Lobster On My Shoulder …

October 24, 2023 ~ Tuesday morning (the last few days of 70-80 degrees are upon us)

I set myself up for this. I know I do. I’ve done it before … and I’ll do it again. But, it never gets any easier.

Last Saturday, I said a very tearful goodbye to my sweet lab, Mr. B. Another trip to the Rainbow Bridge. This was my third time taking a special pup in under a year. And, no – it does not get any easier. Ever. I don’t know why I think it would or should … but it doesn’t.

Mr. B was my last lab adoptee. A big, 13.5-year-old, white-yellow lab, with a heart of gold, a permanent mischievous grin, and eyes that could melt your heart like a chocolate bar on a hot day. He was a goober. Plain and simple. He was not of the peanut variety – but just silly, funny, playful … just a goober.

His journey started some 13 years ago … we never had his early info … but he was (technically) in foster care from the time he was 18 months old. And, knowing him as I did as a 13-year-old adult, I can only surmise he was a monster as a youngster (probably why he was relinquished early on). A lovely couple took care of him for those ten years after his puppyhood – loving him like their own – not wanting to let him go/biding their time for the perfect family for this dog – not realizing they had already found it. He was their sweetheart for all those years until they could no longer take care of him – and then he became mine. Lucky me.

Mid-November, last year, my lovely lab, Annie, lost her battle with cancer. It was fast and ugly and unexpected … and I was heartbroken (once again). Knowing it took me nearly 18 months to find her after my last lab passed, I put in an application with lab rescue, thinking this could take some time, and a mere 4 days later Mr. B was climbing into my car for the trip to his new home.

That was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, last year. It all happened so fast! I got home with this 85 lb, huge, male dog and wondered … what did I just do?

But, it was all just perfectly fine the minute we walked in the back door – he sniffed Bea (my teeny chihuahua) a very chill “hey” … and we were on our way. I just had no idea our little lovefest would end not quite a year later.

B (as he came to be known) was pure delight. I think he made me laugh every day … all 333 days … that he was with me. I’ve never had a dog whose sole mission (or soul mission) was to bring joy to everyone and everything he came in contact with. He did just that.

The Friday after Thanksgiving, I had an Open House. I was a little worried – bringing so many people into the house, with a new dog. How would he do? Would he be overwhelmed? I needn’t have worried one single bit. With each arrival, B greeted them as if they were long-lost friends – going to his toy basket and giving out toys, one by one, to the guests. If no one was coming in – he’d toss his toys in the air like a performing juggler. He was the hit of the party. He gave new meaning to Party Animal!

And so our days went. And do I have any doggie regrets? Yeah – one. Aside from not having more time with him – something I had no control over – I never got him to a dog park to run freely. He was always on a leash when we were out walking (lesson learned one day when he got out of the back fence, in 7″ of snow, and ran around the neighborhood with 3 adults chasing him for 20 minutes – until (thankfully) he triggered an automatic door at the local pharmacy and walked in and we grabbed him!). He was a runner. I couldn’t take my chances with him off-leash except somewhere contained. We went to the local dog park twice – both times to leave before getting out of the car. I’m not a very trusting person and a lone guy with a pit bull just didn’t seem like a good idea. TWICE! But, we walked at Wash Park and around our neighborhood and he played and ran around in our yards with my daughter’s dog and visiting dogs. And, while not deep enough to swim in – he’d sit in creeks and pools. And, he was always so happy. But, as happens, time and life got away from us and I never got him back to a dog park. I would have loved to see him run free.

He was so playful. If I wasn’t throwing him a toy – he was tossing it up in the air himself. He was silly and cloddy and more than once would fall over a branch, toy, or something in the yard and look back at me with a look on his face that was like – Oops, did you see that?

I’d throw a toy to him – and he’d run and get it, toss it into the air, and look at me with that face that said, This is the best thing ever! And, then I’d do it again – and I’d get the same reaction. It was always like he’d never seen a toy before and this was, indeed, the best thing ever! We did that over and over and over again – until one of us was too tired. It was usually me!

His former owners and I kept in touch – sharing photos and stories of this goober that we shared and loved. I sent a photo showing that B had dug 3 holes in my back garden beds – photo evidence of the holes and dirt-black legs proving his feat and glee. I was sent back a photo of a hole that B dug years prior – one that rivaled any archaeological dig site! He must have been a beast in his heyday!

But by the time I got him, he was a gentle, old guy. He’d play like a 3-year-old with any visiting pup (for 20 minutes) and then go take a nap. But, he’d be raring to go again later. He was accepting and friendly to all humans and animals. On a few occasions, I found him taking toys out to the squirrels. Was he wanting them to play with him? I just had to laugh – toys encircling the tree on the patio – squirrels chattering away up high – and B waiting below, expectantly, with that silly, happy face hoping to bribe playmates.

And that’s how I’d like to remember him. He was a smiler. He found delight in anything and everything. He was always smiling. Well, until this last week.

About a month ago he had what we thought was a bout of vertigo. But the symptoms didn’t go away and some worsened … he listed, he was wobbly and unsteady, his head was cocked to the left. I thought his vision was impacted. We wondered if something else was going on – a brain tumor? Infection? One day on a walk he seemed to forget how to walk … the next he seemed to forget how to eat. But he was always sweet and loving, patient and playful. Another visit to the vet – and all seemed fine. But it wasn’t.

We took our last walk last Tuesday. He slept a lot that day, which I thought was really odd. He just didn’t have much left by the time we walked to the corner – so, we headed home. He looked tired. The next two days he didn’t eat (much)/stood out in the yard in odd places … by Friday night he couldn’t hold down water. I knew something was up – obviously – but what?

I wondered if he had eaten something he shouldn’t have? Was there a blockage? After lab work and xrays, after a trip to the vet Saturday morning, we had our answers. What we had questioned came to light – his number valuations were off the charts for everything possible, there were shadows, organ enlargements, and he was in various stages of organ failure. We had to say goodbye. So – thinking I’d come in to “fix” whatever was wrong, instead I found myself giving him a very unexpected final hug.

He was ready. I was not.

And, so it goes. And even with little Frankie here, the house is so empty. My heart is broken and if I could stop crying, my eyelids might stop hurting. I don’t think my heart will though.

A friend comforted me this week by saying – “Hello is easy – most goodbyes are not.” Too true. And, I set myself up for this heartache when I adopt the oldsters. But, it’s what is in my heart – even though I know it’ll get broken (time and time again) – I’ll do it again. I want to be part of that last chapter.

And, not yet being completely cried dry, I couldn’t sleep and was lying in bed last night counting the days I had him … after all, I am a numbers gal … and came up with 333 days. I thought there might be some significance to that number, so I looked it up. And while I’m not into numerology or angel numbers or those sorts of things – I am open to what might be.

Apparently, (the angel number) 333 means positivity, mental peace, and abundance in life. And, biblically … divine wholeness, completeness, and perfection. Sounds like B, right there! Why live another day if that is you in a nutshell? I kept reading. The ancient Greek philosopher, Pythagoras (remember him from math class?), considered the number 3 to be a near-perfect number. It depicts harmony, wisdom, and understanding. It was also the number of time – past, present, future; birth, life, death; beginning, middle, end. It is thought that people who encounter this number will grow in their relationships and in life. It is a sacred number in these realms. In numerology, it is a sign to embrace your creative abilities and express yourself authentically. So, I guess I’m doing that now … as he did.

Thank you, former owners, for allowing me to take care of B for the time I was given. He was complete joy for me. And thank you, B, for being such a silly, sweet, loving, goofball goober. I will always love you.

Run free, baby, run free.

October 12, 2023 ~ Thursday (Fall has arrived … it’s 48° and fall-chilly … finally!)

As a kid growing up, we did not have fish. No tetras or goldfish in aquariums or bowls on any tabletops. And, for that matter, not many dinners of fish sticks, halibut, trout, mackerel, or salmon either. We did have tuna salad and my mom served pickled herring (terrifying to me and always in some horrid mayo sauce) at their New Year’s Eve parties. And, I think we may have brought home a goldfish or two from some school carnival but those mysteriously disappeared within a week. But that was it.

My brother had scads of tadpoles (in various stages of froghood) in buckets and containers in the backyard, crayfish were in others, but fish were not our thing. One such tank was as best to be described as a small cattle trough. Where on earth did he get that thing? It must have weighed a ton! I imagine he got it out of my paternal grandfather’s basement – a haven to spiders, a scarier-than-hell dark storage area for us kids, a boundless treasure trove to my Grandpa. He was born in 1896 and was a quiet, scrappy man – always working – and he saved anything and everything … just in case he or someone should need some bit of whatever. And apparently, that tank was needed to house more tadpoles … but never fish.

We were not a fish family.

Except for Whitey.

When I was, I don’t know, five or six, I entered some “fishing derby” at the local mall. That sounds weird, I know. It was a newer shopping mall but one of those that has now come back into style with outside entrances and covered walkways. It was lovely and beautiful at the time and at one end was a big pond and a working mill waterwheel. What someone didn’t count on was that the fish they originally stocked the pond with would GROW and multiply and soon they were overrun with very large, very hungry “goldfish”. I have no idea what they were – koi seems improbable, but they looked like koi and were huge! But, that’s from a six-year-old’s perspective – and one who had very poor eyesight at that!

Anyway – in order to thin out the growing fish population, the shopping center had a “fishing day”. I think a person paid some nominal fee to enter the fray and one was given a fishing pole and some bait and whatever fish they caught they could take home. The fish were weighed and whoever got the weightiest fish got a prize. Except for the WHITE fish. For some reason – they were to stay in the pond.

So, there we were, I don’t remember anyone else being there except my dad and me. He got my pole ready (cuz I certainly wasn’t going to hurt any worm!) and I remember being so excited that I was going to catch a big goldfish and take it home. I figured I’d name it Goldy (doesn’t every kid?) and we’d live happily ever after – forever – or at least until I got married.

And, there I was, this dorky kid with sugar plum fairy pink metal cat-eyed glasses on my little face, filled with anticipation to nab my first real fish pet … and yep, I caught a white one! I think I must have started swearing with that catch! Maybe that’s where I get the “sailor salt” from?!

The officials came over and unhooked the fish and unceremoniously tossed him back into the pond and that was that.

Or so I thought.

Not long after the fishing day, my dad and I were back at the mall. Dad LOVED the Sears store! We were always in that store – in the tool section – which, by luck, was by the candy and hot nut counter. I’d troll the counter while my dad trolled the Craftsman tool section! I don’t recall either of us getting anything from either counter/area – but it was fun to go look! When I was older and had allowance/earnings money – I always got Dad a tool from Sears for Christmas! (And, I’d get some hot nuts for myself!)

Anyway – on one of these outings, my dad said let’s go take a look at the fish. So, happy little me was thrilled. We walked to the far end of the mall (the other end from Sears) to the pond and we saw a few fish – as in NOT MANY. So, we were looking and walking along the railing, and all of a sudden a white fish popped up from the surface! I’m sure he was hoping for some fish food or whatever people would throw down – but my dad said it was the fish I caught – coming to say hi to me! (It didn’t enter my little brain that since the white ones were thrown back that MOST of the fish in the pond were then white and that this was just some random white fish!) But, being impressionable and wanting that human-animal connection, I hopped on the “that’s my fish” story in the making. Of course, I named him Whitey … and we would go and visit the pond whenever we were there and of course, “Whitey” was always at the surface to greet us!

In the fall of 1958, the groundbreaking ceremony for this soon-to-be mall, on some 88 acres of farmland set aside for the Chicago area’s eighth shopping mall in the northwest suburb of Niles, took place. It was a big deal for this fledgling city. And my dad liked “big deals”. I remember him taking a group of us kids (his own plus neighbor kids) and walking (3 miles) to see the construction. I was really little and don’t remember being pulled in a wagon, so maybe he carried me some of the way? I don’t recall – I just remember being on some of those hills and feeling like we were the only ones in the great expanse! Probably how pioneers must have felt at their time. At the time it was all onion fields around us – so, we could walk over prairies and hills (and cut through farmland) to get to the site that eventually became subdivisions and strip malls. And, at that time, it was a beautiful wilderness expanse. Probably made my mother crazy that he traipsed us out there and back!

The open-air shopping center took two years to build and opened on October 13, 1960. (63 years ago tomorrow! Weird!) It was called Golf Mill (at the corner of Golf and Milwaukee) and someone thought it would be catchy to add a pond, some bridges, and a working waterwheel (hence the play on mill). There was also an office building structure that was supposed to resemble a golf ball (a play on golf) but I never thought it looked like one! The anchor store was Sears and the mall ended up having over 1 million leasable square feet! The place was huge for the time. One of the stores even had caged monkeys in it! Egad! It was a great place to walk on a snowy winter’s day – all open air and then you’d pop into a store and that rush of warm air could make you feel all cozy and melty inside. Then you’d go back out and the brisk air would sting your cheeks but it was okay because you knew another store was a few steps away and all the while the aroma of greasy burgers and fries permeated one end of the mall – thanks to the Woolworth’s dinette!

A few years later the pond and mill wheel went away. I can imagine it probably caused all sorts of legal, safety, and sanitary issues. Or maybe they just needed the space for more parking! A theater in the round was built at that end and a Millionaire’s Lounge (notorious mob/gangster hangout!) was added later. But, for the time it was there – it was a lovely little area to visit. The mall is still there and is being considered for a $440 million dollar renovation with ideas to bring back the mill pond.

This memory was sparked yesterday while at lunch with a good friend. She was telling me how animals are drawn to her daughter. When out in open water – the manta rays surround her. It sounded lovely. I always wanted that animal magnetism. I always fantasized about walking the woods and having all the wild animals coming to walk with me – kind of like a combo of Jeremiah Johnson and Snow White!

Anyway, RIP Whitey – all of you white fish in that pond – you made a little girl feel very special!

October 9, 2023 ~ Monday morning (Summer’s last hurrah this week – 80s before 50s!)

It goes without saying (but I’ll say it anyway) that there are a lot (as in a LOT) of bad things happening around the world and in this country these days. I looked through my news site last night and every news bit was awful … the Hamas/Israel/Gaza Strip siege/bombings – innocent lives going about their nightly rituals – snuffed out in rocket blasts that leveled so many buildings. Kidnappings/killings/the slaughtering of innocent people … the war between Russia and Ukraine – more innocent lives lost … FOR WHAT? What is going on?? This week ongoing political strife is rampant in our own country … continued court cases, the minority taking the majority hostage, the blind following of a disgusting human … it’s ridiculous (maddening, frustrating, and scary). And I, for one, can’t handle it. All this suffering is in the air I am breathing and it is absorbed by my soul. I am in the midst but soooo far removed. I know nothing of discomfort (first-hand) yet it is overwhelming at times to know that so many are suffering so greatly and here I am … just back from vacation and eating lobster/being carefree … witnessing their misery in the comfort of my cozy home. Life certainly isn’t fair. One of those things that I’ll never understand about life – the unfairness. And humanity – how can people be so evil … on so many levels?

So, here I am on this beautiful October, Monday morning, snug and cozy in my home. It’s to be Summer’s last hurrah this week with temps in the 80s for the next 3 days before Fall finally comes blasting in with a high of 50 and frost! CO does like dramatic changes!

In an effort to get my mind off “things” (as in world/country affairs) – I am going through my stack of mail left from while I was gone last week to the Northeast. I thought I’d go see some friends and leaf peep – but Mom Nature showed me no colors … well, maybe 5 trees from Boston up to and through ME, NH, VT, NY, NJ, PA, DE. It was nice to get away from everything while gone – but I could have done without the allergy-induced bronchitis that came home with me.

In any case – I’m sure that the news is a bombardment to you/your senses as well … so, here’s a little escape … something I wrote while at the airport … the first leg of my trip. Peace to you and yours.

******

It is 4:15 am (“my” time) but I took the red-eye to the East Coast and where I am, wherever I am, it is two hours later, 6:15. The people in this airport (Newark?) are WAY too peppy and cheerful for this time of day!

I am sitting, bleary-eyed and feeling gross and way too tired, at the gate for my connecting flight to Boston. I keep telling myself – by noon I’ll be eating lobster!

But what I’m stuffing into my mouth at this hour isn’t all bad – either! New Jersians apparently know how to eat – and drink – as I passed airport bakeries that would make anyone with a Danish or croissant fetish swoon (there are no/few bakeries in Denver – why have a bakery when you can have a Starbucks or a yogurt shop?). I chose the cheese Danish (over the almond croissant) and am NOT disappointed. Yum! I passed several other early morning eateries (this place puts Denver’s airport to shame! Well, most airports put Denver’s to shame!) – lox and bagels were the most common items listed on the menu boards. Astounding! The choices were plentiful and amazing (and not badly priced). And other than bakeries – there were bars. As in OPEN bars at 6:15 am local time! And they were gorgeous! I passed a wall of liquor bottles that gleamed and glistened (how is that possible in airport lighting?) which made me think of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. Dark and moody spaces, crystal glasses, amber liquids, good backlighting … they were beautiful spots! In any case, here I am – the sky is lightening out the window in front of my table – looks to be a nice day. How could it not be with cheese Danish at 4-6 am? Maybe I should go get a brandy!

I sit here wondering … whose brilliant idea was it to take a red-eye flight? Apparently – mine! It was either drive at 7 pm or 3 am … I opted for the red-eye thinking I could sleep on the flight. No such luck! I don’t like driving highways or driving in the dark – so, I left the house around 7 pm – for my flight at midnight – hoping to have some light on the way to the airport. It was dark by the time I hit the highway ramp. So much for good planning! And, egad, people in Denver drive like bats out of Hell – no matter what time of day or night! Slow down, people!

Our flight was full and I found myself seated next to two guys who were either seasoned travelers or escapees from some asylum. The guy next to me was wearing a bathrobe (as a coat) and proceeded to insert earplugs and don a sleep mask before I was even buckled in. The other guy was wearing a onesie that I can only describe as that belonging to a Teletubbie. Yeah – on airplanes or life in general – I’m a magnet for weirdos.

Try as I might over the next nearly four hours, the only thing that fell asleep was my arm. I keep telling myself that the 16-minute semi-conscious rest I got will surely carry me through my day of driving and sightseeing!

The flight wasn’t bad – compared to others in the past – other than the initial 15 minutes of taxiing. I began to wonder if we were going to drive all the way out here! I think we finally lifted off at the Kansas border. However, the night sky was beautiful and clear and the stars were plentiful (and so twinkly). The lights of the towns we flew over sparkled below us. I felt like Santa in his sleigh (sans the reindeer).

For those of you who don’t know me – I have dachshund/pug legs … yeah, yeah … short and squatty. No long, lean Golden Retriever legs on this body! How, with my short little stumps, could I not get comfortable? How does anyone who has an inch longer than a 29″ inseam fit on an airplane without their legs needing to fold up like origami? Comfort was not mine. I am also a realist … a logical thinker … and the mere happenstance of flying just does not make sense to this brain. I can be told til I’m blue in the face about how technically it is possible, blah blah blah … but my mind still screams out – we should not be up in the air! Needless to say, flying is not my favorite thing.

So, while up in the air, while trying to get comfortable and take my mind off of why we weren’t plummeting to earth instead of floating along (so to speak) … my mind wandered over to penises. (No, it’s not what you think!) And, yes, weird where the mind takes you! The house I live in now was the house my daughter lived in – which started out 20 years ago as Tim’s office space. While she lived in the house, Sam kept bully sticks on a shelf in the laundry room above the washer and dryer. (And, in case you don’t know what a bully stick is – someone in the butchering realm got really smart one day and instead of throwing away the bull penises, they dried them and began selling them as dog treats. VERY pricey and apparently, very tasty dog treats!) Delicacies come in many forms.

Anyway, while living in the house, Sam’s dog – Rhodie, would get her bully treats on a regular basis, waiting patiently in the laundry room for her mom to give them to her. Fast forward to me moving into the house and still, after 15 months, whenever Rhodie visits, I can find her in the laundry room – staring at the (empty) shelf – pining for penises.

Why was I thinking of that? I have NO idea. But those thoughts absorbed a good 14 seconds of my white-knuckled/sleep-deprived first flight to the East Coast.

And, here I am, my mind in vacation mode and being one leg closer to lobsters and the open roads of the Northeast. I hope it’s a good trip.

****

Coda: I drove 1700+ miles, saw five trees that had colored leaves/luxuriated in some beautiful country/had a good time with friends and family/drove on breathtaking, windy, back country roads as the only auto for miles/and ended up getting sick for two days from the lobster!

September 8, 2023 ~ Friday morning-ish (eating breakfast – this has been bubbling inside me for hours)

A little short story for you today.

******

It was a dark and stormy night …

If only.

Danielle always wrote better when it was cooler, during a rainstorm, or in the wee hours of the night. But she was on a deadline. Again. She stood in the back doorway, holding her empty coffee mug, and looked over at the heat waves shimmering off the black asphalt of the parking lot next door. That lot’s too close for comfort. Too hot for comfort! It’s too f’g hot. But then again – that had been her first thought every morning this summer. “Hottest on record” – climatologists said. “Hoax!” – said the non-believers.

“Jesus!”- she said aloud. At least no one had heard this outburst. She’d become very “religious” this summer. But purely (only) in a blasphemous way. It wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that she had murmured (or shouted) that name more often these past three months than a bunch of nuns. And not just a bunch, but a whole herd of nuns. Her aunt, Jaye, was a nun – what would she think of this language? Besides offending nuns, her language could probably make sailors blush – she’d been peppering it with swearing so much all summer. The cursing was worse when it was hot – and it was always hot. She thought she should probably control that … her cursing/not the heat … but, god damn it, it was September and STILL well over 90 degrees. When would it finally cool down? “Tomorrow,” the weatherman said. Yeah, right – always tomorrow.

Walking past the dog food bowl – she noticed that Frankie hadn’t eaten breakfast – again. Hmm … she hoped it was just the heat for him, too, and not his age or some health issue flaring up. She worried about this sweet oldster.

It had been a wasted day. Starting and stopping and deleting until her fingers were numb. She had nothing to show for her hours of sitting – except a derriere that was so asleep it was practically dreaming. Her laptop was great and so easy/efficient … but how she missed her old typewriter … her heavier than a steamship, maroon red, IBM Selectric II. She used to love the click-clack of the keys, the just-right pressure needed on them or she’d have a whole line of whatever letter she was last typing, the hum of the machine, the zip when pulling out the paper, and the crunch of crumpling up the not-so-good writing. She didn’t miss the reams of paper wasted – thrown basketball-style into the garbage can – but she missed the movement of it all. It had a certain dependable rhythm to it. A symphony of sound … a ballet of writing. Words seemed to flow more easily using it.

She sat down at her desk (aka the dining room table as using the desk in her office was akin to sitting in a sauna), sighing audibly. The dog would surely have looked her way if his hearing was acute. It wasn’t. Sighing again, she looked at the blank screen of her laptop and saw only her reflection – which reminded her of a quote from the movie, Chapter Two. It was written by the late, great Neil Simon – as a play and adapted into a movie starring Marsha Mason and James Caan (back in the late 1970s). The quote went something like … ‘Walter Mislansky looked in the mirror and saw what he feared most – Walter Mislansky.’ Dani liked the line/liked how it rolled off her tongue. Except she was not Neil Simon, nor Walter Mislansky … nor Marsha or James, for that matter. She was Danielle Ophelia Turner … acclaimed writer, best-selling novelist, and children’s lit award winner (if only in her own mind). As a child, she was called by her initials – DOT – which she hated. So, as soon as she could, she started asking to be called Dani. And here she was … a starving author with a looming deadline and an upset agent. Ugh – this is going nowhere! Focus!!!! Your name is going to be MUD, if you don’t get a move on! You have a book to write, woman! Stephen has given us an extension to the deadline (again) … get going! THINK!

Her inner critic/cheerleader was absent. Only nagging echoed in her head. The first deadline had come and gone. The second one also. Her agent said she needed to get the draft to him by the weekend or else. It was Thursday. She closed her eyes thinking that would clear the thoughts that were flying around her head like so many twisters of nonsensical snippets, book ideas, projects to do, letters to write … and that’s when IT popped up and was forefront and yelled out the loudest … do worms have ears? She shook her head and wondered if she was, indeed, having a stroke. What the hell is wrong with me??? Why am I thinking about worms and if they have ears? Dear God!

She picked up her coffee mug – thinking that perhaps by staring into it, it would magically fill up. But, it was still empty as she was too lazy to actually make coffee. It’s the heat, she thought. Maybe a trip to the local coffee shop would help spur me on and corral these thoughts. So, off she went. An hour later and $11 dollars poorer, she was back home with the dregs of a not-very-good iced coffee and a few telltale banana loaf crumbs on her shirt, and not a book idea in her head.

She looked at the dog, he blinked back. Sure, he was cute and tiny but there was something about him – she just wasn’t sure what it was. He was a recent “acquisition” … an orphaned 13-year-old in questionable shape. She’d only had him about a month. His owner had died – an old, eccentric man who had named the chihuahua Poe – after his favorite author – Edgar Allen. But, somewhere along the line of rescue homes and foster care, this little dog was renamed Frankie. Frankie or Poe – it didn’t really matter as the dog seemed deaf anyway. But, the family (who could not take him) said that their father always was carrying on about this special dog – about their great conversations, etc. Yeah, that owner was eccentric for sure! In any case, Dani had somehow wrangled this sweet, little nugget into her care, and yet as much as she talked to him – nary a word or comment back from the dog! Not one peep. Conversationalist my ass!

She stripped off her capris and took a deep sigh, stealing a glance back at the dog (laying across the chaise looking like one of those limp Dali watches) – acutely aware of the absurdity of what she was wearing. Was she looking at Frankie in concern or out of fear of being judged? I’m losing it! The dog doesn’t care what I’m wearing! She slowly sat down on the cool chair – only in a tank top and underwear – glad there was a cushion beneath her so her thighs wouldn’t stick to the wood. She realized that this had been her white-trash home uniform of choice this summer. But – hey, if you can’t be somewhat comfortable at home – where can you be? She looked at the thermostat … it read 88°. In the house. No wonder they were hot.

The house … was built to withstand the test of time … but not climate change. It holds the heat. Good back in the day but now? Nope. Sure, it slants – anyone would too if they were 112 years old. It was originally built in 1911, in what probably was a lovely little neighborhood, a block and a half from the downtown Main Street in this (now) historic town. The stumps of long-ago trees dot the neighborhood – massive cottonwoods once stood along with pines and spruce. Dani often wondered if a horse ever lived here. In the 1910s there were only 500,000 cars in the United States. It’s probable the original owners of this home didn’t have a car – but maybe they had a horse. There certainly would have been room in the backyard for one. But, maybe not. Who knows? There are only a few houses left in this area as more than not – they have been torn down and replaced by office buildings or duplexes, renovated into business spaces … or far too many parking lots. Dani knew that when she left this house it would also be one of those torn down and replaced. Sad to think about – this sweet little house – but the land is too valuable to keep it as a single/old/slanting/hotter-than-hell in the summer/colder-than-the-North Pole in the winter dwelling.

Dani stared at the white screen. Get a grip, girl! This is important. But nothing was forthcoming. Not even anything bad. Nothing.

She got up and paced – angling the fan “just so” towards her workstation and another one towards the dog (who wasn’t really moving about much) … checking the outflow of cool air from the window a/c unit (which was really not doing squat). She sat down on the chair in the corner and peeked through the closed blinds (better down than up when it was so hot) onto the still shimmering, too-close asphalt. NOTHING came to mind. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Garbage. The day turned into evening. She had done housework and scrubbed the not-a-speck-on-it range thinking that might ignite some brain cells. It did not. She stopped and started writing half a dozen times – deleting everything as soon as she typed. I’m toast – this is ridiculous. Why am I not coming up with anything?

Dani thought about making dinner. She decided on scrambled eggs for her and Frankie; that sounded good/easy and she knew he’d eat that. But not yet. She sat back in her chair – put her feet up on the one next to her and rolled her head towards where the dog lay, not sleeping anymore, just looking at her with those old, watery eyes. She called out to him, “My sweet pup, what should I do?” She had just turned her head back toward the screen when she heard the dog say, “Why don’t you start out with – “It was a dark and stormy night?”

August 30th ~ Wednesday (hot afternoon, semi-wilted/baked/fried)

Today I had an early morning dog-drop. 6:30 am to be exact. Early morning to some, normal morning time for others, pretty much “middle of the night” for me! Having finally fallen asleep around 4am – thanks to the dogs that either wanted to go out (B) or who barked (my daughter’s dog) on two occasions, and with such ferocity/jolting me awake – making me think that Freddy Krugger and his buds were advancing on the house and not just that she caught a whiff of a roaming raccoon or hunting housecat. There is some comfort in her “on guard” nighttime patterns but I am exhausted! Let’s just say it was a fitful night of semi-slumber.

So, there I was, at 6:15 this morning, up and at ’em, bewildered at how NICE it was out at that time of the morning. Birds were chirping, the dogs were playing, the breezes were practically singing. It was like being in a Disney movie sans animated bluebirds! Albeit one in which I was in my pajamas … but okay, a Disney movie nonetheless!

My being up and (almost) completely awake at that time, I assure you, happens once in a Blue Moon. And, how apropos that TONIGHT is said BLUE MOON!

So, what does that mean and what is a Blue Moon? Glad you asked – even if you didn’t!

The phrase “once in a Blue Moon” means that something is a fairly unusual (infrequent) event, one which doesn’t happen often enough to pinpoint when it might happen again.

Tonight is a Blue Moon – which is a second full moon during one month. We had a full moon on August 1st (also a supermoon), and tonight it will be a full supermoon again – but also called a Super Blue Moon because not only is it a supermoon but it’s the second one in a calendar month. There needs to be at least 29.5 days between full moons – so, February, even in a leap year, will never have a second, or Blue Moon.

A supermoon (so first called by astrologer Richard Nolle in 1979) is when the full moon is at the closest point of its orbit around the Earth. Tonight’s moon will be the closest full moon at roughly 222,043 from us on this planet. About 100 miles closer to us than the full supermoon earlier this month – so, it will seem impressively large and bright. There are typically three or four supermoons each year and they always happen in consecutive months. There will be another supermoon next month, in September.

But, still – go outside tonight and take a look – as the next time there will be a Super Blue Moon will be in 2037.

Some say that Blue Moons bring good luck. As for me – I think I agree as I might be up late into the night just gazing at that glowing orb … knowing I don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn for anything. That sounds like good luck to me! Maybe I’ll get up again that early, in 2037, as they say … once in a (Super) Blue Moon.

August, 29th, 2023 ~ Tuesday (before my coffee, a very pleasant 76°, and nicely quiet)

I could say it’s oddly quiet – but that might conjure up eeriness and disquiet. It’s the opposite of that – calm, sunny, a slightly cooler breeze is riffling up the dog’s fur as he sleeps, and the temp is in the mid-70s (which I feel we haven’t had in eons). I can hear a plane far off in the distance and the caw of a crow but other than those benign (and somewhat soothing sounds) – not a dog, not a train whistle, not a car horn. It is lovely. This quietude doesn’t come around very often here where I am amidst parking lots and humanity.

We had rain the last few nights – so welcome and so nice – and a lovely way to cool off the still, but waning, hot days of this summer. Having led a semi-vampiric lifestyle up in the NW for eight years, being cool and dark (forested and barely any sun), these last two summers have been HOT and SUNNY. This summer was better (more well-tolerated than last) but still – hot and sunny is HOT AND SUNNY when you are not used to either.

But, with the rain, there was the first hint of seasonal change. I stood in the doorway listening to the thunder and the steady downfall of drops but on the air, there was a different scent … one of wistfulness and decay and change. I could almost hear whispered, through the downpour, wait and see … it’s coming.

In the morning, yellow leaves littered my deck – greeting me under cooler breezes and more temperate air. Ahh … so this is what breathing again feels like?! I feel like I’ve been holding my breath all summer. Stuff with mom, stuff with the political scene (always so much angst), stuff with the kids and family and friends … life! Just stuff. I think my tolerance for all “stuff” goes down the tubes and out the window when the temperature rises. Now that (the end is in sight) cooler days are coming – my patience and tolerance are gaining in strength and nature. Good. I think I’ll need that going forward!

I’ve planned a trip for myself to visit the NE next month. I hope my timing is so that the paths and roadways are lined with trees in full autumnal splendor and littered with the leaves of same that have let go and flitted down to the ground. I am an Autumn person 100% … my absolute favorite time of the year and I am beyond thrilled that I can spend some of it in a place that makes my heart sing and my soul soar.

I plan on eating my weight (the ONE great thing about this semi-walrus body) in lobster and blueberry anything while in ME. I’ll toodle up the coast from Portland to Wiscasset – grab a lobster roll (my first of a few, I hope) – and end up at a lovely, Victorian BnB in Rockland. From there I’ll amble along up to Camden (have always wanted to see it) and then mosey on up (full of lobster/ocean-willing) to Freedom, home of The Lost Kitchen. I am practically a stalker of this woman who has transformed her life and chef skills into a destination, lottery-seating-only mill restaurant in the middle of nowhere. I’m not lucky enough to go to the restaurant, but at least I will SEE it.

And from there it’s visiting in the countrysides of NH and VT … hoping to see more leaves, more gorgeous trees, maybe a bear or moose … and then I’ll drop down to explore Delaware. I am thinking that might be my next landing place. We’ll see. Lots to take in.

In the meantime, I’ll endure another week of 90s heat and blazing sun … and get my yard ready for fall by corralling my yard toys and putting my extra tools and supplies into bins for the cellar over winter. I feel I’ve hardly been out there enjoying my lit tiki torches or abundance of yard candles – it’s been too hot, too buggy, or it’s just not been in the cards. And so it goes – right? A little bit of wistful regret is mixed in with this burgeoning anticipation of cooler days and colorful trees and all things acorns and pumpkins. I am not quite ready for rusts, ambers, and olive greens or cozy, textured sweaters … but it’s coming.

Next weekend we will hail in the start of another month and September will be upon us and with it, another season. I can feel summer quietly slipping away … going, going … almost gone.

August 3, 2023 ~ Thursday (HOT afternoon, chance (again) of thunderstorms)

Despite the forecast stating we were to be in the low 80s these past two days – we are in the high 80s/low 90s with humidity, instead. I’m sticky, grumpy, and hot. Again.

I fry in the sun if I’m outside … shrivel and melt, at best, even on the deck in the shade. So, what do I do when I need to get away from the heat? I stay inside … window a/c unit cranked up/blinds down/fans going full speed/dogs lying around like the limp watches in that Dali painting. The last thing I want to do is even think about my to-do list.

So, I travel.

I lie down, put my feet up. At my fingertips, on the chairside table, I have a glass of something iced … and I travel my afternoon away.

Yesterday, after some too-hot errand running, I came home and went on a Seabourn cruise – where I spent some time in the cool, clear, aqua waters of the Caribbean – indulging in a floating champagne and caviar bar – a mere few flutter kicks from a private beach. It was exquisite.

I could have gone to Cairo next – but it sounded too hot/too dusty. So, instead, I opted for Menorca, Spain … where I sat, under a spreading palm, on the terrace at Santa Ponsa, a luxuriously restored 17th-century farmhouse hotel a few miles from the island’s southeastern coast, and sighed and lingered. This was NICE! I watched two parrot-like birds with tangerine breasts and lime green backs coo to one another. Love birds. How sweet. And NOT the love birds from the movie The Birds as Tippi Hedren was not in sight. Good thing – as we all know how that went. Looking beyond the birds and down across the stone walkways into the sunken terraced gardens, I could see the orange, lemon, fig, and pomegranate trees – their leaves fluttering in the breezes. Bliss.

I could have followed that loveliness by boarding a luxury, private jet for a tour around the world … but I had to be home soon to feed the dogs.

So, next, I opted not for Switzerland, where a friend of mine is currently traversing the Alps (ala Maria von Trapp), nor for the lobster on the Holland America cruise lines served with a blush wine so perfectly delicate, I was sure it would be just kissing my lips. I didn’t go to Tel Aviv, Amelia Island, the Channel Islands National Park, or the Amalfi Coast. I also didn’t opt for the fjords of Norway, the untouched, pristine beaches of Bahrain, or to go losing myself in Istanbul’s palaces, mosques, museums, or Grand Bazaar. Though I could have, I also decided to forego animal refuges and resorts in Africa – missing out on seeing Victoria Falls as well as fat, watery hippos grazing at twilight.

Instead, I walked in my son’s recent footsteps and lost myself in the majestic lakes, lava-spewing volcanoes, and unparalleled beauty of Guatemala. I spent a lovely piece of time in Antigua, the capital, taking in its food and art scenes, enjoying dinner at one of the many exquisite restaurants … grilled snapper and purple cabbage floating in a broth so sinful, if he knew about it, the Pope would have blushed. All the while I breathed in the fragrant air while soaking up the idyllic beauty of the surrounding landscape.

After that, I took a boat ride across Lake Atetlán, passing Mayan villages that dotted the shoreline, with the breezes whipping my hair and the water’s surface glittering like a million diamonds in the waning sunlight. The jungle and the lavish estates seemed to call my name but, they would have to wait for another day as I was off to watch the volcano and its evening display. I can tell you – climbing the summit to see that was grueling but worth it!

Anyway, I had quite the few hours. What a trip! All those places and delights, and more to come … and all from the comfort of my sage green living room chaise. If you’d like to roam the world, opt for a subscription to Travel + Leisure magazine. No passport required.

July 2nd, 2023 ~ Sunday night (68° at nearly midnight/tomorrow is to be warmer – hello dog days of summer!)

Nearly three years ago – at the tail end of the “dog days of summer” (the hot period of summer between July 3 – August 11, which the ancients so named due to the intense heat they believed was caused by the brightest star – Sirius/the dog star – rising and setting with the sun), a tiny little chihuahua walked her way into my life and took up residence in my heart. I named her Bea. My little wandering ancient pup came to me after someone cast her aside, or dropped off in the middle of town – knowing someone would scoop her up – the casualty of a domestic squabble, or who merely walked out the door – the owner none the wiser. She was also known as Aunt Bea … or quite simply, Baby. She was a lovely, 21-year-old, hedgehog of a dog who left us earlier this spring. I know she’s out there romping amongst the clouds with all my other baby darlings that have gone ahead over that bridge.

And, there will be yet another one joining that group of mine – but hopefully not for a long while. Yesterday, a 13-year-old, deaf, 7-pound, rust-colored, fox-eared and doe-eyed chihuahua traveled with me to his forever home. Here. His owner passed and before securing his care, that man’s grown children left this sweet morsel of a dog – alone – in their father’s home for six weeks – coming, only sporadically, to refill his water and food dishes. Poor Frankie!

I originally went onto the chihuahua rescue site last week … just to “look”. (A dangerous thing to do as we all know how that turns out!) I filled out an app and then looked at the available dogs. None tugged at the ol’ heartstrings on the first page. Halfway down the second page, I saw … HIM. A white-faced, big-eared, toothless sweetheart with watery seal eyes … and my heart melted. If it had been made out of chocolate, I (and my computer) would have been a gooey mess. It was his eyes that got me! But then I found out about his back story and well, that clinched the deal! After a few back and forths (another family had requested him first – and then backed out) … I was next in line to “see” him. So, I went up north yesterday to visit with this pooch. The dog foster mom was delightful and the minute she waved his little paw at me through the front window, I knew I wasn’t just coming to “see” him. He was mine. I was his. However that works.

So, old, sweet Frankie (I like to think his whole name is Franklin – he could fit into that!) came back with me – to his last home. After such trauma and displacement, I was a little worried about how he’d react in another new place but, Mr. B gave him a fine howdy/homey welcome and that was that! He ate some dinner, found all five dog beds, walked the yard with me, and then promptly conked out on my bed and slept until 9 am. I think he did just fine! He is sweet, cute, almost charming … and I already can’t imagine my life without him. He is so, completely home … enjoying the last chapter of his doggy life in the land of the old/home of the dog treats.

And, speaking of Frank/lin and dogs/dog days … cue the segue …

Around this date, 247 years ago (yes, 1776), 56 men gathered to sign the Declaration of Independence – a document that we now celebrate by roasting hot dogs, setting our yards on fire, and blasting off fingers. The oldest delegate (inventor, astronomer, scientist, printer, and fellow dog-lover) to sign this document was another Frank (of sorts) … my ancestor, Benjamin Franklin. He was 70 years old at the time of the signing, born January 17, 1706, in Boston, MA, and went on to be one of our nation’s most famous countrymen. He wore oval-shaped glasses (as did I in the 7th grade causing my sister to tease me by calling me, “Ben”. Lovely.) and was notably known for his many inventions (bifocals, the lightning rod, and swim fins amongst them), his scientific discoveries, his writings, and his dedication to this country (in many ways). He was the founder of the first library and the first fire department, as well as the University of PA. He was the only founding father that signed all four key documents that led to the formation of this country … the Declaration of Independence (which he also helped draft) in 1776, the Treaty of Alliance with France in 1778, the peace treaty with Great Britain in 1783, and the United States Constitution in 1787. He believed in a democratic form of government, civic virtue, political activism, and enlightened thinking based on science and reason. (Sounds good!) He had three children, adored his son’s Newfoundland dog, had two pet squirrels, and lived to be 84.

And oddly, that is the age of my Frankie, now. Hmmm … I’m going to pretend that cosmically, there is a full-circle connection here with the full moon and the dog star, the 4th, our lineage, and our shared love of dogs.

Thanks Uncle Ben for your help in securing our democracy … and thanks little Frankie for bringing new doggy joy into my life.

June 22, 2023 ~ Thursday (torrential rains at the moment/marble-sized hail/craziness!)

Happy Solstice and Happy Summer! It’s been a while – guess the lobster was vacationing – off at a clam bake or something. Actually, the lobster was on vacation and then brought back Covid as a souvenir, and well, with everything else … time escaped … and here I am, two months after my last post.

It’s still raining, but the hail and sheets of rain have gone eastward – on their merry way to squash other gardens and make many a windshield into crackle-glass. Glad that was not my story today. Just a LOT of water! It might take my raised garden beds through the weekend to dry out. Guess I don’t have to get the hose out later!

Unfortunately, the storm whacked out the alarm system across the street and that has been going off now for about 20 minutes and the dogs are going CRAZY! Good times.

So, there I was, this morning, planning on picking up Roving Theodore from the airport (in a bit) and I got a text from him informing me that somehow he put “Ted” on his plane ticket from Colombia. No problem except that is not the name on his ID nor his legal name … and, well, airlines won’t let you check in, much less board, if your ID has one name and your ticket, another. They are kind of picky that way. So – instead of getting in this afternoon – he’s getting in after midnight – if all goes well with flights, connections, luggage, Ubers (cuz I’m not driving at midnight!), etc. Being an international flight – it took some doing. Oh, traveling is such fun!

So, it all got me thinking … with all his traveling – how did that happen? Easily. He travels a LOT … as in more than most of my readers and me – combined. And yet – there’s that easily done human error of mixing up your “going by” name and your legal name. It made me wonder how often that happens and what a headache it is, not only for the airlines but for those who inadvertently make one slight human error and then are displaced – aren’t able to board that flight and are stuck – financially as well as location-wise – until they can get things figured out and changed.

I’ve done this myself as I ALWAYS go by Les. Hardly anyone calls me Leslie (except for at Starbucks cuz it’s on my card!) and my sister and mom. NO ONE else calls me Leslie and if someone does – I know they don’t know me. Everyone in my family has had this issue or goes by a name that is not their legal name. So many of us have nicknames … or derivatives of our given names … or shortened names of that legal moniker.

It got me thinking of the names that you shorten … like Timothy to Tim … Leslie to Les … Samantha to Sam … but if you are Susan, you could have multiple options … you could be Suzy, Suzz, Sue, Susie, or even something else. Barbara could be Barb, Barbie, or Babs. Jennifer could be Jenny, Jenna, or Jen. And, if you are Edward, you could be Ed, Eddie, Ted, Ned, Ward, or even Woody.

These shortened names/nicknames are called a hypocorism … which means a pet name, nickname, or term of endearment — often a shortened form of a word or of the name itself.

So many names have other derivations! Think about it. It took me seconds to think of all the names that have “other” name possibilities to them … Margaret can be Maggie, Mags, Madge, Marge, or even Peggy. John can turn into Johnny but also Jack, Jay, or Zane. If you are an Elizabeth, you could be known as Liz, Lizzie, Liza, Lisbeth, Beth, Betsy, Bess, or Betty!

The most common names in 1950 were James, Michael, Linda, and Mary. Okay, so 73 years ago, four names could be used, but more than 15 people could all be called something different yet have the same legal name! It expands out to James as Jim, Jimmy, Jamie … Michael as Mike, Mikey, Mick … Linda as Linds, Lin, or Lynn … and Mary as Mare, Maisey, May, or even Polly. Wild!

But, what are the names that just stand on their own? They are probably mono-syllabic … and perhaps rare? How about Quinn … Owen … Ari … I wonder how many there are?! It’s hard to come up with more than a dozen (in my brain) that do not have some form of nickname or shortened version associated with them.

In any case, unless your name is Ace or Ada or some other stand-alone name, the next time you are making your airplane reservations, check your name on your ticket a few times before you complete your sale to make sure you put down the one that the airline likes – your legal name!

Go have a good day – yeah you – whatever your name is!

April 15, 2023 ~ Saturday (tax day in America … a sunny, cool, spring day – at least it’s not snowing!)

I need to do some things – like go to Home Depot and get more mulch and soil (I emptied 65 bags of such on my front yard two days ago – I am so sore, even my toes hurt!) … treat myself to a Starbucks cuz I’ve got a freebie coming my way … do some laundry.

You know – important stuff.

But, I can’t seem to get my motivation sparked in the slightest. One of those days. And if the lack of motivation, complete body soreness, and an out-of-nowhere sinus headache were not enough … I’ve had this damn song stuck in my head since … whenever. Long enough.

(And – WARNING – you might have these songs stuck in your head after reading this post!)

What is it with some songs? You hear them – and I’m talking about even some you first heard 50 some years ago – and there you are innocently brushing your teeth one morning or just about to doze off to dreamland one night and … BAM! … “Afternoon Delight” is playing (loudly) in your head! Where the hell did that come from?

I don’t consider myself a musical person. I don’t play anything other than the radio. I can’t hold a tune – not even in the car or shower. But, here I am – stuffed with thousands of songs that insidiously play over and over again on that endless reel in my brain and make me half crazy. Where are those things stored? Is there a special room in the brain for commercial jingles and bad song lyrics?

There is a radio station I listen to, only while driving, here in Denver – Legends 95.3 FM – that plays oldies. And, I’m talking oldies to ME, which are mostly songs from the ’60s and ’70s … but then a few other older oldies are thrown in from time to time. And there is even a show dedicated to “one-hit wonders”. I have a love-hate relationship with this station.

I love the songs they play – well, most of them. They fill me with nostalgia and great memories and I know almost all of the words to these songs. I find this last bit amazing because if I want to sing a song if I’m nervous or in the shower … I can’t think of ANY song to sing and if I do, it’s something that I don’t really know the lyrics to and then it is even more pitifully awful. Like Neil Diamond’s “Forever in Blue Jeans” – I thought it was about some hip pastor … a reverend in blue jeans! Duh! But – when the radio is on – I’m belting out the lyrics as if I wrote them all myself yesterday! Why is that?

Anyway – I’m sick of songs sticking in my head. I’d like a song in my heart – but not ones stuck in my head (endlessly)!

And this happening is actually very common. I thought it might be some sort of syndrome but such an occurrence is actually known as an “earworm” – which, in itself, sounds supremely nasty but it’s not an actual parasite but just a very common thing and happens mostly with popular songs or tunes. It’s also known as Involuntary Musical Imagery (which sounds much better than an earworm) and it’s said that people with obsessive-compulsive disorder, who have high sensitivity or have just plain ol’ good memories are subject to this. Oh, lucky me – three for three!

This past week I did a lot of driving around. So – as a ride-along, I flip on my trusty companion radio and take a trip to Tune Town. The first day I got in the car and turned on the radio (set to Legends) and what assaulted my hearing organs? That utterly horrible song about some jerk who left the cake out in the rain! Seriously (and I’m sorry because now you’ll be singing that song for weeks) – it was an awful song. Was then – is even worse now! Jimmy Webb, the lyricist of that song should have been banned from writing anything else – ever. Why? Why write a stupid song like that? And, of course, it is one of those that haunt me and sticks in my brain for days and days and weeks on end.

The next day I got in the car, not thinking too much about “MacArthur Park” and that stupid cake in the rain anymore, and what came on first? “Gitarzan”! OMG – seriously? You know that one – it’s Gitarzan – he’s a guitar man – he hangs by his knees as he swings from the trees without a trapeze – in his bvd’s ... THANKS, Ray Stevens! Yeah, thanks for NOTHING except a pounding headache and these stupid lyrics that have been stuck in my brain since 1969. Seriously, 54 years of that. Horrors. And the worst of that is, I can sing all the parts and all of the voices, including the chimp’s, during that song – belting it out like I’m Whitney or Babs!

Later that day Marilyn McCoo was lamenting about Bill and her wedding bell blues – oh, she loved him so … and I was thinking I lucked out with that one but the very next song was “My Sharona”. WHY???? Was I being punished for something? Of course, then my brain linked that song to Weird Al’s rendition of it as “My Bologna” and … just OY!

Some days I really think I need to switch to talk radio!