Green Monster!

This year I have gone green for the holidays. When tallying the count in the pro and con columns it was clear; the color is right and no hanging chads.

There have been several unexpected perks in addition to saving a sapling, several octopuses and wear and tear on postal workers.

First, and most importantly, I was able to expand my card list considerably and annoy even more folks than usual with my annual ramblings. More warm fallout is the many quick responses to my e-missive. Several conversations have been sparked and get-together plans are in the making!

As someone who bows at the altar of electronics, my abiding love for email and faith in the net has been reaffirmed. I will most decidedly choose to e-bomb my friends and family with cards in the future after the joy of this first experience.

Emily Post followers may judge it on the tacky side, but a resounding bah-humbug to them!

The Land of Empty Carcasses

Flat and sad, the empty carcasses are strewn across the battlefield of my hardwood floors. Stitch loves his toy animals, but the call of the squeaker outweighs his fondness for the posh pets. After a few seconds of mouthing them gently to hear the muffled squeal, the 110 pound puppy eviscerates his babies.

Fluffy innards litter the room. When I call his name, Stitch looks up guiltily, a slimy length of white intestine hanging from his upper lip. Hot on the scent of the plastic noisemaker, his glance is brief. He gives his massive head a shake in a futile effort to dislodge the bowel and dives back into the body cavity.

Zina proudly offered Stitch the gift of a stuffed red and black lady bug a few mornings ago. He ardently pulled it from her grasp and after a few perfunctory squeaks, had it decapitated before she finished ascending the stairs. The plastic squeaker was out, chomped and discarded within a minute and the gutting commenced.

The good thing about this dog is that he doesn't lose affection for his dead and dismembered babies. The skinny, wizened bodies are carefully collected and brought to his bed after playing. Often, while I sit reading, he comes to me with an ear or a midsection in his capacious droopy lips, dropping the saturated souvenir on my lap.

His given name is Stitch, but we call him many things; Not So Smart being a common moniker. But given the scope of his life expectations, he's a pretty savvy dude.

All of the dog toys in the house become part of his personal inventory, which he knows like the back of his paw. The Other Canines look confusedly at the heap of bones and carcasses on his bed. If I give them one, he waits patiently until I turn my attention elsewhere and stealthily lifts it from their grasp.

Yep, he's dumb like a fox.

Damn the News and Pass the Ammunition!

The THWACK! is immediately followed by the guttural woofs and ear-piercing shrills of three startled canines. My deeply relaxed eyelids spring open in alarm. As the sounds filter through my rapidly dissolving dream I realize that he's done it again!

For years I have had a love-hate relationship with newspaper delivery guys. Either they don't show up, are uselessly late, or poor aim lands the paper in the shrubs somewhere on the property. Just recently, prompted by the publication of a few of my pieces in local papers, I decided to try again. And the agony of the last attempt had subsided just enough to make it seem viable.

Wrong! While the Patriot Ledger person is stellar, the Boston Globe dude is a real nut cruncher. Every morning he throws the bloody paper like a guided missile toward my front door and it hits with a noise that can be heard on the next block. I have called a few times and told them that would prefer to walk down the drive if that is the only other option. But no, this guy has it out for me.

Somehow Globe Guy has discovered that I get up at 4:30AM several mornings a week and feels that sleeping in until 6:00 on the others should not be an option.

This morning, as I struggled unsuccessfully to get back to sleep, I had thoughts of lying in wait and chucking the newspaper at his retreating back. Another option would be to put one of those ball catchers used for hitting golf balls in front of the door to stop the paper before impact.

Or I guess I can settle for being grateful that he gives me something to bitch about.

The Ledger of Insurmountable Problems

Friday, 11/30/07
Two hands, three dogs

Thursday, 12/6/07
5:00AM wake-up by thrown newspaper

A Horse by Any Other Name...

Owning a horse was one of the yearned for unattainables of my youth. A pipe dream, a fervent want, something to long for with no hope of possessing.

I have clear memories of playing racehorse at age 5 with my friend Kimmy. We vigorously pumped our legs for hours on swings named for our imaginary steeds, Thunderbolt and Lightning. Arcing high above the ground, we urged our wondrous mounts on to even greater speeds.

Through family or friends I could usually find a horse to hop on as a kid. In my later teens trail riding stables offered an opportunity to sit in the saddle. Young adulthood found me working so long and hard that horses barely entered my mind and marriage and babies nearly erased the thought completely.

Unsurprisingly, my two girls were genetically predisposed toward anything horse and have ridden since ages 4 & 5. Years of lessons and summers spent as barn rats kept them focused and healthy. Over time Zina and Sofia accrued an extensive portfolio of wonderful riding experiences, but having a horse of our own still seemed impossible.

Cancer kicks things up a notch. The brush with mortality helps throw caution to the winds and gives fingernail purchase to the visions that hover just out of reach. In my late 30s after a bout with the breast variety, I grabbed the edge of my childhood hope and tugged it toward my daughters and me. I began lessons at the barn where my girls had been riding for years. My self-confidence had taken a pounding during chemotherapy and my Evil Knievil days were over. Mental pep talks got me to each half hour session and I struggled with nerves while riding.

Horse number one was purchased on a wing and a prayer. Doing the worst thing possible, I bought the first animal I looked at. He was cute, he was spotted, what more could we ask for? A bit of a wild thing, he calmed with consistent work and training and remained with us for seven years.

It wasn't so long before Zina and Sofia felt they were outgrowing Cue. Young girls with Kamikaze riding attitudes, they were moving beyond his limited talents. He and I had the strongest bond and made a good team, so Cue became my horse for our last few years of ownership.

Eventually, amidst drama and heartbreak, Cue was traded for Curtis; a Thoroughbred my eldest had pined for since his birth. He became Zina's personal mount and Cue began his new career as a lesson horse at the barn where he had been stabled for years. My ridiculous schedule forced me to take time off from riding and Sofia contented herself with pick up rides on horses belonging to friends. And so it went for about a year.

Money always being a consideration, Zina kept an eye out for more affordable options for Curtis. Eventually she stumbled across something that we had never considered - a small barn on a larger horse property that could be leased by the stall. We looked into it and discovered that the three of us could each board a horse for little more than Zina was paying for one! Lots more work, way more time, but, oh, the possibilities!

Sofia began her hunt for a young racehorse project while I prowled the Internet for a well-trained Quarter Horse. In short order we both found likely candidates and in a flash were a three horse family! Nose firmly set to grindstone, we happily settled into our laborious schedule of mucking, feeding and riding our hairy compadres.

We soon found an even better deal on a twelve acre horse property for lease just a few miles further down the road. It seemed surreal to be thinking of having our own place! After some careful consideration, a "barn buddy" and I decided to move
our six horses to new digs on the Taunton River in March of '07.

River's Edge is purely a hobby and the work greatly outweighs the dollars, but pleasure tips the scale decidedly toward the good. Muttered expletives and a sharp slap aimed at the snooze button may greet my shrilling alarm at o' dark thirty, but the farm works its magic once I'm there. A muted snuffle or soft nicker dispels tiredness and gloom. In this plot of warm animal and hard work, I have found a surefire cure for whatever ails me.

Cancer on Deck

It appeared that summer would be spent with a glow completely unrelated to sunshine. Amidst a fractious marital relationship, looming major repairs on our old house, and the challenge of being the sole caregiver to my two young girls while running a full time business, the Guy in Charge had decided that a serious medical issue would really round things out.

I had taken all of it in stride, truly. First the mammogram, which I had been canceling and rescheduling for a year, looked odd. Not to worry, said the doctor, happens all the time. The recheck on the right side, followed by an ultrasound was just a formality, I was told. Results in, but still unclear, we moved along to a needle aspiration biopsy, just to be on the safe side. Stoic as I think I am, smelling salts were rushed in several times during the procedure. A bit more waiting and then came the ‘Uh Oh’ call. It was what they were certain it wasn’t.

Sure, OK, I rationalized, it’s a pretty useless body part – just cut it off and be done with it. I read all the books, talked to the specialists, and moved forward. My now ex-husband worried and huffed, but my oncologist told him with my attitude I would be dancing topless on tables before he knew it. Interestingly enough, Kostas did not find this comforting. Surgeries were scheduled, and I laughed at my daughters’ biggest worry, which was having their father in charge of ponytails for nine days while I was in the hospital!

My parents and siblings in NY were very supportive, as is their way. I had many visitors and one of my sisters took a week off to be with me when I came home from the hospital. With the mastectomy and reconstruction out of the way, I began consults at Dana Farber. This process seemed interminable, and the waiting and wondering began to take its toll on my nerves. Finally, it was decided that chemo was a yes and radiation a no; high fives all around.

My family stepped forward to present me with a substantial sum of money that they had collected amongst themselves, offering that it could be used for a mortgage payment, or whatever I felt was necessary. I was taken completely unawares, and very touched, particularly knowing that for many it was a hardship to contribute. We were coming into summer, and my back deck had deteriorated into unsoundness, so I decided to turn my back on the bills and rebuild the deck. The project was perfectly timed and took my mind off of the medical arrangements and endless waiting in between oncology meetings.

The new deck was completed just in time to herald in the beginning of my chemotherapy treatments. One beautiful day in early June, I spent my first morning in the infusion room at Dana Farber, and the remainder of the day in a comfortable chaise enjoying the dappled sunlight filtering through the maple tree that towered just beyond the deck. My stomach being one of the weaker links in my body of steel, the floorboards were christened in short order.

That deck, 14 years later, still sits strong and inviting. I never step a toe to its boards without thinking of my family, and the sacrifices they made to offer me the chance to rebuild a small piece of my life. I know the exact spot where my first treatment emptied the contents of my stomach. There is a gnarled board, left untouched in memory of my beloved Lab, who would gnaw and dig at it with dedicated fervor. The disease caused me to reevaluate my life, and this simple wooden structure is a built in compass that continues to remind me of my new direction.

Morning Glory

I woke this morning to a cold snout pressed against my neck. Snuffle, snuffle. Swatting at the offending proboscis, I rolled over and squinted at the clock. Cripes, 5:12.

"Lay down", I growled into the large, animated face.

Stitch dropped his elephantine ears to half mast and slunk back to his floor mat, visions of dog kibble dancing in his head. My attempt to roll over was thwarted by the Yorkies, two fuzzy dead weights plastered against my side.

I absently stroked Biggles' head while mentally waving a white flag. Forget going back to sleep now. Booting Strawberry off my legs, I clambered out of bed. Feet in fuzzy sheepskin, I padded down the hall, absentmindedly boosting the thermostat on my way to the kettle.

In the kitchen, Trouble twined his vibrating body around my legs. I scooped him up, stroked his back and checked his provisions. Plenty of food and water. I chucked him outside like an animated football and headed back up the hallway.

Settling back in bed under down quilt, homemade afghan, and fuzzy fleece layers, waiting for the house and water to warm, I drowsily contemplated life.

Soon my girls would be even more gone than they were now. Just me and the animal kingdom. Random bluesy thoughts bumped into each other as I entered the half state between awake and asleep.

The piercing sound of the kettle brought me back with a start. I scrambled to silence its' fury before it shrieked the rest of the house awake. Three dogs bumping into my heels, I threw a blanket over my shoulders and released them to the crisp air. Back in the warmth, I filled their bowls and sat down while they gobbled breakfast.

One green tea and a Boston Globe later, I stretched and smiled at the sounds of my morning. Outside the cat meowed for re-entry. Stitch chewed noisily on a bone while Strawberry snored and drooled in a corner. Biggles sat on my foot gazing intently at my face as if to gauge my mood.

Water running somewhere in the house indicated the presence of another life form. If I wanted a shower I needed to queue up, and soon. As I stood and stretched, I thought how lucky I was to wake up surrounded by adoring fans each morning. How better to start the day?

Humming, I stepped into my room and set my bare foot into a soft warm pile. After adding light and spectacles, it appeared that Stitch had returned some rubber toy pieces along with a portion of his breakfast. Heading for paper towels and spray cleaner, I told myself to hold tightly to the happy thought of moments before...

Holy Cow

Up with the birds, a balmy breeze in our faces, we pedaled along the farm roads enjoying the early summer morning. Our patchwork bicycles, cobbled together from bits and pieces found at the farm dump, were sturdy and functional. Completely wrapped up in the sheer joy of the day, we could not have imagined the conflict that lay ahead.

Frankie led the way up one of the dirt roads behind the house, with Danny and me in hot pursuit. We wound through some pine woods, past a hay field and along a swath of cow corn planted for silage. Looking for smoother riding, we hit the asphalt and turned toward the dairy barn. After struggling up the incline, we rode alongside the tractors, and haphazardly dropped our barely stopped bikes. Trotting along elbowing each other, we went around to the back of the building. I immediately spotted some tarps covering strange lumpy objects; none of which had been there the afternoon prior.

“What on earth do you suppose that is?” I queried the others.

“Let’s find out!” Dan exclaimed.

We dashed to the misshapen pile, and Frankie tentatively lifted an edge of the covering. A cow! Several cows! Throats slit, eyes wide and glazed, they lay stiffly side by side. We looked at each other, puzzled.

“Why would Stanley kill these cows?”, asked Frankie.

Neither Danny nor I had an answer. We stood silently staring at the bodies and wondering. Hearing our names called, we rounded the barn to see our neighbor Teddy Hunter, who had spied our deserted bikes.

“Hey, Teddy”, said Frank, “you have got to come and see this!”

We all ran hell bent for leather around the barn and skidded to a stop by the covered cows.

“What the heck?” Teddy looked at us, puzzled.

Frankie once again lifted the tarp, exposing the top half of one cow.

“Three of them, dead. Look, Stanley must have killed them.”

“What in holy hell are you kids doing back here?!”

We half jumped out of our skins, shaken by the loud, gruff voice, and swiveled, looking up into Stanley’s glowering face. We hadn’t heard the farm owner approaching and trembled, eyes as wide as silver dollars, as he strode angrily toward Frankie, who dropped the edge of the tarp and backed away.

“Goddamn it, boy, just what in the name of God do you think you are doing?” Stanley pushed Frankie so abruptly that he landed hard on the seat of his pants in the dirt.

“I, we, I…” Frankie began stuttering.

“You just shut your mouth and get on out of here! All of you! Now!”

We ran pell mell around the building, hopped on our bikes, and pedaled frantically down the street to our fort. Shaking and confused, we cursed Stanley’s ill temper.

Back at the barn, Stanley stood over the cows he had euthanized early that morning; all of them suffering from a fast spreading infection. Shoulders slumped, with tears in his eyes, he headed toward the tractor to begin digging a hole, knowing that immediate burial was the only way to keep prying eyes from his beloved cattle.

Who's Retarded?

Kids can be so perverse. Seriously. How could we normal, healthy children feel jealousy toward our damaged older sister? Although it was Kathy who had been institutionalized at the age of 8, one might say that we were the retarded ones. Being too young to think it through, or so we later excused ourselves, we resented our weekly visits; ten years worth, give or take.

Our upbringing was thrifty, with seven children and Dad providing the only income working as a meat packer in the city. Life was a constant string of stumbling blocks and financial struggles, yet our house had a ballroom. ‘The Big Room’, as we called it, occupied one end of the 200 year old tenant house we rented from a neighboring farmer. Too big to heat, its deteriorating expanse was useful for little more than a storage and play area. Bags of clothing donated by the church were piled along one wall, where we would often ‘shop’ for outfits.

During one of the drives to visit Kathy, scrunched down beltless and bored, I gazed glumly out the window. Plagued by car sickness, I was painfully aware of each passing mile. My parents were like the damn Postal Service about this trip and God forbid any of us should even think about making a different plan on a Saturday. It steamed me that my three older sisters now had jobs, excusing them from attendance.

My brothers, Frank and Dan, one older and one younger, shared the back seat. They were grimly avoiding contact, so sick of each other that breathing the same air was painful. One can play just so many rounds of ‘Punch Buggy’ and ‘I Spy’ before they take on a crazed life of their own.

At one point my Mom said, “Ruth, you and your brothers would argue over the color of dirt”.

“You betcha, Ma”, I answered flippantly, knowing she hated the name. At 11, my sense of sarcasm was well-developed from years of watching my family in action.

Up ahead, the sign for Wasaic State School signaled an end to our claustrophobic misery. My Dad really needed a break from the combined efforts of trying to drive with one hand, while swinging with the other in a futile attempt to smack someone, anyone. The wheels had barely stopped when we clambered out and raced up the hill, ignoring our Mother’s cries of caution. Dad paused to tidy up his beloved Belair, which we greatly preferred over the pink and white station wagon that sat rusting in the farm junkyard (let it never be resurrected).

My parents strolled behind us as we twirled forward like a trio of drunken gyroscopes. Reaching the main building, red faced and tousled, we slammed through the door at thirty knots, barely missing another family grouped just inside. “Kaaaathyyyyyy” we shouted, spotting her at a stained plastic table.

With a smile so wide that her eyes squinted shut, plump cheeks flushed with color, she clumsily extricated herself from the chair. A group hug knocked her bright blue cat-eye glasses flying, and the ensuing jig almost finished them off. Hurriedly, I grabbed her specs out of harms way, knowing how easily she became worried. Frank and Bernice, as we impertinently referred to our parents, finally reached the lobby. We left them to their own reunion while we darted about becoming reacquainted with the place and its curious inhabitants.

It was mid-afternoon when we settled on a tattered quilt placed under an enormous oak, making short work of the egg salad sandwiches and pickles packed from home. Afterward, replete, my Dad lazed half awake in the dappled sunlight, while Mom’s complete focus settled on my sister. My brothers and I knew that she had never forgiven herself for the decision to send Kathy away, made while on the verge of collapse and feeling cornered. Regardless, feeling ignored, we ran and clambered wildly on the small playground, shouting like heathens, until my mother shrilled for our attention. Now impatient with the visit, we complained and groused for the remainder of the afternoon.

Our departure ritual was a quick stop at the institution’s gift shop. While my brothers and I each picked out one small candy, envy nibbled again as our 15 year old sister chose a coloring book, Necco Wafers, several chocolate bars, and a small plastic doll. That there would be no other purchases was long ago settled, yet often challenged. Frankie, Danny and I chafed, mumbled and glared as Kathy’s things were packed into a bag. Happy grins were replaced by pinched expressions.

“I wish I was retarded”, I muttered, “She gets anything she wants”.

Frank and Dan nodded dourly in agreement. For once united, we stood together in the conviction that being handicapped made Kathy special in a way we could never hope to achieve.

Home on the Range

Packed and loaded, all three dogs settled with their vacation caretakers, we hit the highway in high spirits. Our annual end of June trip to Upstate New York is a much anticipated event. My girls and I have spent the same week at Ridin' Hy Ranch in the Adirondacks for the past dozen years. Many of the families we have met there do the same, so our trip has become akin to a mammoth family reunion.

Sofia has decided at the last minute not to attend, casting a pall on the trip. Although she cited her work schedule and car problems as the stumbling blocks, it felt like she was looking for excuses to stay behind. She kindly offered to stop by the house to feed the cats and rabbit. I had a niggling worry that there was a party in the making, but after several conversations outlining my expectations, coupled with numerous reassurances from my younger daughter, I decided to trust the lying heathen.

The trip takes four hours and becomes beautifully scenic once past the droning boredom of the Mass Pike. As we round the last curve of the mountainous dirt road into the 800 acre ranch, our ritual is to open all of the windows and blast a song. This year we chose “I Want to Check you for Ticks” by Brad Paisley. Neither Zina nor I can hold a tune in a bucket, but we unashamedly belt out the foolish lyrics all the way up to the main ranch house.

Settling in, amidst shouts of hello and hugs of welcome, I feel like I am home. Not so far fetched, really, as my entire family is scattered around the area within an hour or so of the ranch. Zina is grinning broadly and dancing with excitement as she hugs a friend she hasn’t seen for twelve months; everyone is awesome when you see them for 7 days out of 365. I stop for a moment to take an appreciative breath of the crisp mountain air while gazing across the placid lake. Bliss.

A few of the older teenagers run up and fill us in on new activities and ranch gossip. We are informed there is a new banana boat which is hauled behind the speed boat -- we have to try it tomorrow after our early morning ride! One of the girls tells me, snidely, that there is now a masseuse which I might benefit from, considering my age!

On the news front: Jessie, on the wait staff, was dating Lief, a cowboy, but he dumped her for a giantess who chews tobacco! Mike, the head cowboy, is ‘on the wagon’ this year, so watch out – he is grumpier than usual! And so it goes as we head into the dining hall for a family style dinner to be followed by drinks and country music in the lounge.

The weather is hot and sunny for most of the week. We ride, water ski, lounge by the lake, eat, drink, and be merry. The banana boat, which holds six passengers, proves to be a hit. We turn it into a ‘king of the mountain’ event: while the driver is trying to unseat us, we are attempting to knock each other off. Laughter cripples us and we flop around and off the inflatable like fish out of water.

I discover that the little witch with the dig about the masseuse was spot on, and head for the sign up sheet on day three for help with my aching back. A call home confirms that Sofia, spawn of Satan, has had a ripper of a party. Now my brain hurts.

Tuesday evening I creak on down to the arena to watch the rodeo. We know many of the cowboys, which adds to the excitement. There is nothing quite like watching a friend do a face plant as they jump off a galloping horse toward the head of a steer.

Eventually the bugs drive us back to the bar, and we sit around in lighthearted camaraderie. At some point the older kids decide that we should form a “Ridin’ Hy Fat Camp” with the motto ‘No one is too thin to be in fat camp’.

As we design and decorate white tee shirts on my porch the next day, we look up amazed to see that a crowd has gathered. We don the shirts and challenge them to a game of volleyball. Fat camp wins!

Amazingly, there are only a few days left. We begin to miss the ranch before we have even departed and lament the rapid progression of time. Sitting outside on Thursday evening watching the annual children’s scavenger hunt, I have a light bulb moment. I jump up and tell Hoffie, the social director, that an adult event along the same lines would be a wonderful addition.

I begin work on the list with a few cohorts whose arms didn’t need much twisting. It is decided that item number one on the adult scavenger hunt should be a drunken cowboy. Things go downhill rapidly as the night progresses and beers are downed. We kick off the new event at 11:00 PM and a roar of laughter goes up as we head into the bar. Andy, one of the cowboys, is passed out drunk sitting up on a barstool.

Our last day ends with a bonfire on the beach, including a weinie roast and sing-a-long. We poke fun at ourselves about eating so much as we head down to the water. Appetizers had been inhaled at the five o'clock beach party, a full country dinner including dessert at six, and now we were swarming like lemmings toward the grilling hot dogs.

Elbowing for space by the blaze, surrounded by friends, I bask in the warmth of their company and the glow of the fire. Our friend Nicole, who coined the phrase ‘Big Ass Drink’, softly strums the guitar and sings all of my favorites from the 60s and 70s. I see a shooting star and wish for nothing more than to return next year.

Bright Lights, Big Trouble

(A condensed vanilla pudding version of this was run in the Milton Times in May of 2007)

“Shhhh, ya dumb bell! Mommy’s gonna hear you and come up from downstairs”, I hissed, adding a sharp elbow for emphasis.

Frankie grimaced and stuck out his tongue, “Sorry, OK? It was funny. I couldn’t help laughing”.

“Well, zip it, cus if she gets this last flashlight, we’re done”, I said tersely, “Read the Bible -- that should keep you quiet!”

During the winter, bedrooms were closed off to save heat, leaving Frankie and I to sleep in the upper stairwell. Our twin beds fit so snugly between the rail and the wall that access was gained by clambering in over the ends; when lying down, our heads nearly touched.

We lay side by side on my bed, which had the best view of the stairs, covered from toe to cowlick by old wool blankets. Defeated looking pillows were piled on either side of our faces to hold the scratchy fabric from our skin, and every so often one of us would lift an edge to allow a bit of crisp, fresh air inside. A flashlight aimed at our books was wedged in the bedding between our ears.

“You know Ma hates it when we sneak and read late”, I reminded, “The last thing we need is for you to wake her up!”

“Alright already, Ruth, shut the heck up!” said Frankie, exasperated.

For a short time it was quiet, and then a loud snort.

“God!” I whispered, “You are such a dope!”

We held our breath, listening for the creak of the third step. Nothing.

“Whew”, said Frankie, “Sorry”.

Pages rustled softly, crickets rubbed out their song, and cows lowed in the distance. These sounds, coupled with the mellow glow of the flashlight created a wonderful backdrop for clandestine reading. I shifted my weight, causing the heavy flashlight to slip and thunk Frankie in the head.

“Ow, ow, OW!” he exclaimed.

“Crap”, I said.

Movement was heard below the stairs. Frankie made an awkward leap toward his bed, half tangled in the blankets, as my Mother’s head appeared above the edge of the stairwell. He landed sprawled, half on and half off the mattress, feigning sleep. I lay very still, trying desperately to stifle my rising giggles.

Through my closed eyelids I could feel Mom’s impatient glare. Within seconds my brother and I were gasping with laughter.

“You know”, said my Mother, “I am not even faintly amused”.

“What?!” we cried in unison, pretending confusion.

“Give it to me”, she said flatly.

I tried again, sweetly, “What do you mean, Mommy?”

“The flashlight. Hand it over. Now.” she replied “I am in no mood to play games.”

Realizing defeat, I reluctantly pulled the offending object from beneath the tangle of bedclothes.

“Here”, I said, “Take our last remaining link to civilization”.

“Right” agreed Frankie, “And don’t come crying to us when the teachers comment on our poor reading comprehension”.

Face blank, my mother turned away. “Stay in your own beds and go to sleep”, she instructed as she shuffled tiredly down the stairs.

“Very original, Ma” I snickered into my pillow.

For a time, we lay plotting flashlight recovery and recounting our mother’s short fallings.

“Geeze, she is so ridiculously strict”, I said “What IS the big deal if we stay up reading?”

“Seriously”, murmured Frankie, “You’d think she’d be happy that our biggest vice is sneaking a read after lights out. I guess I should start drinking and doing drugs, so she realizes how good she actually has it”.

Drowsily, I aimed a laugh toward his enshrouded form. “Start? Did you say start?”

“Oh, shut up” was the barely audible response.

As sleep took hold, our conversation trailed off, and I dreamt of books, piled everywhere, and flashlights hanging in the sky, as plentiful and unrestricted as stars.

Tally Ho!

(Printed in the November 21, 2007 edition of the Tinytown Gazette)

A lover of foxhunting for the past ten years, experience has shown it best to immediately add “But there’s no fox involved!” when I broach the subject. Countenances often pinch at the thought of an animal being pursued for recreation.

In 1997 some equestrian friends who hunt with Norfolk, the local club, introduced me to the sport. They regularly ride out with hounds hot on the trail of a scent laid by a human “fox”.

Norfolk began as a drag hunt in Dedham in 1895 and moved to Dover in 1903. Despite suburban expansion, they have been hunting much of the same country there ever since.

For me, the beauty of this revered sport of horsemen is as much a pleasure to observe as participate. It is an amazing sight in our modern world to see the elegantly dressed riders wearing scarlet coats and black caps seated astride their gleaming mounts.

During my years of involvement I have met people from all walks of life. They make room in their lives to partake of the excitement several times a week during the spring and fall seasons. Regardless of wallet size, matching grins split each rider’s face as they dash across fields and over fences.

I have ridden in the hunt several times, but never on my own horse. It takes a special creature to bear up under all of the excitement. My old horse Cue would have high tailed it for home after just a few moments of horns, hounds and “Tally Ho’s!”

The level headed mounts that I was graciously loaned allowed me to enjoy the exhilaration of the hunt without worrying about life and limb. Hunt horses must be sound of mind and body. Remaining calm in a large group or riding away from the others can be very difficult, and athleticism and agility are required to negotiate the varied terrain and jumping obstacles.

Occasionally I have been the fox; once rushing frantically with the hounds hot on my heels. Scrambling over hill and dale, through streams, around rocks and stumps, I artfully dripped the mixture scented with fox urine and anise along the planned hunt route. Needless to say I was a hit with the hounds when I encountered them later in the day!

The hunts are at least a few hours long with stops at various checkpoints along the way. These checks provide a brief rest and refreshment for hounds and riders, as well as serving as the perfect backdrop for some shutter snapping. I frequently attend the hunt to take photos, dressed in long sleeves, long pants and tall rubber boots, all in an effort to keep the ticks at bay.

Camera in hand, I become part of the parade of vehicles following along – some spectators, others there to assist with various aspects of the hunt. Over the years I have amassed a considerable collection of photos reminiscent of a bygone era.

At the end of each merry chase we all look forward to the “breakfast”. Hosted by a member or friend of the hunt, a hearty feed is laid out for riders and spectators alike to enjoy. Of first priority are the horses and hounds. Once the animals are cooled out and comfortable, the riders eagerly approach the hearty fare.

Now that I have discovered this enjoyable pursuit, I see it remaining a part of my life. No longer a sport of the wealthy landowner, fox hunting brings riches to all involved.

A Beagle in the Hand is worth Two in the Bush

The song ‘Goober Peas’ inspired my new Beagle pup’s name. As the prize for bringing the most kids to Daily Vacation Bible School, his presence caused my Mother’s faith to suffer a temporary nosedive. How could God endorse the addition of yet another creature to our ever expanding menagerie?

Goober was a wandering fool. He was itching to explore all two hundred acres of the dairy farm adjacent to our house. Rather than stick close to home like a good country dog, this frisky little peanut would disappear for days. Neighbors warned us that the farmers would shoot him if he were caught chasing livestock, so we began chaining him in the front yard. The look of sorrow on his droopy puss was heart wrenching.

Winters in Upstate NY were snowy and frigid, and often the ground was white from October to April. High drifts allowed us to climb on the pantry roof and jump into their depths. Goober loved the snow and would romp and frolic with my gaggle of siblings and I. After the fun, and relegated back to his doghouse under the big oak tree, he would slump, head resting on his front paws and soft brown eyes radiating sadness.

One deeply cold and blustery day, my brothers and I hopped off the bus to find a broken chain and no Goober. Lovers of drama all, we immediately whipped into high gear. While we shrieked and clambered around the house donning snow gear, our Mom tried to make sense of the mayhem. Upon realizing our intent, she forbade us from going out on our rescue mission. There was no way she would allow us, at ages 6, 10, and 11, to head into the freezing woods at dusk.

We were determined. My brothers and I pretended that we agreed with her flawed logic as we walked outside with wide eyed innocence to play in the snow before dinner. As soon as my Mom’s head moved away from the kitchen window we “Sherlocked” out of there on the Trail of the Missing Beagle. The chain he was dragging made it easy to follow his path in the snow. Deeper and deeper into the woods we went with our contraband flashlights shining the way.

After about an hour the cold gripped us and my younger brother Danny began to cry, fearing we were lost. Frankie and I assured him through trembling lips that we knew exactly where we were. Another long, cold hour passed before we found a shivering Goober with his chain wrapped tightly around a tree. After doing a happy dance, we looked around with trepidation.

We tried to head back the way we came but the tracks had filled in and we quickly lost our way. It was thickly black and the temperature had dropped precipitously. Everyone was exhausted, including the dog. We struck out in a likely direction through the knee-deep snow; worrying about our plight in low voices. Goober pulled us along, the three of us clinging to the remnant of chain like a lifeline.

Struggling through underbrush and thick forest, over hill and dale, scared and freezing we went. Conversation dwindled as we focused on putting one foot in front of the other. We were goners for sure. Our parents were going to find three kidsicles and a dogsicle in the morning. Frankie’s bright idea was to make an igloo and huddle together for warmth. I wasn’t buying that real estate!

Upon cresting the hundredth hill, we set up a cheer and moved our numb feet in the direction of beckoning lights. It was our friend’s house! The door was quickly opened to our banging and Mrs. Thompson shepherded us into the glowing warmth. We stood dripping sheepishly in front of the fireplace as she rang our worried parents.

When Dad arrived, he hugged us with relief but lambasted us once we were safely in the car. At home, my mother hollered a blue streak while holding us tightly. Usually relegated to the kitchen , Goober curled up on my bed that night and we all enjoyed a sound sleep.

Just a few weeks later Goober made good with another escape but his luck had turned. Rural roads have notoriously fast drivers. It would seem that while cats have nine lives, Beagles get just one foul and then they’re out of the game.

It's Raining Leaves!

This morning there were leaves raining down in my back yard. And it was happening below just one tree.

The enormous Locust at the end of the drive, a weed disguised in arbor form, was furiously shedding its foliage. The hard frost from the previous night had taken its toll and the tiny leaves were hitting the ground with an audible tick.

My three dogs and I walked into the storm. While they spun wildly through the downfall like furry gyroscopes, I took a moment to enjoy a gentle pelting in the crisp, clear early morning air.

When my beasts had settled from their autumn dance, we walked into a house redolent with the comforting smell of apples. Earlier I had set a large pot of various varieties to stew on the stove, handpicked during a recent outing with my daughters.

Fall is the perfect time to make my mother's homemade applesauce, fabulous in its simplicity: Wash and quarter some apples, chuck them in a pot to cook until mush, run them through a food mill for a lovely pink sauce. It is one of the few things my girls will still clamor for.

This morning served to refresh my fondness for seasonal changes. While I might wish it were raining men, I will happily settle for the prancing leaves, dancing dogs and delightful smells that began my day.

Animal House

I don’t recall a time that I wasn’t surrounded by animals. With an ark-like attitude and farming background, my family has served as befuddled caretakers to a wide variety of creatures, many of whom found us rather than the other way around. An early photo shows me with a halo of cotton candy hair, a short dress twisted on my stick thin frame, knobby, skinned knees, and a cat with a resigned expression garroted in the crook of my arm.

As I write there is a dog sleeping on my foot and a cat draped over the arm of the adjacent chaise. My set of mother/daughter Yorkies serve as warm, immobile boundary markers on my bed each night, generously stapling me into the approximate space of a coffin. Stitch, the Great Dane/French Mastiff puppy, ponders the sleeping arrangements with sad confusion from his bed on the floor.

Chubby, as Strawberry is fondly called, was added to the mix when my parents moved into assisted living. Her daughter Mrs. Bigglesworth has been with me since puppy hood, a birthday gift from my Mom. Biggles’ dad was dubbed Blueberry, presumably by the same three year old who named her mother, so I briefly entertained the thought of calling her Fruit Salad. An immediate veto was handed down by my daughters.

Cats and their independent style are also held in high regard. They tell you what they want, when they need it, and then politely ask that you bugger off. In an attempt to stick to my self-imposed guidelines of animal non-replacement, I put my foot down several years ago and Just Said No to felines. Our current three had disappeared within weeks of each other: one in a losing game of chicken with a car, and the other two to coyotes (or, as my politically incorrect daughters hinted, possibly as the ingredients in a dish served at our neighbor's Chinese restaurant) .

A long term relationship with an allergy prone man made it easy to stick to my guns, but when that situation hit the skids the pressure was on. My eldest Daughter of the Heartfelt Pleas and Promises wore me down and we adopted sibling strays from the local shelter. At least weekly I find myself threatening to relocate Mr. Bo Jangles and Trouble to the barn if they aren’t properly cared for, but haven’t had the heart to remove their fuzzy, vibrating bodies from the premises.

The Everlasting Bunny resides out back in a hutch. Nice rabbit, cute as the dickens, but enough already; most parrots don’t live as long as this thing. With the lackluster life he leads, one might think he would have died from sheer boredom years ago. But no. He plugs along, eating voraciously and pooping his miniscule brains out. Every so often I give a deep sigh and resign myself to trimming the long, scary nails that grow like witches talons. I have steeled myself for his departure from this world, but he clearly has other plans.

The horses, largest in both size and expense, are the closest to my heart and live on a 12 acre farm 30 miles south of our home. Over the last dozen years my girls and I have graduated from weekly riding lessons, to a shared horse that we owned but paid to board, and now lease and operate a private horse stable where we each keep our own animals.

Our very first equine, Cue - a paint gelding, was a great starter horse, but was outgrown by my daughters after about five years. Knowing that horses are too expensive as gratuitous pets I made the heart wrenching decision to trade him for my eldest daughter Zina’s current horse. Curtis is an 11 year old Thoroughbred that she has loved since he was foaled at our friend’s farm; both are dyed in the wool punks so I understand the attraction.

While I still dream of someday regaining ownership of Cue and retiring him, it seems unlikely as he has an almost cult following in the lesson program at our old barn. Meanwhile, I adore my new girl Charlotte - a brick shit house of a horse with an attitude to match.

Sofia, the younger, purchased a 3 year old Thoroughbred off the track at Suffolk Downs last year and named her Bella, over my strenuous insistence that J-Lo was the perfect name in light of her substantial derriere. She is a bit of a wild thing, somewhat like her owner.

Some think I’m crazy, others roll their eyes, yet there are those who understand that animals make my world go round. The current ‘critter count’ has become a running joke in my annual holiday letters, right along with my firm assertions to scale back the kingdom.

Financially and rationally, our numbers are way too high; soulfully, they feel just perfect. When all is said and done, after my girls fray my last nerve, life throws me another curve ball, or my business grays my hair, there is always a warm body that is willing to let me pet it, hold it, or take it for a ride and right the wrongs of the day.

Heavenly Father

(This was printed in a local publication, "The Tinytown Gazette", for Father's Day of 2007)

Some may remember Archie Bunker from the television series “All in the Family,” but he lived in my house. My Dad had more in common with Carroll O’Connor’s character than he would care to admit. Growing up with him was a trip; losing him was a battle.

Loud, inappropriate, and politically incorrect, he was the center of family gatherings. He often relaxed on the recliner in front of our one and only TV. What little control he had in life was held over that squawking screen, and we grew up on his favorites, “Lawrence Welk,” “The Honeymooners,” “Hee Haw,” and, oh, his beloved “wrastling”.

Frank aka ‘Smitty’ was a legend at the meat plant where he toiled for 40 years. I spent one summer working there and was constantly regaled with stories of his workplace antics and heroics. Walking in together to punch the time clock, I would often hear the shout, “Beauty and the Beast!” My Dad’s response would generally be, “Please don’t call my daughter names!”

My father spoke of having visited 48 states while in the service, although I can’t recall ever going away on vacation. While in Germany during World War II, he was a prisoner of war, and missing in action for nine months. As a teenager, I took horrible glee in teasing my Mother about the tear-stained entries in her diary from that time.

Growing up, my Father’s bouts of dourness and irritability were hard to understand. Now I see the challenge of his whirlwind life with seven children, only one having a legitimate handicap to excuse poor behavior. Trying to balance each little square in the house of cards that his world had become must have been amazingly difficult; knowing one small movement could cause it all to collapse.

Regardless, he was a clown at heart, and I have vivid memories of his lighthearted foolishness. He once told his grandchildren he had swallowed a beach ball when they asked about his expanding girth. Another time, he struck a pose while holding one of my daughter’s toys, perfectly mimicking its comic expression. His irreverence was boundless; there was no mercy from his sarcasm.

Frank and Bernice managed to tough out 61 years together. Well into his 80s, my Dad would hold his “Bernie’s” hand and grin foolishly. At a wedding shortly before he died, my brother and I wheeled our parents onto the dance floor in their respective chairs and assisted them in what would be their final waltz.

Losing a parent is a sadness one rarely recovers from. We can stuff it into a far corner, hoping darkness will cause it to shrivel and fade, but small rays of memory light upon it, causing it to bloom afresh. I can still see my Dad’s face split in a goofy grin, oversized glasses perched on his nose and cap askew, with my daughter’s stuffed animal clasped in his wrinkled hands. He was heavenly, my father.

My Life as Fiction

For those of you who slurred my use of viscous metaphors in the initial post, I spit in your general direction.

Now, on to the burning question for today: Is my life so twisted as to seem fictional or have I fictionalized my life?

I know that much of what drips down from my gray matter and out my fingers is writer's license deliberately and liberally applied to an event in my life. But some of it is how I actually remember things, although siblings often cry foul.

How is it that specific memories can be stored so differently by people who have had the same experience? I remember once being astonished during a conversation with one of my six siblings at the disparate recollections of a shared incident.

What comes into play when a memory is filed away in the catacombs of our minds?

It would seem that one's personality must affect perception, coupled with their emotional state at the time. Another component might be the tendency to whitewash, or not, the walls of each experience.

Do we reinvent our lives by doing personal edits as we store the chapters of our past? Are we creating a more appealing version of what actually transpired; one that smooths like beach glass with the constant handling of years?

Whatever the case, I pray my family and friends don't take my interpretations to heart as I share the warped contents of my brain. In addition to a faulty storage system, they must surely know that I am irrepressibly unable to sort fact from fiction!

Intro to Madness

Last year I had no idea what a blog was, although I thought it sounded like blob of phlegm. Today I am using one in an effort to keep my (slimy) brain spinning and (slippery) fingers tapping.

Pushed over the precipice of doubt and procrastination by a dear friend, I enrolled in a writing course this spring. From this group sprang a monthly writer's workshop with a delightful social component. The women who attend are merciless, demanding and wonderful.

The syndicated columnist (woohoooo, Suzette!) who taught our class has been kind enough to join us at meetings as though we were peers. A complete naif when it comes to producing articles and columns, I have had several pieces published locally due in great part to her urging and tweaking.

There are so many forces at work on your ideas when writing for publication. What makes the subject interesting? Who will you offend? Why should a newspaper want it? Where should you submit it? How far can you go before you cross one of the hundreds of imaginary lines current society has drawn in the sand?

Well, hell. All of that is tremendously limiting.

Here, on the carpet of this blog, is where I plan on ejecting some of my written masses of sputum. No one is paying to read and my greatest compensation is the pressure released from my brain.

I can pretend that I am the female embodiment of David Sedaris. Thoughts in my cranium not fit for general public consumption of the paid sort will have a home here. The inane droppings and venomous bile. The private hurrays and the public grievances.

So, for those of you who have not yet gone running from the room dodging the slick mine field of my intellect: Cheers!