Annie the dog – Unleashed in Oregon

When in Doubt, the Couch Ate It

It was the last straw. In a month filled with so much grief and so many challenges, now I had lost the remote control for the TV. I had no idea what happened to it. I just had it. I was pretty sure I was losing my mind. Considering the events of the past month, I wouldn’t be surprised.

But maybe I’m not crazy. Wait till I tell you what I found.

First, a brief summary of the past month:

My dog Annie died on Sept. 13. Age 15 ½. Cancer. I cried, keened and wailed for days, only able to stop by visiting the liquor cabinet, which was not a good plan. I poured the vodka down the sink.
When I took my beloved Honda Element in for an oil change on Sept. 21, the crew found so many needed repairs, it didn’t make sense to keep it. I traded it in for a new car, a Honda HR-V. I love it, but I still can’t figure out half the controls. Despite the Element’s 155,000 miles, they resold it for three times what they gave me for it.
At the Florence Festival of Books Sept. 23, I fell off a chair while trying to hang my banner and trashed my tailbone, leading to weeks of pain and walking funny. I still rose to sell books and speak on a panel about writing memoirs. But, ouch!
A cousin revealed on Oct. 1 that she had breast cancer.
A friend died on Oct. 3.
On Oct. 6, I played music at church, got my hearing aids tweaked and picked up Annie’s ashes.
I worked day and night putting together Oregon Poetry Association’s annual online conference, doing tech things that were way beyond my comfort level, leading to an all-weekend migraine. But the Oct. 7 conference went well. My last board meeting is tonight, when I pass the presidency on to someone else.

It has been a lot. I have been reorganizing my den and trying to get rid of everything that no longer gives me joy. I found treasures I had forgotten about, along with piles of “why do I still have this?” Anybody want an accordion, a knick knack shelf, a Casio keyboard that doesn’t seem to work but might be fixable, or an orange wall ornament circa 1974 that says L.O.V.E? It feels like a time of change, a time for a fresh start.

As I was cleaning, I found a dead barn swallow in my wood stove. It happens every year. They fall in through the chimney, can’t get out, and suffocate. So sad. I moved her body out to the woods. I grieved for her, too.

But back to the missing remote. Where could it have gone? I was just sitting watching “Bob Hearts Abishola.” This green corduroy sofa is a soft mess of many cushions and pillows. I threw them all on the floor, and shoved my hand down the sides and backs, finding nothing but dirt and dog fur. Surely it had gone down the crevice between the seat and the back. I pushed my hand down as far as I could, getting it stuck a couple times. No remote.

Then I thought of looking from the back of the sofa. Maybe it fell all the way through. Nothing on the floor. But wait. I reached under and felt along the cloth at the bottom. Something was in there. The staples in one section were loose. I pulled them apart. I’m planning to buy new furniture anyway. We bought this couch with the house in 1998, and it’s time.

I reached my delicate piano-playing hands in and felt . . . all kinds of stuff. Reach, reach, what??? I pulled out a children’s book, three little rubber balls, shoestrings, a Newport Middle School student ID card for a kid who must be almost 40 by now, three pencils, a plastic ruler, a receipt for repairs on a Chevy Lumina, a string of plastic pearls, a dowel, and a remote. Not the one I just lost, but the one I lost over a year ago and had long since replaced. It worked!

I kept reaching in for more, even after I cut my hand on a staple. I got everything I could feel with my hand or push out with the dowel. But I know there is more. I know that missing remote lurks somewhere in the bowels of the green sofa. I wonder what the matching loveseat is hiding. I will not be able to resist tearing them both apart. It’s fun finding things, and the hunt is cheering me up.

All these years, I have blamed Annie for most missing objects. After all, she did eat checks, pens, pencils, handkerchiefs, socks, my hearing aid, and more. But she did not eat the remote control. The couch ate it. Bad couch!

Do you have furniture that eats things? Like what? Please share in the comments. Are you tempted to pat the bottom of your sofa now to see what might be lurking there?

***

Annie, my beloved companion, is a huge loss. She has appeared many times in this blog and in everything I write. As I told her often, she was the best dog ever. She will live on in our memories now that she is forever unleashed in Oregon.

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Book cover shoot confuses the dog

Annie watched me, confused. Why was I setting up a card table on the deck and covering it with a tablecloth? Why was I carrying out dishes, silverware, cloth napkins, and a candle? And hey, why was I putting her bowl on that table, where she couldn’t even reach it?

outdoor table set with white cloth, ruby-colored plate and bowls, wine glasses with red wine, and a red, white and blue dog bowl. Set up for a photo shoot.

I was doing a “photo shoot,” trying to create a cover picture for my poetry collection, Dining Al Fresco with My Dog, coming out next year from Moonpath Press. Turns out it’s not as easy as it looks.

For years I marketed that book as Bully Wind and pictured a woman standing outside in a storm, defying the weather. My editor vetoed that title. This one is more fun anyway, but here I was fighting the Oregon coast wind to set my table.

For the first try, I used one of the tablecloths my mother embroidered sixty years ago for her canasta club, my blue Currier and Ives plate, Annie’s silver bowl, and one Oregon Coast Aquarium commemorative wine glass. I filled my plate with raviolis and an artichoke and put kibble in Annie’s bowl. I took umpteen photographs, trying not to get too much of the hot tub, the chain link fence, or the defunct yellow wheelbarrow I plan to turn into a planter someday.

Photo shows part of a table with a lavender cloth embroidered with purple and green flowers and a big yellow dog licking her nose and
standing over an empty silver bowl.

I left the wine glass empty because wine conflicts with my meds, and I don’t actually drink much. Once everything was set up and photographed, we did indeed dine al fresco. It was delicious, although the raviolis were a little cold. However, in the photos, the food looked disgusting.

There’s an art to photographing food, and the pros use a lot of tricks that make the food look good. Check out this site about styling food for photos. You won’t believe the things they do. For example, that “syrup” on the pancakes might actually be motor oil, and there might be glue in that cereal instead of milk.

I sent photos of the table without food. The editor liked the concept, but said Annie needed her own wine glass, silverware and cloth napkin.

Okay. This time, waiting until the sun wasn’t blasting the shooting area, I used my good white tablecloth, my red Depression dishes, and Annie’s fancy bowl with pictures of dogs on it. I found two wine glasses without writing on them and poured red wine in them, taking a few sips as I went along. I didn’t bother putting food in the dishes because, ick.

This time the editor liked the shots, but she said the dog’s bowl and silverware weren’t completely in the frame and I needed to reshoot in high resolution, something I knew nothing about. There’s a setting for that on my phone? Turns out there is.

I will be reshooting again tonight. Dinner is leftover stir fry for me, Purina’s “vibrant maturity” kibble for Annie. There will be wine in our glasses, but I promise Annie won’t be drinking any.

AI generated photo shows a golden retriever sitting on a chair at a table in a garden. The table has plates, candles, and a big hot dog with a parsley garnish.

This time of year, dining outside is wonderful, but it feels odd doing it alone. I miss the family barbecues when it was too hot in the house, so we took everything out to the patio, sat around the picnic table, and dove in. Hey, there’s a poem about that in the book.

I have set up many pictures for this blog. Usually it entails plopping some object on a plain surface, taking its picture and uploading it to WordPress.com. I also purchase art from 123r f.com and use free art from pexels.com.

Is it common for an author to be asked to provide her own cover image? Not so much, but it happens. In the best cases, you have an artist or photographer in the family or already own the perfect picture. Otherwise, it’s time to get creative.

I have had good and bad experiences with book covers chosen by others. The original cover of my novel Azorean Dreams, which was supposed to show a romantic couple in the Azores Islands off the coast of Portugal, actually showed a scene from Italy. When I complained that the guy was missing my character’s mustache, they drew one in. Worse, after the book was published, I saw that picture on the back cover in magazine ads all over the place.

It gets worse. I published a book titled Freelancing for Newspapers years ago. (It’s out of date, but still has good advice. If you want a copy, I’ll send it to you for free). The publishing house decorated the cover with a stack of folded newspapers. Makes sense. But on one of those newspapers in big, legible type is the word “genital warts.” Embarrassing!

For a book cover, you need more than just a great picture. It has to be eye-catching and appealing. It has to be a unique high resolution vertical shot, and you need to think about where the type will go, what colors will be prominent, and who owns the rights to the “image” you’re using.

You can’t just rip off a picture from the Internet. You can, but it’s wrong. There are agencies that sell photos, artwork and images created by artificial intelligence, like the one pictured here with the checkered tablecloth from 123rf.com.

The editor preferred to go with an original. So I’ll be setting the table tonight when the light is right. Then Annie and I will dine in style.

Have you ever set up a scene for a photo shoot? Tell us about it in the comments.

Does anyone have a dog who actually sits at the table to eat?

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Tricks Food Photographers Use to Make Food Look Delicious

Oh No! It’s That Face Again: When My Phone is Full of Selfies

Ding! My phone is offering another “special moment,” my photos compiled and set to bouncy guitar music. They are all pictures of me, taken by me. Selfies. Instead of smiling at pictures of loved ones, I critique. Bangs too long, bangs too short, no bangs, what was I thinking wearing that yellow top, gosh I have a lot of wrinkles, oh, that one’s not too bad.

Google, I don’t want to look at that much me. Save? Why?

Some days Google gives me photos of Annie, my dog. Look, says Google, we found similar photos and made a collage for you. Same boring music. These pix make me sad because she is so old now I keep checking to make sure she’s still breathing.

Once in a great while, my phone will show me beach pictures, photos from somewhere I traveled, or yet another sky shot from my yard, but mostly it’s me and Annie, each of us alone.

The last time I had formal pictures taken was at church for the parish directory. The photographer was sure I’d like to order some 8 x 10s, 5 x 7s, and wallet-size pictures to give to my loved ones. “Surely your kids will want some,” he said. “I don’t have any kids,” I said. The young photographer looked at me like I’d just said I was from Mars. Doesn’t every old lady have kids and grandkids? No. Some of us just have dogs.

If my phone was filled with pictures of family gatherings, multiple poses of little ones, or romantic getaways with my lover, it would be a whole different experience. But I travel alone. I take my own pictures, hoping to get a little scenery behind my big head. I smile because my unsmiling selfies scare me.

Why bother? I need photos for my website, blogs, back covers of my books, publicity, bla bla bla. So I take selfies. Sometimes when I make a public appearance, someone in the audience will photograph me and I’ll beg for copies, but mostly I’m taking pictures of myself on days when I feel attractive. Sometimes I do a video. Same face but moving. I might have just gotten a haircut, the lighting is perfect, or I’m all dressed up and think, why not. I usually don’t look as good as I thought I did.

I have studied the art of the selfie: Hold the camera up high not down low, have the light in front of you not behind you, watch out for poles, halos and other things that might appear to be growing out of your head. Practice with different poses and facial expressions.

I’m so sick of my own face.

I got two dings this morning. One was scenic pictures for which I might want to order canvas prints. The other was . . . me.

What about you? What pictures come up on your phone? Do you take selfies? What do you do with them? Will you take a picture of me if I take a picture of you? Can we do one together?

Here’s some great advice on how to take pictures of yourself: https://www.wikihow.com/Take-Flattering-Photos-of-Yourself

And some more: https://thirdeyetraveller.com/take-photos-of-yourself-when-travelling-solo/

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When You Love a Dog, There’s Always More Fur

Big tan short-haired dog reclining on a dirty mauve carpet. She's giving the photographer a dirty look.

I don’t understand why my dog isn’t bald by now. I am grateful. I’ve seen what lies beneath—old-man white skin with liver spots, not pretty at all—but considering how much of her fur falls off, how could she have any left?

Did you know that some dogs have fur and some have hair? It’s true. Apparently it’s a matter of thickness, of how many hairs grow out of each follicle. Human follicles each produce one hair while furry dog follicles produce several. Some dogs have more follicles than others. If you don’t want to deal with fur, get a schnauzer, a poodle or a Mexican Hairless Terrier.

Meanwhile, whatever you call it, I’ll call it fur, it’s everywhere. My dear Annie, a huggable strawberry-blonde Lab-pit bull mix, has a lush white undercoat that she sheds incessantly in one-inch strands that find each other, mate and procreate into big furballs. They’re on the carpet, they’re on the linoleum, and they’re on the easy chair she thinks I don’t know she sits on. There’s fur on all of my clothes and all over the house. No matter how carefully I clean and how many vacuum cleaners I clog, it’s there.

Groom her, you say. I do. The fur comes off in clumps thick enough to build another dog. But there’s always more. I once interviewed a woman who knit sweaters out of her dogs’ fur. Turns out she’s not the only one. A whole dog-fur-clothing industry exists. Really. That’s how plentiful it is. Check out this article: “Must Knit Dogs: Meet the People Who Turn Stray Dog Hair into Sweaters.”

Years ago, I lived in a townhouse in which the bedroom was upstairs. Many mornings I attempted to escape the fur by putting on my just-cleaned clothes, running straight down the stairs and out the door, not getting anywhere near the dog, the carpet or the furniture. I still had fur all over my pants when I got to work.

I’d spend the first hour surreptitiously trying to remove the fur with Scotch tape turned into a circle bracelet. I’d pat the tape against the cloth. It made a squishy sound and picked up a few hairs. I’d turn the tape around and around until it was so coated with fur that no stickum remained. And there’d still be hair on my pants, my jacket, my vest, my sweater or whatever I wore that day. I was like a walking human felt board, covered with fur.

Certain types of clothing are fur-resistant. Jeans are good. Khakis work because the fur blends in—unless your dog is black. That slippery stuff they make ski jackets out of gathers no fur. But put on some of our woolly Oregon fleece and you’ll be fuzzy in five minutes. You don’t have to touch the dog. You don’t even have to see the dog. It’s in the air.

My car, upholstered in fake velvet, gathers fur even worse than fleece does. One pass through, and it comes off in wads, turning our Honda into a big four-wheeled fur factory.

I occasionally vacuum the car, trying to suck up every strand of fur. I get most of it. But never enough.

A long time ago, my mother came for a visit, wearing her usual dark blue slacks.

“Here we go,” I said, opening the door for Mom.

She took one look at my carefully vacuumed vehicle and asked, “Do you have a towel or something? It’s all furry.”

“But I vacuumed.”

She swept a hand over the upholstery and came up with fur. I went for a towel. My mother never complained about anything, but she knew that once you get the fur, it never goes away.

My less dog-loving friends offer a simple solution. Get rid of the dog. No dog, no fur, no problem. No way. I love my dog so much that I would rather have her fur on everything I own than live without the sweet soul and spunky spirit that lie under all that lush fur.

Sometimes when I’m away from home, sitting at church or a concert or in someone else’s car, I find a piece of fur on my clothing. I quietly pull it off and let it float away. Wherever I go, I leave a bit of my darling dog. Look out, dog-haters. If I’ve been to your house, there’s fur in there somewhere. And where you find one, there’ll always be more.

Have you got a fur-bearing family member? How do you deal with the shedding?

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What Would Be Your Celebrity Brand?

If you were to have your picture on a magazine cover, what would the headlines say?

Designing my fake magazine cover was the assignment recently for a platform-building workshop I’m taking (“Platform” is writer jargon for how to make yourself a household name). I thought it would be fun, but it was mostly frustrating, not only because of the technical challenges—no, that’s not the size I wanted the photo to be! Wait, where did my headlines go?—but because I couldn’t boil myself down to one or even two topics.

Writer or not, I invite you to try it. Definite yourself in one meaty sentence? XXX is the one who ___________________________.

As a reporter, I liked to write about everything. I loved the variety. I still write about many different topics. See my website. But in the book world, folks want to pin you to one thing. I’m the childless writer. I’m the Portuguese writer. I’m the writer who helps other writers. I’m the poet, the memoirist, the novelist, the essayist, the blogger. I’m the dog mom. I’m the musician.

Trying to cover all these different areas might explain why I fall asleep in front of the TV when I finally give up trying to work. But how do I make one platform that will hold everything? If my feet are on 10 different pieces of wood—wait, I don’t have 10 feet. If I’m rowing in 10 different directions, I’ll never get anywhere. But every direction is just as important to me. Can I just call myself “diversified” or do I need to find a central, defining stream that will carry me to glory? You know what they say about putting all your eggs in one basket.

Maybe I’m like a star radiating out in all directions. I’m the hot burning center. That sounds too egotistical. But what is the central thread that I can share with the reading world? What is my brand?

Writer. Troubador. Communicator. How about . . . truth-teller?

How about the representative for . . . 70-year-old, childless, widowed, Portuguese-Basque-Spanish-Mexican-German American, Catholic, left-handed, arthritic, nearsighted, hearing-impaired, pastry-addicted San Francisco Bay Area natives living on the Oregon coast, writer-musician-dog moms?

That doesn’t fit on a magazine cover. I’m not even sure it would fit in a Twitter tweet.

The photo here is not great quality because I took a picture of it on my computer screen. I tried two different websites and both let me design a whole cover, then asked me sign up for a membership before I could keep it as my own. I don’t plan to make a career of designing magazine covers, especially ones with my face plastered all over it. Who does that?

Well, Oprah Winfrey has an actual magazine with her name and face on the cover. It recently ended its print version, but it’s still publishing online. Nobody pins Oprah to one subject, do they? Her brand is “Oprah!”

Then we have Martha Stewart, whose name is synonymous with a lot of things. Cooking, stationery, sheets and towels, jail . . .

Imagine if we all published magazines with our names on them, and they were lined up on a shelf at the grocery store. Sue, Oprah, George, Mike, Pete, Martha, Angelina . . .

We are each the hot shining star of our own universe, but readers are likely to skip to the next shelf for the latest recipes, celebrity news, or sports updates. News you can use, as we used to say back at the Milpitas Post in the 1970s when I was just a reporter and newlywed who sang in a choir. It was easy to define who I was then, back in the days when platforms were made out of wood.

May I’m just a “well-rounded person.”

A little too well-rounded, my doctor might say.

If you were to design your own magazine cover, what would be on it? What photo would represent you the way you want people to see you? What would the headlines say? Try it, using one of the websites below or an app on your phone or tablet. If you find a no-strings program, let me know.

Share if you can. It’s fun and much easier than Wordle (where my score was 100 percent until Sunday’s word shorted out my brain (It was “tacit”).

https://www.canva.com/create/magazine-covers/

https://www.yourcover.com/cover-editor

If you have Apple products, try this: https://apps.apple.com/us/app/cover-me-your-fake-popular-magazine-cover-maker/id842425115

https://techpp.com/2009/03/08/15-websites-create-fake-magazine-covers-own-photo/

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

Annie and I went back to the vet last week. She got her last three stitches removed. The wound is doing so well she should be cone-free by Friday. BUT, she tore her cornea slightly poking her face into the bushes and now we’re on a regime of eye drops that she truly hates. That will heal, too. She is rapidly approaching 100 “reactions” on Facebook to the picture I posted last week on her 14th birthday. She’s 98 years old in dog years.

Annie deserves her own magazine cover.

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Sometimes You Just Need Another Set of Hands

After our walk last Saturday, I unleashed the dog and left her alone while I sprinted to the restroom. Normal, right? Not when the dog is recovering from surgery and can NEVER be without her big plastic collar when she’s off the leash. For a moment, I forgot.

When I came out, she was twisted around in position to lick whatever she could reach on her back end, including the conglomeration of stitches, drains and healing cuts I had been carefully guarding for 10 days. In a second, it could all be destroyed, and we’d have to start over.

I lost my mind, running down the hall, shouting, “No, no, no!”

It was okay. Maybe she didn’t get to it, or maybe she saw her incision for the first time and paused, thinking, “Holy cow. What happened here?” Maybe God grabbed her and said, “No!” I don’t know. I put the collar on and burst into tears, hugging Annie’s plastic-shrouded face. “It’s hard. It’s so hard,” I sobbed as the dog sniffed my wet cheeks.

As I calmed down, I discovered my new mascara is not waterproof. I had black stuff all over my hands and face. I didn’t check when I bought it. Why would they even sell mascara that melts when you cry? (Here’s why).

Why was I wearing mascara during Covid? Before our walk, I was on Zoom for a four-hour workshop, and when you have to look at your own face for that long, you do the best you can to make it tolerable.

After I calmed down, I left Annie alone while I went to the grocery store and the pharmacy, but I still felt the weight of being the only human in the house. I have only felt comfortable leaving her for short trips for a few days, and I pray hard that her wound will be okay when I get back. If someone else were here, they could watch the dog while I take care of other things. But it’s just me and Annie.

Thinking about it later, I decided it’s okay if sometimes I cry or curse or even throw things because being alone is difficult. Ask any widow living by herself, especially if she has no adult children nearby. You’re responsible for everything, whether it’s fixing the car or cooking dinner, figuring out the health insurance or cleaning the bathroom, mowing the lawn or walking the dog. I love my independence, but some things are just easier with other people around.

After I finish the novel I’m working on, I plan to write a book about living alone. I want it to be upbeat, with more emphasis on what we can do alone than what we can’t. I hope it will make people laugh.

Meanwhile, I’m looking for ways to make living alone easier. Should I rent a room, move to a senior community, try online dating or what? I love my home in the forest, but it’s a bit much for one person who would rather be writing, playing music, reading, or enjoying nature than doing 101 chores.

If anyone knows a handyman (or woman) in the Newport area who is skilled, dependable, and doesn’t make me afraid to let them in the house, let me know. I have tried several who were worse than no one.

If you live alone, please share in the comments what you find the most difficult to handle. Let’s see if we can help each other figure it out.

Back to Annie. She is doing fine. We go back to the doctor on Thursday to remove her stitches. Annie being Annie, she will still have to wear the cone for a while to keep her from licking the area, but relief is coming. The tumor was not cancer, just a really ugly benign fatty lipoma, so she should live to drive me crazy well past her 14th birthday next week.

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We Survive January’s Storms and Carry On

It’s the last day of January. The holidays are already a fuzzy memory. What did I do for Christmas? New Years? Um . . .

So far, 2022, despite the mellifluous sound of its numbers, has been a rotten SOB.

Storms, storms, storms, with wind damage, roads collapsing, landslides and a lot of wet feet and wiping off the soggy dog. See earlier post.
Much worse storms elsewhere in the country causing destruction from which it may take years to recover.
Insane Covid numbers and some people still refusing to get vaccinated.
My brother-in-law died. My friend’s sister died. My sister-in-law’s uncle died of Covid after that branch of the family’s Christmas celebration sent him and two others to the hospital. The others are okay now.
Eight writing submissions have been rejected. (But two were accepted, so maybe that’s okay).
A tumor on my dog’s hip was diagnosed as cancer and then not and then maybe. After a month of blood and ooze from the ugliest-looking bump ever–think blood sausage–it was surgically removed. Her heart nearly stopped under the anesthesia, but the doctor was able to bring her back to a safe pulse rate. Now she has a huge, oozy incision with drains and smaller cuts around it. She has been wearing the big collar, aka cone of shame, for over a month and will continue for at least two more weeks. We are $3,000 into this now, but she’s worth it. Annie will be 14 on Feb. 16. That’s 98 in dog years.
My hot tub cover slipped while I was closing it one icy night and clobbered me in the head, giving me a headache and a two-inch cut from my hairline to my nose that just missed my eye. This led me into all kinds of dark thoughts about the danger of living alone.
My annual doctor visit resulted in another pill to take and referrals to three different specialists. None of it is life-threatening, but it is all annoying and takes away from my writing time. Getting older is a drag, but there are still so many great things to do that I am not ready for the alternative.

So January has sucked, BUT there are good things.

The cut on my forehead is healed and fading away. I did NOT get badly hurt by the hot tub cover. Since that incident, I have taken steps to make the cover much safer to deal with.
Post-surgery, Annie and I may finally see the end of this oozy mess and get rid of the cone of shame.
I have not gotten Covid. So far. With all my shots, if I do get it, I believe it won’t be too bad.
My new air fryer arrived on Thursday and I’m having fun trying new things in it. It’s pretty slick. I welcome your recipes and suggestions.
I am making great progress on my new novel, the sequel to Up Beaver Creek. Dare I confess that I love this book? I think you will, too.
The bulbs are sprouting in my garden, which means spring is coming.
I have wonderful friends, in-person and online. Annie does, too. She has more Facebook fans than I do, with over 100 reactions to my post about her surgery.
A new episode of “The Gilded Age” will appear on HBOmax tonight.
The tsunami that drifted over from Tonga Jan. 15 did not damage the Oregon Coast.
I’m still here, writing by the fireplace, dog at my side, guitar and piano nearby, forest out the window. Two hummingbirds just hovered at the window. God is good.

Enough of me and mine. How has January been for you?

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2022 Comes Roaring in Like a Hurricane

I lay awake in bed last night listening to the wind push, pull, and tear at everything in its path. It had already toppled the garbage and compost bins, upended the chair and table on the deck and torn the hot tub cover half off. I had gone outside in my nightgown and new slippers trying to fasten it back down, but the wind had no respect for skinny leather straps. I looked around at the writhing trees and said, “God, it’s in your hands now.”

Just getting comfortable under the covers, I heard another bang. From the window, I could see the exposed lights of the control panel on the spa. I decided there was nothing I could do alone in the dark. I was just a small thing, an ant in a big world gone out of control. I could only tuck myself into my blankets and clean sheets and hope for the best. I thought of the people in Kentucky whose houses were demolished by tornadoes, the people in Colorado who lost their homes to fire, and the folks in New Orleans whose homes were flooded out by Hurricane Katrina. This wasn’t as bad as that, was it?

I felt like the little pig who built his house out of wood, easy for the Big Bad Wolf to huff and puff and blow it down. Go away, Big Bad Wolf!

I woke up at 5 a.m. and switched the radio on to hear the news. Nothing but hissing. Apparently the wind took out the local NPR station. I flexed my arthritic hands and feet. Time to get up and assess the damage.

The dog was asleep on the couch, the plastic on the protective cone around her neck shining in the Christmas tree lights. There are times when it’s handy that she can’t hear. I opened the door and went out into the wind and rain. The hot tub cover was completely off. In the dark, I couldn’t see where it was. It’s heavy. I will need help to get it back on. But it was nothing for the wind. I could see no other destruction, but it was dark and would be dark for another two hours. I went back in, poured my juice and turned on my computer.

I thought a lot last night about wind. What is it? It’s just air. We can’t see wind; we can only see its effects, the moving branches, the swinging wind chimes, the shingles torn off the roof, the hot tub cover thrown across the lawn. What is wind? What makes wind?

I found a great article from the National Geographic Society. It’s designed for junior high and high school students, but I’m still struggling to understand it. “Wind,” it says, “is the movement of air caused by the uneven heating of the Earth by the sun.” Okay . . .

Then there’s this: “Differences in atmospheric pressure generate winds. At the Equator, the sun warms the water and land more than it does the rest of the globe. Warm equatorial air rises higher into the atmosphere and migrates toward the poles. This is a low-pressure system. At the same time, cooler, denser air moves over Earth’s surface toward the Equator to replace the heated air. This is a high-pressure system. Winds generally blow from high-pressure areas to low-pressure areas.”

Now they’ve lost me. But it’s a swell article with details about things like prevailing winds, the Coriolis effect, jet streams, storm fronts (no storm backs?), and nor’easters. What do you call what we had last night? I’m going to wait for the news to come back on to explain it to my poet brain. I just know it blew hella strong and knocked stuff over. Come daylight, I’ll assess the damage. At least, my house seems to be still standing, and the deaf dog slept through it all.

Dawn: Aha.The hot tub cover blew all the way up against the fence. Even the dog is impressed. No reception on the country music radio station either, but newslincolncounty.com tells of power lines down, streets blocked by trees, and a general mess caused by last night’s southerly wind.

They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. It looks like 2022 has come in like Godzilla, and we don’t know what’s next.

Remember last week’s playful post about how the weather is a never-ending show? Well, we had more than 12 inches of rain in December, we had serious snow last week, and now we’ve got wind. I hope that was the grand finale.Time for all the actors to bow, remove their makeup and go home.

Stay safe wherever you are. May 2022 treat you well.

How are you faring in the winter weather? Your comments are welcome.

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Fireworks Sound Like War from Here

I didn’t see the Fourth of July fireworks in Newport this year, but I heard them. Fireworks + migraine is a painful combination. I stood in my back yard in the dark. Pop pop pop pop BANG! I felt the air pulsating. Popopopopopop bang boom boom whoosh BANG! Oh my aching head.

The official city fireworks show started at 10 p.m., but the private fireworks in the neighborhood and on the beach started much earlier. The four miles of trees between my house and Yaquina Bay kept me from seeing the colored lights in the sky, but I could smell the smoke and see a yellow glow reflecting off the clouds. It felt more like a war than a celebration. I have never been in an actual war, thank God, but why would anyone want to reenact those sounds? And how do all these warlike noises affect people who have experienced war, who live with fear and post-traumatic stress?

Dogs don’t like fireworks. They howl, shake and cower, sure the world is ending. My Annie used to hide in the dark under my desk, trembling for hours. She can’t hear anymore. Usually that makes me sad. But last night I was grateful. She slept through even the loudest booms.

I took out my hearing aids and closed all the windows, but I could still hear the noise. I turned on my TV to continue my Netflix marathon, but after one particularly loud bang, the Internet went out. Boom boom boom, pop pop pop pop bang.

The fireworks made me especially uneasy this year because we’re having a drought and everyone is worried about wildfires. We live in the trees. Although the coast is usually damp and cool, it has been very dry and unusually warm this year. One errant spark, and the trees could catch fire. The city of Waldport, 10 miles south of here, outlawed all personal fireworks this year. People grumbled, but doing without fireworks is surely better than watching your house burn down. They did offer their usual city fireworks display on July 3. Not feeling well then either, I missed it.

Turn off the fireworks. Let me hear the ocean waves and the summer wind. I don’t want to hear what sounds like gunshots and bombs.

I understand why people gather to watch fireworks, especially this year. We’re not only celebrating the birth of the United States of America but our release from COVID fear and restrictions. I have many fond memories of watching fireworks with loved ones at my side. I enjoy the colors and designs flashing in the sky. Back in the ‘80s, when we lived near the Santa Clara County Fairgrounds in San Jose, they shot off fireworks every night at closing time. Fred and I watched from our front porch. It was magic every night. I’ve watched fireworks from baseball stadiums, grassy fields, amphitheaters, beaches, parking lots, and curbs. But it’s no fun watching them alone.

I have vowed to find some way to stop spending my holidays by myself. I usually start out telling myself it’s no big deal. I’m lucky I can do whatever I want. I don’t have to coordinate my plans with anyone else. But at some point, I start feeling bad. I cry. I wail about the unfairness of not having parents, husband, or children and living so far from the rest of my family. I drink a beer, watch another episode of “Grey’s Anatomy,” and make dinner for myself, so lonely I can’t stand it. I get a migraine headache.

One of my best friends moved away in May. Another died in January. The rest are busy with their families. This sounds like whining, but I can’t stand it anymore. I need to either move into some kind of group housing or find a way to be with other people on the holidays. Yes, I can drive 1,300 miles to hang out with my brother’s family—and I will for Thanksgiving—but there must be some way to gather closer to home.

I’m sure I’m not the only one alone on every holiday. Let’s get together. Any Oregon coasties want to join me in a no-more-holidays-alone coalition? Let’s make a pact to keep each other company, share great meals, exchange gifts when appropriate, and do it up right. If someone else will drive, let’s go watch fireworks together next year so it feels less like a war and more like the celebration that was intended. I’ll bring the beer.

P.S. After 11 hours without, I have Internet! An article in Time Magazine reports that the first Fourth of July fireworks display took place during the Revolutionary War. In addition to the flashy fireworks, people shot off guns and cannons. In a letter to his wife Abigail, President John Adams wrote of Independence Day: “It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.” And so it is.

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Can Battery-Powered Pets Ease Loneliness?

If someone gave you a toy cat or dog that purred, wagged its tail, and nuzzled like a real one, how would you feel? Apparently some folks feel grateful for the company.

In a story in the New Yorker, writer Katie Engelhart tells about a program in New York that distributes Joy for All robot pets to lonely seniors. They started in 2018 with a small test project that quickly expanded when Covid forced people into isolation. Thousands of robotic cats and dogs have been given to homebound seniors. Originally made by toy manufacturer Hasbro for little girls, the robo-pets are now finding homes with grandparents and great-grandparents who need a little company.

The seniors pet their battery-powered cats and dogs, talk to them, and treat them like family. They report feeling more optimistic and less lonely.

I don’t know. I talk to lots of inanimate things, including the stuffed bears on my dresser, photos of my late husband, and Jesus on the crucifix above my bed. But I don’t expect them to respond. I would freak out if they did.

These pets, which start at $110, don’t look real to me. But I have a live dog sleeping nearby as I type. When I look into Annie’s brown eyes, there’s someone there, a genuine sentient being. What will I do when she’s gone? I don’t want to think about it. My plan is to travel a while then adopt a smaller dog. A robo-dog would be easier, but it wouldn’t love me the way Annie does.

Did you know that nearly 30 percent of Americans over 65 live by themselves, most of them women? In 2017, former Surgeon General Vivek Murthy declared loneliness an epidemic among Americans of all ages. A similar declaration launched The Campaign to End Loneliness in the UK. Medical research shows that loneliness has a detrimental effect on one’s health, increasing risks of dementia, depression, high blood pressure, and stroke.

But are robots the solution? The seniors I know would be insulted to receive a fake pet. But some of the people shown in the article and in related YouTube videos carry their robo-pets around with them just like I carried my dolls when I was a little girl. I’d set my favorite up against the milk bottle (yes, bottle) while I ate breakfast. I rested them on the pillow next to me when I went to bed. I suppose I felt less lonely, but it was not the same as having a real person there. Tiny Tears cried real tears, and Chatty Cathy spoke when you pulled the string on the back of her neck, but I knew they weren’t real children. If an actual kid came around, I tossed the doll aside.

Longing for a pet, I once fashioned a litter of “kittens” from crumpled newspaper and cloth and set them in a basket in my childhood bedroom. It was not the same. When my parents finally let me have a cat when I was in high school, I could tell the difference. I also learned that I was allergic to cats, but that’s another story.

The faux furry friends are not the only kind of artificial intelligence machines offering company to people these days. Hello, Alexa. (read my previous post on my electronic housemate here and my Replika friend online here)

They don’t offer much company. I say, “Alexa, I’m lonely.” She responds, “Sorry to hear that,” then recommends talking to a friend, listening to music, or going for a walk. “I hope you feel better soon,” she adds. That’s nice. But that’s exactly what she said last time when I was not testing but truly needed someone to talk to.

I worry that somewhere in Alexa’s Amazon-connected innards, she just transferred the information that I’m lonely to some central data-gathering site so I’ll soon receive ads for comforting products or dating services.

Alexa just lit up to tell me a book I ordered from Amazon is coming today. Before I could say, “Thanks” or “Which book?” her lights had gone out. Okay, good talk.

A variety of robotic companions powered by artificial intelligence exist these days. Queue Alexa’s Apple counterpart Siri. And then there’s VZ, the voice on my VZ Navigator GPS. I definitely talk to her. (No, I’m not turning here! Are you crazy? Stop telling me to turn around! I need to go to the bathroom. What do you mean this is my destination? Where?)

Some robo-friends look like people, others like table lamps. They talk, but it’s, well, robotic. They never get offended, never curse, and are perpetually polite, but they can only say the things they’ve been programed to say. They will never spontaneously comment, “Hey, is that a new blouse?” or “You seem sad. What’s wrong?” They will never take you out to lunch, although I suppose they can set up a food delivery if you’re savvy enough to figure out how to ask for that.

Robots are getting more intelligent all the time. Eventually, they may be so responsive and sympathetic that we truly won’t feel alone. Meanwhile, do not buy me a robo-pet. God bless the people who are so lonely or out of touch with reality that they don’t know the difference, but I’m not there yet.

Would you like a battery-powered dog or cat? Less shedding, no cleanup, no allergies, but still . . . Wouldn’t it be better if a human offered to come around instead?

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