She’s a good dog, really she is


The other day I took my dog Annie to the beach. Who should be unloading his dog from the van next to my car but my vet, Dr. Hurty with his wife and daughter. I immediately glanced at Annie’s midsection and realized she was still a little chubby. Oh, I wanted her to obey me perfectly, but what dog is calm when she arrives at the B-E-A-C-H? She flew out in an explosion of legs and tan fur, scratched up the back of Honda Element and pulled so hard I almost fell down.

“She’s solid, isn’t she?” the vet said.

“Yes,” I gasped, struggling to hold on. Bellowing “Heel!” right now would do no good.

We hurried up the dune and down onto the beach, where the wind had whipped the sand into peaks and valleys. The tide was way out, but we followed the water until Annie was knee deep and clearly wanted to go farther. My shoes and socks were already soaked, so we walked and ran and jumped waves and then sat for a while in the sand. Coming in for a face lick, she covered me with the stuff. And then we walked up the trail back to the parking lot. By then, Annie was behaving perfectly. Heel, sit, stand, down, wait, no problem. I really wanted the vet to see it, but as we approached our car, he was driving away.

She can be good. Really she can.

In a small town like Newport, you run into someone you know every time you leave the house. Back in San Jose, your dog might poop on someone’s lawn and you might ignore it, knowing no one would ever trace it back to you. But here, I have learned the value of carrying plastic bags. I don’t dare leave the poo, not when the person coming up behind me is probably somebody who knows me from church or a writing class or some story I did years ago. We leave nothing but footprints. And maybe a little drool from the dog’s long, dripping tongue.

When we got home, Annie ran out to meet her brother Chico. He immediately sniffed her legs and feet, as if to say, “Hey, where did you go?” Panting, tongue still out, she just grinned.

Dogs go wild


My adventurous dog Chico, the big black one with the red collar, has a new hobby: touring the neighbors’ house to see what he can find to eat. This can be a real surprise to the neighbors, who tend to leave their door open on warm days. I hear tell Paula was taking a nap the other day when she suddenly became aware of someone staring at her. No, it wasn’t her husband Pat. She awoke to find Chico’s big brown eyes fixed on her. Surprise!

I was down the road apiece with his leash and a pocket full of Milkbones while she got up and hauled Mr. Chico back home, locking him in the dog enclosure with his sister Annie. Hearing the gate clang shut, I hurried home. Pat, watering his new lawn, explained what had happened. Thank God he laughed.

Okay, once is okay, but then yesterday, Chico escaped twice. The first time, I found him near the mailboxes eating a slice of wheat bread. Uh-oh. The second time, I went straight across the street and knocked on the siding by the open door. Who greeted me? Right, Chico. He had just cleaned out the cat’s food and was slurping up his water. I don’t know where Pat and Paula were or if they ever discovered they had a visitor again.

What a dog. I took him on a walk through Mike Miller Park here in South Beach the other day. I’m trying to expose both dogs to new places. This may have been a mistake. I can’t believe I got back to the car with no broken bones or sprained ankles. The narrow loop trail through trees and over bridges was almost all up and down, fretted with tree roots, slick with mud. Chico was like a runaway train. The ups weren’t so bad. He pulled me up. But the downs had me screeching as he pulled me down just as quickly. My two big feet could not keep up with his four massive paws and I knew I was gonna die.

By the end of the walk, he had begun to figure out that he had a big clumsy human on the other end of the leash. We rested together on damp wooden benches along the trail. Somehow we made it back to the car, and Chico didn’t eat the people on the bridge who backed away in fear as we roared past while I hollered “Heel!”

Meanwhile, back at home, Annie, the tan one with the dirty blue collar, was digging more holes. She can get her whole head and shoulders in them now, but it looks like she’s having so much fun I don’t have the heart to stop her. I let her dig, I rake the dirt back into the hole, and then she digs again.

Then Chico comes home and they beat each other up, like all brothers and sisters do.

Dogs sure know how to have fun.

On the way to Albany



Leave it to natural urges to force me to discover a gorgeous place on the way to my husband’s nursing home in Albany. If you’ve been reading this blog, you know I pledged to explore new places along the way. Needing a restroom bad, I pulled off Highway 99W at Hyak Park, a Benton County park about a mile south of Albany. It’s right on the Willamette River, which that day was flowing bottle green under blue skies. In addition to a boat launching site, it offers a wonderful picnic area, a fascinating bridge, and an old tower that must date from the years before 1971 when the park was the Adair Water Intake Park of the Adair Air Force Base. As I walked in the grass, tiny flies flew up around my feet, but they didn’t bother me. I checked out the viewing platforms and could have stared at the river all day.

I have no doubt there’ll be more stops along Highway 99. Not only are there numerous parks with bathrooms, but the area is full of flower nurseries, farms, and old barns that scream “take my picture”.

In a few minutes, I was in the heart of Albany, trying to remember which street requires that I suddenly merge left or wind up at the police station, and then I was at Timberwood Court, where everyone was dressed in red, white and blue for the Fourth of July party. Balloons bobbed around every table in the picnic area, and hamburgers were coming off the barbecue while staff scurried around slathering sun tan lotion on the residents. It was hot! I provided the entertainment, singing and playing guitar. I pulled out my patriotic songs, even the Star Spangled Banner, which I should have pitched a little lower. As I saw that high note coming up, I thought, uh-oh, but I took a deep breath and went for it. No big round of applause like at the football games, but nobody complained either. It was a nice party, which included many family members of the residents.

Where will I stop this week? Wait and see.

Singin’ in the Wind

Join me in this little ditty to the tune of “Singin’ in the Rain”.

I’m singin’ in the wind,
just singin’ in the wind,
what an allergized feelin’,
I’m sniffling again . . .

I’ve done it five years in a row, played at the annual charity garden tour and at the Toledo Wednesday market. Why do I keep coming back with the fantasy of perfect weather, an attentive audience, and notes coming out of my throat like I’m some kind of angel? The reality: it’s hot, freezing or raining, and always, always windy. The few people who really listen tend to talk to me as if I could sing, play the guitar, and carry on a conversation at the same time. I’m usually planted right under a giant flower pot or on the grass in front of a lush flower bed, so my throat feels scratchy, and my mood gets cranky as I try to control pages of music that keep wanting to blow away.

Meanwhile people keep saying I have a beautiful voice and isn’t it a wonderful day? Yeah, peachy keen.

Why do it? I could say I’m singing for a worthy cause, but mostly I want the publicity and it fluffs my ego. Maybe somebody who takes my card will ask me to sing inside on a stage where people are quietly listening instead of asking what they put on that azalea to make it grow so well.

Also, it’s good practice, and this time I got to try out my new amp (love it) and the new action on my old guitar (love that, too).

When they call me next year, I should say no, but I probably won’t. I’ll throw on a hat, take an antihistamine and off I go . . .

Singin’ in the wind,
just singin’ in the wind.
Why do I do it
again and again?
I’m playin’ my tunes
on weekends in June,
just singin’ and snifflin’ in the wind.

Copyright Sue Fagalde Lick 2009 😉

Playing with the Toledo symphony

The wind blew a percussive bass into the microphones, soft cymbals in the breeze blew under my shirt and riffled my sheet music. Children called to each other, birds sang a descant, and dogs barked tenor harmonies. Behind and below me, the train shuffled like blocks rubbed against each other. As I reached the finale of my song, the whistles blew and the whole orchestra came together. Shortly after that, the umbrella fell to the side, the tip hat blew across the stage and my music stand wobbled like a late-night drunk. The clouds turned dark, threatening rain. But I sang on as nearby listeners applauded and vendors selling their photographs, quilts, bird houses, plants, baked goods, and jewelry, held onto their wares lest they blow away. As I walked the street after my performance, many said they had loved my music. I never get enough of that.

This was the Toledo Wednesday Street Market, which happens all summer in Toledo, Oregon, a lumber mill town built on hills so steep that when I dropped my red steel water bottle getting out of the car, it rolled almost all the way down to Main Street, acquiring a new scratched and dented look. There was no way I could catch it; I could only watch and hope it ran into something before it fell into a storm drain or got squashed by a car. From now on, I’ll look at its scars and remember Toledo.

Once upon a time, Toledo was a happening place, the county seat and the main port of call for boats traveling up Yaquina Bay. Today, things are a lot quieter. It’s not unusual to be the only person walking down Main Street, but the city fathers and mothers have done their best to dress up the town. In summer, huge baskets of pansies and other plants hang from poles and fences. New restaurants and shops have opened, along with the many antiques shops. Artists welcome visitors for gallery tours, and Sam Briseño, who makes magical metal sculptures, has scattered colorful benches on the downtown sidewalks. Click the City of Toledo link for a list of events planned throughout the year.

I have been singing in Toledo one Wednesday every summer for years, thanks to host Frank Jones. It could be raining and cold, dry and hot, windy or not, but it’s always fun playing with the Toledo orchestra of natural sounds.

The street market continues every Wednesday during the summer from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., with different musicians every week.

It’s an interesting life

Life has been interesting since we last met. Okay, it’s always interesting, but perhaps more interesting. For example, I had a colonoscopy last Thursday, which I am not about to discuss. If you don’t know what it is, Google it. As everyone says, the preparation is worse than the procedure. So true. But I do have a question: How come my husband got a muffin and coffee after his cataract surgery, and all I got was a tiny can of orange juice? He didn’t even have to fast for two days. Which leads to another question. I was going over insurance statements and discovered that the hospital billed over $200 for Fred’s post-op supplies. What was in that muffin?
***
Somebody ripped off 15 copies of my book Stories Grandma Never Told between the South Beach Post Office and the Seattle Bulk Mail Center. They sent back my box with a note and all the packing material inside. If the box had simply broken open, wouldn’t the packing material be gone, too? Meanwhile, I had a miffed distributor waiting in California and sent 15 more copies via priority mail. They arrived on Monday. He’s still miffed. I’m out $300. I hate to imagine what happened to the other books. Are they lying in a dumpster somewhere?
***
I have a new gig writing for a new airline mag for SeaPort Airlines, which recently started flying out of Newport. Suddenly I have to, like, work, but my first assignment is a story on the local lighthouses. Such hard duty going out to Yaquina Head on a warm, sunny afternoon to take notes and shoot pictures. But it is going to be a scramble to get four stories done by June 30.
***
I made my first post-move visit to my husband at Timberwood Court Memory Care Center in Albany, OR. It’s almost two hours each way. I’m stocking up on books on CD. Fred is settling in well at his new home. It’s a great place, with lots of activities, loving caregivers, tasteful décor and delicious food. But it isn’t home, and it’s almost two hours away from where I live, so I can’t visit nearly as often as I used to visit him at Graceland. Fred has forgotten so much, and he will soon forget me. Save the pity party; it’s just fact. It will be easier for him when that happens. For me, no, but that’s life.

I have resolved to stop on each trip to see something I haven’t seen before. I’ll report back, with photos.
***
On the way to Albany, I finally got my guitar in for servicing at Bullfrog Music Owner Kurt Dietrich has moved the store to 423 SW Third Street, so when you’re coming into Corvallis from the coast, it’s easy to find, easy to park, and, praise God, it’s in the same building with a Subway restaurant and public restrooms, everything a wandering musician needs. Plus Kurt loves to talk music, jam, teach, and sell guitars and mandolins. He promised I would fall in love with my Martin all over again. I believe him. Meanwhile, I bought myself a new Roland amp I can’t wait to plug into. It’s easy to carry, has all the bells and whistles I want and will make me sound so good.
***
My dog Chico has found a new place to jump the fence, and he has escaped four times in the last week. The neighbors are getting used to helping me corral him. Sometimes even a dog treat won’t stop him. He just loves to run, and I’m certainly getting my exercise chasing him around the neighborhood, calling, “Here Chico, Chic, Chic, Chic, cookies.” I’ll walk for blocks, then suddenly see him fly by, foot-long tongue hanging out, teeth showing in a big doggy grin as he zooms past me. When I finally leash him up, he shows no remorse. Sixteen months old and counting.

A meeting of the moms


My dogs Chico and Annie were born at a home down Thiel Creek Road just past where the road forks, one way going uphill through fields of Scotch broom, wild blackberries and a rainbow of wildflowers, the other meandering downhill along the creek, bounded by ferns and fir trees. Usually we walk the upper path. It’s sunny and not so steep, but yesterday I took Chico down the lower path.

I hadn’t planned to take him to his birthplace. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t remember the house. He and Annie were only eight weeks old, 9 and 8 pounds of scared puppy, when Fred and I put them in the car and took them home that rainy April day last year. We had never had any contact with that family since then, and I don’t even remember their names.

But this time, the woman came driving by with one of her daughters. She recognized me and the dog and stopped to talk. “He looks just like his mother,” she said. Really, I thought, gazing at my dog. Perhaps. The mother dog, a Staffordshire bull terrier, was rounder and more mottled black and tan while Chico, half Lab, is primarily black. However, this summer his fur is lightening up, with more brown showing every day. And those eyes, those huge chocolate eyes, are unmistakable. Chico’s taller than his mom was, like a woman’s teenage son.

“Is he fixed?” the woman asked.

“Oh yeah,” I said, thinking about how my brother-and-sister pets were already humping each other at four months and I was relieved to have them neutered before Annie wound up pregnant.

The woman drove on after that. Later I wondered if she had thought maybe Chico would be a good stud for breeding. No way. Two crazy dogs is enough.

Having gone that far and been sighted by the human mother, we walked toward the house. We were still a couple hundred yards away when I heard a dog barking like crazy from the garage. I was sure it was Chico’s mother. While he didn’t recognize the blue house, he did react to the voice, head cocked, ears up. “Mom?” He didn’t bark back, but I could see he was puzzled.

I felt bad for the dogs, separated for life. “He’s okay,” I called out to the hidden mother dog. “Big and healthy. I’ll take good care of him. I’m so sorry.” And we turned and headed back up the hill.

It was a long walk home. We collapsed on the cool lawn, Chico leaning all his 64 pounds on me as I pet his soft brown-black head. “You’re such a good boy,” I said, wrapping my arms around him and hugging him tight.

Fred is happy in his new home

Miracles do happen. Fred’s transition to the Timberwood Court Memory Care Center was a smooth one. He was ready to go when I got to Graceland, and we hit the road. It’s 74 miles, so he started saying, “This is far.” Then it occurred to him we might be going to see his doctor, who is in Corvallis. He got a little worried when we passed that exit, but I assured him we were going the right way. Nonstop ’50s music on XM Radio helped us both relax. How can you be stressed when you’re singing “Lollipop, Lollipop” or screaming with Little Richard?

At Timberwood, the staff greeted him like royalty and quickly enveloped him in their world. Because he spent his career working in recreation, they plan to have him help with their activities. They have also sucked me into playing music for them. While they entertained Fred, I got his room put together. The furniture arrived during lunch, so it soon felt like home. At 2:00, Fred boarded the Timberwood bus for a field trip to a nearby historic site and I quietly slipped away.

This morning, the director reported that he shed no tears, stayed up late talking to new friends, and slept soundly all night. Hallelujah.

Me, I was chasing an escaped dog in the dark for an hour last night, and I had shed quite a few tears by the time I finally got him home. Today I’m enjoying a quiet day at my desk. At least it was quiet until the thunder started a few minutes ago. Maybe I’ll put off our dog walk a little longer and turn off the computer before the power goes out.

Search ends in Albany

Today was my last day with my husband Fred in Newport. Tomorrow I’m taking him to an Alzheimer’s care home in Albany, OR where I hope he will be happier and better cared for. It had reached the point where he sobbed every day and wandered every night. A week ago, he walked right out the door and down the road. I’ve learned the official term for that; it’s called “elopement.” No harm was done. Grace of the Graceland adult foster care home found him and convinced him to come back for dinner, but it was a sign that it was time to do something.

I spent last Thursday and Friday driving for hours from one “home” to another in the Salem and Corvallis areas. It was hot, I was late everywhere I went, and after a while everyone looked demented to me. But Timberwood seems to have everything I was looking for: a caring staff, lively residents, great activities all day long, wonderful food, a nurse on duty every day, and an attractive private room. But it is a locked facility. It is an institution. It is a pretty prison.

And it’s two hours away.

Today, after I packed my husband’s clothes and pictures and CDs in suitcases and boxes, we sat on the grass on the hill behind Graceland, looking over the new greenhouse Fred helped build, past the neighbor’s red barn to the ocean. We played with the house dog, Lucy, and we kissed and held hands and snuggled. Fred was full of questions like “How will I get there?” and “Where will you sleep?” “I’m anxious,” he kept saying. I doubt he’ll sleep much tonight. Perhaps he’ll do one more naked show at 2 a.m. But tomorrow he’ll be in good hands. Just not mine.

Buzzing at Cafe Mundo

I went to Café Mundo alone last week. I had been anxious to check out the Thursday night open mic. Now that all the TV finales were over, I decided to go. Events at the care home with Fred had been so upsetting, I just couldn’t stay home alone. In short, suddenly the owners were suggesting I take him home, a complete 180 from previous discussions in which they said I could not possibly take care of him by myself. Apparently some of his behavior is becoming a problem. But aren’t they being paid to deal with it? Just when you think you have your ducks in a row . . .

I got just buzzed enough on Great White ale to almost forget what was bothering me. That’s good, but that’s how you make an alcoholic. So I started making phone calls about the nursing home dilemma the next day. Stay tuned for how that turns out.

Anyway, back to Café Mundo. It’s a fascinating place hidden behind thick trees and shrubs right in the middle of Nye Beach. The restaurant used to be all outside, with quirky statues, hay bales and all different kinds of chairs and tables, like somebody’s backyard, except with a stage decorated in multi-colored fishing nets. But it was too cold most of the year, and eventually the owners built the new place to serve their fans year-round. It’s two stories, with most of the seating upstairs. You can look over the railing and see the kitchen and a few chairs downstairs. The food is a quirky blend of sushi, hamburgers and vegan/vegetarian cuisine. Food is pulled up to the second story on a dumbwaiter behind the bar.

The décor is eclectic, bits and pieces patched together, with steel beams and wooden ones, Japanese lanterns, photos, prints, hanging lengths of cloth blowing in the breeze from an open window. Each table and chair is different.

That night the clientele was young adults, many wearing knit caps. Everyone seemed to know each other, except me. I had envisioned that a lot of boomers, the same people who come to Nye Beach Writers, would take over the stage, but no. I drowned my depression with a Great White ale all alone, glad that I hadn’t planned on performing. Ironically, my table was painted cerulean blue with a big old yellow happy-face sunshine painted on it. It offered the perfect message: cheer up and join the fun.

At the next table, a dozen young adults celebrated a birthday. They brought in a homemade cake lit with candles, and everyone sang to the birthday girl. They were all so fresh, attractive and happy. I enjoyed watching them. I wished I could have had some of that cake with its thick white frosting and sprinkles.

Across the street out the window beside me, I watched this giant cream-colored dog, who looked like a blend of Airedale, poodle and wolfhound. For ages, he sat with his butt on the steps and his feet on the sidewalk of the funky little house where he lived. He just stayed there, like a statue, until the man of the house drove his red pickup into the driveway. Even then the dog moved just enough to avoid getting hit, greeted the man, and resumed his spot as a yard decoration.

As an open mic venue, I wouldn’t enjoy playing Mundo. My folky music doesn’t fit in with the youthful trend, and the roar of voices almost drowns out the songs, just as that Great White drowned out my blues.

When I reached the bottom of my tall glass of ale, I knew it was time to go. One more and I wouldn’t be able to drive. Easing down the stairs and pushing through the double doors into the fresh air and comparative quiet, I sat on a cushioned chair outside for a minute, looking around at the trees in the twilight. I could almost pretend it was my back yard—except for the faint whiff of marijuana in the air.

Time to walk off my buzz and drive home to the puppies.