Old Dogs

Old Dogs

There are good things and not so good things about living with an old dog. At 15, they are a bit set in their ways, but they also know that you are, too. They know just when you need a hug and just when you have reached the last thread of your last nerve. They have an uncanny feeling for when you have the guilts about neglecting them and are willing to be bullied into throwing a tennis ball with no retriever rules.

Their stomachs become more sensitive about the time you relax on good nutrition.  They are old and deserve a treat.  They scarf down that piece of steak straight from the table and immediately urp it up.   OK, you think; my fault, maybe good nutrition still does matter. They also choose this era of the sensitive stomach to revert to puppyhood and start sampling all the goodies in the yard – deer and/or rabbit poo, wood from the woodpile, apples long fallen from the tree and rotting on the ground. I confess to occasionally chowing down on something I know is not going to agree with my aging digestion.  Does the dog get mad at me?

They try to tell you that they have to go outside.  But they realize it’s one of those end-of-the-rope days so they quickly back off.  Puddle on the floor.  The dog’s fault?  I think not.

They get it when you are moving a bit slowly.  They expect you to get it when they are.  They get it if you need a nap when it’s time to feed them.  They expect you to get it if they need a nap when you have something else to do.

Old dogs know you like no other and love you anyway.  They try to comfort you when they sense you are upset or off-kilter. They expect the same from you – no matter what.  They break your heart when they look at you with questioning, expectant eyes; asking you to please make the hurt go away and make them young again.  And, oh how bereft we feel when we know the time is coming when we must do just that.

The Aspiring Gardener

I am an aspiring gardener.  I love to dig in the dirt and frequently have it smeared from head to toe.  My husband says I look like Pig Pen in the Charlie Brown stories. He becomes unhinged when surprise visitors catch me in that state. I really think my love of dirt embarrasses him (though he denies this). He also swears he had no idea girls could get so dirty and then smell so good one hour later. Fact is I commune with God outside.  I find healing outside.  In the cooling breeze that blows through the trees and makes the leaves dance before they fall.  In the tumbling noise of the stream that runs outside my kitchen window.  In watching a baby bird learn to fly or in getting buzzed by a hummingbird because I got too close to the feeder.  In watching twin fawns participate in jumping practice – even if they are not too good at it and knock the fence down more often than they make it over.  In witnessing a whole herd of bunnies celebrate spring as they hop willy-nilly through the meadow tumbling all over each other.  I love the colors of the flowers in my garden as they traverse the seasons from spring to fall.  I love the feel of being absolutely clean inside and out after the shower after the whole day working in the garden.

Guess what my children gave me for Christmas??  Mushroom growing kits.  So perfect!  I get to garden all winter inside.  They came up with the ultimate gift for a gardener.  I can be Pig Pen all winter long.  And my awed husband can eat what I grow and therefore cannot complain about my mess all over his bathroom. His two bathrooms I should say. The mushroom kits are living, breathing things.  They must have the right light, the right temperature and they must be misted daily.

Since I travel back and forth between our two homes, the mushrooms are now my constant companions.  They ride in the front seat on all my journeys.  The dogs are relegated to the way back.  They take up an inordinate amount of space in our bathrooms, neither of which is very large.  And they must be moved around one bathroom daily to avoid the direct sunlight provided by skylights. The other bathroom doesn’t even have a window, so artificial light must be manipulated daily.

 

But today, when I removed the humidity tent from the Shitakes to complete the second misting of the day – I spied a mushroom.  Just one is visible so far, but in the scheme of things, it’s pretty big.  Not ready for consumption big, but recognizable as a shitake big.  Still no portabellas or creminis or buttons, but a shitake!! 

I am a gardener.  Shall l save you a taste?

Snapshot Memory

Growing up in Asheville, our summer Saturdays were frequently spent in the High Country. We picnicked, hiked, destroyed the seats of our pants on Sliding Rock, and just generally enjoyed being outside and playing together as a family. One particular summer weekend lives in the family album of best times, preserved by a photo taken with old brownie camera. I was probably about 10, making Stuart 8 and Brett 3 or 4. I know from the picture that I had a sort of Buster Brown haircut – blunt cut with bangs just below my earlobes – not the most flattering do as I was a little roundish at that age.  Both brothers sported very close cropped, very blonde crew cuts. We all had on the nondescript clothing of families everywhere at the time; shorts, shirts (all cotton, not permanent-press) and tennis shoes (PF Flyers, no less).

Our chariot was a white Ford Galaxy with 2 doors, no ac and all the windows rolled down. I had to ride in the middle of the back seat to keep my brothers from fighting. Actually all it did was make them fight over top of me. Dad would not stop from our door to our destination for any reason. He didn’t care how bad you “had to go”.  No stopping!! First stop was a picnic table in the woods that had facilities on sight. We all went running for the bathrooms. Except Dad, who always sauntered, even if he was dying to go. That taken care of, the feast began.  Why does the same old food always taste better at a picnic table in the woods???

Fried Chicken, potato salad (Mom’s is still better than anybody else’s), pb&j sandwiches, potato chips, fresh fruit (hopefully watermelon) and cookies. All topped off with thermos bottles full of Kool-Aid. Occasionally, there was a soft drink. However Mom always told us the prune juice she made us drink on a regular basis was Coke – we were teens before we lost our disgust at watching friends guzzle Coke. We knew they were crazy because that stuff was seriously nasty. She told a number of those self-serving fibs. Another notable one was that having an ice cream cone was simply that – the cone – ice cream was extra. Anyway, we ate hugely. Then the adventure began. Hide and seek in the forest. Tag, Badminton, a trip to see the bear at Grandfather Mountain, freezing your butt off going down Sliding Rock, riding the train at Tweetsie – you just never knew where you’d end up.

But this particular trip was sort of different.  Splashing in a creek after lunch, we spotted a mama bear and her cubs moseying into the picnic area. She was between us and our parents, between us and the car. Sheer panic crossed the face of my 8 year old brother and he took off.  He was a true blur. Dad snapped the picture that captured him forever in mid-air.  All you can see is bottom, legs and PF Flyers as he dove through the window of the car into the safety of the backseat. The rest of us joined him at a slower pace. We watched the bears finish our picnic and then meander away into the forest. After we collected what was left of the picnic basket, etc., we were homeward bound. Stuart swore he wasn’t getting out of the car again no matter where we decided to go next, but of course he did. The story took on legendary proportions as the years went on and he was always the hero. But my memory will always be that black and white snapshot taken with the old Brownie. The whole day captured in a single moment.

My husband has similar memories of a driving vacation through Florida.  He’s still not crazy about ham and cheese sandwiches out of a cooler.  They seem to be his entire memory of the trip.  One snapshot.  Ham, cheese, white bread and a cooler.

What’s your snapshot memory?