Annie meets her mom

I always feel bad for mother dogs when their pups are given away or sold. I picture them wandering around looking for their babies, weeping over their loss. In reality, most mom dogs seem to be happy to have one less infant hanging off their teats. When we adopted Annie and Chico three years ago last week from a family that lived in our neighborhood, their mom, Roxie, trotted off with a free-at-last spring in her step.

Time has passed. My 8- and 9-pound baby dogs, half Lab, half Staffordshire bull terrier (aka pit bull), grew up. Unfortunately, Chico got a bigger dose of the pit bull and became aggressive. Combined with his ability to jump-climb a six-foot fence with ease, he became too dangerous to keep. My heart broke as I turned him in to the Salem humane society. When he wasn’t jumping fences or going after other dogs, he was the sweetest, most loving and most handsome dog in the world. I pray that he found new owners with lots of space, patience and love.

Meanwhile, Annie, the more mild-mannered of the two, has become my best friend. She’s almost 80 pounds now, but still likes to lie across my lap. That’s her favorite thing. Her second favorite thing is going for a walk.

We discovered about a year ago that her birth family had moved away, taking their dogs Roxie and Jada with them. Sad. But this weekend, we were walking toward the house at the corner of 98th and 101 when we heard barking. As we moved closer, I glimpsed two familiar dogs, one blonde like Annie, the other brindled. A man came out of the house. Annie’s original human dad! It turned out the family was visiting their in-laws.

The dogs didn’t know each other, but the man recognized Annie right away. He called his wife and kids. “Look, it’s Roxie’s pup!” Their son and their little girl grabbed onto my big dog in a happy reunion as Annie wagged her tail and licked their faces.
We compared dogs. Annie looks just like her mother, only bigger. They both have the same white stripes on their noses, the same copper eyes, and the same sleek bodies, but Roxie is pure bull terrier, as is Jada.
I saw so no sign of recognition between the dogs, but for us humans, it felt good to close the circle and see that both dogs are happy, healthy and beautiful. I’m hoping we get to visit again and again. It doesn’t always have to be good-bye forever.

Signs of Spring

You can’t tell it from all the rain that has been pouring on us lately, but spring is coming, even to the Oregon Coast. A few days ago on our walk through the woods, Annie and I saw the first trilliums of the year. These three-petaled flowers from the lily family start out white, then turn pink and finally go lavender before they wilt. By then, the other flowers are getting the idea.
On that first day, I only saw one trillium. Two days later, the banks  along our walk were covered with them.
Another sign of spring that appeared shortly after Valentine’s Day is all the Easter paraphernalia that has hit the stores. Makes it hard for people who gave up chocolate for Lent. Me, I gave up French fries. It’s harder than you think.
One thing that makes me laugh every time I see it is in the window of the kite store at the corner of Hurbert and 101 in Newport. I haven’t taken a picture because I’m always busy driving at that intersection, but let me try to describe it.
We see two chocolate bunnies. One appears to have had its ears eaten off. The one with ears says, “Happy Easter!” The one without responds (wait for it), “What?”
Question: how many of us eat the ears off our chocolate bunnies first?
Happy spring.

Thank you, I think

At my birthday party a couple weeks ago, a friend handed me this incredibly ugly plant. It wasn’t from him, he was quick to point out, but from another friend who wasn’t there.
This plant was three feet tall and about five inches around, held up by a green metal stake. I thought: What use is a plant that needs its own little crutch to stand up? I already have relatives like that.
Anyway, it had two leaves and one stalk holding what might turn out to be a flower. I was told it was an amaryllis.
Where would it fit in my house? Nowhere. But of course I said, “Oh, thank you. Wow.” Does this friend not know me at all? My plants are like me, short and squatty, and they have to be tough to survive. I’m glad the gifter was not there. I don’t have a poker face. My mouth was saying “Oh!” (happy) while my eyes were saying “oh” (dismayed).
Could I accidentally forget it? My friend made sure it went home with me. When I tried to get it in the car, it hit the doorframe. When I got it leaned back against the seat like a passenger, my dash lit up, saying, “side airbag off.” Yeek. This plant needed a car seat of its own.
I had one of these tall skinny plants before. Somebody sent a kit. You put this thing in this pseudo-dirt and water it. I did. Two leaves sprouted up. They grew and they grew and they grew like the plant in “Little Shop of Horrors”. I had two ridiculously long leaves, but it never ever blossomed. The leaves kept growing until one day they got so heavy they fell over and turned brown. We said, “Oh good, it’s dead,” and threw the plant out.
Now I have this one. At the party, the resident cat kept sniffing the dirt (is it dirt?) and started gnawing the leaves. At home, I have to hide it where the dog won’t eat it, thinking it’s celery. Someplace where nobody will see it.
I have minimal luck with houseplants in general. I mean I had to ask whether this one goes outside or inside. My friend Pat mouthed “inside.” Pat is the one who noticed my pot full of dead leaves, said, “Oh this needs some love,” plucked off the leaves, gave it some water, and by the next week it looked like a new plant. All I do for my plants is throw water on them. I buy plant food, but it rots, forgotten under the sink.
When the leaves fell off a big plant I inherited from my mother-in-law, I had to take a picture and put it on Facebook to find out what it was and what to do. Oh, that’s a bla-bla-bla, people said. Water it, put it in the sun, and say a prayer. It survived. Who knew? I thought it was dead.
When people give me a plant, it’s like, “Oh, that’s nice.” It will last a week or two longer than cut flowers. I’ve got an African violet dying in the pot right now. I feel so guilty.
I don’t even handle cut flowers properly. Pat noticed there was no water in the vase holding my get-well flowers a while back. She shook her head and added water. Did I sprinkle in the food or preservative or whatever that powder was that came with it, she asked. No. Was I supposed to? I make her sigh a lot. I just stick my cut flowers in a vase and leave them on the table until all the petals fall off.
So, when I got this three-foot-tall strange-looking plant, the plant lovers in the crowd oohed and ahhed while I thought oh no. But maybe I was wrong. This thing is damned tall. In fact, I think it has grown another foot since I brought it home. And guess what? It bloomed. Two gorgeous red flowers appeared a few days after my birthday. They were so heavy the plant fell off the table, but it survived. In fact, I think another flower is on the way. Maybe this relationship will work out after all. Maybe this plant will live forever. And bloom . . . exactly. . . once.

Tsunami Day

Whew! What a morning. I look out at the trees standing perfectly still against powder blue sky. The dog dashes in and tries to pick the Kleenex out of my bathrobe pocket. The only sound I hear is the hum of the computer. Life as usual.
An hour and a half ago, things were different.
 I went to bed late, having watched horrifying scenes from Japan until midnight. An 8.9 earthquake there did plenty of damage before the subsequent tsunami sent waves way inland, wiping out everything in their path. Helicopter video showed the ocean chewing up bridges, houses, hotels, cars, and boats as if they were toys. Debris clogged the surf like sawdust. One picture that lingers in the mind showed two women waving white cloths from the second story of a blue-roofed building that was surrounded by water. Rescue appeared unlikely. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people died as we watched the water flow across the land. Fires burned here and there, untended.
A large earthquake in the Orient can trigger tsunamis all over the western world. The Earth becomes one big dish that gets tipped on end, sloshing water over the sides. When I went to bed, warnings had been issued for Hawaii and all of the Pacific islands, Australia, New Zealand, the Philippines, Mexico, Central America and South America. There was a tsunami “watch” for the U.S. west coast, with nothing expected to hit until 1:00 this afternoon. Thirteen hours away. I went to bed.
My phone woke me up a little before 6:30 a.m. My aunt from California, whom I’m supposed to meet in Albany this afternoon, wanted to let me know that my cousin in Hawaii was safe and to tell me that the dog and I could share her hotel room if we want. She didn’t know that I live above the tsunami zone, but that if the tsunami was really bad, the bridges would go down and I couldn’t get in or out of my neighborhood. Anyway, it wasn’t supposed to hit until after lunch. Why did she wake me up?
Out of curiosity, I turned on the radio and found my oldies station in nonstop news mode. The watch was a “warning” now, and the wave was supposed to hit at 7:15 a.m. Schools had been closed and low-lying areas evacuated. If you’re in the tsunami zone, get out now, they said. The roads were crowded with people trying to get to higher ground–or to park where they could watch the waves. They were lined up at the gas stations.
 I lay in bed a while, unable to get back to sleep, and decided I should get up before the waves reached South Beach. I thought about my friends who live in the pink house overlooking the ocean at Nye Beach, about the folks closer to me who are in the process of moving from their ocean-front home, about the Bayfront, the Performing Arts Center, the aquarium, and my church. I’m high enough here to be safe, but so much that I love could be turned into kindling and floating bodies in few minutes.
 Fox TV broadcast pictures from beaches far north of here. The waves went out, the waves came in. It’s like watching somebody mow the lawn, one commentator said. Around 7:30, the waves pulled back farther than usual and rolled in a little closer but well within the bounds of the beach. Was that it? I turned off the radio and listened to the TV. Apparently it was. For now. When I turned the radio back on, it was playing rock ‘n roll again. The TV station started re-running pictures from Japan. I couldn’t look at them anymore. They were too horrible.
I pray for the people in Japan. I thank God that we are safe. This time.
 Here in South Beach, Annie is asleep in her chair by the window, and my trees are still standing, stretching calmly into the sky

Beware THE VOICE!

Did you ever try to have a conversation with a computer that sounds human but isn’t? Last night my computer stopped connecting to Internet Explorer, something it has always done perfectly. All that advice in the manual to go to xyz website was useless because I couldn’t go to any website. Now, I didn’t know whether the problem was my computer, my Internet provider or all those American Idol voters going online simultaneously. (Actually I was trying to vote at the time).

Anyway, I called my Internet company. If it wasn’t their problem, perhaps they could tell me whose it was. That’s when I encountered THE VOICE. I’ve met her before, calling about insurance, credit cards, and other frustrations. In fact, sometimes the voice calls me. My pharmacy, for example, has THE VOICE call to tell me I have a prescription waiting. I didn’t ask for any prescriptions, but apparently she decided I needed more drugs and didn’t want me to run out. When I ask, “What prescription?” she starts over, letting me know that my prescription is ready and I can pick it up until X date. Then she thanks me for using her pharmacy and says “Good-bye” in an obscenely cheerful voice.

I also get calls from a place where I used to work, warning me about the weather. There. Far away. Where I don’t work anymore. I can’t make her stop. She’s stalking me.

You’ve probably heard THE VOICE, too. When you call for help, she comes on all sweet and smart-sounding, sort of like your first grade teacher–Miss Dalton in my case. She says hello, you say hello back, and she asks how she can help. Then, just as you start to tell your tale of woe, she interrupts with a menu of options, none of which are exactly what you’re looking for. At that point, you know she is not human, but she sounds so human you want to shake her and say, “Hey, listen to me.”

So, THE VOICE gave me all these options, and I said, “No, no, no, no,” barely restraining myself from cursing. Remember, I had already been cursing at my computer for an hour. So she reset, just like Miss Dalton would have done. I picture this woman looking like the mothers in our 1960s grammar school books, tall and pretty, dressed in a slim gray skirt, her hair a halo of reddish curls, her eyes blue and her lips very red. Like Miss Dalton. She would bend down, put a comforting hand on my shoulder and say, “All right, let’s try this. Is your question about billing or service?”

Ah, something I could answer. “Service!”

“Fine.” She gave four options, e-mail, Internet, networking and none of the above. I said, “Internet.” Then she offered, “Can’t connect at all, can’t connect intermittently,” and one other thing that didn’t apply. “No,” I said. “I can’t get into Internet Explorer.” That was not one of the options. She repeated: Can’t connect at all, can’t connect intermittently, that one other thing, and oh yes, none of the above. Well…it’s Internet, but …

As I hesitated, she gave me the list again. Sighing, I said, “Can’t connect at all” (not with her at least). Finally, she said, “Please hold.” As I waited, I prayed that the next respondent would be human. I mean human right at that moment. Clearly THE VOICE was created using a real woman, but when and how I just don’t know. As I waited, I heard soft music and then, THE VOICE telling me how great this company was and listing all the wonderful services I ought to be using. She also suggested that I could find solutions to my own problems by going to X, Y, and Z websites.

Hello, that’s the problem!

Then I looked at my computer, and it was working again. My home page was there in all its glory. I hung up on THE VOICE.

‘Zits’ and ‘Magnificent Bastard’

There, did that title get your attention? Zits is main character of the book I just finished reading, Flight by Sherman Alexie. It’s fast, it’s quirky, it’s fun, and it made me cry on the last page. The perfect book.

Now I’m reading Rich Hall’s Magnificent Bastards, a collection of short stories that knows no boundaries. Ever wonder what a werewolf does when he’s in the mood for Chinese food? Or what happens when a verbally impaired boyfriend decides to compile Google search results into love poems? These are fun stories.

************
On the personal side, my husband has made two more trips to the emergency room at Albany General. His surgery two weeks ago is not working out so well. He seems to be deteriorating quickly. I honestly don’t know what will happen next. Prayers appreciated.

Never Take Winter Warmth for Granted

I watched in horror as sparks shot out of the pellet stove, landing on the carpet and the sofa. These bright balls of fire are a good thing—when they stay in the stove. They mean my heat source is working, turning the cylindrical wood pellets that look like rabbit droppings into lovely orange warmth. Soon the fan will turn on, sending heat throughout the house. But today, I had to turn it off in a hurry. Better to be chilly than burn the house down.

I often stand in front of the stove, soaking it in until I have to move because my thighs feel as if they’re burning. The dog lies between the sofa and the pellet stove for hours, cooking out the cold she accumulated during her night in the laundry room.

When the pellet stove is off, my house quickly chills to 60 degrees, lower if it’s snowing outside. A person can survive in that temperature, but it is not comfortable. I know I’m a California-raised wuss. There are families dying in minus-zero temperatures elsewhere because they can’t afford to heat their homes and government assistance has been cut. I heard on NPR about one person whose toilet water froze. That’s cold. Compared to that, my pellet stove not working is merely an annoyance.

I do have baseboard heaters in the bedrooms, but two are blocked by furniture and the ones I use only heat the rooms they’re in. A little wall heater hidden behind the kitchen china cabinet shoots a dusty band of heat straight across the kitchen and nowhere else. If the power goes out, I can light a fire in the woodstove in the garage-turned-den, but that only heats the den, and it requires constant maintenance. Still, it’s heat. I won’t die.

The pellet stove, my main source of heat, is an undependable creature. Officially, it’s a pellet stove insert, shoved into what used to be the fireplace. I don’t know how the former owners kept warm without it. It’s black, half-moon shaped, gold-trimmed with etchings of mountains and trees on the side doors and a clear front door that lets you watch the fireworks.

A diva of appliances, it needs frequent cleaning. Otherwise, ash builds up and it refuses to work. Pellets drop from the hopper into the clay pot and sit there until the igniter is in the mood to light them on fire. It takes a while. First it hums for about 10 minutes. Then it clicks and lights the first pellets or turns off and waits for you to push the reset button and start over. Eventually you wait a month in the cold until the county’s stove guy comes out to spend all day taking the stove apart and cleaning each little piece of metal while explaining how you have to do a better job of maintaining this baby. It’s a lot like the hygienist warning you to floss more often.

If the stove does light, first one then another pellet, then a bunch of pellets turn red and pop up like popcorn until they’re shooting like fireworks. It’s beautiful, but there’s no heat yet. Eventually an orange tongue of flame begins to burn in the pot. Finally the fan comes on. That’s when I rush to stand in front of the stove, often with a book in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. But for the burning thighs, I would stay there all day. The dog spreads out below me, resting her feet on my feet.

Yesterday, the pellets were running low. I brought in a bag from the garage, cut open the top with the big red-handled kitchen scissors and started to pour. Suddenly pellets were coming down everywhere. A pellet avalanche poured out of a big hole in the side of the bag. Pellets sprayed around the hearth, the sofa, the cabinet, my feet, and all over the top of the stove. “Shit!” I said, hauling the dog out by her collar before she could start eating the pellets. They look like food to her. Then I started scooping up the pellets into an empty cottage cheese container. Of course I was dressed to go out and running late, but this couldn’t wait.

As I was scooping, I noticed the sparks. Pellets had fallen through the front grill into places they didn’t belong. Now they were lighting up and shooting out as I dodged and stomped, thinking any second my carpet would catch on fire. Or maybe I would catch fire. I turned the stove off. I unplugged it. It continued to roar and shoot out sparks until gradually the fan slowed, the pellets darkened, and the stove went off.

The house had not burned down, but it was full of smoke. My smoke alarms, which have new batteries, didn’t make a sound. They wail like the end of the world when I cook pork chops, but they didn’t do a thing when I had an actual fire creating actual smoke only a few feet away.

Sigh. Mechanical, I am not. Put the smoke alarms on the list for when Prince Charming in a tool belt shows up.

I went to my appointments, loving the warmth in my car so much I might never have come home if gas didn’t cost so much. I came home and vacuumed out the pellet stove, plugged it in, turned it on, and held my breath. Pellets dropped, they lit up, the fire started, the fan came on, and, praise God, the fire stayed in the stove. As heat poured out, the dog took her place on the warm carpet.

That was Tuesday. Today it only took three tries to get the stove going, which is good because it’s snowing.

But I don’t trust that thing. Never take winter warmth for granted.

Update on the ongoing family crisis

I don’t want to burden you with my troubles. I like to keep this site light, but you may notice my occasional absence or wonder whatever happened to the husband I previously wrote about. So, briefly, here’s the story.

Fred, who has Alzheimer’s Disease, is having a very hard time, and subsequently, so am I. When you’re together this long–27 years–and love so deeply, what hurts one hurts you both.

In the past month, Fred has been to the hospital five times. He had surgery a week ago, and was moved, unconscious, the following day to a skilled nursing facility. His condition has drastically deteriorated in the last few months. When I visited yesterday, the first day I saw him awake since the surgery, he could not speak, could not feed himself, and could not walk on his own. He has lost 25 pounds since Christmas. He has become one of those zombies who sits in his wheelchair and dozes or stares into space. The surgery, related to a failed bladder, appears to have been successful, but we don’t know what will happen next. It’s one day at a time. Complicating matters is the fact that Fred is in Albany, Oregon, and I’m on the coast. I’m spending an average of 3 1/2 hours per trip several days a week driving on a long, windy road.

It was only nine days ago that Fred was still able to say “I love you” to me and knew my name. It may have been the last time.

I’m signing off before I get more maudlin. Alzheimer’s is a horrible disease, the sixth most common cause of death in the United States. As the boomers age, the number of people with AD is growing. For information, visit the Alzheimer’s Association website at http://www.alz.org/.

Anyway, that’s what’s happening. Please appreciate every little thing you can do all by yourself and all the many blessings that fill every day. Thank God Fred loved his life and his glass was always not just half full but full to overflowing.

Read away the cold winter with Stephanie Kallos

I have just finished reading the second of Stephanie Kallos’ two novels. They are both so good I want to share them with you.

Broken for You (Atlantic Monthly Press, 2004) is a crazy, beautiful book, poetic, layered and loving. The plot wraps around Margaret, who has a brain tumor and has been living alone in a mansion full of antiques since her father dies. She rents a room to Wanda, a stage manager whose parents both left when she was little. Wanda is always searching for her parents and for Peter, the guy who dumped her. The story that unrolls is just beautiful. Among the amazing twists are Margaret’s sudden plan to start breaking all the glass that fills her house and Wanda’s inspired way to use the pieces.

Sing Them Home (Atlantic Monthly Press, 2009) is another masterpiece, even better than Broken for You. Kallos is a weaver, bringing together many beautiful threads to weave one warm, luxurious blanket. She tells her story from multiple points of view, her protagonists both living and dead, past and present, but it all comes together in the end. We begin with Llewellyn Jones, the mayor, who insists on going golfing despite an oncoming storm. He is killed by lightning. His death inspires the events that follow. This is not the first time the Jones family loses someone to extreme weather. Llewellyn’s wife Hope disappeared and his daughter Bonnie was injured in a tornado back in 1978.

The book tells the stories of Llewellyn’s nurse and lover, Viney; his daughter Larken, a lonely art professor; his son Gaelan, a weatherman and avid bodybuilder, and Bonnie, an odd duck who lives in a converted garage and collects artifacts scattered by the tornado. We also meet Blind Tom, the piano tuner, and a host of other wonderful characters. So much happens, so much love, loss, and fun. We also get a heavy dose of the Welsh culture that pervades fictional Emlyn Springs, Nebraska, without ever feeling the weight of Kallos’ extensive research. This is a long book. The language is beautiful and requires concentration, and yet, at the end of 540 pages, I didn’t want to let it go. The people are so real I’m sure that if I went to Nebraska, I would find them there.

Kallos has had a varied career, including years working in the theater. She includes a hilarious resume at her website, http://www.stephaniekallos.com/. Take a look and have fun.

The Dog Ate It–Again

I have been silent here longer than I like. But I’m tired of being Bad News Sue. In brief, I’m sick with whatever it is that everybody else has around here. I assume I’ll feel better after a few more days of misery.

Meanwhile, my husband, who has Alzheimer’s and lives in a nursing home, has been having a hard time, with three trips to the hospital this month. Most of his problems center on an enlarged prostate, a damaged bladder, and what may become a permanent catheter to drain urine. His condition has declined dramatically, and the phone keeps ringing with trouble. So, phooey.

Annie, the dog who thinks she’s a person, is still doing well. When she gets bored, which is often, she plays a game in which she grabs paper off the table or out of my recycle box and makes me chase her for it. I hear her whooshing past my office, then I hear paper rattling, and I know the game is on. The following poem was inspired by this game.

That’s Why I’m Overdrawn

The dog ate my receipt.
I don’t know how much it was.
I saw it dangling from her lips.
I chased round and round a bit,
slipped and banged my knee.
“Give it back!” I cried.
But she just stared at me,
masticating it
like a cow with her cud,
staring at me, as if to say,
“You don’t share your food with me,
so I’ll eat the names and prices.”
And then she swallowed. Gulp.