Annie works a nursing home miracle


There’s a woman named Pauline at the memory care center where my husband Fred lives. Pauline is a tall, handsome woman with a crown of white hair, but she’s quite far into Alzheimer’s. She does not speak to people. She walks around the building all day long like a ghost, bent forward, eyes glazed. I have seen her walk straight into musicians and other guests who don’t know to get out of the way. When she’s worn out from walking, she collapses on a bed. Often, it is not her bed. We have all found her in our loved ones’ rooms. If you wake her and tell her she’s in the wrong room, she nods and goes back to her ghost-walk.

Yesterday, I took my dog Annie to visit. My lovely lab-terrier had never been so far from home, but she loves to go for a ride, so I didn’t need to ask her twice. I didn’t know how she would behave. She’s young and energetic, but she did well. It’s a long drive, an hour and a half each way, but she mostly kept to her side of the car. Once we got there, she remembered all of our obedience training and proved it was worth the effort.

Fred lit up when he saw her. I haven’t seen that big smile in a long time. He spent the next two hours petting her. Various residents, workers and visitors stopped to touch her soft fur.

As Pauline approached in her mismatched clothes, she was muttering to herself about being chilly. It was 90 degrees outside and plenty warm inside. As she headed toward Fred’s back, she suddenly saw Annie. Her whole faced changed. She came alive. She walked with purpose up to the dog, her bruised hand outstretched. “Oh, you’re a pretty dog. Such a sweetheart,” she said as she pet her. Then she walked on, smiling, alert for a wonderful moment.

I was so inspired I decided to find out more about therapy dogs. Annie and I are not trained, but there are dogs that come to visit nursing homes, hospitals and schools all over the country. Seeing the effect, I want to get involved. There’s a group near here called Oregon Coast Therapy Animals which I plan to join. One can also find lots of information at Therapy Dogs International. Annie may be a bit too hyper to be certified, but I think it’s worthwhile supporting anything that can have such a wonderful effect.

Seeing dead birds and old cars

You never know what you’re going to see on the road. I was driving east on Highway 20 toward Albany, Oregon Saturday when a black and white bird suddenly flew up about 20 feet then crashed onto the passing lane. Did it have a heart attack? Was it dropped by a hawk? Did it commit suicide? It went down hard and probably got run over before its heart stopped beating. Thank God I wasn’t in that lane. I thought about that poor bird all day.

Did I ever mention the toilet planter in front of a yard on 20? Brown pots with lush red geraniums perch on the seat and the tank. It would certainly be easy to find that house.

The other day, I found myself following our old car. When I got close enough to read the license plate, I knew it was that gold Honda Accord Fred and I bought in 2000. Seeing it brought back all kinds of memories. I remembered places we went in that car. I remembered washing it, rubbing that “Naples gold” paint in the sun. I can see the dog fur on the tan upholstery, the cloth butterfly hanging off the mirror, the scatter of cassette tapes on the passenger seat.

I introduced my new car to my old one, as if it were a living thing.

I have seen our previous car here, too, parked at the dentist’s office by the post office. When we moved to Oregon 14 years ago, we had a white Honda Accord, with blue upholstery. The right back bumper was popped out a little. Fred drove the big yellow rental truck while I followed him in the Honda with our old dog Sadie beside me and the back seat full of guitars, computers and my Chatty Cathy doll. She peed on the seat just before we landed in Lincoln City. It must have taken a year to get rid of the smell.

Maybe we should have kept those old cars; they’re still going. Each car brings back memories of different eras in our lives. I know they’re just cars, but I get attached. Way back when my parents traded in our green 1955 Buick Special for a Ford Fairlane, I cried. My family still teases me over that, but the back seat of that car was my second home. I can still feel the soft blanket I snuggled in back there between battles with my little brother.

The front seat of my silver Honda Element is my second home now. Inside is a jumble of CDs, yoga gear, books to sell and books to read, Kleenex, flashlights, an umbrella (I live in Oregon), chewing gum and granola bars, a guitar stand and random guitar picks, a dog blanket and a dog water bowl, and a red metal water bottle for me. Fill up the gas tank, turn the key and off I go into the world in the safety of my shell like a fast-moving turtle with tires.

I have been counting Honda Elements on my weekly drives to and from Albany. So far the record is 11. Some people think they’re ugly, but I love those big boxy things and I love all the wild oranges, greens, blues and reds they come in. The Element looks a little old-fashioned, and I like that too. Before we started buying Hondas, I drove VWs. Which probably says something about me.

Meanwhile, three of our cars are rolling around Lincoln County, Oregon. There’s an outdoor toilet with geraniums around Elk City and a smashed bird somewhere near Burnt Woods.

You never know what you’re going to see.

Get ready for the computer geek

I’m sitting with my computer guy again in the ongoing effort to make my desktop computer more functional. I have learned so much in the last couple of days. The most important thing, I’m learning, is to keep track of what happens with your computer. Think of it like a puppy or a child. Every time you put in a new program, write down where you got it and when you installed it. Every time you had anything done to your computer, make a note telling when and what they did. Every time an unusual symptom arises, write it down. Otherwise, you’re helpless when the repair person says things like, when was the last time you defragged your computer, do you still have the disk for this program or when was the last time anybody cleaned out your CPU? Saying, “Uh, I don’t know” makes the repairs take much longer. Quick, what programs are on your computer? Assume you can’t look. When did you last back up your files?

Time to get educated and businesslike, I guess. I had about 50 icons on my computer desktop. Who knew they slowed my computer down? My actual wooden desktop doesn’t mind having stuff on it. But I’m so proud of my self; I got rid of most of them.

Tuesday the guy was here until 10:30 at night. I hope he’s gone much sooner today. Believe me, he’s not interested in me, just the computer–and the mega-check I’ll be writing him.

Moral: treat your computer well, pay attention to what you put into it, and learn the lingo. It will save you money and hours with the computer guy.

Walking with butterflies



I step out of the noise of the Bayfront on a tourist-crowded summer afternoon into what looks like a greenhouse. Pink, and purple poseys and bright yellow sunflowers bloom on shelves, their perfume blending with the scent of wet soil. Signs urge visitors to step carefully on the fake-lawn carpet. As I watch, something moves past me: a butterfly. The closer I look, the more I see. Butterflies sit on flower petals, dot the ceiling and windows, and rest on the floor, their wings moving slowly. This is Butterfly Adventures, a temporary exhibit in Mariner Square in Newport, Oregon.

The brainchild of former residents Peter and Lisa Noah, the exhibit gives visitors a chance to see free-flying butterflies up close. The beautiful insects may even light on one’s hair or hands if one is lucky.

Signs around the room offer interesting facts about the different types of butterflies and their life cycle from caterpiller to butterfly. Did you know that butterflies taste with their feet?

Most of the butterflies here are Monarchs, big orange and black beauties that tend to gather in the sunniest spots. A few have bent wings, damaged by some mishap. Their lives are short and could be shortened in such a space. How easy it would be to step on an unseen butterfly. I saw a little girl do just that. It’s a risk operating such an exhibit, which is probably why it will only be open through the end of August. But it is sweet to sit with a butterfly for a while, closely studying each other.

Butterfly Adventures is open from 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. Tickets, available in the Mariner Square gift shop, are $5 for adults, $3 for children 3 to 11 years old. Photos are encouraged.

For more information, visit the Butterfly Adventures web site or the Monarch butterfly site.

The Secret Path

I have lived in the Newport, Oregon area for 13 years. I drive down Nye Street to Sacred Heart Church several times a week, but I had never noticed the path before. I suppose it blended in with the houses and driveways and I was always too busy trying not to hit kids, cars or dogs with my Honda. Yesterday on foot, I found a magical place.

I had taken Annie with me to the church, having forgotten to turn in my time sheet again (I forget every month; maybe they should go electronic). My restless dog hadn’t been away from home for a whole 48 hours, and she was delighted to jump into the car, coating the seats with her yellow fur again. She sat up tall, staring out the window, watching the world go by. At church, time sheet turned in, she leaped out and we started our walk.

First we slipped behind the church and down the steps to the baseball field next door, where three people were tossing a chartreuse tennis ball around. Annie froze, staring at the flying ball. I explained that sometimes balls are actually not being thrown for the dog. She found this puzzling.

We went on, beginning on Nye Street, then taking a series of right turns that led us down streets I had never noticed before. We passed salt-water-taffy-colored cottages with ceramic seagulls and stained-glass peace signs in the windows and turned into a tree-covered gravel road that took us to another street and another. I started to wonder how long this walk would turn out to be. I was beginning to sweat despite the foggy weather.

At last I saw Nye Street and turned back toward the church, but two blocks before the ball field, I noticed an opening on the west side of the road. A paved path. Trees. The trickle of a creek. “Annie, come on,” I said.

I couldn’t believe what I saw. In the middle of Newport, I had found a beautiful nature trail. Lined with conifers, alders and wild blackberries, it was a wonderful place to get away from the tourist traffic. Annie dashed from one alluring smell to another as I wondered how I could have missed this trail.

We walked and walked, finally coming out at a children’s play area and a roller skate park. A sign said it was Sam Moore Park. I had heard the name but thought it was somewhere else.

We were a long way from the car now, closer to the beach than the church. We slogged uphill, at least one of us feeling tired and thirsty and noting the complaints of aging knees that had gone too far. But we will go back another time. What a gift.

Two lessons learned: Sometimes a forgotten errand can lead to nice surprises, and you can see a lot more if you get out of your car.

Step One: Set Up the Tent

Thank God no one can see me, I think as I wrestle on my front lawn with a pile of poles and slippery cloth that any minute should spring upward into a dome-shaped tent. But it doesn’t. I’ve always hated the junipers that block my view of everything, but now I am grateful. After an hour, I have nothing but a pile of parts and sore, grass-stained knees.

I’ve never set up a tent before. With my first husband, John Muir reincarnated, I was always the helper, the one who held stuff while he sipped a beer with one hand and put up the tent with the other. I don’t know how he got it off the ground; he just did. Before I knew it, we were hammering stakes into the dirt and barbecuing rib-eyes on the roaring campfire. My specialty was washing the dishes.

Husband number two wasn’t much of a camper. Motel 6 was too rustic for him. But we did try it once. Again, I don’t know how the tent got up. I just remember falling off the air mattress all night and threatening to sleep in the truck if he didn’t start a fire to keep us warm.

So now, husband-free, here I sit surrounded by poles, plastic-cloth and useless directions. If they wrote them in English, e.g., insert the ridiculously long black pole into the black sleeve to the left of the door, stuff it all the way through and insert the ends into the i-hooks, I might get it. But no, it’s slide short tent pole TPOL-374BK through pole sleeve of corresponding color. Do the same with second tent pole TPOL-374BK. Then insert long-cross ridge pole CPOL-393GR through pole sleeve of corresponding color. Hello, all the poles are long and I have three colors of poles and two colors of sleeves. Insert ends onto pin-rings at base of tent and snap J-hooks over short tent poles. What’s a pin-ring? And what J-hooks? I don’t see any J-hooks. Hook them onto what anyway, the hard part of the pole or the stringy thing between the sections of pole?

Okay. I think I’ve got it right. I lift the whole pile of cloth and poles and realize I can’t get all the poles into their holes by myself. My arms aren’t long enough. As soon as I get one side, the other comes out. This is where I used to come in, I vaguely remember. I was the one who held stuff while the tent-maker went around sliding part A into part B. Zoop, zoop, zoop, dinnertime.

I look around. The neighbors are all at work. I’d be too embarrassed to ask the super-hunter across the street for fear he’d laugh at my cheap tent. The other neighbors wouldn’t know any more than I do.

Sweating and weary, I let my tent fall like a deflated Mylar balloon while I run into the kitchen for a beer. That part of the camping tradition I can do.

Now I have to figure out to get the tent back into the bag.

The Numbers are In

A new Pew Research Center Study shows that 20 percent or one out of five American women don’t have children. A larger percentage of those with advanced degrees are childless, but that number has decreased in recent years. Why is that? Some believe women with the most education have more options for creating a family-friendly worklife. What do you think?

Below are links to three articles on the subjects to ponder.

Forbes: Childlessness is Up

NY times another view

Salon.com: Childless by Choice

Watching from afar

I’m a stealth fireworks watcher. Just about every year, I watch at least one display, but I rarely pay admission and I don’t join the crowds in the official seating area, even when it’s free. What usually happens is this: I decide that this year I don’t need to see fireworks in person. Heck, they’re on every other channel on TV. However, as I start hearing popping noises outside, I start itching to go outside. As predictable as “Stars and Stripes Forever,” I’m heading out the door at the last minute, thinking, I’ve got to see some fireworks.

I have watched fireworks from bridges, parking lots, decks, porches, and my parents’ front lawn. It’s not that I’m not willing to pay for a show. It’s that I hate crowds, and every year I really do think that I don’t mind staying home.

Last night, I really tried. I turned out all the lights, cranked up the volume on the John Philip Sousa songs and told myself I was getting a free show in the comfort of my home. But it wasn’t the same, and Newport’s fireworks extravaganza was about to begin. Pretty soon, I was putting on my shoes. That got the dog all excited. Unlike my previous dogs, Annie is bold when it comes to gunshots, lightning and firework, so I leashed her up. As we headed out, she sat bravely next to me on the passenger seat, her head scanning from side to side with every passing car.

A few years ago, when I was driving toward Yaquina bay, where they shoot off the fireworks here, I saw flashes above the trees and realized that if I parked at the Post Office, I could get a pretty good view. So we parked there again, merging into a row of government vehicles. I slid down in my seat lest a passing police officer grow curious about why one of the cars was occupied. But the dog wouldn’t get down. After all this time screaming “Sit!” at her, that’s all she wanted to do.

At exactly 10:00, the show started. “Look, Annie!” I said. And she looked. From my scooched-down position, I couldn’t see over her head. Dang tall dog. But it didn’t matter anyway. Over the years, some of those trees have grown so high that they blocked most of the fireworks.

It was time to find another location. Quickly. As I drove north, my eyes were more on the fireworks than on the road. I tried a pull-off beside the road. Not bad, but too likely to get me arrested. Then I had an inspiration. Since last year, a new community college was built up the hill a few blocks south of the bridge. The road to the campus was steep. I turned there. Oooh, ooh, good view. A family was parked off to the side, sitting in folding chairs beside their van. But there wasn’t enough room for us, so I kept going. If I went even higher . . . Nuts. The road turned and I lost visual contact. Quick. Turn around. Drive back down the hill. I turned into a driveway that didn’t go anywhere. Nope, electrical towers in the way. A little farther. Another driveway. No, nothing. I turned into a graveled road behind some kind of industrial building. Yes!

We had a perfect view. Annie and I leaned toward the front window, soaking up the colors in the sky. Ooh. Wow. Cool. Starbursts, flowers, weeping willows, rings, spiders. Between blasts of fireworks, I glanced around nervously, rehearsing my speech. “Uh, officer . . .” But maybe they were all on the Bayfront supervising the crowds. One hoped.

Bam, bam, bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. An orgasmic burst of color marked the end of the show. We scooted down the hill and into the line of cars heading south, pitying all those folks who walked a mile and sat for hours waiting to see fireworks. Annie’s eyes, sparkling in the headlights, scanned the sky for more.

Sharing My Songs


This has been a week for music. It started Sunday with two Masses, followed by playing at a benefit garden tour for the local Samaritan House homeless shelter. I went in kind of grumbly. Feeling tired and stressed, I found myself thinking, “I’m too old for this stuff. Time to quit.” Rick Nelson’s song about playing at a garden party kept playing in my head. “If you gotta play a garden party, I wish you a lot of luck, but if memories are all I sang, I’d rather drive a truck.” Etc.

But somehow the music worked its magic on me as well as my audience. By the end of the day, I decided there was nothing I’d rather do.

I’m still thinking that way after four nights of leading music at Vacation Bible School (imagine “Pharaoh, Pharoh,” sung to the tune of “Louie, Louie” and a few more reverent numbers)at Sacred Heart Church, and singing Wednesday at the Toledo Street Market, above. There is nothing like music to reach inside and smooth out the kinks, to get you on your feet dancing and singing, to celebrate being alive. When you look out and see people singing along, it feels better than almost anything.

So, I’m going to keep on doing it as long as I can. I’m available for gigs. And yes, I will keep writing, too. Words and music. I can’t help thinking they’re connected.

The Future of Freelancing

I have been traveling in Western Oregon and northern California over the last week, catapulted from home by a conference at Stanford University called the Future of Freelancing. I feared I would meet 120 young college grads who’d make me feel like a fossil, but that wasn’t the case. I found myself surrounded by mid-career freelancers and laid-off staff writers trying to figure out how to make a living in this new world of fading newspapers and growing Internet communication. As the author of a book called Freelancing for Newspapers, I feel as if I should include an addendum these days: take the advice in these pages and apply it to the Internet with a heavy dose of blogging, Twitter, Facebook and whatever comes up next.

We had enlightening talks by editors of Esquire, the New Yorker, the Washington Post, and Wired, by book publishers and publishers of Internet news sites, and by writers who have found new ways to do the old jobs. We took classes on blogging and social networking. It’s a whole new industry for those of us who grew up in the days of typewriters and carbon paper. The message overall was that the world still needs good writing, but we need to either catch up or give up. In an age where so many staff writers and editors have lost their jobs, each of us must become an entrepreneur, not only writing but creating a “brand” that draws people to what we write.

Cell phones were banned during the sessions, but many writers were busily tweeting, Facebooking, blogging and writing during the talks. I didn’t, but my fingers itched to hit the keyboard. This new media world is addictive, but we have an obligation not to abuse it or waste it on garbage. We need to think before we post.

I learned a lot, but I will be glad to head back to the Oregon Coast, where traffic is lighter, the sea cools the air, and the only voice I have to listen to most days is my dog’s.

Future posts will cover some of the wonders I saw on my trip. Meanwhile, I have limited Internet access, and I’m having trouble making my father, who doesn’t believe in computers, understand any of this.

One of my favorite moments during the class came when blogger/professor Staci Baird asked, “How may of you have Googled your ex?” Most of us raised our hands. Think about it.