. Well, okay, the pair I've been wearing since last winter are second hand frames given to me last winter by a sympathetic staff member when something happened to the previous frames and our insurance wouldn't cover another set until after the first of the year. But the point is, I didn't break the second pair, I just needed better lenses. Gary's vision has improved in the last two years. Mine has gotten worse and I expect to be wearing tri-focals before I'm fifty.

Jeremiah, who is 21 now, wanted contacts and was paying for them and new glasses out of his own pocket--at least what the insurance doesn't cover, anyway. It was something special to see one's grown son pull out his check book and pay his own way. It was even more special to watch the young lady who was helping him learn how to put the contacts in flirt with him, smiling into his eyes, talking a mile a minute (she'd been polite enough to Gary and I, but nothing like that). Though she was clearly hopeful that he'd respond; he didn't. I imagine having one's parents around would cramp a guy's style. I know what she was drawn to--the young man has striking blue eyes and he has a smile that lights up the room. Though talkative at home and with close friends, he's otherwise quiet spoken and reserved like his Dad and possesses the same dry humor. But more than that, he is warm and kind this leaks out of him no matter how hard he tries to hide it these days.

My mother once commented in frustration that it seemed to her that her teenagers always saved the best of themselves for those outside the family, reserving their rudeness, self-centered behaviors, and thoughtlessness for the people who loved them most. For a fair amount of his adolescence we saw a lot of this in Jeremiah, and I confess that it often left me wondering how I'd raised such a materialistic selfish individual. Even his brothers shook their heads at the things he said and did and I'd sometimes see his dad staring after him, exhaling deeply.

But over the last year, he's morphed into this remarkably thoughtful, selfless individual and now we're all shaking our heads for a different reason. We can't quite believe the change. He made it his mission to help Daniel get on at the deli where they both now work, even driving him back and forth on his own days off. He remembers things like Mother's Day, and Father's Day, and birthdays. He is generous with his clothing (often scrutinizing his brothers "public attire" before I have a chance to do anything and telling them to get this or that shirt out of his closet) and his car (it gets better mileage than his Dad's car and he often presses him to take it instead). He is helping Daniel to "grow up" a little faster--sometimes being harsher with him than Gary and I are--but he gets results. Two weeks ago, my mother called me up in near tears to tell me that he'd spotted her in the store while he was working, stepped out from behind the counter and came over just to hug her. Jeremiah is not a hugger (his Dad didn't used to be either).

So I don't blame that young lady for wishing he'd flirt back and/or ask her out. There's a lot there to like. And I noticed that she did her best to arrange it so he'd have to come back to pick up more pairs of 30 day contacts rather than selling him a year's worth all at once. I also noticed that he didn't object to the extra trips.So maybe there's hope for her getting her wish yet. She obviously doesn't need glasses or contacts to see him clearly.

The Way of things: A Dog Story Chapter XXVI

2011-08-03T22:03:00.001-05:00

I'm sure my Aussie friends are probably rolling their eyes at those of us in the American Midwest complaining about the heat, but we're newbies to temps consistently above a 100 degrees Fahrenheit here and are a bit lost as to how to function. Yesterday we saw a 110 which was some kind of gruesome record for the Ozarks. Personally I'd have been happy to remain anonymous and mediocre.

Gardens are cooking, lawns are dead, our pavement is buckling, and our utility bills look like the national debt. In truth, my own garden, while not as pretty as I'd like, is alive and kicking and (if I can thwart the raccoons) should produce a pretty good crop of tomatoes, beans, squash, etc. However my water bill . . . well, we aren't talking about that. Gary mentioned just once that maybe I should just let the garden go this year and give up watering it and my response (I'm blaming it on the heat) was unprintable.

But the Dog Story isn't.

XXVI

The Creeper that had the Boy waseasily three times as tall as the others, its eyes huge red orbs, with talonslike a giant bird of prey. The thing was dangling by one arm inmid-air, its jaws parted as thoughlaughing silently.

The Queen needed no introduction.

The Visitor crept toward her,knowing that a rushed attack would mean the Boy’s demise. Why are you here?

She sneered. And not fighting the others? TheOld One has fallen. He was so weak, I didn’t even have time to enter the room. Therest are not far behind and when I finish with the boy, I will finish you.

Again, the Boy screamed, flailing,his eyes wide with panic and anger.

The Queen spun the Boyaround, dragged him up to her face so he was eye to eye with her; she openedher mouth, her cavernous jaws framed by fangs. The Visitor charged, theCreepers around her advanced on him.

The Boy kicked at her, missed,and spun under the force of the motion. His scream ended in mid-cry.

TheVisitor slid to a stop. The Creepersfroze.

Fourfooted, black and gold, running as the ground was only incidental, came the OldOne.

Only hewas no longer old. Gone was the ponderously slow lope, gone was the grey on hismuzzle. In theplace of age was youth. Furious youth.

TheQueen laughed and threw the Boy aside as though he was suddenly nothing and theShepherd was on her, tearing at her. She clawed at him, attempting to rip athis hide, but he seemed to feel no pain.

The Boytumbled to the ground and was on his feet in an instant. He picked up his shiny stick.

His dogplaced itself between him and the Queen and the battling Shepherd.

“Heneeds me,” the Boy protested.

Not yet.

She’ll kill him.

The Visitor did not point out the obvious. Wait, hesaid.

Quick Note

2011-08-02T18:48:00.004-05:00

I have finally named the Dog Story properly. It is--drum roll please--

The Way of Things:

A Dog Story

by Mary Paddock

And now that I see it on the page, I'm fairly sure it was quite obvious from the beginning. I know how relieved you must be that I finally recognized what I'm sure you must have known all along, but I sure wish you'd told me instead of leaving me to figure it out by myself.

Some readers you are. :)

Dog Story Chapter XXIV

2011-08-02T09:18:00.001-05:00

Today is Gary's 50th birthday. We are all set to spoil him as much as he'll let us. I've begun by letting him sleep all morning. He wanted chili dogs and cheese cake topped with strawberries for supper. He got them. The boys have birthday presents for him. Such awesome kids.

XXIV

They were surrounded, outnumbered, and out powered, but theyfought on.

The Small Dog seemed to be everywhere all at once, weavingin and out of the horde of Creepers, teeth flashing in the moonlight, slashing,tearing, and gone again.

The Hound wasdeceptively fast—his cavernous mouth closing around every attacker, crushingthem and moving to the next. He battled in the shadows, baying in fury and painas he struck and was struck. His red-gold coat glowed in the dim light asthough he was on fire.

And Old One . . . Nothing outlived his jaws.

But by sheer force of relentless odds, they were losing andthis time the Old One was in no shape to cross the border and face down theQueen.

He took in the battle scene. Just ahead of him anotherbattalion of Creepers emerged and seemed to focus on the Hound who had backedinto a corner and was standing on his hind legs in an effort to rise over themass. To his left the Small Dog, his jaws wide, foam flying, legs splayed and encircled.For a split second the three managed to make eye contact.

The message was telegraphed. We. Can. Not. Fail.

The Hound bellowed, lowered himself, and fought again.

The Old One dove between theSmall Dog and his attackers, driving them back. They fought back to back from within the circle they’d created.

He was so intent on simplykeeping the enemy before him that he did not see the descending blow frombehind, fell without a sound, as though death took him before he even hit theground.

From the bed, the Boy screamed.

Dog Story chapt XXIII

2011-07-31T07:24:00.002-05:00

We're headed off to spend the day with Gary's relatives to celebrate his 50th birthday a few days early. Gary is only somewhat aware of why we're going there. For his sake, I'm pleased that they want to do this. He deserves to be celebrated.

Visits with the in laws are often a challenge, largely because we are (by comparison only) the "poor relations" and this sometimes leaves Gary feeling like he missed the mark--which couldn't be further from the truth. However, this time I think I have our bases covered--everyone has had a hair cut, they all have decent clothes, Gary has new glasses (that make him look even more distinguished and handsome), is currently clean-shaven, and the mini-van has been cleaned inside and out. So while we haven't been to Hawaii or Europe, neither are we sporting the earmarks of poverty. Now all we have to do is steer away from such controversial topics as: homeschooling, Gary's job, money, politics, religion, child rearing, and the general state of the universe and we're home free.

As I am on a diet, I will be unable to imbibe myself into a two drink-sleepy-silence, so I suppose I will just have to weather the fun in a sober state.

Meanwhile-- speaking of weathering things--

XXIII

Six creepers emerged from the shadow of the fence andcharged them and for just a second the Boy hesitated. The essence of everynightmare he’d ever had was flying toward him in all their blackness, fangsextended, claws outstretched, shrieking his name.

The Visitor saw him pause and flew ahead to intercept themob. He leaped and sank his teeth into the neck of the nearest Creeper anddragged it to the ground as it hacked and slashed at him, screaming in fury.Its claws sank into his flesh, ripping at him. The little dog tightened hisgrip and began to shake the Creeper back and forth. More cries of fury soundedaround him and two more descended. If the Boy did not move, he would surely dieat the claws of the creeper.

A strange high, war hoop sounded. Something flashed amongthe shadows. Something above him screamed and the weight of the Creeperslightened by one and then another.

The Visitor dropped the now limp Creeper on the ground andturned to charge another. He had neverbeen in so much pain and could feel the spray of his own blood as he leapt, butthe only thing to do was to keep destroying them.

To his left, the Boy was swinging his shiny stick left andright, hacking and slashing. Creepers hung on his arms, but he was oblivious totheir weight as he struck and killed another, and another. The Visitor killedhis second Creeper, and then his third.

He lost count, but he knew they had destroyed far more thansix and they were still coming. He was afraid to look up, because he knew if hedid, he’d see an army, be outnumbered and give up. And with his Boy at hisside, that was not an option. TheVisitor sank his teeth into another Creeper, taking more blows, aware he wasweakening, knowing he could only go on just so long.

And then from somewhere nearby there was a scream. The Boy.The Boy was screaming.

2011-07-29T21:09:00.000-05:00

I will post the final chapters over the next two or three days.

XXII

The OldOne was the first to sense the Creeper’s presence. He was nearest the Boy’s bed, lying on thefloor with one eye on the window and another on the sleeping forms above him.

The old dog shivered and for thefirst time in his memory was truly afraid.

Acrossthe room, the Visitor growled in his sleep and the boy shifted under the covers.A long, black limb snaked out from under the bed and withdrew like a wisp ofsmoke.

The OldOne rose slowly, silently, and peered into the darkness between the floor andthe box springs. We see you. We know you’rehere.

Seeing us all is one thing, killingus another.

Across the room, the Houndgrowled. I think you’ll find we’re up tothe task.

The Small Dog appeared froma chair he’d been hiding beneath. Especiallywhen you have to face us all.

For a half second, theentire room and its contents, the dogs, the boy, the walls themselves, seemedto inhale, hold their breaths. Evil, good, darkness, light, air, matter, andenergy all in a still motion shot.

And inthe next second, they exhaled, and death rode in on the draft.

End of the Dog Story is on it's way . . . in a little while . . . after I . . .

2011-07-29T13:45:00.001-05:00

--stop procrastinating.

There is no excuse for this. I have the time. I'm not sick, my kids are not sick, Gary is not sick (he is-in fact-at work so I don't even have that excuse). I refuse to worry about the budget talks more than necessary--I can't control the outcome anyway. My air conditioning is working, my chair is comfortable, and my household chores--well, those have never stopped me. (If I ever tell you that I'm too busy to write because I have to clean house, you'll know I'm lying--big time.)

I am not stuck. I am simply suspended in a sticky substance known as "in reasons not to write" tinged with just the tiniest bit of self doubt. Extracting myself from it requires all kinds of contortions, and just as soon as I free one limb, another gets stuck in it.

When I finish this, I'll find a place to store it online and post a link here so you can read the whole thing if you want to. You've already been warned--it's a WIP--which means what you'll be getting is the rough draft. The polished work will include some changes and a couple more chapters. In case you've missed it, I've already edited yesterday's entry.

Okay--it's time to bring out the big guns--Old X-file episodes. Maybe it won't take the entire first season this time . . .

Dog Story---chapter XXI

2011-07-28T19:24:00.002-05:00

Is anybody out there tired of summer yet? Remember what I said yesterday about the changes. This is what you get when you read a WIP--changes whilst in process. Bear with me. It's worth it.

XXI

Playing for Keeps

The boy and his dog appeared in a place the Boy calleda “footballfield” and were members of a pack of boys who were chasing yetanother boy who carried a strangely shaped ball. Ahead of them were the outlines of more who seemed intent on trying to keep the pack away from the boy with the ball. It was important to his Boy to be the one to get the ball. The Visitorunderstood this part of the game well. He and the Boy played their own version of it during daylight hours using a stick.

In the end, the Boy did somethinghe called “tackling” the other boy and wrestled the ball out of his hands. Together they all ran to theother end of the field, ahead of the other group of boys. Just as they wereclosing in his Boy took flight, flying the rest of the way to the place calledthe “goalline”. Apparently, once theygot to the other side the other boys could not touch them or “tackle” themeither.

The Visitor enjoyed dreams likethis in which his Boy was the winner. Hesaw in him what he could do when he was not weighed by worries he didn't understand. So the Visitor was taking theopportunity to celebrate with the Boy, jumping and spinning with him, laughing.The game was over and they had won.

A voice interrupted them. “Hey you! The winner has to put the ball away.”They could see a man standing a hundred or so feet away, his outline littlemore than a shadow.

The other boys had faded away—goingoff in different directions as though winning suddenly didn’t matter. The crowdthey’d taken the ball from was standing in the shadows of the fence grumbling.

The Boy, still carrying the ball,walked across the field toward the man. “Where do I put it?” he called to thedistant figure.

It pointed toward a building at theopposite end of the field. “There. Put it in the equipment room.”

They approached the building andsighted a door. Before the Visitor could do anything, the boy opened it. Insidewas a small room with walls lined with shelves holding more balls of differentsizes. The boy entered it and found anempty place to put the ball.

“I’ve never been in here,” he toldthe Visitor. “I didn’t know they had all these balls.” He picked up another oneand bounced it around the room as he looked at the rest of the sportsequipment. On his second trip around theroom, he saw a door, tucked back in a narrow space in the corner of the room.It was as though it had been designed for a child to find.

The Boy walked past it bouncing theball, slower with each step, his head turned and tilted so he could examine it.

This time he did not need theVisitor to warn him. “What's on the other side of that door, Dante?” he asked softly.

He could try to convince him thathe did not need to know, and guide him away, but the Boy was as strong then ashe ever would be, and the older dogs waiting for this moment weren’t growingany younger. Something that will change everything, theVisitor replied.

The Boy stopped bouncing the ball,held it in his hands, standing, feet spread, in front of the door. “Would it bea good change?”

Perhaps notat first.

“Does have something to do with theother dreams? The ones where I see scary things that haven’t happened yet?”

Yes.

“Do other people dream of doors?”

I think so.

"Dothey open them?"

If they did, I think we'd know.

“Why don't they?"

I'm not sure.

The Boy thought for a minute. “Because, it’snot time yet.”

That sounds right.

“How will I know when it’s time?”

Thesame way you know you’re dreaming of things that haven’t happened yet.

“You mean, I just will?”

Correct.

The Boy put the ball down and turned away fromthe door. “Let’s go outside.”

They retreated to the field wherethe other pack of boys still lurked, looking less boy-like all the time. And there were more of them.

His Boy seemed suddenly wise beyondhis years, as though understanding had placed a weight upon his shoulders. “Dothey have something to do with the door?”

Theywant you to open it.

“Because if I do, all the bad stuffwill happen sooner.”

I think so, yes.

“Do they want to kill me?”

Yes.If they can kill you, then the door is unguarded and their queen will open itinstead.

He watched the amassing shadowswith a deepening frown. The Visitor could sense his gathering anger. “Are theythat what makes my Mom so sad she wants to die sometimes?”

The Old One thought the Boy too young to understand the Woman’s sadness. He was wrong about that too. Yes.

“Can I kill them in here?”

Yes.

The Boy was motionless for anotherhalf second, squared his shoulders. He held his hand out and the shiny stick from the previous dream appeared. “Will you fight too?”

Ohyes.

Together they advanced on the Many.

The Dog Story (an explanation)

2011-07-27T20:37:00.000-05:00

I am well on my way to the end of The Dog Story and will post another section of it tomorrow, but would like to give you a heads up before I do.

The Dog Story began as a grief-management project--the loss of Solomon was more overwhelming than I even anticipated and the weight of it sometimes kept me from sleeping. When I did, I dreamed about him and often woke up crying. Functioning on a daily basis was difficult. I had a family to care for, responsibilities to keep up with, and classes to attend to. I did it all because that's what you do, but inside I was a mess. It was one thing during the first few weeks to tell people I was depressed over the loss of my dog. It was quite another to tell them the same thing two months later and, trust me, three months later than that earns you funny looks from all but the most hard core animal lovers.This is a hazard of giving part of one's soul to a dog. But I'd do it all again in a New York minute.

Nevertheless, I had to find a purpose in it--a bigger picture--a way to move beyond it. So when I couldn't sleep or focus on anything else (like studying), I wrote and it helped enormously. Most of it was "right brained" with only a very loose plot in mind. If scenes feel a little abrupt at times, and the language a little archaic, this would be why. I guess my subconscious read too much King James inspired literature while it was growing up. At least there are no "thee"s and "thou"s.

Over the last six months as I've written the story, I've sensed that I was missing the mark some how, though I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. After editing another project for a couple of weeks and then returning to this one with my head clearer and I suddenly saw the rest of the picture. The details concerning the boy and the door he sees in his dreams were suddenly very, very clear. So when you read the next section, do not be surprised if it is a little inconsistent with what you've seen so far--and I'm sorry, but it needed fixing. I went back and edited for the change (though it needed surprisingly little as this was where it was intended to go all along--funny how huge subtle changes can be).

However, I think you will approve.

Cooking with Karma

2011-07-25T19:30:00.001-05:00

Before I forget--

My family is full of talented cooks and my sister Amy is one of them. She's started a new blog and has some great recipes up. Check out Cooking with Karma when you get a chance. You will wish you lived next door to her. I know I do.

More Dog Story

2011-07-25T14:31:00.001-05:00

I am two chapters ahead of you now and can already see things I'll need to change. But that's what rewrites are for. PS--If you've lost the thread of the story, email me and I'll send you what I've got so far. If you're just now tuning in and want to catch up, you can email me too.

Or you can just email me and I'll . . . reply. You know . . . because I'm cool like that . . .

Waiting

In the intervening days they waitedand watched; slept, but never too deeply, ate, but never too much. No one racedthe cat for the crumbs. The Small Dogran the borders with the Hound at his heels. They made a game of it, barking, playing tag, with one eye on thehills. And they all stood watch in theBoy’s room.

The Woman noticed the Old One’sabsence from her bedside. Obviously thinking that his bed wasn’t comfortable enough,she added blankets to it and invited him to lay in it. To be polite he did, butwhen she drifted off to sleep, he rose and crept back across the house to theBoy’s side.

Their nerves were frayed, thewaiting interminable. There werearguments over prized sleeping places and toys that ended just before they werebanished to kennels.

The Old One played fetch with theBoy to keep himself limber. He was slow, but the Boy was kind. The other dogs,when they played, let him win.

The Visitor followed the Boy intohis dreams and reported that he was growing stronger, that he was findingclarity there and waking wiser every day.

Werode in the back seat of a car. The Woman and the Man were in the front seat.And then they weren’t. He had to drivethe car himself, keep it from going where he didn’t want it to—off the top of ahill. I was at his side and he did it. In the end, there was a door, I told him itwas bad and he did not open it.

And--

Lastnight a shadow chased us, but he could not run—kept falling down. I showed himhow to chase it instead. It ran through the door like it wasn’t eventhere. But the Boy did not open it andgo after him because I told him he didn’t need to. It will not be back.

And--

Wefell off a high place. I showed him how to fly. We flew together and he wokesmiling. There was no door last night, but I could sense that it was not faraway.

And then--

Wefought a giant thing with many heads that he called a “principallewis” for atoy that belonged to the Boy. The boy was afraid, but he didn’t run away thistime—instead he hit it until it cried and gave him back his toy. I don’t thinkI like principallewises and if I ever see one I will save the boy the troubleof fighting it and bite it myself. Hesaw the door, but I was able to get him to come away.

And finally--

Lastnight, he tamed a storm on his own. I was not needed.

Thenext time he sees the door. He will open it and I won’t be able to stop him.

The Dog Story

2011-07-24T16:47:00.000-05:00

I needed a couple of weeks to cogitate on the path the story would take toward the impending end. I've cogitated.

XVIII

The enemy of myenemy . . .

Thatevening the Small Dog caught a flash of silver among the trees at the edge ofthe back yard and the soft fall of foot pads on the forest floor. It was soquick and so faint as to leave the less attentive thinking they had simplydreamed it. But the Small Dog was onalert and had been for weeks.

He had begun running the boundariesmore often shortly after the Visitor began sleeping with the Boy. Another setof eyes in the house meant he could look toward the safety of the outside.

Head weaving, trying to catch thescent, he crept into the woods, spreading his steps as far apart as possible,with long pauses in between. The broken light around him shifted in the windand he listened. The trees trembled, and he looked. His nose worked the air, inhaling, separatingand cataloguing rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, foxes, a hunter from monthsbefore and the deer who’d circled back behind and waited for him to leave.

Shivering with excitement, hescanned and waited for all the pieces to fall into place, absorbing every detail—leaves moving, faintrustles, bird calls, and smells. There. A coyote inside his own borders. A female, to be exact, was a few yards away,frozen against a backdrop of shadows. Inthe half darkness, he could make out her ribs, an incongruently round belly,and her filthy coat.

The Small Dog bared his teeth. Are you lost or do you wish to die?

Coyotes were not a brave race,preferring to flee rather than to fight unless there was food at stake. Thisone was trembling with the urge to run and he could sense her fear. His nose twitched with her stench as he steppedcloser. He knew the smell of Coyote well, a mixture of the dead they rolled in,the carrion they ate, the acrid air of the unwashed. But hers was tinged with something more. Andas he looked more closely he realized she was favoring a shoulder and intracing the slope of it in the darkness his eyes fell on a tear in the skinthat exposed muscle beneath. He’dsmelled blood, and lots of it. She wasin no shape to fight, much less run.

You’rehaving a bad day.

Her hackles rose higher and sheshowed the full length of her long incisors. I can still kill you.

Onlyif I lay down and let you. It was common knowledge that a starving Coyotepack sometimes attacked and drove out the weak when there were new pups. Theoutcast would die from their wounds and there would be less competition forfood. Did they drive you away?

Thefamily did not do this.

Sheepdog?

Her teeth flashed again in the semidarkness. I am too fast.

Thenwho? Ordinarily her problem would benothing to him. If she died out there in the forest it would be one less coyoteto chase his rabbits and mark his borders. But even wounded coyotes were notusually careless enough to cross them.

Letme escape and I will tell you.

Even if he had been inclined toattempt an attack, he knew that even hurt she could do a lot of damage to himbefore he killed her, damage he might not recover from. But maybe she didn’t knowthat.

Her head rose higher, her earsswiveling as she swept the surrounding terrain with her eyes. My brothers are waiting just over the hill.

So she was bait. And I amsupposed to chase? Why should I believe you?

You could follow me and fine out.

So run then. He stretched and yawned, heavy on the bravado. I haven't tasted Coyote in years.

The young Coyote still didn't move. He could smell her desperation. Our pups.All dead.

He didn’t care one way oranother about the coyote’s young either. But again, his senses tingled with thesignificance.

Who’s killing your—and flash of insight. The Queen. She’s killing your pups.

We failed her last time. We arenot to fail again.

Finallythe last detail fell into place. The swell of her belly. The young female waspregnant. The Queen had killed the otherpups to force the Coyotes into obedience; knowing all they had left were theunborn and they’d do anything to protect them. This one, and probably others, werewounded trying to protect them. This ambush was a desperate attempt todemonstrate the pack’s allegiance. Shewas probably the bottom of the order and the alpha, who was probably pregnantherself, had sent her because she was dripping blood and would attract hisattention.

Sheread his silence correctly. We aresupposed to begin with you.

Becausehe ran the boundaries and sounded the alarm. So why tell me this?

You've beaten them before. She would have been raised listening to the evening prayers of the dogs in the surrounding hills and valleys. The family had probably her they were all lies. She was counting, hoping against hope, the family was wrong.

I seem to remember a feast on the night the Old One killed yourQueen. Don’t you miss easy pickings?

At this she shiftedrestlessly, looking toward the top of the hill. Her siblings would be comingsoon to see what held her up. She ate ourpups alive.

The stark reality of theimage made his own narrow hackles rise. The Queen would kill the dogs as easilyas she killed the pups and sup on their remains.

Runback and tell your family that I am an old coward and refused to leave thecomfort of my own territory. And he snarled and charged her, his piercingwar cry reverberating off the hills. She bolted from her hiding place.

Hefollowed her at half speed to the borders and watched as she disappeared intothe trees.

TheWoman called from the house. It was getting dark and she would be concerned.

He madea show of returning slowly, slinking the last few yards, in part for the benefitof the Coyotes who might be waiting, and in part so the woman would think hewas surrendering apologetically.

Shecarried him into the house like she did so often, and he threw a few tray licksat her face, his tail wagging.

On their way through the house, hesighted the Hound. I have news and a plan.

Wearing Purple

2011-07-23T15:41:00.003-05:00

Deb from over at Life is Funny Like that Sometimes made a cute comment on my previous post concerning the hair color of the outward looking young lady on my blogger background. I stated that maybe I'd dye my hair purple too. Deb's joke was that unnatural hair colors make women look older. Though greatly amused, my thought was (and this is where I nearly always go with this kind of thing) "Older than what?" "Older than who?" And "Who the heck cares?"

It is obviously time for an announcement.

I don't often discuss my appearance here. I'm not comfortable with it, never have been, and it doesn't appear to be changing as I get older. So chances are good this topic won't come up for another year or two. But while I'm on the subject--I'm a normal enough female--I care about how I look enough to stand in my closet from time to time and announce that I have nothing to wear (meaning I need something new). And I do like hoop earrings and pretty hair clips. But I don't think of myself as especially attractive and am inclined to think more about what's comfortable than what's going to catch someone's eye.

My hair is one of the few things about my appearance that I actually like. This is probably because it has always been a major feature in how I define myself. My mom used to make me wear it short. When I left home one of the first things I did was grow it out, but I didn't choose to wear it long until I really worked out who I was (apart from who I'd been told I was supposed to be) in my late twenties. To my sheer delight, it also turned out to be more economical to wear it that way too. And, more than that, Gary liked it.

Sometime back I spotted the inevitable strands of gray that come with passing thirty-five. I'm blonde so it wasn't terribly noticeable to anyone but me for the first few years. For a while I bought hair color just as my mother did before me and hers did before her and dutifully started "washing it out". I hated it--it smelled bad, it was time consuming, messy, and expensive. But more than that it struck me as silly. Who was I fooling? I'm hiding the gray because . . . Why? Because it might make me look older and the dye might make me look younger? What would I have to gain from that? Attention? From who? Respect? Again--from who?

Gary actually prefers my beauty (as he sees it) unadorned by "stuff" (no make up, no fingernail polish, and no dye) and always has, bless him. Other than my own, his is the only one whose opinion really matters. Cutting to the chase--Two years ago, I stopped "washing the gray out". I mentioned this to my mother--who is sixty-five and only just stopped dyeing hers just recently. If I'd expected flack, I didn't get it. She explained that the only reason she continued it as long as she had was because she was still raising small children when hers first appeared and got she tired of people telling her how beautiful her grandchildren were. After a while, it became a habit.

The gray is visible now. And I kind of like it. I've gotten use to the stricken looks from other women when I make that statement (I know what they're thinking when they look at me "Does she know how she looks?" and it's okay--I do look my age. And?). The comments are usually some grim approximation of "Not me! I'm going to go down fighting!" and "It's all I've got left so I'm going to hang on to it as long as I can." I can appreciate those feelings and I have no criticisms of those who prefer to visit the Miss Clairol aisle. It's just not for me.

So there you go. Deb--if I ever go back to dyeing my hair, it will because I've reached the conclusion that I'd like to experience having long purple locks. And mismatched socks(Ahem--On purpose).

And now for something completely different

2011-07-22T21:38:00.003-05:00

I needed a change. One that did not require moving furniture, or cutting my hair, buying a sports car, or employing a pool boy (it would be difficult to explain him in light of the absence of a pool). So I came here and did this.

Yes, I know she has purple hair. I like it. Maybe I'll go purple too . . .

Not cool parents--

2011-07-20T20:43:00.002-05:00

--again.

Joseph has a female friend in town, a very, very cute teenager girl who is two years older than he is and keeps asking him to hang out with her. Joe (who is a normal teenage boy) is all about wanting to do so. He lacks both his older brothers' reserve and caution. This one is my child, maybe more than all the others--will talk your ear off , is funny (gets that from his Dad), and is kind hearted to a fault. He is extremely likable and is somewhat cute himself (also courtesy of his dad).

He has more female friends than he does male friends. Joe likes girls. Has always liked girls. And really, really wants a girlfriend.

I've known this young lady and her family since she was five or so and am aware of a lack of a moral compass in her life. She's gone on youth group trips with me and I've seen her with other young men (and had to ask her to behave). I've also seen what she will do when she decides she wants one (Tried to break Daniel and a girlfriend up by lying to both of them--Interestingly, Daniel, naive as he was, didn't take the bait). Still, I do not want to shut her out of our lives and she is welcome here anytime she wants to come over. Apart from my other feelings about her, I remember the sweet girl from Sunday School and VBS and I believe that is who she is at her core. Also we know the boy is sixteen and we can't shield him forever. (Still, I am soooooo glad he doesn't have his license yet).

Up until now, we've been able to dance around most of their requests to get together. The only time they've seen each other, they wanted to meet at the park and go for a walk. We said yes, but sent Sam along to keep them company. That worked out well as Sam was told to stick to them like glue and he was more than happy to do so. He's good like that.

Today she asked Daniel to go swimming with her and her older sister. With many reservations we said yes. Gary dropped him off at the sister's house and ran to the store for me. There was a car in the driveway then.

Upon his return, he passed by the house and noticed that the car was gone, but something about the whole situation just didn't sit right. So, trusting his gut, he stopped by, knocked on the door, and the young lady answered. Joe comes bounding up behind her all smiles, talking fast. The young lady's sister had to run out for a while and they were playing Wii, they explained. She was going to be right back and then they were going swimming.

"So you're here alone?" Gary said.

Joe nodded, still smiling.

"Let's go son."

To his credit, Joe didn't argue, didn't even try look shocked (unlike Jeremiah, a few years back, when we told him he could NOT recline on the sofa with his girlfriend).

When Joe returned, we chatted about why it wasn't appropriate for them to be alone in the house together (I really thought we'd covered this). Again, he didn't argue, just smiled and made a joke about it because that's Joe.

Then I fixed him with a steely eyed stare, guaranteed to stop the joking. "The next time something 'unexpected' like that happens, I expect a phone call. If we check in with you and find another situation like we did today-having told us you'd be one place when you were supposed to be another--you will be so grounded, you'll be asking permission to exhale."

Joe is a good kid. He didn't argue. "Yes ma'am," he replied. But I could feel his frustration.

We have invited the young lady over for dinner next week, but we are still (I can tell) not cool and we could not possibly understand . . .

Ohhh, but we do, Joe . . . we do.

The original dog story

2011-07-18T21:28:00.004-05:00

"Fassen Files", my first attempt to write a book, started out a short story about ten years ago. I finished it, showed it to Gary, and he said, "There's a lot more to this than you have here--maybe an entire book." I could not imagine writing an entire book about a psychic dog so I backed it up on an unmarked floppy (I was bad about that), and tossed it in a drawer, I returned to writing poetry because it was small, neat, and fit in my life full of small children and puppies. (She pauses for a second to think about all those children and puppies. Tears up, continues typing . . .)

We moved into this house. And while unpacking my office, I found the unmarked floppy and stuck it in the drive to see what was on it. I read the little story and "saw" the rest of it all at once. It took close to three years of writing off and on around those same small children and puppies. I remember the day I finished it (there was a bottle of wine waiting). I remember also thinking "Now what?" While I was certainly naive about how hard it was to get published, even I knew you didn't find agents standing around on street corners with their hands out asking for manuscripts like loose change.

Regardless, I had some terrific, very patient, very generous beta readers waiting in the wings. They spent hours and hours with it and, between them, ferreted out clunky sentences, inconsistencies and plot holes. Thank you: Gary, Heather, Kelly, Jennifer, Stephen and Geoff. If it's not a perfect story, it certainly wasn't for lack of effort on your parts.

I moved on, wrote another book, and another, and another. With each one I've gotten a better sense of how to tell a story. And after every one, I thought about that first book kind of wistfully. It was a good story, but it was a first book and couldn't possibly be any good. I returned to it over and over, editing here and there-re-writing entire scenes sometimes before I remembered that it was a first book, and put it away again.

Recently Hal Johnson (Hi Hal!) and I were emailing back and forth about books and e-publishing and the Dog Story and Fassen Files came to mind. I hadn't looked at it in probably five years. It occurred to me that while it might not be strong enough to stand on its own, it might work as part of a set, so I pulled it up, re-read it, and saw its problems immediately, but I also saw what drew me to the idea in the first place. It wasn't just a story about a psychic dog. It was supposed to be a fun story about a love, friendship and growing as a person and lots of other "girly things" and the biggest problem with it was that I was in too much of a rush to get to the things that made it exciting and didn't flesh those moments out enough.

So I've given every spare minute to it for the last two weeks. It's still exciting (I think it is, anyway), but it's also everything I should have let it be in the first place. I rewrote, edited, fixed notable problems, addressed plot inconsistencies, and sat back yesterday and looked at it. I still don't know if it's especially good, but it is a million times better than it was before. And interestingly it's actually about 3000 words less than it was before I sat down with it.

The Dog Story is coming along--there will be more to it very soon (I expect to finish it this weekend or early next week). Meanwhile--here's just a taste of what I've been up to, so you'll know that I HAVE been writing.

(And no, I will not be posting serial excerpts of this one )

October 8^th

Every word in this journal is Trish’s fault. She wants me torecord my daily activities, thoughts, and insights for one year. At the end ofthis year, we’ll look through all the words I’ve written and find what’s wrong withme. I’m not sure how this is supposed to help. I told her that I know words—Iknow them well—and they’ve never done anything except get me in trouble. Butmaybe I need more trouble in my life. God knows I need something.

October 12^th

I was in awaiting induced coma, a state caused specifically by sitting in long lines atdrive-thrus. I could have gone in and already been at home writing a differententry than this one with one hand, and munching a hamburger with the other, butthat would have required getting out of The Line and no one leaves The Lineonce they’re in it.

Andthen I saw him. At first, he registered as a small pavement colored, lumpof fur skulking around the dumpsters. A rat I thought—albeit a big one--but arat nonetheless. Then I noticed his wiry coat and was curious enough to openmy car window and get a better look at the long haired rodent. For a moment I waspreoccupied with the plausibility and couldn't wait to ask Don about it. But a second later, the “rat”woofed at the rude brunette (me) staring at him while he ate his find of coldfries. And the pieces of what I was seeing finally formed themselves into alogical statement: there is no such thing as long haired rats that bark . . .

My take on the Netflix price hike

2011-07-14T16:23:00.002-05:00

I think my readers here know that back in 07 my family fell on times. Gary was laid off and the job change initially meant a huge drop in income. We survived, but not without some changes. We eliminated all luxuries except the internet which was bundled with our phone bill and--when we took a family vote--won as the thing everyone liked the most. Among the luxuries that we decided we didn't need was the satellite. Out here without satellite or cable, there is no TV signal so this was a big thing to let go of--initially.

Being a tech-savvy bunch, we worked out how to connect our old family television to an old computer and proceeded to hunt up our favorite shows online. It turned out we were only about a year or so ahead of the trend (I remember when we had to wait for everything to buffer before we could watch it). By the end of 08 many, many people were doing similar things (my oldest son made extra money showing neighbors how). In 09 it had become so common that most new TVs came with computer hook-ups. It took some adjusting, but the last time we took a poll, everyone (except maybe Gary who still misses the TV remote) liked on demand viewing better. That and TV has become less of an empty decision--everyone reads, writes, plays games, and talks to one another more. So I'm happier too.

In 08 we discovered Netflix online streaming and DVD rental service and became immediate fans. It was easy to use, reasonably priced, and the service was decent. I've even blogged about Netflix a time or two. I recommended it to friends and family regularly. The last time I looked, most of the people I know now use Netflix. We've been with this company through a few minor rate changes, but they weren't huge and we understood that business expenses change. It was certainly not worth leaving them over.

Fast forwarding to July 12th, 2011, Netflix announced a change in its rates to the tune of about a 60% increase. A whole lot less for a whole lot more. There has been a public outcry unlike anything I've seen for a while.

What you can see from their article, when this issue was presented to customers, the biggest problem most had was the lack of directness on Netflix's part. Instead of presenting it as a simple price hike, they attempted to paint it up as something that would work to our advantage. As one viewer put it, "Don't piss on me and then tell me it's raining." I think it would have been better received if they A) had been less greedy and settled for a 25% to 30% price hike and B) presented it as a matter of economics (the studios putting the squeeze on them for more money). Initially, I was sympathetic, thinking "B" was their biggest problem.

But nooo . . . their biggest problem is a group of executives who have made so much money, that they--like the banks from a couple of years ago and many of our politicians--have lost touch with their customer base.

Today one of these executives--very foolishly--went public with his perspective, blowing several thousand unhappy customers off as the unimportant "few" and that they'll recover from it and make even more money. Worse, he's implying that the price hike is so minimal that we'll barely notice it. I have a news flash for this obviously out of touch exec: times are hard and many, many of us have quit drinking lattes (or learned to make our own) and kept your service. Until now, you've been a luxury many people have viewed as worth it. Judging from the response, I'd guess you'll be going the way of those lattes. The air up there on top of those mountains of money must be awfully thin.

So what is my family going to do? I've reduced my membership to bare bones for now. And we're going to explore our other options. I'm an Amazon Prime customer ($40 a year as a student--I order my dog food, animal veterinary stuff, books for college, the stuff I make my laundry detergent with, and homeschooling curriculum from them which amounts to better prices and free shipping). Amazon is offering free streaming to their Amazon Prime customers on older movies and per movie streaming fees on newer ones. Hulu streams a wide selection of TV shows (old and new) for $8 a month. And those are just the ones that come to mind now.

Regardless, I think it 's safe to say that we will very likely be looking for creative solutions to the problem, just as we did when we left satellite behind. Netflix, like satellite, over estimates the importance of their service in our lives.

Let he who is without fault cast . . .

2011-07-10T19:54:00.002-05:00

. . . the first aspersion.

Daniel got his first paycheck on Friday. He then washed it along with his jeans on Friday night. I found him standing over the washing machine on Saturday morning holding two tiny pieces in his hands and looking into the machine at the fragments plastered to the walls inside.

It was all over his face. I knew what he was thinking--"I just worked harder than I've ever worked and I have nothing to show for it."

"Daniel. It happens. Take a deep breath. It's okay. They'll cut you another check, but it may be a week or so."

Relief flooded his face and I had him all smoothed out when he came out into the living room and mentioned it in front of the rest of the family.

To their credit, Joseph and Sam were immediately sympathetic. But his older brother harassed him ("That was pretty stupid. Why didn't you . . . "). His Dad rolled his eyes and gave him a look I know all too well as it's been directed toward me all too often. It's the whole, "I can't believe you did that," look which comes from the belief that looker has never, ever done anything absent minded and costly in their entire lives. Not once. And they are glad they aren't like you.

Am I the only one who remembers her own mistakes at moments like this? Like the time I lost my glasses while working in the garden and never did find them? Or the time I slipped on shoes from two different pairs (two different colors, one velcro, one with laces?) while searching around under my desk with my feet and then went out in public dressed like that? And so on, and so on and so on . . . I've got a dozen of these stories . . .

I reminded Gary of the checkbooks he's lost (and never found) and Jeremiah of the how he didn't get his first official pay check at all two years ago because he forgot to turn in his W-4s. I also reminded Gary of how he used to get in to trouble because he regularly forgot to clock in at the job he had shortly after we got married. And for good measure (and because I'm still chafing from his response to my shoe story), I reminded him of a story one of his Navy buddies told on him about his showing up for inspection wearing boots from two different pairs. Both men immediately protested that those were only isolated incidents and they were a long time ago.

Well, Daniel has only ever washed one pay check and chances are he won't do it again. So how about we cut him some slack, fellas. Geez.

Humble Pie is best served to those who are capable of remembering that they ate it.

By My SIde by David Choi

2011-07-07T20:29:00.005-05:00

There are about a million young women out there right now, punching their boyfriends in the arm and asking them why they can't be more like David Choi. Conversely, there are about a million young men out there right now, rubbing their sore arms, glaring at the screen and saying, "Way to raise the bar, Man. Thanks a lot. Umm . . . how much did that helium set you back anyway?"

David Choi also has some terrific covers--often better than the original artist. In fact, here is one of the boys' favorites--

He collaborates regularly with Wong Fu Productions , a YouTube production company that makes everything from music videos (Personal fav below) to short indie movies and funny shorts. If you get a chance, you should check out "Agents of Secret Stuff" (full length story), "Five Perks of Having a Girlfriend" (you will never see the word "scapegoat" the same ever again), "Good Cooking Gets Girls" (that one is a scream) and "Places we should have gone" ( achingly bittersweet). Warning--the humorous ones are a little PG.

Dog stories and fireworks

2011-07-05T12:19:00.006-05:00

We had a good 4th of July--spent Sunday and part of yesterday with some dear friends and their children. Ate BBQ, homemade ice cream, and watched the kiddos set off bottle rockets and the like. Yesterday morning, the menfolk went down to their pond and fished for a while--catching a few perch and throwing them back. It was a welcome twenty-four hour respite from the normal worries of our lives.

I cannot believe that the beginning of the fall semester is only six weeks away. Summer is already half over.

Thanks to Hal Johnson's generosity (thanks again Hal) I'm reading some books on indie publishing and contemplating my next move after this story is finished. I have two other science fiction (fantasy?) dog stories that I didn't think anyone would be interested in in part because they were dog stories and in part because they were my first books. But I pulled the first out last week, reread it, and was pleasantly surprised.

It still needs some editing--primarily for beginner's mistakes (a few scenes that go no where and a too slow start that could be eliminated by simply cutting the first two chapters)--but it's not as far from polished as I thought it was when I decided I needed to move on to other subject matter. I think I can clean it up with a few months (weeks?) of work. Editing, tightening, and shortening it, could only improve it.

Meanwhile there's a lot to learn about e-book publishing and I intend to arm myself with as much information as I can. If I decide that it makes as much sense after I've done all this research as it does right now, I think I will probably put all three stories (including the one you've been following on my blog) under one cover and see how they do as one book--kind of a small collection of longish short stories/novellas. I've even got a title for it--"Many Tails".

XVII

Solomon

That morning the old dog fell down the stairs.

Just as he reached the porch, his hips went weak all at once; folding like the bones had melted. His front legs were no longer strong enough to compensate, and his nails scrabbled against the wood, as he collapsed, limbs splayed in all directions. He drew his feet beneath his chest and tried to pull himself upright, but overcompensated and fell down the remaining steps to the ground, where he lay, paddling in the air. A second effort, more cautious than the first, was a success. Inside the back door, he panted for a few seconds, feeling his age more than ever before.

Pain and weakness were his constant companions now—lying down carefully and rising slowly didn’t help any more. The pills the woman hid in chunks of cheese did little to abate the stiffness and the ever increasing weakness in his rear legs. His body was failing him in other ways too. The day before he’d awakened to find that he’d soiled his bed. Embarrassed and upset, he’d stood as quickly as he could and moved away from it. I’m sorry, he’d told the Woman when she’d found it, his ears back, tail low. I’ll try harder. She’d stroked him, told him that she didn’t care. But he hadn’t soiled the inside of the house since he was a pup and dirtying his own bed was unthinkable.

On top of all that, now he’d fallen where the entire world could see. It would not be long before the Many recognized his weakness and acted on it.

The cat brushed against him as he made for the water dish in the utility room. He caught a glint of knowledge in her gleaming eyes as she passed him. She would have been at the window and seen his tumble. Some of the cats the Humans invited in might have goaded him—tried to get him to chase them and enjoyed it when he failed. Not her.

He’d ignored the others as they were little more than irritating competitors for food and soft spots in the sun. But this one was a mixture of youth and wisdom and, likeably savvy. She commanded respect with her claws, should any dog forget their manners, and was a wily dealer in information. Her range was wide and her territory full of informants who would divulge anything she asked—all she had to do was offer them their lives in return.

He sniffed her cautiously. What’s the word?

Death. She arched her back against his front leg, snaking her torso and tail around him, ribbon-like, allowing the familiarity with complete fearlessness.

He waited tolerantly for her to finish. My death or the humans’?

Yes. She jumped up onto the dryer, sat, wrapping her tail around herself, and watched him as he took a long draught from the water dish, then added, as though it was some kind of bonus—Soon.

The Old One continue to stand where he was, trying to decide whether to lay in his bed in the front room where the other dogs were probably still sleeping, seek out the woman who would be sipping something hot in front of her computer, or flop down where he was. Understanding how cats, like most wild things, measure time, (Soon could mean, immediately, or several sunrises away), he pressed her. Today—soon? Or sunrise—soon?

Depends. She leaped off the dryer and took her own drink from the dish.

On? He took a step toward the living room.

Doors.

What doors? Where?

She paused, sat down, and washed her face with the back of her paw. Don't know. Just Doors—not closed.

The Old One knew that cats thought of doors as closed or not closed. And that they were concrete creatures—all about senses, tactile experiences, what was food, what was enemy, and how well they could fight or run away--so she was likely quoting someone. So they’re waiting on the Boy. Where did you get this?

She winked at him with both eyes. Rabbit. Fox. Rat. I forget. Boy—door not closed?

Cats never forget. But they don’t always feel like giving out details. Nor do they understand dreams. Not a door you can go through.

She strolled ahead of him in the direction of the Boy’s bed. Too bad. I kill plenty.

He’d heard that cats couldn’t see the Many. And he still believed that, but if there was ever a cat that could, it would be her. You have speed and many claws. He paused. ‘I am not that hungry today. Check my dish after I’ve eaten my fill. These days the Woman was mixing all kinds of special things in with his kibble and his leavings were prized by the others. He would make sure she had no competition for what he didn’t eat.

Cat-like she did not thank him, just accepted it as her due. But he also knew that she would stick closer to the Boy for a few days. And for that, he would have given her a dozen suppers.

An installment of the Dog's Story

2011-06-30T22:06:00.000-05:00

It's hot here (mid nineties today with a heat index of a 106) and I"m tired of it, which is just silly. It's late June and there's at least six more weeks to go of these temperatures.

Meanwhile, inside, in the air conditioning, the adventure goes on.

Dante

TheVisitor crawled under the covers beside the boy’s sleeping body. As thoughsensing he was there, the Boy repositioned himself into a C shape around thesmall dog, his arm falling across him.

It washot under the blankets and the weight of the boy’s arm pressed him uncomfortably into the mattress. Ifhe’d had his choice, he would have lain at the foot of the bed, but this wasthe best vantage point to guard from. Nuzzling the small face, he measured the Boy’s breath and listened. He was in adeep sleep, not yet dreaming, but it couldn’t be long now.

Hesensed the Many were not far off. They were hovering, watching and waiting foran opening. They would be swift to enterwhen that moment came and after that the battle would become a war—a dailyfight to keep the humans safe from the darkness. Not that different than any good dog’s job,but once they were in, it was no longer about just guarding, giving warnings,and skirmishes. It would be fighting and killing and sometimes losing.

TheVisitor did not want to think about losing. Not again. So he lay in thedarkness, tense, watchful, listening to the house, the rustlings of the otherdogs as they checked rooms, the cat on the kitchen counter—taking advantage ofthe night and the sleeping humans. Water dripped from a faucet; somethingelectrical somewhere whirred, clicked, and hummed.

The boybeside him twitched, stirred, muttered, then twitched again. The small Visitor closed his eyes and wentin.

***

Theywere in what appeared to be the back yard, except that it was no longer fencedand the lake, normally two acres away, bound rock and forest, was lapping atthe western fringe. It was night.

A large human stood opposite themholding something that the Visitor could not make out in the darkness. Thoughhe could not see or feel him physically, the Visitor could sense the Boy’sterror. To the Boy’s mind, the figure wasthe fearsome thing. To the Visitor, he was a distraction from the real danger.

TheVisitor scanned the tree line, then the banks of the lake. A Creeper had to bethere somewhere, he could feel it.

The Boypointed at the human silhouette . He has something bad.

The human was approaching, swinging the object, a bag, in his hand. He spoke in asurprisingly high, sing-songing voice, “Takeit. Take it. Take it” and swung his arm forward, slinging its contentstoward them.

The Boycried and fell, trying to dodge the approaching missile. It landed at his feet,writhing, and he kicked at it.

A snakeslithered out of the bag and hissed, curling its body and arching its head,cobra-like. It raised as though to strike and the Boy rose and began to run.Behind him the snake increased in size and pursued him.

TheVisitor ignored the snake itself. It was another distraction. The danger wasahead of them, in the house they were running toward.

Thedoor. Of course. The Boy would try to open the familiar back door and it wouldbe locked. He would run to the front door and it too would be locked, butanother would appear magically nearby and when he opened that, he would let in something far worse than the phantom chasing them now.

TheVisitor did not stop to wonder how he knew this. He simply followed the boy andallowed him to test one door after another, saw him bang on the windows,screaming to parents inside who were either indifferent or deaf to his pleas.The Visitor knew that before he could help the Boy, he would have to see theDoor and learn not to open it.

Thedoor finally appeared. It glowed with invitation, light seeping from the cracksaround it. The Boy sobbing in relief, ran toward it. Stepped into the boy’spath, the dog tripped him and he fell. The snake was approaching rapidly. Screaming again, the Boy rose, tookanother step, and the Visitor tripped him again. The snake was upon them now, hovering overthem, its fangs dripping, its eyes glowing.

The Boytried crawling, but the Visitor blocked his path. Look at it. Look at what it really is.

I can’t. It’ll bite me and I’lldie.

I won’t let that happen.

It’s a snake. It wants to killme.

Look atit.

Crying softly, the Boy facedthe snake. It hissed and reared its head, now towering over them. The Boy, shaking in terror, stared up at itfor a full second.

What does it really look like?

A snake.

Look harder.

It—it—it—looks like a belt. Theboy exhaled sharply. It looks likeAllen’s belt.

Thesnake stopped hissing.

Allen?

A big boy at school. Lots bigger than eighthgraders usually are. There’s something wrong with him. Hechased us around the playground a couple of years ago, swinging his belt,trying to hit us with it. Everybody else got away, but I fell down and he hitme a couple of times before the teachers stopped him.

It stopped moving.

Iremember thinking that his buckle looked like the head of a snake.

It stopped looking like a snake andthen disappeared.

The Boy exhaled. He looked down atthe dog. Wait. You can talk?

And with that, they both woke up.

***

TheVisitor crawled from beneath the covers and stretched. It was nearly dawn, thesky outside the boy’s window just beginning to change from blue black toblue-gray. Beside him, still half asleep, lay the Boy. The Visitor could feelhis eyes tracking his movements.

Heturned, wagging his tail a little and lay down, his nose inches from the Boy’sface.

“I hada dream. You were in it, Dante.” The Boy whispered.

At the soundof his name, the dog’s ears perked and his tail wagged.

“Youcould talk.”

TheVisitor licked the Boy’s face and rolled over to have his belly rubbed.

“Ofcourse, there was a giant snake there too. And it turned into a belt.” Hescratched the dog’s stomach and yawned. “Silly dream, huh?”

Rollingback over, the dog pressed closer to The Boy. Yes. Silly dream.

They both fell back into adreamless sleep.

A different dog story (in which I learn my dog is a lush)

2011-06-29T17:02:00.002-05:00

I accidentally left Clancy closed in our bedroom earlier today when I got up from in front of the computer. A little later Sam went back to our room to look for something and let him out.

I was in the livingroom talking to Gary when the little dog (all 9 lbs of him) landed in my lap, wiggling and tail wagging. I caught a whiff of strawberries as he attempted to lick my face. "Clancy" I said. "Why do you smell like strawberries?" He actually paused for a split second, glanced around the room, gazed at my face for a second, and continued his greeting (we're beginning to suspect he understands far more than he lets on). I sent Sam back to investigate (thinking the little guy might have gotten to the bottle of Tums on one of the shelves). Clancy is quite the climber and has been known to surf my desktop in search of snacks so I already know not to put dog treats or unattended human food in the path of temptation.

Sam came out with a wine glass I'd left on my desk last night. "This smells like strawberries," he said. Of course, the last swallow of my strawberry wine. Well--more like cheap, wanna be 3.00 strawberry flavored wine (my favorite kind). Clancy watched Sam carry the glass into the kitchen and followed him, looking hopeful.

I guess we'll have to be careful about unattended alcohol from now on. I have occasionally pictured myself involved in interventions, but those scenes never included my dog.

No matter how much he begs and pleads, you must refuse him. It's for his own good.

Camp 2011 Pictures and Revelations

2011-06-26T23:44:00.002-05:00

As I mentioned recently, Sam went to a photography camp last week. When he returned yesterday he talked incessantly about the professional photographer who helped staff the camp and gave the kids the benefit of the years of his experience. Why a man who travels all over the country as well as overseas taking pictures would choose to spend five days at a summer camp with a group of teenagers teaching them how to snap off a few shots of wildflowers, dragon flies, and each other, is something I'd like to ask him some day. I'd also like to thank him.

Sam has a whole portfolio of pictures that I'm sure he'll share with you over on his blog when he gets around to it. But I have pictures of Sam I want to share here, courtesy of the camp CD sent home so parents can see what they're children were up to. This photographer didn't spend all his time teaching--he spent a fair amount of it taking pictures of the campers. For once I didn't have to spend my time squinting at pictures hoping to catch a glimpse of my kid in the back of the crowd. This guy was good.

Every morning campers are sent off to journal and read their Bibles for thirty minutes.

Sam really liked this bridge; it's in several of his pictures.

White Bread there in the middle, now known as Lobster Boy, had been ordered to wear a shirt while swimming as there is no sunblock known to man that's strong enough to prevent a Paddock from burning. For some odd reason, he didn't think I'd find out.

This is known as an epic slip-n-slide.

Makes you wish you were a kid again, doesn't it?

Challenge course activity. They're about to cram him through a hole in the net.

Rope swing on challenge course.

Any long time readers remember the kid from a couple of years ago who stood at the edge of the "mud pit" at camp refusing to get dirty until a little girl talked him into joining the others? As you can see--he's gotten over his hesitation.

Sam mentioned in passing that the photographer once told him to think about what God wanted for his life as he looked into the lens of his camera.

So do you know what God wants for you? I asked him, half expecting him to announce that God wanted him to be a photographer.

He ducked his head a bit. Yeah.

Is it something you feel you can share?

He muttered something.

What? I didn't think I heard him right.

I said, I think he wants me to be a minister, he replied.

He talked on a bit about how he'd do it and stated that he was pretty sure he'd need a full time job too and that he thinks being a pharmacist would tie nicely into the ministry.

I thought about this conversation a lot as I uploaded pictures to my hard drive today and I kept coming back to this particular shot. And all I could think was That freckled face, a minister someday? My sunburned, lately "can't be told anything he doesn't already know", almost thirteen year old son?

Yeah. I know. I see it too.

Family stuff and other updates

2011-06-23T22:03:00.002-05:00

All is quiet here at present, unless you count my ongoing battle with the Japanese Beetles intent upon invading my roses, fruit trees, and pole beans. If you do count that--then I'm at war, in the trenches, with an organic gardening book (a 100 natural solutions to pests and other problems) in one hand and --as of this morning-- a pump sprayer full something they assured me would eliminate the pests "without harming a single beneficial insect" in the other.

They lied.

Okay, that's not true--they were truthful about it not harming a single beneficial insect. But it didn't harm any of the problematic ones either, least of all the Japanese Beetles. In fact, I think they actually stood up under the spray and caught it on their tiny beetle tongues. I am not giving up though. They may have the numbers, but I've got opposable thumbs. That's got to count for something.

But other than all that, we're all good here. I'm reading a lot--just finished Eragon. And will move on to an F. Paul Wilson novel next (I am so ready for the next Repairman Jack book). I read Beowulf last week and an old Mary Stewart classic the week before (I'd forgotten how that woman could write!) and before that it was a George R. R. Martin classic (Tuf Voyaging--fantastic stuff). And I've got several others waiting in the wings (ranging from Agatha Christie to Pratchett to to Marillier to Niffenegger) . I've got two or three volumes of poetry set aside as well and I keep meaning to get around to read some short fiction to get ready for one of my fall classes, but the call of the novel is just so more alluring.

It's that time of year again, with boys coming and going from camp--

Last week it was Joe at Rock Out Camp (think Christian Band camp). While Joe is somewhat quieter about it than Jeremiah is, and has--thus far--made no noises about trying to make a living at it when he grows up-- he's our other burgeoning musician.

This week Sam's at Photography Camp. One of his counselors posted this picture of him yesterday on their Facebook page. This is Sam, obviously trying to line up a shot. I can't wait to see the results.

Daniel has moved on to more grown up things this summer, in the form of a driver's permit and his first job. He's following in Jeremiah's footsteps (often carpooling) to the local grocery store where they're keeping him busy full time so far. He's coming home exhausted, but happy--seeming to have thrown himself into the whole working man thing better than we expected. No word from him about college yet, but I remain hopeful.

Jeremiah's band recently acquired a business manager and are playing regularly--even making money at it once in a while. He's become the third adult in the house of late and some days I don't know what we'd do without him (though I expect to do so soon). He's stepped up to the plate on household repairs, taken his younger brother to camp, helped buy a birthday dinner for one of his brothers when money was tight, and is his Dad's (I suspect much needed) best friend. Though I sense (and understand) that he would rather be making music full time, he's returning to college this fall to complete his degree in computers.

As for The Dog Story--I'm one chapter ahead of you in my writing and would like to keep it that way. So hang on while I write another chapter and then I'll show you what's next. There's a pretty sharp increase in excitement from this point forward and I confess that even though this project "doesn't matter" in the sense that I am not worried about perhaps marketing it to someone other than you guys and my family, I am fretting about the pacing because I like to get these things right. But it is nearing the end and I"m pleased with that.

The First Siege (the Dog Story)

2011-06-16T19:16:00.003-05:00

If you are keeping track of the progress of this story, then you will notice that I have jumped forward a couple of chapters. As you are reading this as blog entries, sometimes days apart, I know that the segue chapters (though short and vital to the plot) can drag a bit and leave you wondering when I'm going to get to the action, so I thought I'd take you there this time. The Visitor (Dante) has asked what is and is not true of the tales he's heard about the Old One (Solomon). The Hound is telling him the story. It is a longer than usual chapter.

PS. In case you're wondering (especially as I've used my own dogs to tell the story)--most of the scenes concerning the woman are fiction.

XIII

The First Siege

The Hound stretched out under theshrubs in the farthest corner of the back yard and the Visitor dug up the coolearth to make himself a soft hollow to rest in.

It was at night few days after the Brown Dog grew cold. Then the Woman went away for a few days. When she came back they put away the bed withthe high sides. And because of all of this, we were not attentive . . .

Just after the Humans had retreatedto their bedroom, the Small Dog had gone out the dog door to relieve himself.He planned to stay in that night, near the Humans instead of running theboundaries. The Hound was in the Boy’sroom, where he usually slept and the Old Dog way laying in the living room. At the end of a day of looking after the Woman he was exhausted. He could feel her yawninggrief; it enveloped him, becoming his own. If he could have relieved her of theburden, he would have. But he could only bring her toys, lick away her tears,and let her know she was not alone.

The Small Dog was exhausted as well. The Human’s sadness had its ownpalpable weight and he felt as though he’d been carrying on his back all day.So he took a few minutes to dig for moles and chase the cat up a tree, and didnot notice the activity at the borders until too late.

As he was making his way back tothe house, he caught a glimpse of two Creepers at the perimeter, and three morebrazenly entering the yard, with several others already at the Woman’s window In disbelief, he realized they were enteringthe room. All at once, the stench of the enemy flooded his senses.

He gave the alarm and ran back theway he’d come. Through the house he raced, barking. The Many. They’re everywhere.

The Shepherd was just thinking about joining the Man andWoman in their room. At the alarm, herose to his feet and made it to the Woman’s side.

The ManPerson was already snoring. The Many were climbing over him, reaching into him,covering his ears, blunting any instincts he might have possessed thatsomething was very wrong in his Home.

The Woman was sitting in her rockerby the window. A Creeper was sitting in her lap with its arms around her neckwhispering in her ear, building on her despair and others swarmed around her,intoxicated by her grief.

Useless.Failure . . .

Deathwould be easier than this . . .

Betterwithout you . . .

Nomore tears. No more pain.

From the doorway, he growled. Theyturned to sneer at him, fangs bared, eyes like tiny pits of flame. We are the Many. You are only one.

He watched in horror as she rosefrom the chair, glanced at the Man, tears running down her face and moved towardthe bathroom. He could not know what shewas thinking, but he did know she couldn’t be allowed to go into that room.

He stood at the entrance and barkedat her, physically crowding her, wagging his tail to distract her. Shewhispered to him to shut up, but—for the first time in his life—he did not obeyher orders.

The Man half-awoke, demanding toknow what the “hell was wrong with that stupid dog?”

The Many swarmed around him,whispering soothing lies.

Throwhim out they hissed in the woman’s ear. Heis in our way.

“Nothing,honey. I think he just heard something outside. Go back to sleep. ”The Womangrabbed the Shepherd’s collar. “Solomon. Come,” she ordered and began to draghim out of the room.

Outside, they hissed. Put the dogs outside so they don’tinterrupt.

TheShepherd sighted the Small Dog in the Boy’s room, in a silent standoff with twoCreepers. He gave orders as he passed. Hide!Hide! Hide! You have to stay inside. Keepher out of the small room. Don’t let them get her alone. Wake up the ManPerson—drive off the Many.

TheHound joined him at the door, purposefully joining the confusion, barking andjumping on the woman.

TheWoman cursed, threw open the door and shoved the protesting Shepherdoutside. The Hound bounded out past him,still barking.

Theyflew around the outside of the house driving through the Many, teeth flashingas they silently leapt on one after another, striking, ripping, destroying oneCreeper after another. But they could not stem the tide and inside they couldhear the Small Dog calling for help, yipping in muffled distress. He was shutin his kennel. The Humans wereunprotected.

Somewhere a door closed. The Womanwas in the small room. The fangs of theCreepers struck and struck again. The two dogs fought and destroyed as many asthey could latch on to, but they kept coming.

TheShepherd faced the direction the Many were flowing from. They were not eternal;they came from somewhere. He communicated to the Hound. Stay here. Keep fighting.

Where are you go—You can’t—Youcan’t do that. There are too many—No one’s ever—

Stay here, the Shepherdrepeated. Keep fighting. Wake up the Man and make him see.

One didnot track the Many with one’s nose. One followed the path of destruction. Heslipped past the Creepers, into the forest at the edge of the yard; saw thefirst dead rabbit, blood in tiny pools, intestines spilled. Further on, asquirrel roiled in the throes of its last moments, its skull crushed. Somewherein the distance something small screamed. The Creepers were growing bold intheir lust for violence and death and were driving all living things in their pathsto self-destruction, just for the fun of it. Squirrels would hurl themselvesfrom the tops of trees or run into the path of cars, rabbits would run plummet from bluffs or give themselves up tothe always waiting predators. The predators, themselves crazed, would killand run away.

It was moments like this that theCoyotes lived for and they would be feeding somewhere nearby. They would bedrunk with the blood and less alert, but he would still have to move swiftly toavoid them. The forest was alive withtheir stench and he had to concentrate to separate the scent of each dead anddying thing along the path. The Many seemed to ignore him as they continued topour forth, so intent were they upon reaching his home before the celebrationswere over. The Coyotes he passed gave half-hearted chase, but were soondistracted by the next dead thing. He was just a dog, just one, and meantnothing. The Shepherd ran on and on, focused only on stopping the Many at theirsource.

He was not sure when he left his own familiarforest, but along the way he had entered a tangle of trees made up of the stuffof darkness. Here was no wind and nosmell to guide him. The very groundslowed him, and the weight of the stagnant air squeezed his heart. Give up. You’re too late. It was like the time he’d jumped into a pondand miscalculated the depth, inhaling water, trying to find the air where therewas none, before he broke through the surface. In this forest was no light, nohope, no joy, no love—none of the elements of life as he understood it—and no surfaceto break through.

The trees and vines and brush hadparted, forming a small clearing, though there was no moon or stars to navigateby. The Shepherd did not have words, but he did know evil when he smelled itand when he finally arrived at the place where the stench was strongest, hestopped and turned his nose toward its source. Here was the presence of somethingthatadorned itself with the suffering of others. Here was the source ofthe Many.

He bellowed. Come outand fight me.

Thehissing was loud—laughter-like. Go backto what’s left of your Humans. You have no power here.

Prove it.

The darkness writhed, vinesseparated. A Creeper, larger than any of those he’d ever seen stood before him.Its eyes glowed, lantern like. He could just make out wing-like appendages andclaws. Smaller Creepers clung to it, swarmed out from around it, their own eyespinholes in the shadows. Clouds ofdespair and hopelessness emanated from her and enveloped him.

Whenlarger Creeper spoke, the smaller ones joined her in chorus. Seen enough?

Now that he stood before it, his furiousrace behind, every inch of him ached with the futility of his attempt. The Womanwas probably gone already. His friends defeated, if not cold. He had failedeveryone. He should lay down now and die.

You’re the first member of the Whole to come this far. You must be a strong one. Most succumb far sooner. But there’s no shame in giving up now.

He hadtried and failed. Death would be a welcome respite. The Shepherd closed hiseyes and collapsed.

Finish him. I must see to the Woman’s end.

Shrieking, the Many fell uponhim and with them came hopelessness. He would give himself up to them. It was fitting that he die this way.

Just as he was preparing to slipaway, a still, small voice spoke to his heart. You are not allowed to give up while she is still alive.

He echoed the voice. Alive?

Youare all she has.

Hetilted his muzzle toward the blackened heavens and called for strength.

TheCreepers laughed.

Something welled up within him—itwent beyond strength and was fueled by something he did not understand. Itflowed through him and he rose under the weight of the Creepers, and settledhis teeth into the nearest one, shook it, hearing it snap in half, tossing itaside and turning on the next. They kept coming, sank teeth and talons intohim, ripping at him, but he continued to fight, destroying one after another.

Through the mass, he sighted thelarger Creeper, its wings extending as it readied itself for flight. He torethrough the surrounding Creepers, and threw himself at it, pressing through thecloud of despair it seemed to surround itself with, refusing entrance to thehopelessness, and closed his jaws around its throat.

The thing screamed, grabbed historso and twisted, contorting his body pretzel-like as it tried to free itself.He sank his teeth deeper. Behind him the mob of Creepers screamed. You are just one.

No,said the small voice. You are the Whole.

And for the first time heunderstood what that meant.

The Shepherd dragged the queen to the groundand finished her.

Politics and Philippians 4:8

2011-06-15T10:35:00.001-05:00

Will post more of the dog story tomorrow--I must pace this now as you are almost caught up. Meanwhile--a rant on one of my pet peeves.

After years of complaining about thoughtless forwarding, I have taken control of my in box. Though I am afraid that I may have alienated a few friends in doing so, I felt it was time to speak up. While this has been going on ever since Obama was elected, there's been an uptick in the number of politically charged email forwards of late--probably because the presidential election is just over a year away. Yesterday after receiving yet another that ridiculed Obama and those who voted for him, it dawned on me that this was only going to get worse unless I said something. This article actually does a very good job explaining my quandary better than I can.

I decided that there is nothing wrong with expressing my discomfort about this issue and asking friends to stop. Here is the email I sent in its entirety:

Letme preface this by saying I LOVE gettingemail forwards--good jokes, profound thoughts, comic strips, prayerrequests,sentimental thoughts, quizzes, links to interesting websites or brainteasers,etc in my in box. I need all the positive input I can get these days(can't we all?) Also--I love hearing from my friends and family and will usually writebackfairly quickly if I'm not up to my neck in responsibilities.

But I have a confession to make and I truly hope it doesn't offendanyone, butI HATE political forwards. I don't forward them myself and I derive nopleasurefrom deleting them from my in box (often unread). In fact, it actuallyputsknots in my stomach because I feel like I'm doing something dishonestbydeleting them, but am more unhappy by feeling required to read them because someone I care about and respect sent themto me. See? I like hearing from you and I take correspondence to heart.When I open these and find content that slams one of my views, or thoseof someone close to me (especially if I sense that the sender knows myviews and is sending it on anyway), it sits badly. Just as in person,my lack of response does not mean I agree, nor does it mean that Idon't have an opinion on the issue (quite the contrary). It means Idon't want to argue.

As silly season approaches (aka election year) and we all take uppoliticalstances based on what we believe God wants for our country, things aregoing toheat up and people are going to disagree. But we don't typically go tooneanothers homes and spew our opinions without regard for our host'scomfort. Weshould treat others' in-boxes with the same respect.

So I am asking this of all my friends and family (my goodness I'mblessed witha great bunch)--if you feel the need to share an email that might becontroversial but you believe is important--either drop me a note andask if I'd like to see it or simplybypass me when you're selecting people to send it to.

Here's the gist of it as I see it:

Finally,brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble,whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever isadmirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about suchthings (Phil 4:8)

For me personally, politics do not fall into the above category.
I love you all and hope you understand.

Mary

Dog Story

2011-06-13T13:45:00.002-05:00

One of the goals I've set for myself with this story is to keep the dogs recognizable as dogs as we know them. I want to apply meaning to behaviors we see and hear every day, but imbue them with fictional (?) reasons. The dialogue is hardest, because --well--as far as we know--dogs don't "talk" so I've had to anthropomorphise extensively and still stay within the confines of canine behavior. Because, without the dialogue, sharing information would be difficult and retelling of vital history impossible . So I am hoping that I am balancing this well enough for readers to suspend belief while reading it.

For what it's worth, Clancy does things that I have not taught him to do. He came knowing how to sit up and beg, and to ignore human plates when filled with food, and little else (even his housebreaking must have been sketchy at best). But he's acquired tricks and basic expectations of obedience without direct instruction (sitting at doors and waiting for permission to go through, down on recall, etc). I'm not sure if he "reads" us or if the other dogs clued him in. Perhaps some of both.

The Way of Things

(twelve years before)

It was four more months before theShepherd understood what he’d seen the day he chased away the shadow in theWoman’s bedroom. The Brown Dog remaineduncommunicative, growling when he came near and refusing all attempts atfriendship.

But one night, as he lay in thefloor by the Woman’s bed, he heard the click of toe nails on the wood floors,could hear the other dog pushing doors open with her nose, and the dull thumpof her body on the sofa cushions, as she looked out the front windows. When sheentered the bedroom, he rose to greet her.

She walked to and fro, leaning intoshadows, craning her neck to see out the window over the bed.

Doyou sense an intruder? He didn’t expect her to reply. Her nightly checkswere unusual, but she’d done it before.

Shedidn’t even look at him. Not a physicalone.

You mean, like a shadow?

Yes. Like a shadow, but not. One of theMany.

What isthe Many?

She seemed to see him for the firsttime. Did your mother not tell you of theMany? Do you know you are the Whole?

His mother had grown cold onemorning while he was very small. He remembered little about her other than herintervening when he and his littermates played too roughly. Most of hislittermates had grown cold as well, which was—somehow—the reason the Womanbrought him home.

His silence on this matter answeredthe question. You’ve donewell for a pup with no lessons in mission and protection.

And she proceeded to do a mother’sjob, which was to explain the Whole and Way of Things, the rules they lived by. She helped him understand that there were intruders, both seen and unseen, andthat a dog’s job was to see to it that they did not enter into home or human. The creed of the whole, she said, was to be attentive--always. The seen intruders were easy. Humans helped with those. But the unseen, theMany, were an unending battle and required constant vigilance, especially whilethe humans slept.

Whatdo they want? He was bewildered.

Humansadness is like a shadow for them, something for them to hide in. They destroyfrom the inside. Some Humans are easier than others; their sadness is never faraway. Your woman is one of these. Youmust make her happiness your job and be attentive—always.

If they are not physical, how do I fight them?

Youhave another set of teeth. You found them when you drove the Creeper away.

The Shepherd flicked his tongueover his own new adult incisors. Otherteeth?

Thenext time you’ll use them. Then you will know what I mean.

He had hundreds more questions, butthe Brown Dog was done. I’m tired andthis is not my house. You will have to learn to protect it by yourself.

Whatdo you mean this is not your house? You live here too.

The Brown Dog looked into thedistance. She went away one day in thecar and left me at home. They sent me to live here until she returns.

While he was not old enough tofully fathom the explanation, he finally understood that while her body wasthere, her heart was somewhere else.

Goto prayer time. Listen to the voices of those around you. The stories will guideyou.

One of the few memories he had ofhis mother was of hearing her say her own prayers along with all the other dogsin the pens around them. He was too young at the time to understand what theywere saying, but he did know that his mother seemed to derive some pleasurefrom it.

He and the Brown Dog rarely spoke afterthat. But she did not growl if he cameand lay next to her late at night, sometimes. And, after the other dogs came, he made sure they did not take her bonesor her dinner.

Over the next year, he asked to gooutside at dusk, and he listened to the voices of the other dogs as they toldold legends of dogs before them, of great battles fought in darkness, of lossesand triumphs. All with the Many and the war mongering Coyotes who fed off theremains of their victims and lauded their triumphs in their own dusk and dawnsongs. And though it would be years before he truly understood the Whole andhis part in it, he did learn that the Many served something that hated Humans.The dogs called this something Death, its entire existence consumed with theircontinued unhappiness and—often as possible—their end. But Humans were born toserve a Greater Being and dogs were born to serve Humans. It was the Way ofThings.

The Hound was an unbeliever upon arrival. Whatever his mother had told him about serving had been lost to a haze ofhunger and fear.He'd seen his litter mates shot and his mother beaten and chained. The Humans he’d known had been untrustworthy, quick to kick, and chase. His first lessons in life had been that the only way to holdon to anything was to sink your teeth in and growl.

Half wild thing, the Small Dog was low to the ground, long of body, a hunter, a speedingtrain on four feet, the terror of the hills. When he arrived, he was already battle scarred fromtangling with the coyotes who served the Many and he knew the ways of the Forest better than he did those of the Home. He deemed the Humans a good source of meals and comfortable beds, but little else.

Over the next two years, the Man and Woman coaxed faith from the two dogs, giving the Hound a reason to recall the lessons of his mother and the Small Dog a reason to stay home.

Then one Friday the Womandisappeared for two days and two nights and when she reappeared she wasaccompanied by change. Borne into the house in a carrier in the Woman’s hand,it was placed on the sofa, and presented for inspection. Tails wagging, headslow in deference, the dogs approached. They'd met babies before, but this one was something else; they could smellthe difference as well as they could scent the rain riding shotgun on the wind.He was of those they already loved, but separate and new.

On the Woman’s command, they eachtook up stations on the floor, laying near him, their muzzles close enough toinhale his scent, tails tapping out their pleasure. They were no longer just dogs protecting apair of Humans; they were being promoted to teachers, companions, guardians,and playmates.

Boyor Girl? They asked one another.

SmallDog, who’d lived with Children before, edged forward and whiffed its foot. Boy.

A Boy. I’ve heard about Boys. They throw sticks. The Hound’s tail pounded faster and he crawled forward to nuzzle the Boy’sblankets, inhaling his new-old scent. The Woman spotted his excitement andcautioned him to be pay attention to where he was.

The Hound, lowered himself again . I will be attentive--always.

The three dogs arranged themselves around the carrier, forming walls around their Boy, the other two echoing the Hound.

As will I.

As will I.

Dog Story

2011-06-09T20:55:00.003-05:00

Do you remember the little boy who stuck his finger in the dam to stop the leak? Today I was that little boy--only I didn't have enough fingers to plug all the leaks.

I'm beat. and am going to bed. I don't feel well--I think I have Gary to thank for this as he is home from work sick tonight. Humans need color strips on their heads that dictate whether or not they are carrying something contagious so that the rest of us can give them a wide berth. Especially those of us who are inclined to kiss those we're fondest of.

The Visitor

They smelled the Visitor longbefore they saw him, heard him scuffling across the floor behind a closedbathroom door. And they heard the words,“stray” from the mouth of the Woman and the Man. The Man had seenhim in the ditch on the highway, where he’d seen strays before, but had felt anunusually powerful urge to stop and pick this one up.

Isthis the help you called for? Theyasked the Old One.

He hoped not. He had envisioned aWarrior that could take his place, not ancient, but old enough to be battlescarred and wise. The scuffling indicated a small dog and the smell that waftedfrom behind the door indicated he was dirty and unkempt. A stray would behungry, weak, and distracted by his own physical needs. None of which promisedthe strength which they’d prayed for.

And, indeed, when they saw him,they were disappointed. He looked like a wad of black and white hair and filththat had taken on life. He was long of body, not much taller than the SmallDog, and curtain of hair hid his eyes so no one could tell what or who he waslooking at.

He did not respond to questions,did not seem interested in meeting them at all, preoccupied with eating andsleeping and staring anxiously after all the Humans through the bars of akennel the Woman placed in the center of the house.

Canwe send him away? asked the Hound, wrinkling his nose. I like the fragrance of dead things as much as the next, but hesmells like the bowels of a diseased cow.

The Old One had asked himself thesame question, but held off on his reply. The visitor would have to answer themsooner or later and the Old One knew the routines of the humans and new dogswell enough to know that the first stages would very likely make the visitor unhappy.And he was right; first came a bath, and a haircut, and then she finally closedhim in his kennel for the night.

He’d taken the haircut and bathwith little complaint, but being kenneled and left alone was more than he couldtake. And he let everyone know about it.

It was several hours after dark andHumans were all asleep, when the Old One left his post at the Woman’s side. Hefound the Visitor whining, and clawing at the kennel door. Inside was ablanket, a dish of water he’d turned over, and a bone that was meant to keephim busy until dawn. He looked better now—under all that hair he was not asthin as they were afraid he would be, and his eyes, now that they could seethem, were bright and intense.

Out.Out. Out. He panted and paced and clawed.

The Old One lay down in front ofthe kennel and watched him claw at the hinges. He was silent, waiting politelyfor the stranger to pause. When he didn’t, the shepherd chuffed to let him knowhe was there.

It did little good.

The Old One crept closer, placedhis nose at the bars, noting that the visitor smelled better now, and delivereda long, low growl. Shut up. Shut up. Shutup.

The Visitor froze.

Settle. If you’re who I’m afraid you are, thenyou must be better than this.

The smaller dog focused on him. Who are you?

Theycall me the Old One these days. And you?

Ihave no name.

Noname? He repeated that unbelievingly. Nonatural name? What do other dogs call you?

I’veknown no other dogs. I’ve been chained since our child grew cold two years ago.The Woman was angry and sad and put me outside. One day she stopped coming outto feed me, some other humans came. Oneof them let me off the chain. I ran away.

The Old One was frustrated. None ofthis- the child growing cold, the probability that the Woman at his home hadgrown cold as well, was the Visitor’s fault.But this was what the Whole had sent to them? This maladjusted little dogneeded training he didn’t have time to give him. So you did not answer ourprayers?

The Visitor peered at him with hisstrange intense eyes. I did hear them andI did join in, but I did not know it was you and I did not know I was theanswer.

The Old One exhaled, stood upslowly and painfully, and repositioned himself so that his aching legs wereunder him. What do you know about theMany?

Onlythat I could not keep them from my house because I was chained in the backyardand they are why my Human who was not old stopped coming out to feed me. The Visitor trembled.

The Old one observed him moreclosely. The Visitor was not trembling because he was afraid. He was angry. What are your strengths?

Ican walk in dreams, if they will let me in.

He sat back, ears erect, eyes returningthe intense stare of the other dog. The Whole knew what it was doing after all.

Tired and Happy

2011-06-08T20:28:00.001-05:00

Today we put the finishing touches on the church rummage sale before it opens to the public tomorrow. I completed organizing and pricing Christmas decorations and moved on to toys and from there to books.

About mid morning I took a break and puttered around looking. I'd promised myself that there wouldn't be anything else--especially after Gary unearthed six or seven books he wanted (including the Complete Works of Shakespeare) and a fishing reel---refurbished just for him by the old gentleman who oversees the sporting goods room--he has a soft spot for neophyte fishermen and Gary most definitely qualifies. And, of course, there was my VCR find of Fiddler on the Roof (two tape set--beautiful box). But I was done. Really.

And then I saw it . . .

The shiny box advertising a cappuccino/espresso machine.

No way. I couldn't be that lucky.

I opened the box and--still in its plastic wrapped cocoon with the instructions and all its little parts--was the advertised product.

It will be too expensive.

I flipped it around and looked. Some sweet soul marked it $5.00.

Delighted, I called to Gary who was carrying in boxes. Looook! Loook what I found! I was fairly bubbling. Can I have it? Pleeeeze?

Standing nearby at another table, a woman from our church (who I only know on sight) burst into a broad smile. "We only used it once," she said. "I'm so glad you're the one who found it."

Gary--of course--was not foolish enough to say no.

I am done now--sated and satisfied. While I didn't find what I went looking for, I unearthed some other treasures--as well as a few stories from the folks around me (this happens when people decide to give away bits of their history). The Rummage Sale can begin--the public can come in and treasure hunt among the tables full of old glass, small appliances, picture frames, books, and bric-a-brac, to their hearts' content.

Tonight I am putting up my feet with a cup of espresso in one hand, and a book Gary surprised me with (Another Autumn: The Rufus Chronicle) just a few minutes ago. I am too tired to edit and/or proof--the next segment of the Dog Story (are you still reading?) will be posted tomorrow.

Playing Christmas and the Dog Story

2011-06-07T20:32:00.001-05:00

Had a long day yesterday and today setting up for the Rummage Sale. Mom gave me a booth of sorts to work with, which really aided in decorating. We don't have as much to do this year as we usually do so I've had time to get "artsy"--filling baskets with glass balls and lights and garland and so on ( had a rare Martha Stewart moment). Then Daniel and I strung a couple of the prettier sets of Christmas lights around our "booth" and, because I was feeling creative and I could, I stopped off at the toy table, retrieved all the teddy bears and made a lonely heart bear's club and gave each a label such as "Likes Honey $1.00" and "To a good home--$15.00/Thrives on hugs", etc and set them near the Christmas tree. The best part of it is that I can decorate to my heart's content, but I don't have to take it down and store it afterwards. It's fun to play Christmas.

I've been rereading Tuf Voyaging By George R. R. Martin (1986) over the last few days. I'd forgotten how much I loved the character Haviland Tuf. If you haven't gotten around to this one and you enjoy science fiction, you should check it out. A warning of sorts--it's a dark comedy and doesn't present the human race or its future in a very positive light. In fact, decency and ethics (along with numerous other valuable resources) seem to be in short supply. However there are solutions and Tuf has full command of them.

Disclaimer concerning the following chapter: Establishing a back story is never easy. I am not satisfied with this section yet, but it is necessary to the plot.

VIII

Twelve years before

The Old One had stepped into therole of protector younger than most. Before he even really understood that ithad been ordained. All he knew as a pupwas that he had been saved from an ending that had taken most of his littermates and his mother. That his world had gone from cold concrete and uncaringhands to a warm bed and the sense of belonging to something larger thanhimself. He knew he’d been saved, but more than that, somehow he knew it washis job to save her as well.

He sawhis first Creeper the day his last baby tooth came out. The urge to tear andrip and growl had overtaken him and he was in the throes of a high energy rompthrough the house carrying one item on a list of forbidden toys—woman’s sock.He did so love her smell.

Inthose days the only other dog in the house was a small brown beast the humanscalled Random. The Brown dog growled athim when he got in her way, but otherwise acted as though he didn’t exist. Theonly time he saw her tail wag was when the Woman invited her to ride in the caror go for a walk.

It wasmid-day, the man person was gone to wherever he went when the sun came up, andthe Woman was asleep in her bed. He was aware that a kind of fluid darkness hadovertaken her in the previous days, the weight of which made her sleep more thanusual and move more slowly through her day. He’d tried in his puppy-way tochase away the darkness with toys and affection, but today it had not workedand soon after breakfast, she’d returned to her bed.

His eyes were half closed as he ranas fast as he could, leaping off chairs, bouncing across cushions, sliding across the vinyl kitchen floor, whenhe sighted the black mass as it floated over her. Curiosity and surprisestopped him.

The mass took on form. Limbs, abody, and a head emerged—it looked at him. He was young, he was afraid of manythings—trash bags on the curb rippling in the breeze, clumps of grass at dusk, andthe sound of thunder. But this thing—it made him more afraid than anything he’dconfronted in his young life. He growled and stepped backward, considering hisavenue of escape, thinking of his safe, distant kennel, or the spot at the backof the closet in the spare bedroom.

The woman stirred and murmured. Themass turned its attention toward her, extending a limb as though it was goingto reach into her. She whimpered, drawing her arms up around her head as thoughwarding off an attack.

A new, unfamiliar emotion rose fromthe depths of him and overrode every self-protective instinct he possessed. Heleaped from his position in the doorway, clearing the distance with ease andgrace that belied his puppy clumsiness and landed on the woman’s chest,snarling, teeth bared.

The Brown Dog materialized at the footof the bed, leapt, slashing silently at the intruder. The Creeper uttered an animalistic profanity and the Shepherd realized it was more of his world than the woman’s and this made him less afraid and more angry.

The woman rose from sleep shovingthe forty pound puppy off her chest with a shocked, gasping cry. Instantly, the Brown Dog withdrew to her bed as though she had been there all along.

He continued charging at the mass. Whatare you and why are you here?

It retreated into the shadows and mocked him. We are the Many. You are only one and can do nothing against us.

The woman who seemed to finallyorient herself and catch her breath, shook off the cloud of sleep enough tograb him by his collar. “What on earth are you barking at you little idiot?"

He was old enough to know she didnot understand him, but he didn’t know why she couldn’t see the thing he haddriven into retreat. He stared into the shadows on the far side of the room,continuing to growl.

There may only be one of me, but I have many teeth. Would you like me to show you?

The thing hissed and seemed to melt into the shadow itself.

“I think you need a time out,” thewoman said, dragging him backward. But she didn’t seem in a hurry to stand. Inspite of herself, her eyes were tracking the path of his gaze.

He wanted to wiggle loose, wantedto use his nose to make sure the enemy had truly gone, but he could feel thestrength the woman was taking from his wish to protect her, even if neither ofthem understood what he was trying to protect her from. For the first time indays, he could feel the fluid darkness ebbing out of her. He stopped barkingand grew quiet in her arms.

“I was having the worst dream,” shewhispered. “Everything was wrong. I was alone and I wanted to die. But you woke me up.”

He turned to study his favoriteface. She met his eyes and shook her head. “You couldn’t know that, right?”

He licked her nose and pressedcloser and returned to staring where he'd last seen the mass. I will be watching.

There was no reply, but he sensed that it had heard him and that it was not happy.

Rummaging and the Dog Story

2011-06-05T10:48:00.002-05:00

It is HOT here--98 degrees Fahrenheit yesterday. I am fretting about the tomatoes; if we don't get a break soon, they won't set fruit which means an awful lot of work for nothing.

I have a busy week coming up--Gary has a job interview for (necessary) part time work doing something he loves and Joe and I will go along with him to get Joseph's social security card taken care of, Daniel has the ACT (he is not sure he wants to go to college, but I am making sure he doesn't shoot himself in the foot in case he changes his mind), and we've got to take paperwork over to the county seat to file to make sure that our ownership is official as far as the state is concerned.

It is also Rummage Sale week at our church (if you've been reading my blog very long you know that it is like Christmas and birthday fun and wrapped up together around here--treasure hunting for just a few dollars). Three years ago I volunteered to set up the corner with the Christmas decorations at the sale. It is painstaking, slow work as we get a lot of Christmas cast offs and so much of it is tiny stuff so pricing it is a hassle. Additionally Christmas decorations didn't typically sell well during the summer. Knowing all of this, I decided to have fun with it anyway. I decorated the small trees we got in with the ornaments and tested lights and strung them around the tables, setting up the manger scenes, and so on. When I was done, we had a tiny Christmas wonderland. My "fun" sparked the Christmas spirit. For the first time people bought and bought and bought and by the the last day everything I'd set out was gone. So it's become my "thing" to handle this (last year some other lady tried to step in and take over, but Mom, bless her, redirected her to some other "important" area). This year, Mom has asked the men-folk to drag out some lattice work walls and set them around my corner.

VII

This is how you pray

They met in the woods across fromthe house—each one taking a separate route to the outdoors. The Hound asked to go out. The Small Dogslipped out past legs when they let the cat in. It was moon was high in the sky and, as the Old One had said, it wasclear.

The Old One had to be thestealthiest. The Many would take note of an unprotected abode and take theopportunity to attack. He took the dog door on the back deck, slipped down thesteps and crossed the road a few hundred yards from the house so his scent wouldnot spark interest.

They kept their distance from oneanother, hiking their legs on trees, nosing clumps of brush, purposefully notlooking in the others' direction.

TheOld One tasted the earth near the base of an oak. The faint tang of a longgone female dog flavored the soil. Whereare they?

Scattered,but mostly toward sunrise, reported the Small Dog.

Fine. You take the boundary.

The Small Dog ran off barking asthough chasing something much faster than he was.

The Hound woofed at a nearby tardy-for-bedsquirrel and it skittered away.

TakeSunset, but stay close to the house. The Old One limped into the trees.

The Hound raised his head, earsalerting, nose working on some distant problem. Where will you be?

Ifeel like praying toward Sunrise tonight.

The Hound knew better than to offerto accompany him. They had their jobs and and he knew from sobering experience that leaving one front unguarded could beeveryone's undoing.

***

Just uphill from the house was acrest where the trees fell short of the sky's breadth. The Old One stood there, head weaving backand forth, air scenting. He could hearthe Small Dog running the boundaries and the answering barks of the Hound fromhis position in the yard.

In the distance, on the wind, was afainter bark and one just beyond that. They were the prayers of the Whole. Battle scarred warriors, new to the faith,and those still unsure. Voices calling into the universe—truth seeking, callingfor comfort and direction. He listened politely for a while, waiting for theirsongs to ebb, for the pauses to lengthen.

When it was time, he sat, tiltedhis muzzle skyward, and began to pray.

His was a melodious song ofworship—spiraling forth from his chest and into the night. Though he appeared to put very little effortinto sending it forth, it carried for miles.

All the distant voices stopped. Butthose from the home front joined him. Small Dog's soprano, the Hound's bassrose from their positions and the three became one.

As all dogs did, they sang of pastbattles and thanked the Whole for blessing them with strength enough to defendtheir home. They sang of greatness of their Humans, meals, bones, love. Of chasing balls by day and standing guard atnight.

The song went on and on withoutinterruption. The dogs from the surrounding hills were silent. They all knewthe Old One and his was a rare enough voice on the hills these days and growingmore so with each passing year. The other two joining him wasextraordinary. Something was either veryright or very wrong. Either way, themessage would be important.

Intheir last refrain, the Old One sang of their Boy whose destiny they knew to begreater than their understanding. And heasked that the Whole direct help to them as it was needed. And finally, he sangof being ready to train up the next generation and prayed that the Whole wouldput the right dog on the path to theirHome.

Finally, the Old One finished andrested. Silence ensued, thick with distant tensions as other worshiperscontemplated his call. Even the nightbirds, tree frogs, and crickets were still, as though everything was listeningalong with him. The winds wound back andforth across the hills as though it was hand delivering echoes to points farand near.

A faint, fluting note played, sohigh and thin, only someone who wanted it to be there would hear it. The Old One’s ears perked and swiveled and histail began to wag slowly. The note waslong, surged, rose a half a step, and faded. Another voice, a melodious basspicked it up, and his voice was joined by two others. More voices joined, allrepeating his prayer, the Whole was lifting his message higher and higher,spreading it beyond the distance his voice could carry it on its own. This washow they prayed; bearing one another’s prayers upward and outward so that theheavens heard them and other members could add their own strength and faith tothe mix. He was silent, basking in their faith and support.

From the house, he could hear theWoman calling to all of them. Shesounded worried.

Though tired, he felt renewed, asthough he'd shed his years for a short time. He stretched and trotted down thehill.

The Small Dog joined him, jumpingup and biting playfully at the air around his face. Did it work?

Thatdepends on what you mean.

Doyou think the right one heard?

Ofcourse.

Butwill they send help?

The Old One picked up speed. I believe they will.

Non-person

2011-06-04T00:11:00.001-05:00

My mother went in for (relatively) minor "female" surgery earlier this week. It did require anesthesia but it was an out patient procedure.

She mentioned to me a week ago that she did not like the surgeon much, that his hands were "clammy and cold" and that this sensation extended to his conversation with her as well. She did not tell me at the time that when he did the pre-op (and was NOT gentle), that he did not bother to ask a nurse to be in the room while he did so, nor did he ask my mother if she was comfortable with this. It bothered her that he gave her so littler consideration, but she didn't quite know what to say at the time.

She went to the hospital for the surgery early Tuesday--having been called by his office the day before telling her that it had been moved up three hours--from late morning, to very early. Mom wasn't happy about this as they live an hour and a half from the hospital, but she obediently showed up on time, got checked in, and then got to sit for four hours with nothing to do and nothing to read as she'd been told not to bring anything with her. (I shudder to think of Mom without something in her hands to do). According to a nurse Mom asked, he didn't even show up at the hospital until an hour after Mom's surgery was scheduled and went on to perform another procedure instead.

During this time she met the hospital staff, her anesthesiologist, the anesthesiologist's assistant, the student anesthesiologist in training that would be observing, scrub nurses, and the hospital social worker.But no doctor. She commented to a couple of nurses that she had expected to see him before the surgery. The nurses assured her that they were sure he'd be by. Finally the anesthesiologist came in and put Mom under without her having seen him.

When she came out from under the anesthesia a couple of hours later, she felt surprisingly good. The nurse who was with her assured her that everything had gone smoothly and that they'd discharge her after the doctor gave the all clear.

They moved her to a recovery room and she and my stepfather waited. The staff was great, she said--checking on her frequently, bringing her things and helping her in and out of bed. After a couple of more hours, she got restless and asked if she could go home. A nurse read her chart and was shocked to see how long she'd been there. She was more dismayed to learn that the doctor hadn't checked in with her or my stepfather, hadn't called, hadn't sent a message. Mom stated that she hadn't seen him before the surgery either.

The nurse got tight jawed (mom's word) and apologized, stating that this doctor did have a "different way" of getting things done.

Ahh, said Mom. Maybe that explains why there was no nurse in the room when he did the pre-op.

"Would you please repeat that?" the nurse said.

Mom told her the story. The nurse went and got the Charge Nurse and asked Mom to repeat it. The Charge Nurse wrote a whole lot of things down and assured Mom that the surgeon's office (he is part of a large practice) would hear about it. What Mom viewed as rudeness was apparently against protocol. Further more the Charge Nurse (whoever she is--I want to hug her) left to--in her words--hunt down the doctor. Within about fifteen minutes, Mom received a phone call from the surgeon indicating what she already knew--that all was well, and they hadn't found any surprises.

My Mom has white coat phobia (I share this). For most of my life she's looked after her own health, only going to doctors when being stalwart or home remedies failed. I don't remember her ever having anything good to say about any of them (It is a tad annoying to pay someone money to have them play pharmaceutical guessing games). She has only in recent history found a local doctor she trusts and likes--to my knowledge, he is only the second one ever. This doctor "gets" Mom. He is available by email if she has a question and does not rush out of the room after he's done with an exam. She is not high maintenance or difficult; she simply wants to be treated like a participant in her own care--like she matters.

This surgeon clearly doesn't get Mom--further more, I suspect he doesn't "get" most of his patients. It's not that he was incompetent. Apparently he lived up to his job description--showed up--performed his duty well enough and left. But he has apparently chosen to forget that his job involves human beings.