Oak in the Seed

Nurturing an Oak in the Seed

2012-01-22T13:08:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, inspired by a magazine article, I spent an afternoon designing a Vision Board. A Vision Board is a visual representation of where you are in life or rather, where you want to be, emotionally or spiritually or physically. The idea is that by surrounding yourself with these images, your life will change until your vision becomes reality.

Without going into the gory details, my reality deteriorated instead. In a fit of frustration, I tore my vision board to shreds and threw it away. An hour later, I went through the trash and rescued some tatters and shoved them in a drawer. It’s not good to give up hope entirely.

A conversation with a friend and fellow blogger a few months ago reminded me of those ideas and dreams and desires and hopes, and I thought of the little trinkets and labels and notes piling up in cabinets and desk drawers, snippets of what I love and reveal who I am to myself: A dragon-shaped thumb tack purchased during a craft show mom and I used to enjoy together, a painted hummingbird pin from my oldest sister, a special card from another sister who is my soul mate during this life turn, a Mary Oliver poem, a “Wonder” sticker, the Flying Red Horse gas station sign that so enraptured me as a child.

There was too much to paste on a piece of letter-sized paper. But while moving stuff around in our storage room downstairs, I picked up an old frame that once belonged to a relative. Aunt Mae liked to paint and before she passed, gave one of her framed paintings to my parents, who hung it in the living room for awhile before storing it in the attic. When mom and dad were divesting themselves of stuff for their move to Florida, I took the oak frame because of the carved acorns budding along the edges. It’s me, I thought. One of these days, I will put a picture in this frame. That was over 25 years ago.

Little could I know the oak frame would one day hold not a picture, but my life.

Combination scrapbook, vision board and whimsy, my Vision Board will not make it into an art museum, nor will it ever be finished. I put things up there at random and take pieces down when they don’t fit any more. It takes my past and present and knits them to a hope for my future. But it wasn’t until I was putting it together that I realized this old frame has become the focus of how I see my life and how far I have come. I know now where the mighty oak is growing, surrounded by its circle of seeds.

Canine Connectivity

2011-12-23T16:31:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, I called Ken from work to let him know I was on my way home and to ask if the there was anything I needed to pick up for dinner on the way.

"Hold on," he said, and I heard the phone clunk on to the table, and then Ken’s footsteps stomping across the floor and into the kitchen. I expected to hear his voice within a minute but instead there was dead space. You have experienced this. You are on the phone and all of a sudden….nothing. Your connection with another person has just entered the black hole.

“Hello? Hello? Ken, are you there?”

Nothing.

At this point, I usually hang up and call back. A crackling sound made me hesitate.

“Ken! Are you there? Forget the refrigerator.”

Dead space but then...more crackling sounds. And something I had never heard before that made me think the line wasn’t disconnected yet: heh-huh-heh-huh-heh-huh. What was that?

The crackling sound was familiar from our old DSL line. We heard it every time it rained. The phone company admitted our telephone lines were old and brittle in our area but there were no plans to have them replaced. No FIOS in the works either. To keep our phone connectivity, we were pretty much forced to sign up for cable which is not much of an improvement because every time we lose electricity, which seems to have become a regular event, we lose our phone connection and have to rely on our cell phones and hope we remembered to have kept them juiced up.

What was causing these strange sounds, yet the line was not yet disconnected? Should I call the cable company? Had someone broken into our house and holding Ken hostage? What was the crackling sound? The heh-huh-heh-huh-heh-huh? It sounded like someone was out of breath.

Like a dog…panting.

Oh.

Crackle crackle….then I heard Ken’s voice:  “Toby! Get back here with that phone!”

I heard rustling, the pounding of human feet on wooden stairs and then: 

“Give me that! Diane: Are you still there? YOUR dog grabbed the phone off the table!”

But I could not hear him. I was laughing too hard….

Toby Update

2011-11-19T17:17:00.001-08:00

When I stopped by Nina’s Red Barn Farm at the Farmer’s Market this morning to buy eggs, Nina asked me about my blog. I miss your writing, she said.

I miss writing too, I wanted to say but made the “I have been busy” excuses, which is a catch-all for not doing something we do not want to do or else putting something aside we do want to do because it has neither monetary value nor social gain. In other words, you do it because you like to but it goes to the bottom of the list because doing something just because you like to seems frivolous.

It is also Thanksgiving and the annual launch into the holiday season, which for me is six weeks of melancholic pain. But I am not going to write about that. It only makes it worse. Besides, this year I have Toby, who is becoming my best buddy. When I think of going for a walk, I think of him coming with me. When I plan a trip, I think of him all cozy in the back seat of my car peeking over my shoulder.

But I have often second-guessed my decision to adopt a puppy. Volunteering at the shelter gave me both insight and information about the incoming dogs. It was my half-baked plan to adopt an older dog, one who was good with cats, housetrained and just looking for a scratch behind the ears, a languid walk around the block, a bowl of food and me. Not a puppy, especially a male. But when I saw that golden face leave its play partner in the shelter kennel and sit down to look at me—I mean, look at me, an arrow shot through my soul.

He’s yours if you want him, they said. We know he will have a good home.

I know that too, I thought smugly. He will have the best and most loving training too and soon he will be a happy, obedient dog, for who has known me for a long time who also did not know my DeeJay?

As you know, I brought him home, laid down house rules, set up his sleeping crate downstairs next to the door going to the great outdoor toilet and announced he would sleep there from now on, his being the dog and all. He did not need to be in our bedroom where our beloved cats lounged. I would also walk him A LOT as we could not afford to fence in our yard. This was a happy prospect to have company on my weekend jaunts and have a reason to carve out a daily walking schedule that would be part of my mental and physical fitness routine. We would play in the yard on a long line until he learned to come the second I called his name. Above all, he would NOT chase our precious cats. Never. I was eager and confident that in a year’s time, I would have a world-class obedient, happy, well adjusted dog who would become a super duper therapy dog and save the world!

Today, Toby sleeps upon a grand pillow in an even grander crate on the floor next to my side of the bed. In the den is an enormous foldout pen with another giant, foofy pillow which is where Toby lounges and walks around during the times we are not home. He only chases the cats about half the time. He comes when I call him some of the time but I have been told he will be almost two years old before that command will stick.

As of this weekend, a portion of our backyard is fenced in and we still can’t afford it. But my heart sings with joy when that golden body races around without the constant restraint of a leash and then runs up to me and sits next to my side as if there was no place else on earth he would rather be.

Here I need to stop and say how grateful I am that my dearest soulmate friend who shares my name has supported me every step of the way. From my worries about coccidia when I first brought him home to house training tips to remaining steady in my storms of ignorant anxiety, she has repeatedly guided me back to believing in myself. And through her, I met Betty Laurin, Rhode Island’s dog whisperer, a future post in OakintheSeed.

Believe in potential. It becomes reality.

A Different Kind of Coming Home

2011-08-14T18:01:00.000-07:00

Toby is growing up. Soon he will be able to sleep through the night without my having to take him outside for a stroll around the yard at 2:00am where he spends as much time picking up sticks and chewing soggy acorns than what we go out for in the first place.

Only three weeks ago, Toby was in the shelter where I volunteer. He knew nothing about walking politely on leash, or sitting when asked or “down” or “stay,” which he can do now (most of the time). He didn’t know from cats (HE DOES NOW) or peanut butter kongs, baths or fuzzy towels rubbing him dry.

I have learned some things too. I know where the screech owl roosts in our back yard when it calls in the night and how many wild bunnies dine among the scraggly rosebushes. I know the secret route of the deer band as they graze their way among the neighborhood hosta gardens. I know which neighbors leave their homes at 5:30, 6:00, 6:30, 7:00am.

The musty scent of earth on a midsummer dawn is once again mine to breath. The pure animal smell of wet dog fur permeates the garage where Toby is dried off from the rain and the clothesline downstairs sports a colorful array of old towels in various stages of drying. I vacuum more often now and just ordered a Dysan machine with the special pet hair pickup tool. I don’t leave the house without dog treats in one pocket and a plastic bag in the other.

I am also reminded of the exuberant welcome at the end of a workday, no matter how lousy the day may have been. An uncontrollable tail wag at the prospect of a ride in the car, the vicarious excitement I feel when Toby rips at top speed through the yard for the sheer joy of motion.

It has taken ten months of experience at volunteering at the shelter every weekend to turn me back once again into being owned by a dog and to living life differently. Getting hot and sweaty and dirty (and liking it) being drenched in a summer rain, getting slimed by a puppy tongue. These are the things worth living for—not big yards or accomplished wardrobes or fancy electronics that never notice when I walk in the door.

I am grateful to have finally returned home.

WHO RESCUES WHO?

2011-07-26T19:21:00.000-07:00

It’s been two months since I've posted anything to OakintheSeed. I do not blame anyone for not clicking here anymore just to see the same photo of Bailey and me sitting on the floor at the Best Friends Adoption Event this past June. It’s seems to be the same old/same old at this blog.

But I have good news! Bailey has been adopted! She went home to live with a couple similar in age in human years to her ten. A couple arrived who had adored the huskies they had owned throughout their years together but when the last one died, decided they were too long in the tooth to start over with a puppy and besides, it was time to sit back and relax and not worry about feeding the dog, walking the dog, bathing the dog, clipping the dog, driving to the vet with the dog and finally, mourning the death of a dog. But apparently, they were not over the loving of a dog. When they spotted Bailey’s husky mix profile on RBARI’s Petfinder page, they went to meet her and a few weeks later, brought her home forever.

Bailey and I were pals. We spent part of every weekend together for months, walking the frozen paths of parks or strolling around the lake at home. At the end of each outing, I would climb into the back of the station wagon with her for a snack, sip a cup of tea and watch the world go by. Bailey gazed out at the world until one day she turned and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. Until then, I was just another human on the other end of the leash. But that day, sitting in the afternoon sun, she looked me right in the eye, patted my leg twice with her paw as if testing the waters, then slowly, deliberately laid down on my lap and sighed.

CONNECTION.

We continued our weekly outings. Each one ended the same way with “Hang out time.” We did nothing but sit together. My mind would drift to a place without words. Bailey alternately stretched a front leg on my lap or dozed on the quilt in the winter sun. Slowly, we walked each other over a bridge that reconnected her to the richness of the human spirit, and me to rediscovering the beauty of meeting another soul in another world. Bailey led me back to the path of my own animal spirit. I will be forever grateful to her.

But while I miss Bailey, she made sure I would not return to my dogless ways.

Meet Toby…a four-month old Golden Retriever mix now in his forever home...with me.

The View From the Other Side of the Fence

2011-06-05T18:48:00.000-07:00

Bailey & me

Here we are on the other side of the fence at the Super Pet Adoption weekend sponsored by Best Friends, the biggest no-kill animal shelter in the country. Over 40 groups showcased their adoptable dogs and cats at the Westchester County Center in White Plains, NY. RBARI, the shelter where I have been volunteering for the past 8 months, was well represented with a dozen dogs including Bailey, a 10 year-old Husky mix still waiting for her forever home.

Last year's event drew 10,000 people so the organization of it had to be, and was, extraordinary. A legion of Best Friends volunteers had the convention center ready for our arrival early Saturday morning. Tables for the shelter folks had been set up around the perimeter of the room and rows upon rows of temporary kennels were built in the middle, each filled with a soft layer of pine shavings which made the room full of hundreds of animals smell more like a forest than a dog kennel. The Best Friends volunteers were outfitted in bright orange t-shirts so they were easy to spot if you needed help, but there was never a time when we had to ask--they anticipated and filled every need. Whenever I took Bailey outside for an occasional walk in the grass, we returned to a gleaming bucket of fresh, cold water and a fluffed kennel, sort of like having your napkin refolded at your table when you return from the dance floor at a wedding reception.

The volunteers swept floors, picked up dog poop, assisted with confused dogs (and people), opened gates, gave directions and helped with the dogs if an agency was short-staffed. They even had a system for the inevitable runaway, which I witnessed first-hand when a handler from a shelter across the aisle from us did not latch the door to her kennel. Four little dogs poured out and raced down the aisle toward the exit. A Best Friends volunteer stepped up, scooped up one of the runaways, blew a whistle and magic! Ten thousand orange-shirted men and women descended, gathered the rest and returned them to their mortified handler. ~~(So glad it wasn't me).~~

Some of the other RBARI dogs (two sleeping puppies on the upper left).

Bailey waiting for her forever home.

"Ducky" an 8 year-old Basset Hound, recently rescued from 8 years in a puppy mill cage.

There was some mild interest in Bailey but once a potential adopter read her bio card and learned how old she is (10) they smiled and moved on. They have no way of knowing what a great dog she is. (I am secretly relieved).

Both my husband and I would love to adopt Bailey. I have tried twice to fit her into our feline household and the answer is a resounding NO from both species. So. This will be a life lesson in loving...and letting go.

Winter is Gone!

2011-05-09T17:57:00.000-07:00

I have final confirmation that winter is GONE. No more snow, no more ice, no more slipping, sliding, sleeting or shivering. Proof can be found at NJ Skylands.

"I Get Up and Keep Going"

2011-04-27T18:29:00.000-07:00

I spent my lunch hour yesterday afternoon running errands. After leaving a local pharmacy where I bought stuff for Simba the cat, I walked down the sidewalk to return to the car and back to work. Approaching from the opposite direction were two women who appeared to be an elderly mother with her middle-aged daughter. The mother limped along, left hand locked in her daughter’s right arm. I glanced past them without looking at them, the way you do when among strangers, when I noticed they had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. The older woman was leaning heavily against the younger, who staggered but kept her ground, gripping the older woman’s hand while speaking quietly to her. The older woman struggled to regain her balance, swaying back and forth and waving her free arm as if fighting an unseen force. She looked like she was about to faint and pushed into the younger woman, who did not clutch her mother in terror (like I would have done) but stood tall and straight and then slowly, gently, let the flailing body of the older woman slide down her right leg to slump onto the concrete.

I quickened my pace toward them, pulling out my cell phone to call 911 but there was something odd about the relaxed demeanor of both women that made me hesitate. They were both watching me as I approached. The older woman was conscious.

They were smiling at me.

I walked up, cell phone in hand and asked: “Can I help?”

“Oh no,” the older woman laughed. This happens to me all the time. Sometimes I don’t feel well and I have to sit down until I feel okay again.” She beamed up at her daughter and then me. “When I feel better, I get up and keep going.”

A moment later, she glanced up at her daughter, signaling she was ready to rise. Both women giggled again, not in embarrassment but in camaraderie. The younger one thanked me for my offer to help, then leaned over and hauled her mother up by the seat of her pants, the way you would pull a child out of the mud. The mother lurched to her feet and the two women locked arms again, waved goodbye and continued on their way.

The scene has played itself out over and over in my mind. Why wasn’t the older woman in a wheelchair? Why were they walking in a public place where they could easily be knocked over and where the mother could hit her head? Maybe she should be wearing a helmet. On the other hand, it was obvious they knew what they were doing. The daughter knew how to ground herself against the flailing weight of her mother to guide her descent. But what astonished me the most was their happiness to be outside and walking on an April afternoon, despite the older woman’s malady, so they could enjoy the simple act of walking down the sidewalk and shopping, like mothers and daughters do.

Life Lesson from a Shelter Dog

2011-04-24T17:27:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter to all who celebrate! Ken and I went to an afternoon dinner at a friend's house but there was enough time this morning for my weekly outing with Bailey, a nine year-old Collie/Husky/Akita/& I think a dash of Chow mix. Since she has been at the RBARI shelter since November, it is important to get her out in the world as often as possible. Many of my fellow volunteers bring "their" dogs home, sometimes all weekend or for an all day hike and a swim or a winter snowshoe outing. Our aging cats would not tolerate a dog, so Bailey and I roam the trails of nearby parks instead.

We have been doing this every weekend for three months and I see a big difference in her behavior. This dog was not well socialized before being surrendered to the shelter. She can be fearful and occasionally aggressive with other dogs. I am surprised at what she spooks at: a stick across the path in the woods, parked trucks, men in general and a couple of weeks ago, she was shocked at the little wavelets on a lake. As we walk the trails, there are plenty of other people with their dogs, some on leash (yay) and some not (boo) but it gives us a chance to practice being in polite society. I try to distract her by keeping her attention on ME by using lots of turns, sit commands, treats, reverse walking, anything to keep from looking, and lunging, at other dogs. The saying, "You can't teach an old dog new tricks" does not apply to Bailey. She is getting it!

While we walked, I was doing my usual mental self torture routine about finances, work, home, repairs (you know the drill) and the coulda-shoulda-woulda list of past decisions, which is a bad habit I cooked up awhile ago. Suddenly, I thought of a question my sister asked me yesterday: What would it feel like to have the questions answered? Not where would you live or what you would be doing or who would you be doing it with, just...what would it feel like?

Don't you love this question? It is simple, peaceful, grounding. And I suddenly realized, when I angst and fret, I have been turning to that question and it feels like God is doing with me what I do with Bailey: Get my attention, reverse, sit still, walk over here, stop, sit again, LOOK AT ME...and not the unanswerable questions unleashing themselves whenever I am alone.

As much as Bailey enjoys jumping into my station wagon every weekend to head for the hills and romp in the woods and snack on hot dog treats, I am clear about who is benefiting from our association more.

Thanks, Bailey.

And thank you, CC....

Water, Water Everywhere

2011-03-12T17:45:00.000-08:00

We have been having a spectacular amount of rain here in northeastern New Jersey, which has flushed away most of the spectacular snow. It seems odd to look out at the front yard and not see WHITEWHITEWHITE and I can turn into the driveway without veering around the corner glacier. Some rivers are still rising and there are many people who have been flooded out of their homes altogether.

Last Monday morning, Ken went downstairs to fetch the newspaper from the driveway (we have yet to give up the paper habit. Ken loves his sports pages) and I heard him say, “Uh, oh…” which is never a good thing to hear, much less on a Monday morning when any interruption to routine can blow up the rest of the day. He followed it up with: “We have some water down here.” So down I went to pull out my private stash of old towels with no paint on them for purposes like this.

What is annoying about this is there are three GIANT cat litter boxes downstairs, which means the cats must have noticed that to attend to their secret habits, they would have had to put their dainty feet into half an inch of cold rainwater. With their advanced talents for waking us up on weekend mornings to be fed, which include hair pulling, ear lobe nipping, staring into my closed eyes while purring loudly, pushing my books off the nightstand onto the floor, stealing my socks and getting into screaming matches with each other, you would think they would have had the courtesy of given us notice: “Hey, youze guys! There’s wahta in the basement; we don’t want to get out feeties wet going to the loo! Fix it!”

But nooooo. They shucked their innate feline modesty and took their morning dump in the one box we have upstairs reserved for 18 year-old cat, Simba, whose arthritis makes it hard for him to negotiate the stairs. (It’s odd how he is pretty much the only one to use it). Fortunately, for them, we got it all cleaned up before we went to work, just in time for them to go to sleep on the couch, exhausted from our labors.

The Universe, Unfolding

2011-03-06T13:55:00.000-08:00

I have been working out regularly for a couple of months now and have gotten to the point of enjoying the movement after sitting behind a desk for hours. My aerobic contraption of choice is the elliptical machine, both for the calorie expenditure (I can subtract the chicken sandwich I had for lunch) and for the “floaty feeling” of running through space, especially when the Ipod is spun to a tune with a strong beat and I can let go of the handlebars and swing my arms. It’s almost fun.

When possible, I pick the same machine every time, one of three facing the window on the second floor of the gym. While exercising, I can entertain myself by watching cars pull into and out of the parking lot below while men, women and children in various exercise attire enter and leave the building. But what I really like about spinning away up there on my perch is the enormous vault of sky. With a little imagination, I find myself running and flying through the clouds, leaping over the tops of pine trees and skimming the hemlocks bordering the road.

The other day, a pair of Mourning doves arrowed past the window as a flock of starlings sank into a grove of trees. In the distance, the shallow “V” of a Turkey Vulture tilted over the highway to the east, and circling closer to my building and high, so high! were three Red-tailed Hawks. I see these raptors often in town, on my way to and from the gym and work, either roosting in a tall white pine on the next block or scouting the neighborhood for dinner. I even found where one of them cached a frozen squirrel corpse on the top of a telephone pole.

But as I spun away on the elliptical machine to the beat of the drums in my ears, two of the spiraling hawks separated from the third and then orbited each other, swimming through the sky, gradually closing the diameter separating them. They coiled closer, then closer as I leaned forward in the machine, my legs spinning faster, and I wondered if…if….

Suddenly, the hawks closed their wings and clasped talons. They swirled through the air as if they were one great bird plummeting languorously toward earth. Within seconds, they sprang apart, arcing away and into the sun. I was racing now on the machine, flying as fast as I could. As the birds soared and defied gravity in the crazy act of recreating themselves, I was there too, my spirit swirling around and within them as I witnessed the Universe still unfolding, as it should.

Then, it was over. The hawks drifted off. I returned to my body to find it still spinning in its circle in the machine, my arms no longer straight down at my sides but stretched wide, like wings.

Another Outing With Bailey~A Shelter Dog

2011-02-27T17:51:00.000-08:00

I fetched Bailey from RBARI this morning after seeing her briefly yesterday when I went to walk other dogs: Old Man Wolf, a 10 year old collie/husky mix with an enormous head and bigger heart. Played with Jack Russell/Schnauzer “Toby,” who is all about fun-fun-fun!!! and can manage a good sit before you even ask for it. Alfie, the gentle lab cross, dozed in her kennel but was happy to go for a walk, and Jenna, a 5 year-old Doberman seemed glad, if confused, to be roaming the grounds of a shelter when she used to be living in her former owner’s home before a baby arrived.

Bailey wiggled and whined when I entered her kennel, a behavior I have not seen before. She looked at me, LOOKED AT ME, making a connection where before she just kind of stared around at anything else except who was at the other end of her leash. Hmmm.

I drove her up to Ringwood Manor to walk the paved road where cars were few and far between. We strolled past dozens of families, men and women of all ages with dogs and laughing kids and everyone HUNGRY for this sunny day; cold be damned! I pointed out the courting Titmice and teasing crows wafting from branch to branch, the Turkey Vultures vaulting across the blue sky, a hunting Red-tailed Hawk. Bailey could not have cared less. Nor did she notice my frustration when she yanked at the end of the leash at the very second I tried to take a photo of a Wood Duck. Oh well….

Back to the parking lot for a break, we hopped into the back of the Subaru Wagon to snack on desiccated liver treats and an apple. I stretched my legs out at the end of the wagon bed and the dog sat next to me. The sun stroked us as we watched the people and kids and dogs stroll by. After awhile, Bailey did something else she has not done before. She lifted her right front paw and scratched at my legs. Surprised, I looked at her but said nothing. She glanced at me, sort of sideways, and then pawed again, as if testing the waters. Then, with no further ado, she left that paw on my leg, carefully placed the other one next to it, heaved a gentle sigh, and laid down in my lap, as if to say: I have been wanting to do this for a long, long time.

Spot Before My Eyes

2011-02-20T17:32:00.000-08:00

The shelter where I have been volunteering most weekends held a special training yesterday on how to handle one-year old “Spot,” a recently surrendered Borzoi or Russian Wolfhound, relative to Greyhounds and looking every bit like a curly-haired cousin. Spot was owned by someone who could no longer take care of him and arrived at the shelter having no clue how to walk on a leash or even where his skyscraper body is at all times.

We are being show how to turn him. he leaves most of his body behind unless you use your left right leg to nudge the back end to follow the front.

This morning, I went to pick up Bailey for our Sunday outing but learned she was on an “overnight” at the home of one of the staff so I had to wait for her to return. Well, I thought, I will go practice what I learned yesterday and take Spot out for a walk.

I entered his kennel, hooked him up and held the loop of his martingale collar to stop him from lunging when I opened the door. When I did this yesterday, he leaped up on tiptoes and flailed at my face from 12 feet in the air. Fortunately, instincts from years of working with horses many years ago kicked in. I became calm and firm and got him under control.

It was a struggle to get through doorways where we are asked to have the dogs stop before going through to teach them that we, as the leaders, go first. Spot was jumpy but this time, I was ready with my hand firmly on the loop of his martingale. We went through one of the doors but with all those splayed legs, I accidentally stepped on a toe (even the trainer said she had done this several times). He yelped and twisted, poor guy, but when I opened the door, all was forgotten. As we walked out into the sun, I could feel him relax about one degree.

His sight hound instincts kicked in immediately, making him swivel his head and point his needle nose at whatever was moving, people and other dogs. Two staff were quietly walking dogs down the road toward us so I guided Spot away. His body curved away from my left leg. I stepped to the right to get his attention but unfortunately, the front end came along while the back end stayed where it was, and I stepped on a back foot this time. Fortunately, this got his attention long enough to surprise him with dried liver treats and we succeeded in walking somewhat normally for two cycles around the parking lot before I decided to call it quits while we were ahead and go back in.

While I returned Spot to his kennel, the groomer was returning a freshly bathed Golden Retriever to its bed. She was a small woman wearing a green apron and had a cheery accent that revealed her English heritage. She put her hands on her hips and said, “Let’s see; who’s next? He needs a bath (pointing to Spot). I’ll do him next. We stood him in the tub last week, now we’ll wash him.”

And just like that, she slithered into Spot’s kennel, clipped the leash onto his collar, opened the door and marched him to the bathing room which is the same room housing the washer, dryer and mountains of laundry so there is just room enough for one person and one dog. With another more experienced volunteer, she lifted the surprised wolfhound into the raised tub and clipped his collar onto the short chain on the wall. There Spot stood, his back curled into a shallow “C” as the groomer asked him, “Why the sad face?” But he stood and did not struggle.

Unfortunately, the door had to be closed so I could not take pictures. But when I returned from my outing with Bailey later in the day, Spot was back in his kennel and lounging on his hammock, looking soft, fluffy, clean and CALM. I think he is starting to like the place. Good Spot. Good dog.

I am looking forward to walking with him again. Think I will wear my slippers.

A Dog Day: Walking Bailey~A Shelter Dog

2011-02-06T19:12:00.000-08:00

This morning, I sprung Bailey, an 8-year old Shepherd/Husky mix, from her RBARI shelter home, put her into the station wagon and took her for a ride to the Ridgewood Duck Pond, where leashed dogs are permitted. We avoided the "dog park," a fenced-in area where dogs are allowed to run free and socialize with each other. In my book, when you put a bunch of animals together like that is a vet bill waiting to happen.

Bailey is not my dog. She belongs to the shelter. But as a volunteer, I am encouraged to take her out of her daily routine to remind us both there is a bigger world out there. It blows the cobwebs out of our minds and hearts, and when you add a little sunshine, it is as golden as she is.

I have walked Bailey every weekend at the shelter since her family had to give her up a couple of months ago. She is timid, but a good girl and got an A+++ on her first real outing. Her inner Husky splashed happily through slurpy, slushy puddles and the hidden scents in snow kept her trotting by my side, rarely spooking even while runners and walkers and bike riders zoomed around us. She did not even glance at the woman yelling in French into her cellphone and we quietly stepped aside when a roller blader careened past. She took exception; however, to a hound who walked toward us while staring directly at her. In doggie body language, this is like "flipping the bird," so I pulled Bailey off the paved path as the hound's owner dragged the dog past as it snarled and growled at us.

When we returned to the car, I toweled the mud off her paws and brushed her head to toe as she leaned her warm body against mine. Then, I popped her back onto the soft comforter in the back of the wagon, left the hatch open and sat down next to her and stroked her thick fur. We sat in the sun awhile and just watched the world go by. As I greeted people who strolled past and told them about RBARI, Bailey stretched out in the warm sun, tucked her head over her paws and dozed.

Admittedly, this is not a great photo of Bailey. This is early in our walk and she was still anxious. By the time she was relaxed enough to look her beautiful golden self, I was relaxed too and forgot all about the camera.

But the best thing is: My car smells like wet dog.

Go Ahead...Bask!

2011-02-05T17:13:00.000-08:00

The winter of 1994 was similar to this one. Endless days of snow and ice and below zero temperatures. By mid-March we had totaled 18 snow and ice storms and were physically and spiritually exhausted. But then, one night on TV, Howard Coselle shared photographs of the flowers that would soon be among us in person. Pink and red and blue. GREEN. He invited viewers to "Go ahead...bask!"
I had not realized how much I was missing COLOR and wept. And then smiled.

42 more days.

A Mouse in the House!

2011-01-21T18:37:00.000-08:00

We have five cats of various ages, all rescues with checkered pasts. They are coddled and doted over, fed the finest cat foods and treats and now and then driven to a kind veterinarian for checkups and annual shots. They doze all day on our king-sized bed or a living room recliner, nibble snacks from a clean bowl, lap fresh water, get cuddled and brushed and entertained. Sparkle even sleeps under the blankets with her head on the pillow next to mine.

With all this easy living, I sometimes wondered: If a mouse ever got in the house, would the cats know what to do? Or would they turn over and go back to sleep?

Turns out they know what to do.

The other night I kept hearing odd sounds, not the usual bangs or meows or LittleBearischasingmeagainsaveme screams from MacyGray. These were random clunks emanating from downstairs that started and stopped. There was silence, then more bonks, then silence again. After I went to bed, the clunks came upstairs. I shifted Sparkle off the pillow so I could get up and turn the hall light on and investigate, being careful not to wake Ken.

Scooter, an adopted feral from a local shelter, hunkered down at the opposite end of the hallway.

MacyGray, adopted from a former vet because the cat’s owner had abandoned her in the back yard, was on full hunt alert. (I suspect MacyGray was the mastermind in this escapade).

LittleBear, our youngest cat, who was adopted four years ago from a group who rescued him from the streets of Newark, came swaggering down the hall like he had just been elected King of the Universe. His amber eyes gleamed. In his jaws was the slack body of a field mouse, its tail dragging across the floor.

I gasped. A MOUSE IN OUR HOUSE! But I was careful not to scold as Little Bear carried his prize into our bedroom and dropped it on a sweatshirt left on the floor. He tapped the mouse with his paw as if expecting it to jump up and play.

Oh, Little Bear, I gagged. Good boy…. (How-do-I-get-it-away-from-you…)?

I got a paper towel but Little Bear grabbed his mouse and ran into the dining room, then turned and glared at me:

You are not taking my mouse. I will fight you.

I recalled a recent dog training session I attended at the animal shelter where I am volunteering. It included a discussion about animals who really, really do not want to give something up. Don’t try and grab it, the trainer advised. Offer them something else, something they want at least as much, if not more. A distraction.

I grabbed a bag of cat treats. I’ll trade with you, Little Bear.

Forget it. This is MY mouse.

Look, Little Bear: Cookies…! cookies... ! MacyGrey, Scooter and Simba came to collect but Little Bear was not buying it.

I stepped closer and poured a pile of treats a foot from his nose.

He dropped the mouse and went for the treats. Oh yay, Creamy Dairy Flavor "Temptations." I would spit out a dead mouse for you too.

Little Bear quickly realized what was happening to his prize and dashed back to find another pile of treats left where his mouse had been. It was enough.

But now we have to call him Your High Mouseness, your RoyalScamperFeet, your Gracious Catnip and so forth while his servants pull guard duty.

The Stuff Cars Carry

2011-01-15T17:12:00.000-08:00

I had no idea how many things were stored in my car until I purchased a new vehicle and had to clean the stuff out of the old one. Beside the usual spare tire, the old Camry carried jumper cables still in the box, a cross crowbar, two umbrellas, a pair of binoculars for birding emergencies, a GPS, phone charger, Ipod cable, compass, two boxes of tissues, a map of Cape May, Vermont, the New York Adirondacks, Connecticut, Pennsylvania and written instructions on how to get to my girlfriend’s house in Rhode Island (there was no map for the state I live in).

Also, a notebook, 4 pens, a pencil for when the pens freeze, 2 flashlights, 1 all-weather jacket, 1 fleece vest, 2 pairs of cotton gloves, 2 dog leashes, my animal shelter volunteer badge, 1 empty water bottle, a small wallet with change for parking meters, 1 tin of Altoids, 4 packets of Handiwipes, 1 tube of Purell still brand-new because I forget to use it, 1 wispy straw paper without the straw, 2 plastic forks, and an all-purpose knife you could build a house with, just in case. A black feather, 1 large towel, a half-filled plastic bottle of Deep Woods Off, 1 tube of hand cream, a note from my husband saying “Have a good trip, I love you!” The Roger Tory Peterson’s Bird Guide, 3 expired discount coupons for the car wash, baseball caps from the Grand Canyon, Belize and a horse show. Also, the kitchen sink.

What it didn’t carry was the registration and insurance card, which I discovered the day before the Camry was to be traded in for a 2007 Subaru Legacy Wagon. Since I had just checked for these documents on the morning we went to the dealership, I can only surmise the dude evaluating the Camry for its trade-in value misplaced them. They made good on their reputation for customer service; however, and drove the Legacy to my house so I would not have to drive down one of New Jersey's fabled highways with no documentation.

Now it’s time to move in to the station wagon, WITH A CARGO BAY.

Happy New Year 2010

2010-12-31T18:42:00.000-08:00

"We simply need that wild country available to us, even if we never do more than drive to its edge and look in. For it can be a means of reassuring ourselves of our sanity of creatures, a part of the geography of hope." Wallace Stegner

Have a happy, healthy and beautiful New Year. Drive to your edge and look in....

Winter: Deadly Serious

2010-12-27T18:13:00.000-08:00

You have heard about the blizzard in the northeast by now and how the roads, transit systems, airports and emergency service vehicles are mostly still stranded. Ken and I have spent the better part of today digging ourselves out with a weak-willed snow blower and great determination. MUCH gratitude goes to a neighbor who drilled through the icy mountain left by the snowplows that everyone wants to see working if only they would not plug the driveway. I shoveled the snow off the deck as quickly as possible, both to refill the bird feeders and to relieve the added weight from the structure. As anyone who shovels snow will advise, it’s best to ladle it off while the stuff is new and soft; otherwise, it ices up and makes it impossible to remove.

When almost done, I felt an odd aura around, so paused to glance at the patch of woods behind the house. Six crows crouched in the tall oaks. Below them, an immature Cooper’s Hawk was eying me and the bird feeders. Cooper’s Hawks are known raiders of small birds at house feeders but my noisy presence kept the chickadees, titmice, Carolina Wrens and starlings away. Fifteen minutes later, the hawk dipped, shot toward the snow-laden forsythia shrubs bordering the woods and flushed a White-throated Sparrow, who made the deadly mistake of trying to escape over open ground. The hawk lofted back to its perch and fed. Frantically.

Two hours later, I was setting the table for dinner and glanced out the door to the cleared deck. Two squirrels were jiggling around in the hemlocks shading the south side. They sprang from branch to branch and back to the deck rail while staring at one spot and vibrating their tails as if shaking a naughty finger at someone.

That someone was the immature Cooper’s Hawk. It had flown into the hemlocks to escape the fierce winds while it digested its sparrow supper.

The two squirrels were frantic and alternated bouncing back and forth through the waving hemlock branches while the hawk clung to its perch, only once lunging at one when it teased too close.

These photos were taken at an angle, through a glass door and a screen which may have shielded the hawk's sight from me. More likely, it was too exhausted to fly off.

The squirrels, undeterred but tiring, kept jumping into the branches at the hawk, staring and pointing but this was stealing valuable energy from them as well, so finally, like hungry football fans, they grabbed some peanuts left on the deck earlier for the jays, and resumed their vigil.

No kidding around. Winter survival is deadly, deadly serious.

Make good decisions. Be safe.

Christmas Eve: A Time of Waiting

2010-12-24T14:16:00.000-08:00

It is Christmas Eve. My thoughts turn to the demands of this annual social and shopping tsunami that is more focused on the economic crisis than with a child of God being born. Several of my friends have unburdened themselves to me as they anticipate the gathering of family and the ritual of traditional food and hostility. “I’ll just keep my mouth shut,” they say while wrapping their gifts. I know of only one family who happily anticipates this annual gathering but since they get together several times a year because they enjoy each other’s company anyway, they don’t count.

Sad to say, but for me, the holiday season is a time to get through without collateral damage. But Christmas Eve is different. It’s the promise that something beautiful is about to occur. Perhaps it’s a projection from past Christmas Eves still bolstering my joy, the eager anticipation of Christmas morning when my three sisters (my brother was still an infant) and I perched at the top of the stairs where our bedrooms were located and waited for the clock to strike 6am, which is when our exhausted parents told us we were allowed to come down to see what Santa had left us. We were usually up by 4am and during our long wait invariably had to use the loo, which involved going downstairs PAST THE CHRISTMAS TREE to get to the single bathroom in the house. We had to solemnly promise to cover our eyes with our hands and NOT LOOK AT THE TREE NO CHEATING but of course, when it was my turn, I was overwhelmed with breathless temptation and told myself that glimpses through my spread fingers wasn’t really LOOKING and therefore wasn’t cheating. The dazzling silver tinsel sparkling from the reflected light of the stairwell and the stacks of wrapped gifts always took my breath away as I scampered past on my way to the bathroom, which happened to be opposite my parents’ bedroom so there was no yelling out SANTA CLAUS WAS HERE!

Mom and Dad had no idea we tortured ourselves every year or how many agonizing hours the four of us spent together at the top of the stairs. Now they tell us we could have come down sooner. Frankly, I am glad we never thought to ask and waited until 6 o’clock. It has become the memory over which I warm my heart.

To promises....

I'll Be Home for Christmas

2010-12-23T08:09:00.000-08:00

After a great debate with my lower and higher Self, I decided not to travel to Vermont for Christmas, not because I do not want to be part of the fun and frolic of family gatherings but because…hear my confession: It MIGHT snow in Vermont, which is like saying a bear might "you-know-what" in the woods.

You would think that having grown up in the northeast and driving on some of the most dangerous highways in the United States during snowstorms that I would be used to it by now, or at least take a ho-hum attitude. But nooooooo. It’s as if we were all born with a Snow Driving Courage Account, and I have not only depleted mine but have plowed through the interest as well. Having motored through washboard conditions, scraped ice off the INSIDE of my windshield, maneuvered through whiteouts, I have no nerve left to drive almost 300 miles by myself in winter, a third of the trip through rural and beautiful farmland.

So, starting today, I am home and on vacation until next year and would love to repeat that sentence. I don’t have to go back to work until next year. Yes, I am overwhelming grateful to have a job, especially a job I like, but oh boy, I don’t have to go back to work until next year! But what to do now that my trip has been canceled?

Here is my amended to do list for Christmas week:

Work at the animal shelter. Walk dogs. Play with cats.
Write. Blog. Read. Meditate.
Play with my camera. Download the free 30-day version of Photoshop and see if I can make any sense out of it.
Go for walks. Every day.
Take naps. Every day.
Cook great food.
Eat great food.
Wrap presents.
Open presents.
Visit with my family of friends.
Enjoy our great library.
Smile and laugh.
Buy a Subaru.

Merry Christmas!

Out Walkin' the Dog

2010-12-19T15:29:00.000-08:00

Thank you to everyone who has inquired whether we have adopted a dog yet! The answer is: "No, but the door is open if the right one comes along." In the meantime, I am getting my "dog fix" by volunteering at a local "no kill" animal shelter. ("No kill" meaning they do not euthanize for space. Like other "no kill shelters," an animal will be euthanized if suffering from an incurable disease or injury or is too dangerous to adopt out. These difficult decisions are made by the Board).

From my first orientation meeting, I have been impressed with how organized the place is and how careful they are in matching the experience and abilities of the volunteers with the jobs needed to be done. The dogs are categorized according to behavior. Green dogs are the puppies or animals with no behavior issues to speak of. They are easy to leash, easy to walk and great to build the self confidence of new volunteers who are learning to enter or exit a dog kennel without letting the animal escape, which is trickier than you'd think. New volunteers are only allowed to walk these dogs, so every Sunday for the past 6 weeks, I have been checking the information board to see who's who and making note of any issues to be aware of before taking one out. Last week, I was eligible to attend the training to walk the "blue" dogs, those with behavioral issues or who need work to keep them from dragging you into next week. After supervised practice, we are tested before being cut loose to take these dogs out on our own.

I have some experience in training dogs so was familiar with their procedures. The only difference is that dog treats are used to reinforce good behavior, so now I walk around with pieces of Bacon Strips in my coat pocket. Unfortunately, since both hands have to be on the leash, there are no photos to offer you. But today I walked RingDing, a shepherd/hound cross who is learning to walk next to you without leaping out in front; Bailey, a shy but eager-to-please collie cross with the most adorable fuzzy face; Mikey, a Maltipoo who is a "blue" dog because of his extreme timidity; and Laney, a senior animal and the most gentle Irish Setter/cross giant (and a "green" dog) whose owners surrendered him when they had to move away.

Working with these dogs is going a long way to satisfy my desire for a canine companion. The added benefit is that anything I can help them learn will make them more adoptable, as each of these animals wants nothing more than to be a beloved part of a family. If I can help them learn how to do that, I am grateful to know both their needs are being met, as well as my own.

A Child's Christmas Toy

2010-12-05T15:04:00.000-08:00

Every year I pretend we are not approaching the holiday season, when everyone seems to be either in good cheer or suicidal. I fight off the approaching season like a bad cold, preferring to avoid the extra work, expectations, financial burden and the ache of happier Christmases past when my family was closer in every way.

But a day arrives when I give up my resistance and throw my arms open to embrace Christmas present. I cook up a vat of spaghetti sauce with lots of garlic and while it simmers the day away on the back of the stove, 'O Come All Ye Faithful' floats through the rooms, Ken lugs the decorations down from the attic and the house is slowly transformed with ribbons and bows, reindeer and wreaths, lights and stars that sparkle. We pull out our favorite ornaments and settle them in their traditional spots. (They are the ones with stories attached: the little stuffed Santa we found in the mud on our front lawn the first Christmas we lived here, the porcelain Bluebird, the rocking horse with red reins). The highlight decoration; however, is a child’s toy.

Several years ago, while finishing up some last minute shopping, I heard a little girl begging her mother for a musical toy she had discovered on the bottom shelf of a rack. There were three cats sitting on a pillow, each wearing a night hat with a bell on the end. When she pressed a button on the paw of one of the cats, all three sprang to life with a loud “Meow!” and sang, all the while smiling and looking at each other, flipping their hats and making the little bells ring in time to the music. It was so cute.

The little girl dragged her exhausted mother to the display, “It’s the last one, Mommy! Can we buy it?” She pushed the button. The little cats sang, the bells tinkled and when the song was finished, the mother was smiling too. Then she looked at the price tag.

“Too expensive,” she announced, and took her daughter’s hand and walked away.

I glanced around the store to see if anyone was watching, then pressed the paw. The cats sang “Meow! The heads swiveled, the bells rang and they sang their song for the third time. I looked at the price tag.

I put it back on the shelf. It was absurd to waste that much money on a toy when we don’t even have children.

I glanced at the stuffed dogs, ponies, mice, reindeer and Santas still on the shelf. They were all smiling at me. I picked up a set of Christmas towels and passed my hand over the soft terrycloth, and then put them down and picked up the toy again to check the price one more time in case it had suddenly gone down, or maybe I had read it incorrectly.

The head voices started up:

"You’ll be sorry if you don’t buy it."

"It’s too much money. Remember those bills coming in next month?"

"That’s next month. Worry about that then. Buy yourself a toy, for chrissakes."

"I can live without it."

"Ken would like it."

!!!

And we have all lived happily ever after.

Go ahead: press the paw. You know you want to....

"It's About the Hawk"

2010-11-13T04:49:00.000-08:00

People will sometimes either call or send me photos of birds they have spotted. What is it, they ask, knowing I won't rest until I figure it out and tell them what blessing has visited their lives. Long time readers of Oak in the Seed may remember Nina, our local organic farmer and owner of Red Barn Farm. Nina has agreed to be our guest blogger today after she emailed me about a bird she, um...saw....

...so I was studying for a college math test when I heard the "uptown" girls make noise. I looked up and saw them running...well...like a bunch of chickens. I also noticed what looked like foam packing pellets on the ground. Momentarily I could not make sense of the hen ruckus or the litter on the ground. I went to the front door, by then the hens had taken cover. Standing amid the litter,which turned out to be feathers, was a raptor. Thank goodness for the pair of binoculars in the foyer.

It was evident from a distance the hen was dead. This raptor was such an exquisite sight that I thanked the unseen forces for bringing it to me. While I could do nothing for the hen it was imperative to make the most of this visit. Silly me, I feared the slightest hint of my presence would scare the raptor off. Not wanting to approach head on, with camera in tow I quietly slipped out of the basement door to approach the bird from the side. Dang, I still could not get a decent photo, my little digital just does not have the telephoto capabilities.

About an hour into raptors fresh chicken lunch it became evident it was not leaving. Emboldened, little pink Nikon and I went closer. Wanting a good picture that would best capture the scale of the bird I went into the pen. Each time the bird reached down to tear off more chicken I took a few more steps closer. I reached about 8' from it and dropped to the ground. I'm not sure if it was abject fear of the bird or if I was kidding myself by thinking that if I appeared smaller I might seem less threatening.

I continued the belly crawl and got within 5' of the bird when it turned around and just looked at me. While we occupy very different places in the animal kingdom, the message that bird gave me was unmistakable ...back off !

I've spoken with two birders and the consensus is my visitor was an immature red tailed hawk...and yes, I took pictures of the birds back side. Birders are a curious bunch, when an untrained observer like myself tries to describe a bird to them they always have very specific questions about the tail feathers.

The hen's death may have been swift but I harbor no anger towards the hawk. The bird stayed two hours and gave me the opportunity to observe a magnificent creature up close.

Peanut Butter Cookies

2010-11-08T14:02:00.000-08:00

I am no food stylist. I did not know there was such a thing until recently. I do know; however, there is such a thing as baking cookies on a rainy, snow-spitting Monday in November. You should have seen the look on my husband's face when he got home from work to a batch of his favorite peanut butter cookies!
Here's the recipe:

Peanut Butter Cookies
1 cup unsalted butter, softened

1 cup peanut butter (we like crunchy for texture)

1 cup sugar

1 cup packed brown sugar

3 eggs

3 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking soda

1/4 teaspoon salt

In a mixing bowl, cream butter, peanut butter and sugars. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Sift together flour, baking soda and salt; add to creamed mixture. Roll into 1 1/2 inch balls and place 3 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Flatten with a fork, if desired. Bake at 375 for 10 to 15 minutes until golden brown. Cool on wire racks. Yields: 3-4 dozen, depending upon how much of the dough you sneak.

Halloween!

2010-10-30T16:35:00.000-07:00

Ken and I have completed quality control testing of Reese's Pieces, Twix Bars, Nestle's Crunch, Snickers, Milky Ways, Pretzels and Candy Corn and are ready for the expected 100+ Halloweeners tomorrow!

But are they are they ready for us?

Happy Halloween!

Stop and See the Now

2010-10-29T04:25:00.000-07:00

Work has been busy with newly assigned tasks and responsibilities. I have also been taking a computer class on Saturdays at a local community college AND signed up as a volunteer at an animal shelter as a dog walker/cat socializer. It's been energizing to learn new things, meet new people and practice new skills but as I slid the deck door closed at the end of another day, I realized something was missing. Something simple and jaw-dropping miraculous. All I have to do is put all the activity down and walk outside to get it. It costs nothing but an open door.

Sometimes you just need to stop what you are doing and be part of it!

What is Loved is Never Lost

2010-10-08T18:44:00.000-07:00

While dragging out fleece and flannel for the coming winter, I took one last look at summer and a vacation week spent with some special women. Nine of us rented this house "down the shore" and spent the week laughing, listening and enjoying a special kind of solitude.

Bridge from the house over the dunes to "our" beach.

We are each a story unto ourselves, and a story when we are together. In one house, for one week, we carried our history of living and learning, losing and finding again. Some lost loved ones. Others lost their own souls for a time.
But we are still here.

There is something about watching the ocean...

I do not know when I laughed so often or so much! You may not know these women by name, but if you are reading this, you are one of us in your heart.

From my humble perspective, there ain't nothin' better than goin' to the beach with 9 women who are all FOODIES.

We played games.

Hung out on the beach.

Created STUNNING artwork.

We rejoiced in ourselves, in each other, and in this Universe.

OF COURSE, SOME OF US WENT BIRDING.

We left our mark.

Delete or Not to Delete....

2010-10-05T18:07:00.000-07:00

OakintheSeed has been at zero production. When I click on the last post, my old dog’s intelligent face still gazes at me. I wake up during the night with ideas for topics to write about but the next morning comes along and getting ready for work pushes the ideas aside. Blogging is an enjoyable hobby but can also be just another job to do in an already busy day.

My book club friends tell me they miss it.

I miss it too.

I contemplate deleting OakintheSeed but can’t bear the thought that with one click of the mouse, a part of me will disappear forever. Does Google have some protocol for dumping abandoned blogs? Who knows? My blog has languished a long time now, despite a private New Year’s resolution to post at least once a week (which is why I never publicly make New Year’s resolutions).

It would be easier if I traveled or had kids or a farm with rescued animals, places and people to tell stories about. Stories are why readers go to the popular blog sites, stories amusing or sad, instructive or reflective. Stories unfold in our minds with identifiable parts even if the plots may be unfamiliar. My daily stories would be about another day in the office in a job I like and am grateful to have, but who wants to read about that?

But today, a fellow blogger tipped the scales. Thank you, Adrienne.

As long as you will excuse my sporadic entries, as long as you do not mind occasional repeat topics, as long as you don’t mind reading plain old ordinary stuff, I will keep blogging.

And no…we do not have a dog yet, but knowing the door of possibility is open has fueled some good energy. Here is my inspiration: My soulmate friend in Rhode Island, a woman who owns and has trained three Delta certified therapy dogs. Here are two of them out for a daily play session in a nearby park:

See you next time, my friends....

Canine Contemplation

2010-08-02T18:55:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has known me for a long time also knew my four-legged soul-mate, Deejay, a shepherd/collie cross who came into my life many years ago after my family rescued her and her mother and two sisters (four others had been killed by wild things before we found them) from under a bench in Florida. We found homes for two of the puppies, Mom-dog went to live with my parents, and Deejay romped into my heart for the next 14 years. She died peacefully in my arms in July 1995. There has not been another dog in my life since.

I am contemplating changing my dogless existence. Truth to tell, it’s been a longing for years, but now the idea is changing status from longing to maybe-I-can-do-this-how-long-am-I-going-to-live-anyway kind of thing. Ken and I even measured out where a fence could be installed in the backyard so dog and I can romp around and hang out. Fond memories not yet created drift across my mind. I envision long walks around the lake on evenings like this one…cool and companionable and happy.

But I am also aware of the flip side: The hard facts of how much it would cost for a decent fence, vet and feed bills, potential training and compatibility issues. And what if our cats, whose ages range from 4 to 16, can’t adapt? These guys are precious to us too and we do not want them to suffer irreversible stress. You think love will be enough to get through it all, but I have learned this about loving: it can get you in a lot of hot water.

I just don’t know.

The Tipping Point of an Oak Tree

2010-07-24T13:31:00.000-07:00

A tree fell today, unexpectedly (did you hear it?). As I watched it crash to the ground, I thought, this tree has reached its tipping point, ha ha. But then I wondered: What were the sequence of events that converged to push a tree over the edge for no apparent reason? There were no gusts, no ice tugging it to the ground. No rocking winds or driving rain. Just a hot, still morning on what promised to be a hotter day.

I decided to go for my walk earlier than usual this morning and chose a route around the lake. While rounding the corner and climbing the hill next to the dam where half a dozen boys sat with fishing rods poked in the water, I heard an irregular crrraaack. Someone must be doing some work outside, I thought, then heard it again. What the heck could they be doing? It’s too hot to split wood, and besides, that would be a steady drumbeat of sound, not an elongated crack and then nothing.

Did the leaves on that oak tremble or was it my imagination? Suddenly, a Red-shouldered Hawk flushed from near the top and floated to the other side of the street. The oak was the tallest of three in a copse on the other side of the embankment from where I stood. From their fishing spot on the top of the dam, I saw the boys looking around too.

Craaacck…. The oak’s leaves shivered again, like a bird shaking water from its feathers. And then I noticed a gaping rip up the seam of the trunk, like a split zipper, or a spiral fracture gone bad. The cracks became a series of pops, and then the top of the tree shifted, like a bird preparing to fly: first the decision, the hesitation as it looks around, then the muscle tension, the crouched wings, and finally, the takeoff.

The crown of the great oak bowed forward as a hundred branches spread their leaves and abandoned the sky. Launching from their pedestal, they heaved over and plummeted to the ground, leaving a shattered stalk. Over fifty years of standing sentinel over a choir of Queen Anne’s lace, chicory, milkweed and mullein, a seed born over fifty years ago once again embraced the home that had given it life.

“Timberrrrrr!” shouted the boys.

“WOW!” I answered.

Right away, I got all philosophical. How was it that I happened to get up this morning at a certain time, have coffee and breakfast, clean the cat boxes, pull on my shorts and t-shirt, choose this route for my walk around the lake and end up at the EXACT second to witness the spectacular drama of a tree smashing itself apart? How did my ordinary morning suddenly match up to this tipping point, the one Malcolm Gladwell says is “the one dramatic moment when everything can change all at once, the moment of critical mass, the threshold, the boiling point?” ("The Tipping Point")

Makes me wonder. What is my tipping point? Will I fly? Or crash?

A Poem from Mom

2010-07-22T18:39:00.000-07:00

The Newlyweds:
It is such a joy to see them – they are newlyweds, you know.
They are so in love it touches everyone near them.
She whispers, “We are so lucky to have found each other.”
He comes into the room and his eyes search her out
Catching her glance the spark lights them both
And those of us who watch are warmed.
She is 86 – he is 89.

The author is my 86 year-old Mom, my soul-mate and teacher:

The Way of the Vegetarian

2010-07-20T04:35:00.000-07:00

A number of our friends have adopted the way of the vegetarian, claiming they do not want to eat anything with a face. Good for you, I think, feeling uncomfortable with the thought of the cattle suffering in slaughter pens so I can eat a hamburger. I would be happy consuming LESS meat, but my husband is a committed carnivore. Besides, after working all day, it’s EASIER to throw a chop on the grill than to chop up all those vegetables. Who wants to start peeling potatoes at 7:00?

My vegetarian friends also eat tofu, that off-white soy slab that resembles Styrofoam and tastes like it too. In appearance, it reminds me of a dense mozzarella so my brain wires up for that taste and texture. What a disappointment to learn that tofu has no personality of its own. It is a lazy ingredient, and assumes the flavors of the soups, stews and sautés it’s cooked with (a kind of cuisine tasteshifter). Why bother? Just eat the stuff it’s cooked with.

Beans, another protein important in a vegetarian diet, also presents interesting digestive challenges, not just for me, but for everyone around me for the next 12 hours.

When my niece announced she would share the role of chef during a recent weekend spent with her and my sister, I said sure, thinking we would share steak marinades, trade recipes, maybe treat ourselves to some fresh tuna.

Then she added, I am a vegetarian now. Nothing with a face.

Crap. Instead of succulent beef tenderloins or savory chicken, I imagined dining on mushy beans and rice, wheat pasta and grassy pesto. Fine dining is an important ingredient in my vacation days. I did not look forward to giving them up. But I managed to keep my mouth shut. Sort of.

To my honest surprise, there were no pale beans or pasty pasta. Kate put together a dinner of caramelized onions, jalapeno pepper and mango that burst threw my jaded brain with the crunch of toasted tortilla and the wisdom of aged cheddar. My sister presented us with a cool gazpacho that I could have bathed in, and I dug out an old recipe for lentil salad with lots of tangy apple cider vinegar, fresh tomatoes and crunchy celery.

It activated a dormant part of my brain. I’ve been exploring the world of vegetarian cooking ever since and am delighted to find these meals satisfying, healthful and savory. In fact, eating meat detracts from the delicacy of their sunny flavors. And while I doubt we will ever be 100% committed vegetarians, I am grateful knowing many more days go by now when no animals die so we can live. That is the best ingredient on any menu.

Tostadas with Spicy Red Onions, Mango, and Cheddar Cheese
From A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen by Jack Bishop

3 Tblsp extra-virgin olive oil
4 6-inch flour tortillas
1 ¼ lb red onions, halved and thinly sliced
    Salt
1 medium jalapeno chile, stemmed, seeded and minced
1 medium mango, peeled, pitted, and cut into ½ inch dice
2 Tblsp minced fresh cilantro leaves
1 Tblsp fresh lime juice
4 ounces cheddar cheese, shredded (about 1 cup)

1.    Move an oven rack to the middle position and heat the oven to 425 degrees. Brush a large baking sheet with 1 tablespoon of the oil and arrange the tortillas on the baking sheet in a single layer.
2.    Heat the remaining 2 tablespoons of oil in a large skillet over medium heat until shimmering. Add the onions and ½ teaspoon salt and cook, stirring often, until soft and lightly browned, about 20 minutes. (If the onions start to burn before they soften, lower the heat). Stir in the chile and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute. Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the mango, cilantro, and lime juice. Adjust the seasonings, adding salt to taste.
3.    Divide the onion mixture evenly among the tortillas and then sprinkle with cheese.
4.    ENJOY!

Search Engine Optimization and Red-tailed Hawks

2010-06-24T18:22:00.000-07:00

I was recently involved in a discussion about computer operating systems, PCs vs Macs, websites and designs. We debated the merits of Blogger, Wordpress, Typepad and social networking sites like Twitter, Facebook, Foursquare. We talked about content management and carried on about the role of search engine optimization in pouncing on your interests and perhaps your money.

Websites want you to find them, so a great deal of attention is given to make that happen. Search engine optimization picks up on the keywords you type in the search box and displays a list of websites who would love you to visit. Keywords are triggers (the power of language!) that display the page of results. The websites (or advertising) seen on the first page or two of your screen are the ones you will most likely visit.

I was thinking about our conversation on my way out for lunch. While unlocking the car door, the hoarse scream of a Red-tailed Hawk made me look up. From a white cloud heaving itself across the sky, the silhouette of a hawk circled as if born of the sun and was now connecting heaven and earth by the reach of its wings. It drifted into the blue, then swung around to drift back while slowly descending an invisible ladder toward an expanse of tall grass across the street. As the hawk soared closer I could see it flicking its head, searching the grass for a movement that would key the bird in to a mouse that was itself searching for food.

Search engine optimization indeed. On the wing.

Dropping the Harness of Routine

2010-06-22T18:28:00.000-07:00

After numerous invitations, I gratefully accepted a neighbor’s offer to spend three days in their ski cabin in southern Vermont. My sister and her daughter joined me for what was planned to be a personal retreat for whatever activity we chose to indulge ourselves in. For me, it was beginning work on a writing project, learning more about the gazillion settings on my camera, and going for long treks through the woods to see what nesting birds might be around. To my surprise, except for birding, which you can do from a chair on a shaded porch, any motivation for these other goal-oriented tasks vanished the minute I walked through the door.

After weeks of focusing on work and home projects, my body was not about to continue marching forward to yet another goal. I entered a kind of neutral zone of doing nothing, just listened to the warblers calling out territory, watched a Red-tailed hawk circle over the tops of the tall pines, munched on nuts and dried apricots and wasabi peas. It was as if my body knew the harness of daily routine was unbuckled and had dropped to the ground somewhere along the New York State Thruway. Now was the time to get the rub marks off by hanging around the pastures of white pine, sugar maple and silver birch.

Oblivious to how addictive they can be, I had brought along a jigsaw puzzle. The three of us worked on it from the afternoon we arrived on through the next rainy day and into the second morning. We sorted by shape and color, changing seats and perspective every so often. We played with it in the morning over a cup of coffee. In the evening, we fit pieces together while toasting each other with a glass of wine. We chatted about our lives, made jokes or enjoyed the silence. When all the pieces were in place, we took pictures, took it apart, and then drove to a local general store, where we purchased another puzzle and put that together too.

Rejuvenation happens by degrees. Weekends offer enough respite to slow the engines down, but they never turn off. Despite the current speed of technology, we are still subject to our personal biology that sometimes prefers to lie down for a sweet afternoon nap instead of organizing yet another project. I was aware of the beginning of an internal metamorphosis that involved a surrender of self-imposed goals, one that allows the edges of the hours to blur. On the second day, I pulled the watch off my wrist.

A Memorial Day Letter from Mom

2010-05-31T12:17:00.000-07:00

MEMORIAL DAY – May 31, 2010

Dear Children:

Two months ago, the man who lives across the street from us, Paul Welch, was taking the garbage out for the weekly pickup, when something went awry and he fell in the road and was unable to get up. Paul is a veteran of WWII, one of the few survivors of the D-Day landings on Omaha Beach and the long march across Europe to Berlin. He had had a stroke a few years earlier and was a little unsteady, but every day he managed to come outside early in the morning to hang the Stars and Stripes in front of his home. Every evening he went out to carefully fold the flag and take it into the house.

On this particular day, a bicyclist stopped as Paul fell, a dog-walker stopped to see what had happened, but it was your father, the 86 year old destroyer veteran who served with Admiral Halsey’s Third Fleet in the Pacific in the battles of Saipan, Tinian, Iwo Jima, and the Phillipines, who went over, picked Paul up, and assisted him into his home. Since that day Paul has been unable to get out to put up the flag.

This morning, Memorial Day, your father got up quietly from the breakfast table, went over to Paul’s place, and hung the flag out in front for all to see. Paul saw him coming and he and his wife, Terry, stood outside on the lanai as your Dad hung that flag. Then Dad said, “Don’t worry, Paul. I’ll come back tonight to take it in, and I’ll come back in the morning, too.”

I am trying to find the words to tell you how proud I am of your father for doing what he considers a small thing. I think it is a major thing. As you all know, your Dad has always been a person who never stood around waiting for someone else to help. He has always been the first to pitch in and do whatever needs to be done.

Tonight, when he goes across the street to take Paul’s flag down and carefully fold it, I know Paul and Terry will be outside on the lanai, respectfully watching. I will be across the street on our lanai, also respectfully watching, with my hand over my heart.

Love always,
Your Mom

A Handshake and Social Networking

2010-05-30T05:40:00.000-07:00

I have not been blogging lately and contemplate abandoning a "hobby" that is enjoyable but never seems to be finished. The time spent in front of a monitor has given way to working outdoors, going for walks, reading books, and birding. There seems to be some sort of internal shift going on and I am trying to pay attention.

Blogging has taken the back seat to pursuing some real “social networking.” The kind of networking that is in the living, breathing flesh, the kind when we see the smile in someone’s eyes when meeting them for the first time, when the status of “stranger” changes by a mere handshake.

Yesterday, I volunteered at the Ringwood Farmers’ Market and shook hands with many, and learned their names. Not their avatars, not their screen names, but the flesh and blood of the folks who live in or near my town. Bob, Melissa, Ray, Ann, Dave, Jim, Basha, Jennifer, Ross, Amy, Steve. I greeted Moms and Dads who strolled into the parking lot with their children and sampled the mini pies while watching the kids dance to the live music. I met people who were lingering over the butternut squash vegan chili samples to talk about what they had planted in their gardens this spring. I smiled while a pair of rescued Greyhounds romped with a Golden Retriever. Amy, a mixed breed lab, looked on. No one was in a hurry.

All this, while breathing in the licorice sent of basil, the tang of vinegar from homemade pickles, the sweetness of apples on the breeze.

Bill McKibben writes about the need for this kind of community in his article “Why Future Prosperity Depends on More Socializing:

“…You know the drill in Stop ‘n Shop: you come in the automatic door, fall into a light fluorescent trance, visit the stations of the cross around the perimeter of the store, exit after a discussion of credit or debit, paper or plastic. But that’s not what happens at farmers’ markets. On average, the sociologists found, people were having ten times as many conversations per visit. They were starting to rebuild the withered network that we call a community. So it shouldn’t surprise us that farmers’ markets are the fastest-growing part of our food economy; they are simply the way that humans have always shopped, acquiring gossip and good cheer along with calories.”

And while this does not fit in a blog post about farmer’s markets, I am compelled to throw my parking lot bird tally here too because you know, it is part of my community too.

Great-crested Flycatcher
Indigo Bunting (calling loudly from the surrounding oaks)
House Wren
Red-tailed hawks (a pair, harassed by a band of crows)
Crow
Fish Crow
Song Sparrow
Goldfinch
Turkey Vulture
Carolina Wren
Titmouse
Chickadee

The Birds Are Back!

2010-05-01T03:44:00.000-07:00

I was beginning to worry that the bump off the earth's axis caused by the earthquake in Chile had knocked the warblers off the planet. It has been too quiet here.

It has been a long, hard winter, with deep snows and frozen mornings. The return of warmth is overdue. While not fond of the heat and humidity soon to come, I am grateful for green. Maybe I am being just a little impatient.

I was encouraged by David LaPuma's Woodcreeper post that a local breakthrough of sorts was finally occurring Thursday night and weather conditions turned in favor of flight. The radar pointed to avian arrivals just east of where I live. Funny how it "happened" to coincide with a few planned days off work....

Black and White Warbler

Yellow-rumped Warbler

This Hermit Thrush has spotted a tasty morsel.

Migration is serious business. By the time these birds get here, they are close to starving. I stand far away from from foraging birds, knowing every interruption is more energy expended to avoid danger, leaving that much less for survival.

While standing on the trail, the birder became the one who was watched as this Male Eastern Towhee flew in and followed me around.

White-throated Sparrow
"Hmmm...I am feeling a little peckish."

"This looks snacky!"

"Nice crunch to it! Would you care for a spider?"

The birds are not the only thing I shared the woods with that morning. This doe will soon drop her fawn.

It's MAY! Birders' month in NJ!

Caring for Ringwood Day 2010

2010-04-25T10:28:00.000-07:00

Every spring in this town, there is a Saturday when a crowd of men, women and children swarm over the roads and public gardens, picking up trash and shoving it in bags for pick-up the next day. By the time they are finished, there isn't a paper cup or Styrofoam tray in sight. The woods are stripped of human detritus. You can hear the trees sigh with relief.

Many hands make light work.

This year, Ken and I volunteered to join Eat Local, Inc. to participate in this event hosted by the recycling center and Women's Group. We were assigned to the big garden circle in the parking lot that will host the weekly Farmer's Market starting next month and spent the morning raking off the last shrouds of winter to release the perennials already shooting their way to the sun.

I am more comfortable slogging through muck and mire than sipping wine at a cocktail party, so my initial newbie awkwardness with this group quickly disappeared as we went about digging and pruning, raking and weeding. There is something about DIRT that puts everyone on the same level.

Nina of Red Barn Farm, (my favorite farmer...)

Yard Work is Never Done; It Just Fades Away

2010-04-10T14:52:00.000-07:00

Our back yard looks like a bad comb-over this time of year. Winter storm damage has left hundreds of twigs and sticks that have to be picked up, tied and then hauled to the recycling center. Smaller ones get crushed and shoved in a brown sack. It’s like trying to bag a forest. I would just as soon let the back yard take itself back again and let the junipers spread their skirts all the way up the hill. They’re doing it anyway.

We used to fertilize the lawn to make the grass grow better and greener, but I learned about what it does to the water and the land so that was the end of that. Ken says our lawn looks scrappy but I say it looks the way it’s supposed to look; we live in mountain terrain, not a verdant valley. Besides, it’s nice to know kids can cut through the yard on their way home from getting off the school bus, and critters can scamper from tree to tree, bunnies can nibble on the plantain without their insides getting shriveled. You will never see a container of Roundup in my shed. It is as important to me as my marriage vows.

I have spent hundreds of hours over the years crawling over the yard flipping out weeds but leave the dandelions because I don’t have the heart to throw away their cheerful faces. When Ken isn’t looking, I blow their silky seed heads into the grass for next year’s crop. Besides, I admire their tenacity. I believe in dandelions.

Hundreds of hours have been spent pulling up the leggy vines of gill-over-the-ground, the bane of landscapers and almost impossible to eradicate even with the most noxious of herbicides. I started pulling them up by grabbing the leafy heads and teasing the vine up through the matt of last year’s dead grass until long spaghetti strands of vines filled my bucket. But as I crawled over the ground plucking stems and threads, I noticed all the earthworms that were being pulled up with them. They seemed to be using the vines like little wormy highways. The soil around the vines was becoming dark and soft and loamy as if the plant is functioning as a kind worm enabler. Who knows?

My frenetic activity keeps up until the middle of April, until the day suddenly arrives when I am sick of the whole thing and hang the rake up for good whether it’s finished or not. Odd that it happens to coincide when the warblers are returning and the song of the Oriole is heard in the land….

A Family of Friends

2010-04-09T06:57:00.000-07:00

When it came time to retire over 20 years ago, Mom & Dad moved to south Florida to start life over again without the snow shovels. It was a major shift in the pattern of our family life. My three sisters and brother still live in the northeast and struggle with the constraints of work, finances and travel, so cannot always attend the birthdays, graduations, confirmations and holiday gatherings that can knit a family together or tear them apart.

But on my parents’ 65th wedding anniversary last week, my sister, Carole, and I were able to travel to Florida to share this milestone event with Mom & Dad and some of their large circle of friends. We had dinner at a local restaurant and then cake and champagne back at the house. Carole and I took the daughter roles of hostess, opening the bottles and pouring, lighting the candles, picking out music, passing the sliced cake. And when Mom mentioned, “Gee, I should have taken out my wedding dress…” we went out to the garage and got the ladder so we could reach the tattered box perched at the top of the closet.

This is where the friends come in, the people who Mom & Dad have gone shoulder to shoulder with as they all grapple with their relocated lives. I have always been grateful for the relationships they have cultivated over the years, and marvel at how much they look out for each other, helping each other live and love, celebrate a joy or share a loss.

We draped the yellowed gown over the back of the sofa. The women came in from the porch to see the wedding dress Mom had paid $25 for in 1945. They fingered the tiny buttons, tested the strength of the fabric, and then as friends will do, swept the rustling taffeta back into life 65 years after it had born witness to the wedding vows of this woman and this man.

Happy Anniversary, Mom & Dad!

Raising the Roof

2010-04-02T14:39:00.000-07:00

Ahh. It's Good Friday and my workplace is closed for the Easter weekend. I’ve been looking forward to this time to catch up on some R&R, tidy up the house, finish the yard work, read my book, do a little writing and then pack a suitcase for my trip to Florida on Sunday to visit Mom & Dad for the celebration of their 65th wedding anniversary.

The sky was a blue vault of spring sun, the trees were budding up, the robins were finishing up the dawn chorus. No leaf blowers yet, no lawn mowers to shatter the morning silence, just an occasional walker on a morning stroll.

I'm just as glad, I thought, that Wayne Johnson & Sons, Inc. rescheduled our roof replacement until next week. The rain last Monday and Tuesday had thrown off their schedule. Fine, I said. No problem.

I poured another cup of coffee, nibbled on a piece of Easter bread and then finished the last chapter of my book. I poured another cup of coffee. Let’s see, what shall I pack for my trip: the white dress slacks for going out to dinner, a couple of pairs of shorts, tee shirts, sneakers, baseball cap for the bright Florida sun, camera, notebook.... Oh, look: there goes a giant truck down the street; I could hear the roar of the diesel engine as it paused in front of the house. A white van rolled up behind it. The name of the company was written on the side but it was too far away to read it. Besides, they were pulling away. Someone must be having work done today, I mused, and then opened the newspaper.

Five minutes later, a diesel engine roared around the corner again. The white van stopped in front of the house. Half a dozen men jumped out and started unloading Great Big Tools on the lawn.

I stood up. It can’t be. Ken and I were still in our bathrobes. I grabbed the binoculars and looked at the writing on the side of the white van.

Wayne Johnson and Sons, Inc..

Hello, lady. We’re here to replace your roof.

Communication Starts at Home

2010-03-27T18:07:00.000-07:00

As I was getting ready for work the other morning, I heard the buzz of a chain saw and the rattle of a wood chipper, familiar sounds these days after the heavy snows and pounding rains of the past six weeks. There is a lot of cleanup going on.

Now that the snow has melted, we have been surveying the damage to the massive junipers that provide a natural privacy fence on the border of our corner property. These shrubs are our green guardians, shielding us from prying eyes and providing a cool haven to birds and bunnies and the occasional fox. We have invested a fair amount of money over the years to ensure their survival. But the storm had snapped some of the bigger branches, causing them to collapse over the curb. I was planning on calling the tree guy that morning to come and prune them back.

Wondering who was having a tree cut down, I packed up my lunch and picked up the car keys. The chain saw sounded really loud from the back of the house. Was it my neighbor down the hill? Leaving my keys on the table, I opened the deck door to the backyard.

A white town truck was parked at the curb. The chain saw buzzed again. As I watched, half a juniper crashed into the street. The buzz and grind I had been hearing for the past 15 minutes were my own junipers being ground up into mulch.

I would not have wanted to be the guy with the chain saw. Here he was, just doing his job in a nice, quiet neighborhood when he was suddenly faced with a furious tree-hugging/she-bear blasting through the hedge and yelling, “STOP! STOP! STOP!”

“I’m sorry, m’aam,” the man with the chain saw exclaimed. “I’m just following my orders. It’s my job. We were told the snow plow couldn’t get next to the curb on this property and to cut these back!”

“But you’re not just trimming branches,” I cried. “With the way you’re doing this, you’re killing my junipers!”

Another man walked around the truck with his cell phone. “Our supervisor is on his way,” he said.

“Good,” I answered and stood waiting with them in the rain, ready to throw myself in front of what was left of the junipers should they even think about turning that chain saw on again.

The supervisor arrived, also all apologies but they had to do it. By law, any overhanging branches that interferes with plows or parking had to be cut back.

“I understand, “ I said. “In fact, I was going to call the tree guy today to come and take care of this.” I waved to the rest of the junipers awaiting their fate. “But you are doing more than just clearing the curb. YOU’RE KILLING OUR ENTIRE SHRUB LINE!”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I really am. But it’s our job.”

“IT’S YOUR JOB EVEN IF IT KILLS THE TREE?”  

He shrugged and looked at the mangled junipers, then into our yard, which is easy to do now.

“Listen,” I said, “I can see they have to be trimmed back. I would be glad to cooperate. BUT WHAT ABOUT A TELEPHONE CALL TO THE HOMEOWNER WHOSE PROPERTY IS ABOUT TO BE DESTROYED? What about a reverse 911 call to an area that is scheduled to be worked on? What about a message on the town’s website?”

“I agree with you, m’aam (he was saying all the right things to the crazy lady). “But ‘they’ don’t want to tell anyone ahead of time. I don’t know why.”

He looked at his men. “Put the chain saw away,” he instructed, “and do the rest of these,” he pointed to the leafy crowns of the trembling junipers, “with the hedge clippers. Don’t go too far back, just up to here.” He pointed to the curb.

“Is that okay?” he asked me.

I nodded. All I kept thinking was: What would have happened to the rest of the rest of the junipers had I not been there to stop the carnage?

There is a better way. It’s called communication. It starts at home.

An Altar of Eternity

2010-03-15T17:29:00.000-07:00

I participated in a retreat at the New Jersey shore last weekend in time for a storm that dumped five inches of rain on land already saturated by snow melt. Using the writings of Barbara Brown Taylor from her book, “Altars in the World,” our group talked about discovering the sacred in the small things we do and see. We were anticipating strolling the quiet grounds of the retreat center before the lolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean but were delivered instead into a storm packing up to 70 mph winds that changed the face of the waters and us along with it.

I live in the mountains of this state and rarely go “down the shore” so am not familiar with the faces of the Atlantic and certainly have never seen this massive churn of wind and waves, great boiling volcanoes of gray water erupting and dipping and surging toward land only a few hundred feet from where I watched from the second floor of the retreat center. Every chance I had, I ran upstairs to a vacant room on the east side of the building to watch the drama and take pictures (the photos are blurry and grainy because they were taken through a window). And because I can’t leave these things alone, at one point I wrapped my camera in a plastic bag, pulled on my coat and hat and went out to walk to the pavilion above the sea wall.

I never made it. The wind grabbed me with both fists and tried to throw me onto the rocks below. I grabbed the post at the edge of the walk leading to the covered platform and held on with my left arm while I took the above photo with my right. (To anyone who has ever wondered if the wind can really knock you down: YES, it can).

The waves rose like fighting stallions, rearing and biting and kicking, flicking foams of fury before curling their necks and charging the sea wall to smash themselves in an explosion of foam and spray. Then they would gallop back toward the horizon where they would bump and churn and spit as they rolled toward shore to challenge each other again, higher and higher each time until they were leaping over the wall, heaving sprays of seawater like a keyboard run on a piano.

I was shocked at every surge, shouted OhmyGod! every time a series of waves sheered the wall and showered the property with sand and salt water. I was mesmerized, entranced by the dead fear of its power, felt drawn to the hollow of the waves as they rose and fell. On and on it went, all day and all night, thundering and pounding its tympanic symphony in the darkness; tireless, enormous, eternal.

It was the grandest altar in the world we could ask for or expect: this wild, living, heaving altar to creation and all who were assembled in it. It made me fall in love all over again with this wild earth, yearn for its open spaces and watery embraces, its forest trails and forever skies. I am passionate for it, crave it, adore it and terrified of it. Because in the end, it will be the altar of my own eternity.

The Hope Diamonds

2010-03-12T08:54:00.000-08:00

Have you ever experienced a time when something seems to appear only to you but not anyone else? Do you think there could be an occasional blip in the logicalsequence of the Universe when some vast innocence flashes between the normal layers of reality to pierce someone’s otherwise normal day?

I took a lunch break from my windowless office last Tuesday and drove to a nearby park to walk along a path near a brook where the water ran high and fast with snow-melt. Instead of walking along the tarred path where young mothers pushed their baby strollers and retired couples meandered arm-in-arm while bikers zoomed past, my feet sought out the dirt trail near the water’s edge. The soil was eroded and colorless, tired and tramped upon. Old, dead grass looked like stringy hair flowing into the clear water. Twisted twigs sprinkled the ground everywhere I walked, mixing in with scraps of paper and plastic bottles. Only blue sky offered a respite from the shades of brown and black and taupe.

I looked down to step over a pile of sticks. It was then I saw my blessing of the day.

SNOWDROPS!

Creamy white bells that look like drops of milk dangling from green caps had sprung from the poor soil and were grabbing their bit of sun before anything else awoke from the earth to crowd them out. Their sudden appearance was enough to bring me to my knees. You would have thought I had just discovered the Hope Diamond.

Can you imagine a flower that could be crushed by my little finger could jam its way through the snow and slush and ice of only ten days ago, survive the stomping feet of walkers and the paws of dogs galloping over their necks, to unfold their fragile beauty among the river’s detritus?
Smiling, I continued my stroll and then saw another patch of snowdrops, then another and another. It seemed as if they were gathering to meet me, showing up now everywhere I walked, clumps gathering at my feet like puppies, as if love alone was enough to make them come alive.

The Hope Diamond. I had no idea there are many of them....

Spring is Coming!

2010-03-05T05:00:00.000-08:00

Thank You To Those Who Keep Us Safe in the Storms

2010-03-01T06:11:00.000-08:00

We lost electricity on Saturday morning because of the crushing storm that blasted through the northeast on Thursday and Friday. We also lost our heat, hot water, internet connection, telephone and television (listed in priority of personal importance). By late afternoon, the temperature in the house was 58 degrees and dropping with the sun. I pulled on my insulated underwear and put a few cats on my lap to keep warm until the power was finally restored at dusk.

While I was shoveling the deck Sunday morning, I could hear the buzz of chain saws and the rumble of heavy equipment in the distance. The people who spent Thursday, Friday and Saturday plowing our roads were now clearing the streets of fallen trees and branches, lifting limbs off cars and garage roofs. Just half a mile from my house, on the road around the lake, a large pine tree had tumbled over, taking out four power line poles with it, leaving many in the lakeside community without service until Tuesday.

It also explains our cable outage.

No complaints here. As much as I enjoy the benefits of technology and learning more about How Things Work, life without it seems less complicated. Reading and writing blogs is fun; I have finally made friends with Facebook, and I welcome my Twitter followers, but if it all went away tomorrow, I would not look back.

All I could think of while I was shoveling was how grateful I was for the long labors of the people behind the wheels of the snow plows that grind all night long while I am asleep in my bed. I have even forgiven the cowboy who raced his plow past our driveway too fast Friday afternoon, forcing up a six-foot wall of ice and snow right after we had finished working over an hour chunking through the last pile. He was probably too tired to notice.

This blog post is dedicated to those men and women of the fire department responding to the calls for help, police and their dispatchers handling not only emergencies but answering questions about our declared state of emergency, ambulance crews standing ready to respond, road crews in their lonely trucks, PSE&G, Optimum Online and Rockland Electric company employees teetering in their baskets in the icy winds to knit wires back together, the deli owners and grocery store folks who managed to stay open to feed them coffee and sandwiches, all the invisible but necessary support services they depend upon, and most especially, a hearty THANK YOU to the families of every one of them, who were left alone while their spouses got up in the night to face the wind and ice and snow to keep us safe and warm.

And you are still out there....

~Thank you~

It Snowed...Again...

2010-02-26T13:35:00.000-08:00

Here was my day:

Wondering if I should revise my stand on never moving to a warm climate....

Wandering At Will

2010-02-24T17:50:00.000-08:00

On my last afternoon in Belize, I "wandered at will.” Since I have been to Crooked Tree before, my plan was to stroll through the roads shared by free-roaming cows and horses and dogs, then pick up the Limpkin Trail back to Bird’s Eye View Lodge.

The Trail, mostly sand and sparse grass, runs parallel to the lagoon for a short distance before veering off into the woods where Bullet trees (the “crooked” tree of Crooked Tree), grows as well as the vines, shrubs and gazillion plants of this coastal plain.

I soaked up the solitude, was free to walk or stand and peer at whatever called to me. And what called to me was the squeals of a group of Groove-billed Ani’s thrashing around in the dead leaves along the trail. I looked down and then jumped backward. Ant swarm! Thousands of ants strung out in irregular columns, racing over rocks and shrubs and trees—anything in their path, including me, if I didn’t get out of the way.

The Groove-billed Anis scrambled onto the feast, long tails swishing through the sandy path. A dozen more arrived.

Something rustled overhead...from the leaf cover, a Yellow-billed Cacique was flicking chunks of bark off a branch to pluck the ants underneath.

Then, a Ruddy Woodcreeper landed on the tree IN FRONT OF ME

An Ivory-billed Woodcreeper hopped in with a cricket in its bill! I had been hearing this bird’s ghostly song ALL WEEK and here it was! All I had to do was stand still!

I did not want to disturb the feeding frenzy by using the flash on my camera. I don’t worry about these things much, and will put the camera down to soak in the sanctity of these unexpected moments. I tell myself to take a picture with my heart instead (but held the shutter down on the camera, just in case).

I reviewed the photos on my digital camera later, hoping for a few that might be salvageable. As I examined the Ivory-billed Woodcreeper, I spotted a mottled brown, vertical shape to its right. What was that? A Screech Owl, drawn by the other birds to an early evening feast? Or just a stick snagged in the tree?

I will never know for sure. I chalked it up to good luck. It reminds me that sort of random luck may be around more often than I realize. Because I am focusing on something else, I am not aware of its presence. But I am beginning to think it is there just the same, waiting for an opportunity to move in.

New Life for Old Binoculars

2010-02-21T14:38:00.000-08:00

I have been trying to write a blog post about this for days and it just won't come. It's just a simple story involving a kid from Crooked Tree in Belize, where I visited earlier this month...but it got to me.

I first met Turiq two years ago when he popped up after our bus arrived to greet (I mean hugs and kisses GREET) the family of our group leader, the Thomas's, who have been going there annually for 17 YEARS and gotten to know many of the Belizeans, especially those, like Turiq's mom, who work for Bird's Eye View Lodge.

During that trip, I learned some of the kids of Crooked Tree might be interested in pursuing a career in being professional BIRD GUIDES, but they didn't have binoculars. I hatched this Big Idea of launching a local campaign to collect the bins of people like me who have upgraded over the years and had old pairs languishing in the basement. Unfortunately, life was a little overwhelming at the time and my project never got off the ground, so last year, I sheepishly handed over my old pair, the one with the embroidered guitar strap, for the group to deliver to the grammar school at Crooked Tree. The glasses that had seen Cave Swallows in Cape May, Stellar's Jays in the Rocky Mountains and Black Guillemots in Nova Scotia went to Belize to an unknown fate. Then I forgot about them.

Until I saw Turiq last week. He showed up to share his growing birding expertise and join us for little birding forays near the lagoon. Guess what he had around his neck?

Belize 2010

2010-02-19T08:46:00.001-08:00

Click here to view this photo book larger

To Belize and Back Again

2010-02-14T14:06:00.000-08:00

There was no 5:00am alarm this morning to wake me in time for the first bird walk of the day. No travel partner next door to jostle because her clock had failed. None of the noisy, rhythmic clucking of the Chachalakas. When I peered out my bedroom window, the branches of the trees were bare. No towering cohune palms sweeping the skies.

It felt odd pulling on a fleece robe instead of peeling off a sweaty sheet. When I walked up the driveway to get the newspaper, only the “peter, peter” call of a Titmouse greeted me instead of the roar of Howler monkeys or the “boop-boop” of the Blue-Crowned Mot-mots.

But for one week, I was fortunate to travel with 12 other people from my NJ world to walk the earth in Belize and learn about the birds, the people and the animals who live out their lives in that Central American country. I hiked straight up a Mayan mountain to marvel at the Scarlet Macaws, was treated to an unexpected lesson about tarantulas when one was found on the door frame of Betsy’s lodge, dined on rice and beans and the chicken taken from our host's free range flock; savored papaya, just-picked bananas, pineapple, watermelon. I walked the jungle trails, climbed across rope bridges and struggled with the discomfort of almost 80 mosquito bites (yes, I used insect repellant and yes, I am taking an antimalarial).

We saw and/or heard 244 bird species in just one week’s time.

And yes; I would do it again. Here's why:

Green Honeycreeper

Rufous-tailed Jacamar

Long-Tailed Hermit Hummingbird

Red-capped Manikin (left) next to White-Collared Manikin (click to enlarge)

Little Blue Heron

Great Blue Heron

Agami Heron ("...one of the rarest and most beautiful birds on this continent..."~Lenny)

Groove-billed Ani

Yellow-billed Cacique

Ivory-billed Woodcreeper

Gone Birding....

2010-02-06T06:00:00.000-08:00

To Belize!

Old Boots Never Die

2010-01-24T13:02:00.000-08:00

I finally had to pony up for a new pair of hiking boots but it feels like I am betraying the pair purchased a mere six years ago. These boots have carried me over miles of jungle, hammered over portions of the Appalachian Trail, climbed over fallen logs, squished through swamp edges, splashed through puddles, slogged through mud up to their shoelaces, have been sprayed, powdered, debugged, hosed down, scuffed and banged, not to mention squashed by long hours of supporting my body as it swayed to and fro while searching the tops of tree branches looking for anything with wings.

My old boots have been faithful friends. They are part of my history of exploring this world. You can see the worn suede where the shoelaces were pulled tight, the permanent curve in the shoe where my foot breaks over, the trail dirt embedded in the metal lace ties. There are faded grass stains on the toes. The tongue is torn on the right boot. The treads are flattening out. I slipped several times last summer. By the end of a day of birding, my feet were sore and blistered. It was time for them to retire.

But I cannot just toss them into the trash. They have been a part of me too long. They are full of good memories of striding along woodland paths or slipping through the rain forest at dawn. I’ve lost count of how many birds I have seen while standing firm in them on this uncertain earth. They still speak to me of possibilities, of places to explore and discover, spiraling pathways and rocky trails. Just because they are getting old and worn does not mean they are useless. There is a wisdom in these old boots, a reminder to never stop seeking my own path.

I have a new pair now and have been clumping around the house in them to be sure they are comfy. Yesterday, we took our maiden voyage around the lake, up and down our mountain roads. They are light, stick to the slopes and waterproof. But like all good friendships, it will take awhile to get comfortable and learn how much I can trust them in unfamiliar territory, find out just how supportive they will be when the going gets tough. But I expect we will do just fine in our walks into wonder. Want to come along?

Guest Blogger! Mom & the Florida Cardinals

2010-01-16T18:27:00.000-08:00

Mom & Dad know what is important in life....

"Yesterday I went outside when it finally began to warm up. The freeze this year set new records for cold and the length of time it stayed in this part of south Florida. I couldn’t save most of our plants and the hibiscus tree will take quite a while to recover BUT I had been able to wrap up my orchid tied into that tree. It has been there for a year and a half and didn’t seem to be doing anything. Then as the cold weather was sweeping down from the north sending us all indoors, I was astonished to see a lovely dark red orchid flower in my hibiscus tree. Who ever heard of orchids flowering in January? Is that a good omen? Who knows?
At any rate, I cut the orchid and brought into the house to make sure I could enjoy its beauty and then went out and wrapped the whole plant in my best quilt batting. Tied it carefully to shut out as much of the cold as I could.
After three days of keeping my plant in the dark, and tempted by temperatures in the 60’s, I decided to take off the wrapping and let it get some light and sun. As I began to unwrap the many layers of batting I was aware a bird had landed in the tree not far from where I was working. I stood very still, just letting my eyes roam around to spot the bird – ah, a female cardinal. She was chirping away and never looked in my direction. I was pretty sure she knew I was there so I spoke in a soft voice to welcome her. Then I sang the pretty bird words in a kind of sing-song manner – she still stayed so I began to work again but very slowly.
Then she flew into a nearby tree where I heard a lot of chirping going on and a few minutes later she was back, this time with a bright red companion. She went to the front of the tree, but her buddy came to my side, perched on a branch about two feet away from where I stood, and looked directly at me. I have never in my life had a wild bird come so close. I spoke softly to him and now worked at my unwrapping very, very slowly. He didn’t reply to my overtures but he kept his eye on me. Finally he flew to the branch where his lady was waiting and they had a little conversation – I had a feeling it was about me.
By that time I was finished unwrapping my pretty orchid so I just played with the leaves and the new bud for a while, and then took a different route to my door – I didn’t want to disturb the birds by passing too closely. I have always felt lucky whenever I saw a cardinal in the tree outside our dinette window or anywhere else for that matter, but to have them fly in so close to me and stay awhile made me feel as if the day held the wonder of wonders in it."

Where's the Peanuts? 2010

2010-01-10T07:27:00.000-08:00

Oak in the Seed posts seems to follow the seasons. You might remember last year's story about the Blue Jays rushing our deck on the frigid mornings for a few peanuts and black oil sunflower seeds. Well...they're back!

I'm hungry. What are the Deck People serving this morning?

Look! Peanuts!

Which one should I choose?

I'll help you decide!

You take that one; I'll take this ~~bigger~~ one!

This one is juuuust right!

I have a feeling I am being watched....

I'm hungry.

SUMMONS: GRAND JURY

2010-01-09T18:14:00.000-08:00

In a city in Passaic County, NJ, on the third floor of the courthouse administration building, there is a large rectangular room where a random group of men and women are gathering, summoned out of their lives by court order to do their duty as American citizens. Jury duty. I am sitting now, in this room, writing in my notebook and waiting for the show to begin.

It is almost 9:00AM. There is an aura of impatient anxiety in the room as people flip open their cell phones and tap out messages to someone in the outside world. A puzzle with most of its pieces waits on a front table. The sky is gray outside the tinted windows, exhausted from the exertions of this morning’s snow squalls.

Someone’s cell phone dings. A man on the other side of the room answers it. His voice is deep, resonant, floats like lava across the room, touching everyone. We learn he is speaking to Manny about Tom and Larry, and how he had been expected to be somewhere else this day. “That ain’t gonna happen, man,” he rumbles into his phone. “I’ve got jury duty.” He pauses, listening, then glances at the entry door where the stream of today’s jurors are still checking in. “I have no idea what’s gonna happen.”

Having served as a Petit Juror more times than I can count, there could be hours of waiting, followed by suddenly jumping up to follow a blue uniform to the courtroom of a judge for further selection. But this is Grand Jury this time. A Grand Jury decides whether or not there is sufficient evidence for a case to advance into the system. Petit Jurors must commit one to three days; Grand Jurors in NJ are required to serve two days a week for seven weeks. You can hear many cases in a day, not just one. AS A GROUP, we are our own legal entity and can ask questions and require witnesses to show up.

But I found this and more out later. Here I am, still sitting in the chair, writing and waiting for a blue uniform to give us the orders of the day. But suddenly, someone said, “ALL RISE,” for the Honorable Judge So-and So. A man in a black robe swept into the room and strode to the podium, then had a clerk swear us in. Be seated. Out of the approximately 100 people who were assembled, two groups of 23 each would be randomly chosen via computer. As they began calling names, I sensed an energy spinning in the room and going into the back of my head.

I put my book away and zipped my bag closed. Swung my purse over my shoulder. We watched each person whose name was called sigh and roll their eyes before collecting their coats and walking to the line forming at the back of the room. There was a pause.

“Diane Brown.”

New Year's Resolutions - Not So Much

2010-01-01T13:57:00.000-08:00

I do not engage in New Year's Resolutions for fear of disappointing myself when I don't live up to them. Resolutions are rules applied from the outside in and can be shucked off like this morning's bathrobe. The closest I will come is to create cliche generalities like, "Be happy," or "Find opportunities for love and laughter," that leave room for months of exploration and are impossible to criticize. To kickstart this "resolution," my husband and I have tickets to the movies tomorrow at a 3-D theater to see this year's (all two days of it, anyway) cinematography blockbuster, "Avatar." On the way home, we'll stop at Costco and maybe take out a membership so we can buy super-sized packages of paper towels and chocolate chips. January 2 should be a good day all around.

The only thing I will come close to resolving is something I want to do anyway, so it's win-win. It's hard to imagine turning away from butter and sugar but I confess to be pretty much cookied out now that the holidays are over. Celery sticks are beginning to look appetizing. Salads--YUM at any time. I will have no truck with DIETS as they only serve as another stick of guilt to whack myself with when I fall off the wagon on Fridays. It's not as if I don't know when to say "yes" and "no" but I agree with Harvey Steiman: "Everything in moderation-including moderation." (One of my greatest fears is getting run over by a tractor trailer after refusing a chocolate creme brulee). As the dark weeks of winter 2010 offers up its stews and scalloped potatoes and cheesy gratins, I will temper them with lettuce and carrots and apples, broccoli, lean meats and sugarless snacks.

But stay out of my bottom desk drawer.

The Nerve of Driving in Snow

2009-12-28T13:06:00.000-08:00

I am in Vermont, where I have spent Christmas visiting family. My plan was to leave today (Monday) but a snowstorm is blasting its way along my travel route. After consulting Weather.com with my sister, I decided to spend an extra day here to let the snow play itself out and be one of the few who make the right decision to stay off the highways. Besides, I am one of those annoying, super-slow, overly cautious snow drivers that confident drivers (or A-H’s) hate to get behind, so not only am I doing myself a favor by hopefully avoiding a possible car accident, I am responsible for controlling the blood pressure of hundreds of Vermonters and New Yorkers who would otherwise be stuck crawling behind my Camry like angry pearls on a string. So…youze guyz: be thankful this flatlander is out of your way today.

I learned how to drive in snow during the ice age of rear-wheel vehicles, graduated to front-wheel drive, then briefly drove an all-wheel drive Subaru (which we still have but is too old to trust for long distances). You would think years of experience would have built a mountain of confidence in maneuvering through snow and ice-covered roadways and whiteouts, especially since my commute to work is 23 miles of hills, winding roads and highway driving. I have driven over roads that were washboards of frozen slush, slid over black ice (which is the kind of ice you find when you suddenly find yourself doing a pirouette on wheels). I have plowed through snow drifts, been assaulted by sidewalk-sized ice slabs exploding off the tops of tractor-trailers at 80 mph, kicked boulder chunks of accumulated frozen muck off my wheel wells so the tires could spin, have scraped the ice off the INSIDE as well as the outside of my car windows. You would think I would motor out onto a snow-covered highway as if were about to drive down South Florida’s Route 75.

My self confidence in driving in snow; however, seems to have worked in reverse. These years of near misses, skids and slides have not been building bricks of bravery but rather, each experience has shorn away another layer of blind belief that nothing bad will happen. It is as if I was born with a finite pile of Nerve and every drive through a storm of ice or snow or slush (or all three mixed together), another line is subtracted from the total, leaving a little less for the next time. Multiply that times 35+ years of driving and my Nerve Pile has shrunk to a trembling puddle of jello. And while you would want me to chauffer you over a snowy road over someone who has never done it before, I would sooner stay put, sip another hot chocolate and call it a day.

And so I am.

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-23T10:32:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is a travel day for me as I head north to join my family in fun and frolic, children and dogs and laughter. Before leaving, I wish you all a wonderful, memorable, safe, happy holiday!

Merry Christmas to our home to yours!

Toys R Not Us

2009-12-21T18:13:00.000-08:00

Nowhere is the gap between those who have children and those who do not more obvious than when you step into a store designed for kids.

Since I am an Adult Without Children, I have no reason to step foot in these stores. The death-defying drama of jumping on the last stuffed hamster has passed me by. While I have had my tearful moments of regret at not having had children, I had no idea what I was missing. I found out today.

My lunch hour plan was to zip over to Toys R Us to pick up a “few fun items” as stocking stuffers for my Christmas visit to Vermont where I am looking forward to being with my family and the kids like you would not believe. This will be neat, I thought. I will find some cutesy stuff for the adults too, just for laughs. And off I went; innocent, childless, ToysRUs newbie me in all my holiday bliss.

When I spilled into the front door with ten thousand others, there was a line of men and women hunkered down against the wall. Their sleepless bodies were folded over shopping carts filled with bags and boxes as if they had been there since last year. The line snaked through the bike section. There was no end to it. At first I thought they were waiting to be checked out but then realized they were RETURNING STUFF.

It’s December 21st.

I hesitated to go further but my mission called. My eyes swept the warehouse of toys. There were green dinosaurs grinning out of cellophane boxes, legions of plastic armies, board games, black and silver tee shirts, art supplies, drum sets, software programs for 2+ year-olds (I could probably use those at work), red and green puzzles of smiling boys and girls, Sponge Bob Square Pants staring at the wall. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a stuffed pony big enough for a two-year old TO SIT ON, and thought hungrily: if they had a stuffed horse a 50-something year-old could sit on, I would totally mortgage my house to buy it.

I thought: Maybe I’ll just grab Ava an aluminum pot and a wooden spoon. She can bang away all she wants and then use it as a soup pot in her freshman year. Her Vermont parents will love the economy of it.

TO ALL PARENTS: My hat is off to you. Not only do you brave the halls of a legal nuthouse for the sake of satisfying your children’s desires, wade through the aisles of books and toys that sing and cluck and shoot and beep, and then battle other loving parents and grandparents who would kill you to grab the last ___, you also feel obligated to send those same children to college.

You are all AWESOME!

If You Can't Find a Book Group, Do-It-Yourself

2009-12-07T18:01:00.000-08:00

For years, I whined about joining a book group but the ones I knew of were either too far, met at inconvenient times, the group was too large or too small, or there was someone in it I couldn't stand. I wanted it to be just right.

I love to read, but am not quick about it. I swoon over good writing and will spend 20 minutes reading the same page over and over to savor the images it creates. Sometimes I will read a page out loud, or copy it into my notebook to read it again later. Occasionally, a week or two will go by and I won't pick up anything to read at all. I didn't want to be hounded by having a fixed once a month date.

Well, when you want to do something ~~your~~ the right way, do it yourself. It was easy. I just invited people who were at the top of my favorites list and asked them if they wanted to start a book group. How often will we meet, they asked. Oh, maybe every six weeks or so, I answered, we'll figure it out as we go along.

That was 7 years ago. We meet for brunch on Sunday mornings and take turns hosting the group. We also agreed to share leadership, so whoever is the host decides which book the group will read. She will also do any research necessary and prepare discussion questions to keep the conversation going and attempt, usually in vain, to keep the group focused. We have a tendency to laugh. I mean A LOT. In fact, there have been times when one or more of the members have not finished reading a book or even picked it up but come to Book Group anyway because we enjoy each other so much. And as our list of finished books has grown, so has our friendship.

Over time, our collective lives have mirrored the books we have read: There have been weddings, births, abandonments, death, divorce, illness, depression, relocations, murders, job losses.

We have become our own favorite book group.

Back row from left: Me (as always, terrible photo)

Pat, Lillian, Ann, Suzanne, Wilma, Pat F.

In front: Molly & Amy

Here is a list of the books we've read so far. Many thanks to Molly for so faithfully keeping notes!

DIVINE SECRETS OF THE YAYA SISTERHOOD by Rebecca Wells

THE HOURS by Michael Cunningham

ANGLE OF REPOSE by Wallace Stegner

THE LOVELY BONES by Alice Sebold

BLESSINGS by Anna Quindlan

SECRET LIFE OF BEES by Sue Monk Kidd

LIFE OF PI by Yann Martel

THE LAST GIRLS by Lee Smith

THE DAVINCI CODE by Dan Brown

SPARROW by Mary Doria Russell

COLD MOUNTAIN by John Frazier

TUESDAYS WITH MORRIE by Mitch Albom

THE OTHER BOLEYN GIRL by Phillippa Gregory

THE SISTERS: THE SAGA OF THE MITFORD FAMILY by Mary S. Lovell

TRUE FIRES by Susan McCarthy

THE KITE RUNER by Khaled Hosseini

UNDER THE BANNER OF HEAVEN by Jon Krakauer

THE KNOWN WORLD by Edward Jones

ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

SAVING FISH FROM DROWNING by Amy Tan

SNOWFLOWER AND THE SECRET FAN by Lisa See

WHITE TEETH by Zadie Smith

DEATH IN THE GARDEN by Elizabeth Ironside

ONE THOUSAND WHITE WOMEN by Jim Fergus

MEMORY KEEPER'S DAUGHTER by Kim Edwards

CERTAIN WOMEN by Madeline L'Engle

LEVI'S WILL by W. Dale Cramer

THE SPIRIT CATCHES YOU AND YOU FALL DOWN by Anne Fadiman

THE GLASS CASTLE by Jeanette Walls

BIRDS IN FALL by Brad Kessler

PUCCINI'S GHOSTS by Morag Joss

A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS by Khaled Hosseini

MIDDLESEX by Jeffrey Eugenides

THE THIRTEENTH TALE by Diane Setterfield

PAVILION OF WOMEN by Pearl Buck

THE CLOUD ATLAS by Liam Callanan

WATER FOR ELEPHANTS by Sarah Gruen

THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO by Stieg Larsson

MOLOKAI by Alan Brennert

THE SENATOR’ WIFE by Sue Miller

EMPIRE FALLS by Richard Russo

WHAT’S BRED IN THE BONE by Robertson Davies

PEOPLE OF THE BOOK by Geraldine Brooks

THE SUGAR QUEEN by Sarah Addison Allen

THE GUERNSEY LITERARY & POTATO PEEL SOCIETY by Shaffer and Barrows

In Ham We Trust

2009-11-27T14:34:00.001-08:00

We adopted Scooter from a shelter almost ten years ago. He had been captured with other feral kittens 8 months earlier. As with many ferals, he was sick, but many hands helped him thrive. Unfortunately, there was not much time for socializing young cats, so he is extremely timid.

Life with Scooter is on HIS terms. He chooses when and where to be stroked. He loves long discussions and shares his opinions. He will head bump and accept us into his personal pride, and then roll around asking for attention. He comes when called (most of the time) but one wrong move (and we are never quite sure what that will be) and he scoots under the bed, which is how he got his name. Do not even think about picking him up. I thought he might get better over time. Forget it. Okay. Fine. But we knew if he got sick, we would not be able to administer medication. He would be on his own. For ten years, we have kept our fingers crossed.

But now, it’s finally happened. He started sneezing last week, first one little snort, then another and another until he was sneezing like a chugging train. There was NO WAY we were going to get him into a crate to bring him to the vet; however, she told us it would be fine to administer the still current antibiotic in the refrigerator, left over from Willow’s regime last summer. The question was: How do we get hold of him to get it down his throat, not once, but once a day for the next FIVE DAYS?

While making lunch the other day; however, a light bulb went on. The cats were swirling around my feet, waiting for a tidbit to drop. I unwrapped some sliced ham to make a sandwich and glanced down at Scooter’s eager face. More than anything else on the planet, Scooter adores ham. And since cold cuts are SO not the thing to give your cats, he almost never gets any. But I thought: Oh, Scooter, I am totally going to take advantage of your passion.

I grabbed the antibiotic, drew up a dose into the syringe and wrapped a tiny piece of ham around the tip to mask the smell, then knelt on the floor and started handing out little pieces of ham to all the cats, using their competition to bring Scooter closer to me. Here’s a piece for you, another one for you; here’s another…there you go, have another. Come closer, Scooter...a little closer....

He glided alongside my hip for the chunk of meat in front of me. I swooped him into my arms right there on the floor and placed his body against mine so he couldn’t back up. Holding his head in both hands, I gently pried his mouth open and squirted the medicine in. YAY! Then released him while simultaneously offering him another piece of ham, which he grabbed and jumped back a step. He eyeballed me, as in “What the heck happened there?” But the other cats distracted him and he got right back into the ham fray.

I have used the same technique two more times. Scooter is getting better. In the meantime, I need to go out and buy a few more slices of ham. Maybe this will work on my husband.

Scooter dozing with Sparkle.

Happy Thanksgiving 2009

2009-11-25T18:37:00.000-08:00

Wow—another year of gratitude to add on to last year’s list!

I am grateful that I am still around, as are my husband, Mom & Dad, three sisters and brother, my sisters' children, their spouses, children and the evolving relationships I cherish with each of them. I am grateful G is home from service in the Marines, and trust he will win his personal wars with the help of his German Shepherd, Major, at his side like the good brother he is. My home, my cats, food three times a day (or more), my town, the Farmer’s Market in summer, two cars that still run, clothes on my back, hair on my head, my family of friends in various stages of coming and going.

Health, laughter, books, insight, notebooks, shoes, shampoo, kind co-workers, dark chocolate, just enough money, watches, soft socks, smooth-writing pens, hospital emergency rooms, brakes, air conditioning in the summer, heat in the winter. Potential. Hope.  An Ipod with over 5000 songs with room for more, buttercream, cell phones, the sharp scent of ozone before a storm, geese calling from their “V,” friends who tell you the truth.

 Electricity, otters, automatic coffee pots, lace tablecloths, airplanes, rain, Xanax, trees, raccoons, bears and flying squirrels. Coming home at the end of the day, newspapers in my driveway, pancakes with real Vermont fancy maple syrup.  Catherine, morning skies, moonlight stroking my sleeping husband, heated birdbaths, warblers, intuition, prayer, shoes to walk miles in. Telephones. Dirt. Birdseed. Blue Jays picking peanuts off the deck railing, deck chairs, music, the warm clove aroma of mulled wine.

 Earthworms, quiet afternoons, scented candles, hard boiled eggs, no-kill animal shelters and the people who work in them, pizza with extra cheese, solitude, naps, friends who understand pain, birds, the Grand Canyon, wild horses, bubble baths, sparkly rings, blank pages, poetry, Mary Oliver. Dishwashers, growing up a girl, roses, periwinkle. A 30 year friendship lost and now found.

 Kind veterinarians, walks in the woods, recipes, corduroy, fingernails, medicine, cat food, chants, indoor plumbing, Willie Nelson, clothes dryers, cross stitch patterns, green, restaurant dinners, lemons, hummingbirds, Elk lake, blogs.  Loons.

 Water, duct tape, wireless routers, flush toilets, soap, icicles, forsythia. Swingline staplers, batteries, fingers, calendars, keyboards, love, switches, picture frames, flashlights, bookends, E. B. White. Answering machines, gas stations, orange juice, chocolate chips, apricots. Angels. Stories with happy endings, Belize, Dr. Cappitelli, flour, antivirus software, highlighters, harmony. Calligraphy, combs, toothpaste, wild bunnies in the back yard. The back yard. Wolves.

 Pencils, bees, pansies, polka dots, pillows, zebras, salad, well-behaved children, convertibles, magazines. Sleeping kittens, fireflies, peanut butter, good clergy, email, drumming woodpeckers in March, red, American flags, dragons, acorns, light bulbs, soap, jewelry boxes, ponies, walking sticks, Elizabeth, dragonflies, guitars, tomorrow, cat litter, mirrors, blueberries, blinking Christmas reindeer, sequins, dictionaries, windy days, fleece blankets, wet tree bark, Fridays. 

Purple, unicorns, rakes, beginnings, grace, bats, stars, computers, bookends, hosta, garbage cans, skin, new tires, sunglasses, computer glasses, binoculars, birding scope, Baltimore Orioles, birding days, screech owl nights, duplicate car keys, paved roads, caller ID, friends who don’t let you go.

 The list never ends. AMEN.

Mark Rashid and Life Lessons

2009-11-22T05:07:00.000-08:00

Having heard of Mark Rashid from other horse bloggers, 7MSNRanch, Grey Horse Matters and Teachings of the Horse, I was excited to attend one of his workshops during the Equine Affaire last weekend. Mark is a gifted teacher and can identify a problem a horse and rider may be having while holding up the higher lesson for everyone. You don’t need to be a horse owner to leave his clinics a little wiser, with real tools to connect you to what is important in life.

He started off by asking the rider: “Tell me about your horse.”
We learned this lovely gray gelding had been a camp horse. Which translates as: The horse had been ridden by scores of people who didn’t have a clue how to ride and probably had yanked its mouth yanked, sides kicked and who knows what else. (This is not to say all camp horses are abused but when any animal, including humans, are subjected to those who are learning how to behave around something or someone new, there will be mistakes). Behaviors learned to avoid pain become habits, even when the original reason for them are gone. While buying a horse with this kind of history may be economical, you will also be buying the animal’s experience of every rider who has ever thrown a leg over its back).
The rider explained to Mark that her horse flipped its head up and down when she asked him to do anything, making it feel like a disconnected steering wheel. Mark asked her to move the horse and sure enough, the horse bobbed away; up and down, up and down.
“Stand still,” Mark directed. The rider stopped while the horse continued to bob its head. Mark walked over, gathered the shallow loop in the reins and stood still. The horse’s head stopped bobbing.
It looked like Mark was doing nothing, but within minutes, the horse dropped its head into position and was still. We could see the muscles in his great body relax.
After some discussion, Mark asked the rider to walk on and then pick up a trot. The horse bobbed again. Mark zeroed in:

“How many folks here have heard the term, ‘Follow with your hands?’” Which means as the horse moves, your hands on the reins follow what seems to be a forward and back motion so (supposedly) you don’t interfere with the horse’s movement. But imagine you are the horse with a bit in your mouth. It moves forward and back in your mouth, banging it; ouch, how annoying. Don’t you want the bit to be still and steady so you can figure out how to move the rest of your body with it? In effect, in trying to communicate, the rider was actually dropping the horse’s head, which encouraged the habit of avoiding being banged in the mouth that led to the bobbing in the first place.
Under Mark’s tutelage, the rider’s arms relaxed and her hands on the reins became still and steady. As they walked and trotted around the arena, the horse’s neck began to arch as his head dropped to the bit and stayed there. His stride became fluid and relaxed as he engaged his newly balanced body. There were a few head flips here and there, but we could see the rider understood that the horse had been wanting to do the right thing all along. Now she understood how to ask.

“It will take some practice,” Mark advised. “Take the time to do that. You’ll get it.”
I turned and looked outside, letting this sink in while fingering my imaginary reins. There is something here for me too. Perhaps I can learn to ride through the challenges of each day without following my stresses and worries back and forth and banging myself in the mouth with them. Maybe all I need to do is hold my reins still and allow the Universe to relax and unfold as my life surges forward. It doesn’t have to be so hard. It will just take some practice. But now I understand how to ask.

My Own Equine Affaire

2009-11-15T07:58:00.000-08:00

It was fitting that an abandoned friendship was reignited in the place it began over 30 year ago: In a barn. Not any old barn either but The Equine Affaire in Springfield, MA. We had two and a half days of laughter and sharing and shopping, along with plans for more in the future.
Even though I not currently involved with horses, it is still an inner hunger that nothing else satisfies. Horses are not just horses to me, just as birds are not just birds, but symbols that must have been incorporated into my soul and psyche at birth. They are my spirit guides personified; to be near them is to dance with the Universe. To be part of the larger community, even at a distance, activates a different kind of faith. My friend, who like me is also no longer involved with horses, has never lost the fire in her soul either.

I know the practical side of the equnie world with the aches, agonies, broken bones and broken hearts would seem to have little to do with lofty ideas of spirituality. Watching an eagle soar may be an uplifting and patriotic image until you remember they feed on carrion. What I am talking about is the need for symbols--tangible things that point to something greater than themselves. To be among them, with kindness and without judgment is to breath in the Great Lessons. It is to be reminded of our own bodies as creatures, evolving according to our own biology and frail understanding, and not by schedules or calendars or executive positioning.

That said, let us move on to some photos:

I was impressed with how friendly the exhibitors were, unheard of in the tense atmosphere of competitive horse shows, which this was NOT. We were encouraged to stroll the barn aisles at will and were even offered photo ops:

This is a 7 year-old Friesian stallion. I am smitten.

Here he is again:

Meet Isaac, a 20-hand Shire (80 inches tall from floor to wither)
Look what I found in the parking lot.

We attended the Friday night performance of Fantasia, a musical event showcasing different breeds and their abilities. I also think it is an opportunity for people who normally show their horses in the tension of show politics to have fun and strut the horses' stuff their way.

Here are the Canadian cowgirls, an annual favorite of the crowd.

Here is my boy again, in costume!
There was even a chariot race!

After the show, the riders returned to chat up the crowd and sign autographs. I have never experienced this in any formal event involving horses--I am still amazed!
Yes, folks...this is Pam Goodrich and Donnerhit, whose performance brought me to tears.

I see you too!

I plan to do this again next November...in the meantime, my friend and I are contemplating going to Horse Camp....

The Best Things in Life

2009-11-14T03:50:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the best things in life come together at the same time.
The reuniting of old friends....
Who share a common bond.
More later....

Brandenburg Gate

2009-11-09T17:45:00.000-08:00

When the news came on tonight, I watched the dominoes tumble before the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, listened to the speeches and wondered about a city once divided by a concrete and barbed wire wall. So many died trying to scale it or fly over it and now all you have to do is walk by and nobody cares.

I remember walking through the guards and the guns from West Berlin to East Berlin and then back again. It was called Checkpoint Charlie. I was an exchange student, living with a family in Austria in 1969-70 when World War II was still very much a fabric of the community where I lived for one year.

One of these days, I will write about it.

Frost Diamonds

2009-11-07T06:07:00.000-08:00

It was cold last night. This morning, I looked out at the deck to see the frost diamonds but sadly, the flowers that had braved the storms of summer and cool September evenings finally succumbed to the hard hand of approaching winter.
The water in the bird bath was frozen solid, entombing the leaves that had given it shade all summer.
By the time we got out of bed, the sun was already hard at work erasing the evidence but the limp fronds of the bonfire begonias told the tale of cold gone too far this time.
This is before....
This is after....
Persian Shield before....
Persian Shield after....
Today, we will finish our winter preparations. Roll up the hose from the back yard, clean out the shed to make room for the emptied flowers pots, maneuver the lawn mower to the rear and give center stage to the snow blower. Clean the bird feeders too, though we cannot hang them yet until the bears are down, which will be another month or so depending upon the weather. We are another day closer to swirling snow and hot chocolate, icy winds and down comforters. I am almost relieved the holidays are almost here to distract us from the long nights ahead.

2009-11-01T18:18:00.000-08:00

Halloween is over. November is upon us. We can smell a frost coming tonight. The plants have been dragged indoors, the hatches are closed, chicken soup is in the freezer, flannel sheets are tucked on the bed. This is the waiting time.

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-30T17:28:00.000-07:00

It's Friday morning. Thank God the week is over. Better get to work for an early morning meeting.
You want to do WHAT? Remember what happened the last time?
Another satisfied customer.
After a difficult week, hubby is taking me out to dinner. Only the best restaurant will do on this special day. Only the table with the finest, hand-printed linens will do.
I can almost taste the blood...er... the fine wine on my tongue..... "Romeo" takes our order.
Hubby relaxing over a glass of Merlot and a hand chop.
My favorite h'orderve is on the menu. (Where's the toe cracker?)
But a sinus headache is coming on.
Time for bed.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Fall and Friends

2009-10-26T12:47:00.000-07:00

Autumn is my favorite season of the year. As much as spring is new and exciting, there is something about fall that is full of secrets and tender promises. It was impossible to stay indoors yesterday so the camera and I went on an outing to Sklyands Manor, New Jersey's botanical gardens.

The place was crawling with photographers, all with the same idea....

Reflections....

These are the leaves we welcomed in spring.

Who could resist walking through this doorway?

Bird food on the hoof.

This is where I spend my birthday meditations. A crossroad, a simple fence and thousands of invisible lives going about their day.

You can taste it, can't you?

Like the squirrels, I have a desire to build my larder and fluff my nest against the coming cold.

As I was driving the loop one last time, I saw a big horse trailer picking its way into the rutted parking lot. From the careful way the driver was maneuvering, I knew there was a full load inside. Behind it were a stream of cars with the riders and their gear. Shortly afterward, I met up with an old friend:

Quarterback! My mount from when I was taking lessons from Elite Equine!

Sara, the trainer, aboard Quarterback.

Some friends from the barn ready for a trail ride.

Too bad that's not me.

Happy trails!

Practicing the Halloween Gaze

2009-10-24T17:34:00.000-07:00