We have mice. Last night Dally stood for a long time at the refrigerator, her prick-ears pushed up and forward as far as they could go. She peered into the crack in between the fridge and counter for five minutes. I walked by and she didn't even note that I was about to get into her favourite food storage cupboard. Confused, I frowned at her.
"She's been doing that lately," Jeff said, noting my look as he sat back from his studies.
"For how long?"
"Two days."
I closed the cupboard and went to look between the fridge and the wall. Nothing. Dally was still standing there, only now she orbited around the side and front.
"I already looked. Nothing there that I could see," Jeff said, coming over.
I called Shelby over to see if she would react. Both dogs thought then that they were about to get a treat, so they started wagging their tails and getting excited. I tried to listen behind the fridge, but at that moment the motor came on and drowned out any sound.
"Drat," I said, and started getting ready for bed.
This morning Jeff stoped by while I worked on my PowerPoint presentation. He looked worried and pretrubed, all at once. "I saw it," he said. "A little brown mouse scurried across the floor."
"The kitchen floor?"
"Yes."
"Great," I said, rolling my eyes to the ceiling. "Now we have to worry about the hantavirus."
"I wanted to know how you felt about... mice traps." Jeff murmured, nervously peering into my eyes.
"Get 'em. Just not the stickum sheets; the ones that snap and break the neck. I don't want them to suffer." I shuddered, thinking of how many stick sheets I'd sold while working at Pamida. Those trap mice to a fly paper-like sheet until they die of thirst. Far too long.
"Right," Jeff said, heading out the door.
Oh, the joys of living out in the country.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
So Embarassing
Miss California, already infamous for her stance on homosexual rights, has now become the face for the ultra-conservative National Organization for Marriage, which is out to "protect" traditional marriage, i.e. between a man and woman.
While everyone in this country is protected under free speech, (at least officially,) the way this woman communicates is what raises my ire. She speaks only in rote, repeating quotes she's heard during her years as a conservative in church. She roots her opinions in misinformation, stating that homosexuality is a choice and that gay marriage attacks traditional marriage. I've read little to no original ideas from this woman; in short, she's just a very pretty parrot.
So embarrassing. If you're going to speak in staunchly opposite terms you should at least do so gloriously and with your own thoughts on a matter. Essentially, because of her background, she's naught more than a well-groomed poodle with a soap box.
I am embarrassed for all women of intellect. Oy.
All that said, when it comes to marriage I think the word itself should be left in the Church or Synagogue or forest Circle. For the rest of the process–the legal side—I believe that everyone should be equal with a civil union. That way secular heterosexuals could be joined without religious ties if they wanted, and homosexuals could cement their legal bond to allow for easier adoptions, parental rights, and their loved one into hospital ward if an accident occurs. This part of marriage should be a civil union for everyone. Leave an ceremonial marriage up to spiritual or philosophical beliefs.
Speaking of equality: Kudos are due for actress Kelly McGillis this week, for coming to terms with herself and enjoying the calm that goes with knowing who you are.
While everyone in this country is protected under free speech, (at least officially,) the way this woman communicates is what raises my ire. She speaks only in rote, repeating quotes she's heard during her years as a conservative in church. She roots her opinions in misinformation, stating that homosexuality is a choice and that gay marriage attacks traditional marriage. I've read little to no original ideas from this woman; in short, she's just a very pretty parrot.
So embarrassing. If you're going to speak in staunchly opposite terms you should at least do so gloriously and with your own thoughts on a matter. Essentially, because of her background, she's naught more than a well-groomed poodle with a soap box.
I am embarrassed for all women of intellect. Oy.
All that said, when it comes to marriage I think the word itself should be left in the Church or Synagogue or forest Circle. For the rest of the process–the legal side—I believe that everyone should be equal with a civil union. That way secular heterosexuals could be joined without religious ties if they wanted, and homosexuals could cement their legal bond to allow for easier adoptions, parental rights, and their loved one into hospital ward if an accident occurs. This part of marriage should be a civil union for everyone. Leave an ceremonial marriage up to spiritual or philosophical beliefs.
Speaking of equality: Kudos are due for actress Kelly McGillis this week, for coming to terms with herself and enjoying the calm that goes with knowing who you are.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Baby Mine
My cousin K., whom I think of as a sister, will have her first child in November with her wonderful husband P. at her side. I'm going to be a Tía!*
I am happily already in the "bragging auntie" mode. I got a taste of this with our friend K.B., who lives here in Wyoming. Her two little ones have primed my mother, sister and I for infants and children, and indeed, we also think of them as part of our family. I am especially enamored of her infant son C., who has the sweetest disposition of any infant I have ever met. Her daughter K., who is nearly two, is a fun little pistol who "taught" me how to properly dye Easter eggs this month. Proper little Georgia O'Keefe, that one!
With the first little one of my immediate family on the way I am fascinated by modes of parenting. I recall my mother being pregnant with my sister when I was two, and her going into labor while over for lunch at my grandmother's trailer in Bellflower, California. My father was temporarily MIA, so as we geared up to take my mother to the hospital I remember proudly touching her knees when she moaned through an early labor contraction. I also remember screaming in indignation when my father did show up and I could only tag along at a later hour. Drat.
My mother used cloth diapers for both my sister and I. I remember her washing the graying squares of cloth and hanging them out to dry in the warm northern California wind. I remember her boiling glass bottles, and boiling peas to mash for my sister's supper or taking a Gerber jar out of the fridge. My mother parented in mostly a "natural" way, part out of personal belief, part out of dire economic necessity. Today she might be referred to as "semi granola."
For my part, I weaned myself off of nursing before I was a year old, refused to drink formula, and gummed through my first solid foods: fried sausage and French vanilla ice cream one morning at my great-grandmother's tidy apartment. I drank cow milk, ate mashed vegetables or finely sliced meats. When my sister came along my mother allowed her to follow the trail my mother and I had blazed. In part, I think my mother was semi-granola because her eldest daughter was precocious and she was tired, so she just let the near-three-year-old handle part of the parental duties. Like my little friend K., I "taught" my mother how to take care of my sister Beth.
It led to a much closer bond between my sister and I. It also meant that her speech was delayed a little because I translated her baby talk and obscure sounds into the English language. Today I feel more than a little sheepish.
Since I myself had infant dreams last night, in which I carried my young son on my hip as we hiked through the mist of a waterfall, I woke up with a bit of sadness and anticipation for the coming years. I am sad that this son was nothing more than a dream, but I look forward to the real sons and daughters and nieces and nephews who come into my life.
For fun, I went to one of those parental sites and took the entertainment quiz for parenting style. What I got was a near copy of how my mother raised my sister and I:
"You lean more toward Attachment Parenting, natural births, homepathic remedies, and living green! You tend to question modern medicine and mainstream parenting. You tend to delay vaccines or use an alternate schedule. You aren't bothered by the fact that people tend to question your parenting style. You feel strongly about the way you're raising your kids. You believe that it's our duty to make the earth a better place for our children by being more eco-friendly. You buy organic foods whenever you can and you use cloth diapers or seriously considered it. You've also considered homeschooling.
When people see you with your baby you're usually wearing her in a sling or wrap. You tell new moms who complain about lack of sleep to try co-sleeping with baby and let them know how much you loved co-sleeping. You believe in breastfeeding and baby led weaning, but to a point. And you'll nurse in public but modesty is important to you.
You aren't afraid to disagree with your Dr about delaying solids or vaccines. You don't like to let your baby cry and cry-it-out methods make you cringe. However, if nothing else is working you are willing to try it once the baby reaches a certain age. You read different books about parenting and take what you feel will work for you and your family. You tend to believe in trusting your instincts when it comes to raising your kids."
Amen, sistahs.
*"aunt" in Spanish
I am happily already in the "bragging auntie" mode. I got a taste of this with our friend K.B., who lives here in Wyoming. Her two little ones have primed my mother, sister and I for infants and children, and indeed, we also think of them as part of our family. I am especially enamored of her infant son C., who has the sweetest disposition of any infant I have ever met. Her daughter K., who is nearly two, is a fun little pistol who "taught" me how to properly dye Easter eggs this month. Proper little Georgia O'Keefe, that one!
With the first little one of my immediate family on the way I am fascinated by modes of parenting. I recall my mother being pregnant with my sister when I was two, and her going into labor while over for lunch at my grandmother's trailer in Bellflower, California. My father was temporarily MIA, so as we geared up to take my mother to the hospital I remember proudly touching her knees when she moaned through an early labor contraction. I also remember screaming in indignation when my father did show up and I could only tag along at a later hour. Drat.
My mother used cloth diapers for both my sister and I. I remember her washing the graying squares of cloth and hanging them out to dry in the warm northern California wind. I remember her boiling glass bottles, and boiling peas to mash for my sister's supper or taking a Gerber jar out of the fridge. My mother parented in mostly a "natural" way, part out of personal belief, part out of dire economic necessity. Today she might be referred to as "semi granola."
For my part, I weaned myself off of nursing before I was a year old, refused to drink formula, and gummed through my first solid foods: fried sausage and French vanilla ice cream one morning at my great-grandmother's tidy apartment. I drank cow milk, ate mashed vegetables or finely sliced meats. When my sister came along my mother allowed her to follow the trail my mother and I had blazed. In part, I think my mother was semi-granola because her eldest daughter was precocious and she was tired, so she just let the near-three-year-old handle part of the parental duties. Like my little friend K., I "taught" my mother how to take care of my sister Beth.
It led to a much closer bond between my sister and I. It also meant that her speech was delayed a little because I translated her baby talk and obscure sounds into the English language. Today I feel more than a little sheepish.
Since I myself had infant dreams last night, in which I carried my young son on my hip as we hiked through the mist of a waterfall, I woke up with a bit of sadness and anticipation for the coming years. I am sad that this son was nothing more than a dream, but I look forward to the real sons and daughters and nieces and nephews who come into my life.
For fun, I went to one of those parental sites and took the entertainment quiz for parenting style. What I got was a near copy of how my mother raised my sister and I:
"You lean more toward Attachment Parenting, natural births, homepathic remedies, and living green! You tend to question modern medicine and mainstream parenting. You tend to delay vaccines or use an alternate schedule. You aren't bothered by the fact that people tend to question your parenting style. You feel strongly about the way you're raising your kids. You believe that it's our duty to make the earth a better place for our children by being more eco-friendly. You buy organic foods whenever you can and you use cloth diapers or seriously considered it. You've also considered homeschooling.
When people see you with your baby you're usually wearing her in a sling or wrap. You tell new moms who complain about lack of sleep to try co-sleeping with baby and let them know how much you loved co-sleeping. You believe in breastfeeding and baby led weaning, but to a point. And you'll nurse in public but modesty is important to you.
You aren't afraid to disagree with your Dr about delaying solids or vaccines. You don't like to let your baby cry and cry-it-out methods make you cringe. However, if nothing else is working you are willing to try it once the baby reaches a certain age. You read different books about parenting and take what you feel will work for you and your family. You tend to believe in trusting your instincts when it comes to raising your kids."
Amen, sistahs.
*"aunt" in Spanish
Monday, April 27, 2009
Tongue Drum
Tongue drum, courtesy of acousticopia.comLast time Jeff and I ventured up to Red Lodge we stopped in a hoity toity furniture store to browse. (Red Lodge is half kitchy quaint, half hoity toit. It's both a tourist/retirement town and a place where farmers and the declining families of old coal mine backers live.) As we browsed about I found this box with strange spoon shapes cut into its lid. Noting a small leather-head mallet, I looked around to make sure that the clerk had gone, and tapped at the spoons.
A warm, glowing sound emanated from the box, sounding like a cross between a gong and a woodwind. Warm as copper, as smooth as water.
"Oooh," I said, looking at Jeff with huge eyes. "That's nice."
What I found was a tongue drum. It's a drum with a long history, played in Africa, Asia, and South America. It's close cousin is the mbira, the gourd-shaped instruments with little metal tongs that are strummed with the fingers. I have always loved drums, drawn to these particular instruments because of their earthy song. The tongue drum produces some of the earthiest notes with the most ethereal tones.
Some of my favorite tongue drum videos:
Tongue Drum (just try not to dance like a goddess about a fire to this one!)
I so need to get one, yes indeed.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Missing Spring
This is why I miss spring. Photos are from a trip to the Pryor Mountains to view a wild mustang herd in June of 2007. It was a lovely day, with visits to alpine meadows, the herd, and an ice cave. My sister and I loved the wildflowers and green grass with the red soil peeking out from underneath; it reminded us very strongly of where we grew up in northern California.
Bear balm in the Montana wind.
Seasonal spring; the mountains are full of caves and underground lakes.
Fireweed basking in the sun
Desert lily and wild juniper.
Indian paintbrush, Wyoming's state flower, and some sort of artemisa.
Bear balm in the Montana wind.
Seasonal spring; the mountains are full of caves and underground lakes.
Fireweed basking in the sun
Desert lily and wild juniper.
Indian paintbrush, Wyoming's state flower, and some sort of artemisa.Adagio for Teas
Temmoku tea bowl, Song Dynasty, courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of ArtWhen I was younger I thrived off of Safeway Select brand cola. The closest generic taste to genuine Coca Cola, it was luscious, plentiful, and cheap. I would often come home from high school, pop open an off-red can and nurse that until it turned warm and stale. Then around age 19 I developed a more sophisticated palate and evolved to sipping Lipton black tea. I had it in my mind that there was something sophisticated about tea, the singing kettle, the delicacy of my mother's white tea cups.
At a very young age I became fascinated with the American Revolution and remembered that tea played as a major factor in the war for independence. That carried over to my young adulthood, and when my grandmother asked me if I preferred tea or coffee one morning when she visited, I tilted my chin toward the ceiling and said in the most prim voice I could muster: "Tea, of course."
She sunbeamed a smile and went about preparing a pot; my grandmother is a globe trotter and had visited England earlier that year, where she learned how to make a "proper" cup of English tea.
I sat down at the table, my grandmother giving me a white cup full of something that smelled strange. I frowned and sniffed at the steam coming off the tea. This was no Lipton. When I took a sip of the heady black tea I tasted for the first time the fire of bergamot, combined with a black burn. I later learned that this was Earl Grey, one of the most famous varieties of black tea in the world. Suddenly hearing Captain Picard ordering: "Tea, Earl Grey, hot," all those years on the starship Enterprise made sense; I was hooked on tea for life.
As my palate grew I found myself heading into wide arcs where I could not get enough of one flavor for long periods of time. Metallic oolong, smoky yunnan bo nay, woody darjeeling (the exact tea the colonists threw into Boston Harbor), and Earl Gray all occupied my favourites shelf from time to time. I had friends with coastal access to Asian markets sending me supplies in Lipton-exotic Wyoming. Later, I discovered herbal teas, like choco-mint and chamomile, lemon grass and ginger being my favourites.
My mother recently gifted me with a tea press from Adagio, along with access to the several sampler sets of teas she purchased. She recommends the peppermint, while Jeff recommends the chocomint and I the foxtrot. They also have the Zodiac Series of teas in pretty tins, which blends teas according to your sun sign, if you believe in such things. My mother loves her Libra blend. I look forward to trying Virgo, which combines "white peony, chamomile and lemon grass," some of my favourite tastes.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
In Memoriam
In memory of Bea Arthur, who passed away this morning. Here's to a wonderful, hilarious, ground-breaking woman with an earthy voice, metal wit, and warm energy. You will be missed, you sassy lady.Ogres Are Like Onions
Wyoming celebrates Earth Day and Arbor Day combined into one happy mish-mash of events. Yesterday my mother went to the celebration downtown and got an armful of free plants: mock orange, lilac, crab apple, and more. She also got a pocketful of Walla Walla onions for Jeff and I, as the trailer is on someone else's land and trees or shrubs are greedily claimed by the landlords.
My mother said it was heartening to see so many people at The Commons to claim free trees and shrubs; our friend Kate was there, walking out with a double armload of lilacs to make a windbreak on her property. She also observed many people asking about drought-friendly gardening. There were several free booklets about how to plant and water most effectively for Wyoming's harsh environment. With both desert drought and extreme winters, plants need to have roots of iron to thrive here.
With people becoming more enviornmentally conscious and the economy being what it is, many in town are cutting down on lawns and erecting drought or vegetable gardens instead. Rather amusing, as some of the hardcore Republicans, who were once against such conservation as a radical liberal idea, are merrily making gardens of their own.
I am at a loss for the Right's attitude against conservatism at times. Are not Republicans for conservative measures in all walks of life? I'm more surprised that they are not the original tree huggers, if they believe in saving money and resources.
(By the by, if anyone is curious, I consider myself a liberal Republican or a conservative Liberal. Riddle me that!)
Now we have a garden ready for chilis, pasta sauces, and baking. I cannot wait for the plants to become a little more strong and for the warmth of spring to return.
My mother said it was heartening to see so many people at The Commons to claim free trees and shrubs; our friend Kate was there, walking out with a double armload of lilacs to make a windbreak on her property. She also observed many people asking about drought-friendly gardening. There were several free booklets about how to plant and water most effectively for Wyoming's harsh environment. With both desert drought and extreme winters, plants need to have roots of iron to thrive here.
With people becoming more enviornmentally conscious and the economy being what it is, many in town are cutting down on lawns and erecting drought or vegetable gardens instead. Rather amusing, as some of the hardcore Republicans, who were once against such conservation as a radical liberal idea, are merrily making gardens of their own.
I am at a loss for the Right's attitude against conservatism at times. Are not Republicans for conservative measures in all walks of life? I'm more surprised that they are not the original tree huggers, if they believe in saving money and resources.
(By the by, if anyone is curious, I consider myself a liberal Republican or a conservative Liberal. Riddle me that!)
Now we have a garden ready for chilis, pasta sauces, and baking. I cannot wait for the plants to become a little more strong and for the warmth of spring to return.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Basilcicles
For the past few days our corner of Wyoming experienced a warm front of 80° F (26.6° C). Usually warm fronts in the spring mean that summer is on its way and that soon we may be walking about in flip-flops and clam-diggers. On the edge of the Midwest, a warm front can also mean impending snow. This warmth turned out to be the latter.
80° to 27° F in 24 hours. That is quite a bit of math.
Yesterday my mother and I planted our yearly herbs. We knew that snow might happen from here until mid-May (though snow at any time of year is possible,) so we were prepared to bring them inside, even from the sheltered deck, if it got cold. Last night the basil started to curl in the icy wind after I left, and when I arrived back at the house this morning I found that my mother had carted all of the pots back in by herself.
I sighed and wished that she'd called me, because honestly, a seven minute drive to bring in heavy pots is far preferable than my mother bringing them in on her own. She has to have physical therapy from a recent fall, and her back is not quite up to snuff after surgery a year and a half ago.
She is so getting a talking to when she gets home from physical therapy! ...Though on the other hand, some lifting is good for her. I just wish I'd been here to supervise.
The living room now smells wonderful, like a mini summer garden. I am anticipating bringing the herbs down to Laramie and concocting some amazing sauces from the herbs. The only time I am interested in food preparation is when I can have a hand in it from harvest to cooking. This is also why I appreciate seeing the deer and antelope our friends hunt when they are brought back fresh from the woods or field. It feels more real to me to see the plant or animal I am eating; it makes me feel more grateful to God and nature when I have this food.
So far I planted:
80° to 27° F in 24 hours. That is quite a bit of math.
Yesterday my mother and I planted our yearly herbs. We knew that snow might happen from here until mid-May (though snow at any time of year is possible,) so we were prepared to bring them inside, even from the sheltered deck, if it got cold. Last night the basil started to curl in the icy wind after I left, and when I arrived back at the house this morning I found that my mother had carted all of the pots back in by herself.
I sighed and wished that she'd called me, because honestly, a seven minute drive to bring in heavy pots is far preferable than my mother bringing them in on her own. She has to have physical therapy from a recent fall, and her back is not quite up to snuff after surgery a year and a half ago.
She is so getting a talking to when she gets home from physical therapy! ...Though on the other hand, some lifting is good for her. I just wish I'd been here to supervise.
The living room now smells wonderful, like a mini summer garden. I am anticipating bringing the herbs down to Laramie and concocting some amazing sauces from the herbs. The only time I am interested in food preparation is when I can have a hand in it from harvest to cooking. This is also why I appreciate seeing the deer and antelope our friends hunt when they are brought back fresh from the woods or field. It feels more real to me to see the plant or animal I am eating; it makes me feel more grateful to God and nature when I have this food.
So far I planted:
- chives
- basil
- cilantro
- mint
- thyme
- rosemary
My mother went fancy and got two kinds of cilantro to make some spicy salsa. Since we both grew up in California we lived off of the stuff. Our family of gringas often ate the foods of our immigrant Mexican neighbours, and the smell of cilantro and tomatoes always takes us back. I remember the home garden of my friend Raoul and his mother Maria, whom I always visited when I was very small. Her cooking is one of the fondest memories of my childhood, and I remember the ropes of her strong brown arms as she plucked cilantro for the chunky salsa she made.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Green (Taped) Thumbs
Since the ideal of sustainable living seems to appealing to just about everyone nowadays it's quite trendy to grow vegetable and herb gardens. While I already live in a rural farming area, and there are already many people growing home gardens, this year the idea seems to have spread into even the tiniest of town yards. I see people digging rows with their chilren following behind with trowels, people pulling rocks and tranfsorming flower beds into herb or vegetable gardens.
Wyoming's short summer season ensures that no heavy duty garden planting occurs until mid-May, and we have a short growing time of three months. (This is why most farmers plant fast-growing feed corn, sugar beets, barley, and pinto beans.) Usually, if one wants to plant a garden from seed, it is necessary to start your plants indoors.
So far Jeff and I have planted:
Wyoming's short summer season ensures that no heavy duty garden planting occurs until mid-May, and we have a short growing time of three months. (This is why most farmers plant fast-growing feed corn, sugar beets, barley, and pinto beans.) Usually, if one wants to plant a garden from seed, it is necessary to start your plants indoors.
So far Jeff and I have planted:
- wax beans
- "Little Marvel" peas
- tomatoes of unknown pedigree
- radishes
- cucumbers
- carrots
- red onions
Our first sproutlings have cleared the tops of the milk jugs we cut apart to create seed planters. Now just to get them down to Laramie intact...
Jeff seems to have taken to horticulture as well as he takes to the rocks. Every morning he lifts the heavy wooden shelves that house the seedlings and takes it to a sheltered wall outside in the full sun. He sprinkles water onto them from a handmade watering jug he created that flows gently for seedlings. His face is set serious, mouth pursed critically, as he inspects the plants for signs of windburn or growth. I usually just grin at him, leaning against the door with my ankles crossed.
As much as I love gardening, those seedlings are his babies. I plan to take the reigns for the upcoming herbs and flowers though, as my kitchen witchy temperament demands that I take some part in this glorious growing cycle.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Visualize Verbalize Ad
Some hilarious hep cats created a commercial for the Northwest College's Visualize Verbalize arts magazine 2009 issue! It's hosted by a "Russell Crowe look-alike" speaking in warm, dulcet tones.
I've been accepted to this year's issue, which is going to be my last after four years. I will miss the magazine and the people behind it to be sure.
And now, without further ado:
The Amazing Stupendous NWC Visualize Verbalize Commercial
I've been accepted to this year's issue, which is going to be my last after four years. I will miss the magazine and the people behind it to be sure.
And now, without further ado:
The Amazing Stupendous NWC Visualize Verbalize Commercial
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Cedar Mountain
Anti-gravity stroll: the master.
Anti-gravity walk: the novice.
Me and Shelby having a cuddle during soft rain.
Jeff beginning a new ascent.
Shelby and Jeff, mountain goats!Cedar Mountain II
The pups in our temporary camp.
The look I get on my face when Jeff looks at me.
Gravity is optional where the world is steep.
Jeff and Dally being Om.
Dally the Mouse says: "I'm taking the car keys, Dad!"
Family
Oy vey. I was recently reminded about my own salad days as a young wife when I witnessed a young couple speaking about their engagement to an older woman. The woman was delighted at the news of their upcoming wedding, grasped them both by the shoulder, and cheerfully asked them when they were going to have a baby.
The young man went wall eyed. The young bride looked for a moment as if she'd swallowed water down the wrong pipe. The cheerful woman was oblivious.
I felt complete sympathy for those two; I endured that question several times from my then-husband's family during our engagement, and twice more on our wedding day. I didn't understand why his people were so adamant that we "start a family" so soon and wondered if they expected us to conceive during our reception. Later, I asked my newly minted husband why his family were so intent on baby-making. He blushed red and said that so far, of his generation, we were the first couple to be married without a baby already on the way.
"...Ah," I said, and turned to face forward as we drove to our honeymoon destination. "I see. So we broke 'tradition.'"
Flash forward eight years, after a divorce, and I went into almost total recall when I witnessed the moment of discomfort from the two lovers. I snapped out of it a moment later and had to chuckle; I know myself much better than I did when I was their age, and knew I'd have some tongue-in-cheek retort for the well meaning lady. Poor soul.
I still wonder why people refer to having children as "starting a family" when two people are already married or promised to each other. Are not the couple already a family? I know I would consider someone to whom I committed to be part of my family, even more so than some relations-by-blood. If or when a child is born it only makes that family larger, stronger, more sweet, but it doesn't lessen what the devoted couple already had together. From there they can only grow.
The traditional family is long gone, and indeed, if one reviews history it was largely a myth, a product of the nuclear era. The husband-wife-2.8 children-and-a-dog is not nor has ever been the only formula for families. Growing up, I knew children with one family, two families, step- and half- and adopted siblings who were closer to them than blood, more cherished. I knew single parents, parents with extended families, and in one case, a parental team of three living in the same house. I knew families that consisted happily of two live-in lovers who chose to not get married, nor have children, but it didn't mean that they were familyless.
What does matter, however, is that love exists. That is a better foundation for a family than blood or documents or contracts, religious or secular, with children, without children, or expecting children in the future.
The young man went wall eyed. The young bride looked for a moment as if she'd swallowed water down the wrong pipe. The cheerful woman was oblivious.
I felt complete sympathy for those two; I endured that question several times from my then-husband's family during our engagement, and twice more on our wedding day. I didn't understand why his people were so adamant that we "start a family" so soon and wondered if they expected us to conceive during our reception. Later, I asked my newly minted husband why his family were so intent on baby-making. He blushed red and said that so far, of his generation, we were the first couple to be married without a baby already on the way.
"...Ah," I said, and turned to face forward as we drove to our honeymoon destination. "I see. So we broke 'tradition.'"
Flash forward eight years, after a divorce, and I went into almost total recall when I witnessed the moment of discomfort from the two lovers. I snapped out of it a moment later and had to chuckle; I know myself much better than I did when I was their age, and knew I'd have some tongue-in-cheek retort for the well meaning lady. Poor soul.
I still wonder why people refer to having children as "starting a family" when two people are already married or promised to each other. Are not the couple already a family? I know I would consider someone to whom I committed to be part of my family, even more so than some relations-by-blood. If or when a child is born it only makes that family larger, stronger, more sweet, but it doesn't lessen what the devoted couple already had together. From there they can only grow.
The traditional family is long gone, and indeed, if one reviews history it was largely a myth, a product of the nuclear era. The husband-wife-2.8 children-and-a-dog is not nor has ever been the only formula for families. Growing up, I knew children with one family, two families, step- and half- and adopted siblings who were closer to them than blood, more cherished. I knew single parents, parents with extended families, and in one case, a parental team of three living in the same house. I knew families that consisted happily of two live-in lovers who chose to not get married, nor have children, but it didn't mean that they were familyless.
What does matter, however, is that love exists. That is a better foundation for a family than blood or documents or contracts, religious or secular, with children, without children, or expecting children in the future.
Old Dogs
Sally Anne at age 16: A happy last summer. I am a dog woman; when I was little I would ask for a dog every birthday and Christmas, which resulted in many toy animals and dog-shaped purses. I didn't understand why we couldn't have a dog. What seven-year-old girl understands landlords and rental agreements?
When I was 10 my mother promised my sister and I that we could get a dog once we moved into our own house. In July of 1991 we found a house halfway between Placerville and Coloma in northern California, underneath a copse of black oak. I already had a barn cat; he was a temperamental orange tabby with the oxymoronic name of Cuddles. My sister Beth was keen for a kitty of her own, so we went to the Humane Society and found Cinnamon, the tortoiseshell wonder. Also at the Humane Society that day was a black and white puppy who had just been tossed out of a truck on Highway 50, probably the unplaceable last of a litter.
She followed each of us around, my mother, sister, and I, while we looked at the cats. She sit on each of our feet in turn and looked up at us with her powder blue eyes. I tried not to pet her too much, because I didn't want to get attached; Mom had not yet said anything about getting a dog.
Half an hour later I saw my mother scoop up the puppy like a baby and carry her around, as she looked at posters about distemper and pet adoption. The puppy listened when my mother crooned softly to her, and the pink-and-black nose pointed over at me from time to time.
She followed each of us around, my mother, sister, and I, while we looked at the cats. She sit on each of our feet in turn and looked up at us with her powder blue eyes. I tried not to pet her too much, because I didn't want to get attached; Mom had not yet said anything about getting a dog.
Half an hour later I saw my mother scoop up the puppy like a baby and carry her around, as she looked at posters about distemper and pet adoption. The puppy listened when my mother crooned softly to her, and the pink-and-black nose pointed over at me from time to time.
I felt my heart hammer in my throat.
"Remember when I said when we have a house we could get a dog? How about this little girl here?" Mom asked once she caught my eye.
I burst into tears. Next to me, Beth held the yet-to-be-named Cinnamon and cried too.
We brought home Sally Anne later that day after she'd gone to the vet for her shots. My mother named her so because when she was young her grandparent's outhouse was called the Sally, rather than the John. She figured we would have a lot of puppy poo to pick up and named the little girl appropriately. It was a cute name to fit a cute puppy. She charmed everyone, with her pink potbelly and gentle face. We even had offers from strangers to buy her when we took her for walks.
We brought home Sally Anne later that day after she'd gone to the vet for her shots. My mother named her so because when she was young her grandparent's outhouse was called the Sally, rather than the John. She figured we would have a lot of puppy poo to pick up and named the little girl appropriately. It was a cute name to fit a cute puppy. She charmed everyone, with her pink potbelly and gentle face. We even had offers from strangers to buy her when we took her for walks.
Once, when our mother went into Lucky's grocery, Beth and I sat out with Sally Anne on the sidewalk. A bagger came out with a cottage cheese container filled with water for her, and absentmindedly stroked Sally's head for the duration of his break.
Sally Anne lived with us and made us laugh for nearly sixteen years. She passed away in October of 2006, and though it was sad, it was also joyful because it was a release from her ailing earthly body. She was fat and happy and she was ready. It was the gentlest letting go I have ever experienced.
Sally Anne lived with us and made us laugh for nearly sixteen years. She passed away in October of 2006, and though it was sad, it was also joyful because it was a release from her ailing earthly body. She was fat and happy and she was ready. It was the gentlest letting go I have ever experienced.
Since then, I have found that old dogs are charming, sweet, and full of personality. Sally herself became so sure that she was going to get blankets, cushions, walks, and treats that she shuffled about the house and garden as if she were a queen.
And she was. During the last year of her life we gave her everything she wanted. Shelby Sue deferred to her and lead her about as if she were Sally's "hearing ear dog," for Sally was quite deaf by 14. Shelby even stole fritters we brought back to Wyoming from Apple Hill in California, and we are sure that Sally gobbled them up with relish. They were quite the partners in crime.
Yesterday, my sister brought her friend's dog Lido over for a visit. The sweet, fat old girl was red and honey colored, her face ghosted with gray. She rode in the car as if she were being chauffeured, just like Sally did.
Today I found two sweet features about old dogs. Old Dogs Are the Best Dogs is a photo excerpt from an upcoming book of the same name by Gene Weingarten and Michael S. Williamson. The readers and writers at WowOwoW (a women's online magazine) also shared photos of their beloved dogs at Readers Bow to Their Old Dogs.
I'll admit that I cried at both. Bobo at wOw has my heart the most, because he reminds me most of Sally Anne in demeanor and pose. They are all sweet old pups.
Céad Mile Fáilte!
A hundred thousand welcomes!
I am beginning this new blog as a fresh start from my old one for a myriad of reasons. I welcome everyone who is interested in nature, literature, wine, tea, dogs, and dry humor.
Welcome and enjoy.
—Celyn
I am beginning this new blog as a fresh start from my old one for a myriad of reasons. I welcome everyone who is interested in nature, literature, wine, tea, dogs, and dry humor.
Welcome and enjoy.
—Celyn
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