A Good Dog Life

Cody
May 17, 1995 – May 8, 2011


You were always there when we came home, smack against the front door, so we had to slide you over and slip in sideways.

You were always there when dinner was served, right at our feet, alert for any fumbled morsel.

You were always there in the kitchen when we were doing your favorite thing, preparing food, and you were doing your favorite thing, tracking food. There you were, a large, furry lump that we would goose-step over as we went from refrigerator to sink.

You were always there, building fond memories for us, one dog day at a time.

You came to us as a round, fuzzy double-handful of puppy love. Your little legs could barely pull your round tummy up the front step. Your arrival was the result of the most mature decision your girl, age ten, had ever made in her life. She promised to take care of you. And she did. In turn, the whole family did their part. In many ways, you brought us closer and grew us wiser.

For years, you slept on your boy’s bed, with your hind legs and front legs stretched out straight. But as you grew, you took up most of the bed. Your boy, too, had grown. But he still slept around you, squished onto a sliver of the bed.

When your boy went away to college, you would go up to bed with Mom and Dad, sleeping on the floor so close that if we got up during the night you would know, because we would step on you. You never minded.

You were one of the few dogs with an imaginary playmate. We called her Tinkerbell. She would appear when the sun glinted off a wristwatch and she would dance on the ground. You would spot her shimmery image, and leap and lunge and bite thin air. You never minded that you could never catch her. We became your gods after the sun went down, when we turned on our flashlight and summoned her back.

We never thought you were the smartest dog on the block, but you had an uncanny sense of gamesmanship. Do you remember the stare game? We would lock eyes, without either one moving a muscle, to see who would break first. Then, at the first flinch or flicker of an eyelid, your tail would wag and the chase was on, circuiting around the couch or looping through the rooms of the house.

You had a beautiful howl. You would hear a siren, lift your chin, eyes to the sky, and let out a mournful, wild and soaring howl. Dog song. It was pure canine music.

As in all good lives, you had some once-in-a-lifetime experiences. One autumn day, the whole family loaded into the car and went to a beautiful park. Mother, father, daughter, son and dog clustered and posed for Suzie’s camera. Every time, you would get so excited about the camera, you would break the scene and bound forward. Finally, we temporarily gave up, and it was the luckiest moment of your life. You spotted a treasure, a huge beef bone. God knows how or why it got there. One lunge and you possessed it. Horrified by all the festering bacteria invading your mouth, not to mention the unseemliness of a family picture with a gruesome bone hanging out of your mouth, the whole family chased after you in hot pursuit. What fun! This was a high-“steaks” game of tag and you were up for it. We all raced around the park, and finally outsmarted you with a rear flank maneuver. But you still had the upper paw. With a primal growl, you put every ounce of your energy into your big jaws, and locked your jaws tight around that carnal pleasure. It took two adults and a strong teenager to pry that bone out of your mouth. Never mind that you didn’t get to keep that raunchy thing. You had had the thrill of your life.

You were in your glory when you were naughty, and somehow I love you for this, too. AWOL was your other favorite game. You would see your chance when a back was turned or a door left open, and off you would trot, down the street, around the corner, and to see your dog friend, Woody. Long after Woody had passed away, you would still go and sit by his gate. You made many neighborhood friends that way, who would keep you safe and call the numbers on your tag. Except for one day. It was a rainy day, which made the manure on the neighbor’s lawn all the more aromatic. Oh, how you rolled and rolled and relished the pungent odor. It was earthy heaven. Then Animal Control spoiled the fun. For hours, you performed a public service by residing in all your smelly glory in the jail cell adjacent to a slightly intoxicated law-breaker. Once he came to his olfactory senses, that fellow was probably reformed by nightfall. You never lost your wanderlust, even when you were over a hundred dog years old.

In your golden years, you found doggie love. It happened the day Daisy bounded through the door. Daisy, the prettiest little golden you’d ever want to see. Someone to eat with, flank by flank. Someone to lie down with in the afternoon sun. Someone to butt shoulders with and mouth on the neck. Someone who was never far away. This was simple bliss.

So, Cody, you’ve had a good dog life. You have watched children grow into adults, and you have watched two adults progress all the way through their middle age. These have been good years for you and good years for us.

You have been there for us every time we have opened the front door, every time we have gone to bed, or made coffee in the morning. You have been with us when we have been sad, and with us when we have been happy. You have known it all.

We are here for you today. You have us lie down next to. You have us to rub your neck and smooth your ears. You will drift off in deep peace today. You have lived a good dog life.

Thirteen Things I Want to Remember

Over ten years of knowing her, my friend Beth taught me many things by example. Here are a few that I hope never to forget.

Thirteen Things Beth Taught Me . . .

1. Be real. You will get the “real” back from people.
2. Make fun. It is different from expecting to have fun.
3. Play games.
4. Greet each day. Greet the people in your day.
5. Find something funny and get silly with it. Collect smiles.
6. Find something interesting and run with it. Take someone along.
7. Learn to take a week to eat one chocolate bar.
8. Care about what you do.
9. Love your work but love yourself more.
10. Indulge in your favorite color. Put it everywhere.
11. Read literature, write poetry, sing, dance, and make music. Teach others.
12. Buy your grandchildren matching pajamas and have pajama parades.
13. Believe in yourself. It helps those around you believe in themselves.


Beth died last Monday. She was 64 years old. Her resiliency and spirit was evident during her first bout with breast cancer at age 42. While coping with divorce and raising five children with few funds,she determined to finish her B.A, and went on to earn a master's degree.M.A. She launched her career as an educator, and saw to it that each of her five children got their college degrees, too.

She triumphed over her second bout with cancer, and her first two grandchildren were born. Four years ago, she had a third recurrence of cancer. Although she came close to losing that battle, she emerged cancer-free. Three more grandchildren came into her life, two on the same day! What a happy day that was. It was a day we had feared she wouldn't have.

The score then was Beth - 3, Cancer - 0. She was a winner. Then, this fourth and final time, she brought to the process all the wisdom and patience in her power. You could see and feel that power.

One could say she did not win this one. Or, one could say she surely did. Who would not consider a score of 3 to 1 a winning score. And who could say that gleaning an additional 24 years of life is not indeed a triumph and a gift? Surely Beth would see it as a win. It takes a certain kind of grace to know this. Beth had that kind of grace.

Ostrich Burger

It all started with an ostrich burger.

In the high desert, amidst miles of Joshua trees, dry washes, scrub grasses and sand, streets turn into roads, roads fade into trails, sign posts become sparse, and you quickly think you are far away from home. Just in the very fact of being there, you have taken the road less traveled.

Last week, it was work that took me there, to a small town, deep in the Antelope Valley, with the charming name of Pearblossom. It was noontime now, and my afternoon was free until my return in the morning to observing classrooms and talking educational jargon with intelligent administrators.

MacDonalds reared its yellow arches up ahead on the Pearblossom Highway. No, not MacDonald’s, not today. The sky is too blue, and the snow is white on the distant mountains. No, today it must be something more authentically indigenous. Charlie Brown’s, touting fresh picked peaches, buffalo steak, date shakes, exotic game meats and . . . ostrich burgers. Within 15 minutes, I had ordered an ostrich burger and sweet potato fries, changed out of my pantsuit and pumps and into my jeans and plaid shirt, and was settling onto a sunny picnic table in the middle of a tiny, fake, wild west ghost town. I took my first bite of ostrich burger.

I don’t know how the fella at the next table knew it was an ostrich burger. It looked as tame as a burger of beef. “How’s that ostrich burger?”

“It’s quite good. Lean, mild, almost like turkey. I like it.” “It’s my first time trying one,” I added needlessly.

“I’ll have to give it a go next time. My buddy and I, looks like we had too big a breakfast up at the top.”

“At the top? Of what?”

“The mountains. We rode our bikes down. Do that every once in awhile. We live up in Wrightwood.”

“Bikes? How on earth do you get back up?” I put down the ostrich burger.

“Motorcycles, dear lady.”

“Oh, of course. How far away is it from here?”

“Just about thirty minutes.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Those mountains looked huge, and distant.

I quickly calculated a comparison to my intended drive to Palmdale for the night. Visions of pine trees danced through my head.

Within fifteen minutes, I was on the road going in the opposite direction. Within half an hour, I was at 4,000 feet, noticing patches of snow. Ten minutes later I was at 7,000 feet, in the town of Wrightwood. I reeled out of the car, drinking deep, bracing breaths of mountain air, my eyes lifting a hundred feet up to catch the tops of pines that brushed the sky blue.

I started to walk -- I didn’t know where and I didn’t care. I was in a place I didn’t expect to be, and it was glorious. An hour later, I had walked all the streets named after birds, and all the perpendicular streets named after trees. I was near the edge of town, when a fluffy little white dog tumbled off a front porch and gamboled up to me and started licking my hand. A man got up from a wicker porch chair, laughing and apologizing, and we exchanged the usual greetings that occur when one’s dog has just shared intimacies with a stranger.

We chatted on, as the shadows lengthened.

“So, where do you recommend someone stay here in Wrightwood?”

“I have the perfect place. I’ll show you.”

In another half an hour I had met his wife, written a personal check, and Iwas installed for the night in a cozy little apartment over the detached garage.

I sank into a leather couch, opened my laptop, and buried my head into curriculum analysis. When I emerged, I was ready for the meeting tomorrow and ready for something else, though I didn’t have the foggiest idea what. I hopped into the car, wrapped myself in two sweaters, and drove down the road called Pine.

Three minutes later, I was drinking a glass of Merlot at a little wooden table in a little rough-wood-paneled coffee shop. Packed into the corner were two guitar players, a bass player, a keyboard player ,dreadlock-bedecked drummer and a tambourine man.

The singer’s name was Gale and she had a clear, true voice and she smiled as she sang. She was singing all the songs I loved when I was in my twenties. One by one, the locals showed up, greeted each other and settled in. After a bit, they started introducing me, too. I was swept up by the natural friendliness and abandoned my usual reserve. Sure felt good, by golly, sure did.

At a pause in the songs, we all trooped up wooden stairs to the singer’s new studio, where sunlight shone in the daytime and moonlight shone at night, through the windows wide and high, onto the drafting tables with paintings held in suspense. Everyone mingled, and milled, and mulled over the possibilities of watercolor classes in May, acrylics classes in June, and starting life anew in a redwood loft.

Then we all trooped back down the stairs, and settled into our chairs. The drummer from Chicago, the school teacher-turned-artist, the newcomers, the old-timers, the several woman clinking glasses and proclaiming their success in forgetting their lost loves, the few men drifting on memories of youth, and the husband and the wife producing sandwiches, pouring wine, and forgetting to tally the bills.

Gale told the story behind a song she had written about her retirement from teaching, just a few months before. It was called The Time of My Life. When she sang, the story of the wild, fast ride up the mountain, on the back of a Harley, with her hair and her spirit flying, not knowing what her future was going to bring. somehow it felt like the time of my life.

The song ended, and I heard my own voice blurt out, “Oh, yeah, you go girl!” Everyone’s glass was raised with my words, and the room clinked.

“So, how long have you lived here, Pat?”

“Me? Oh, I just got here today.”

“Today? This is your first day here? Well, let’s all give Pat a big welcome to Wrightwood!“

“Where do you live?” I think they expected me to name one of those bird streets.

“Oh, I live in Manhattan Beach. I came here on a whim.” A dozen faces were looking at me with incredulity.

“Well, see, It all stared with an ostrich burger.“ And so I began to tell my story.

The Pad

I went disguised as a writer. I was carrying glasses, laptop, pens, and a yellow tablet. If I put on my reading glasses, I might be convincing. I had found the red brick building, deep in the mysterious industrial zone of downtown L.A. It had no door. It had a gate, which rolled open if you said the right thing, to the right person, after pushing the right button. Aha! I gained entrance. Three flights up the fire escape, and I was in. The Writing Pad.

The door opened to shoes. Many shoes. Bare feet evidently enhanced either the experience or the shine on the blond hardwood floor. I sidled my Sketchers up against a masculine pair of New Balance. The floor was smooth, cool and clean on my feet. I stepped in.

Just past the white bed,on the left, a computer hutch and stacks of books defined a work area. To the right, a rectangle aburst with sunlight shining through gauzy curtains defined a mysterious space, with a couch.

I was immediately drawn to this veiled and lighted space, curious to know what mystical acts were performed in there that required more care in privacy than the bed. A peak revealed vaulting floor-to-ceiling windows and, yes, a couch. Then, the answer: Huge canvases asplash with colors, all colors, bold colors, bold shapes. Multiple easels and stacked canvases. A place to worship to the artistic process and nature’s sunlight.

Beyond, working towards more huge windows, were couches and chairs, a fireplace, and about a dozen people lounging everywhere, on the couches, on the chairs, on cushions, on the floor. Everyone was barefoot, and had something to write with and something to write on. In a corner kitchen, the hosts shared their morning coffee. Kindred spirits, surely.

So here I was amidst writers, not knowing quite how I got there, nor what I was going to do. I was in another world, in an artist’s loft. The building used to be a mattress factory, and yet here now were fifty artists creating art -- and me.

This space was everything. It defied norms, boundaries and separations. It was workplace and bedroom merged. It housed both a private life and a public life. All was skylit. Walls did not exist. Everything was movable. Chairs glided, the bookshelves rolled, cabinets shifted.

Here was a place where minds could change, hearts could roam, and spirits could investigate. And here I was. And so, there was just one thing to do. I began to write.

Tables and Taxes

I got up in a perfectly good mood and went downstairs to make a good, hot cup of tea. I approached my dining room table, but did not sit down. I glared at it. Emotions surged through my hands and I gripped the cup hard. Anger boiled. Rebellion built. Insurrection screamed.

The table was completely extended, big enough to serve a dinner party of 10. But no one was going to come and laugh and clink wine glasses, oh no. Not until the contents of this table, the piles of checks, the stacks of forms, the calculator, the checkbook, that covered every inch of its oaky surface, were cleared. No, not until the day of reckoning came. That day would come when it all got bundled up, its pertinent numbers crunched on a form, and it all got carried to the Tax Man. There, it would then cover his table and our dinner could be served again.

Until the fateful meeting with the Tax Man, every day, I would look at this. Its stacks demanded attention, and were designed to bother me, and bother me they did. This was constantly what I was supposed to be attending to instead of whatever it was I was doing. It foretold checks to write, withdrawals, and the concocting of deductions. It was nothing good.

Why is it so much trouble to give money to Uncle? Not only do you have to pay your medical bills, you then have to find a year’s worth of medical bills, find a year’s worth of measley insurance payments, add them, subtract them, and itemize them—all in hopes of getting back money you have already given.

And then there is the accountant. By the time the whole family has had the taxes done, the accountant bill alone could have paid for half a year’s education for a third grader. Think of what this could mean to starving school districts.

Last night I had a dream about the dining room table. In that dream, a man with a tall hat was informing me that I needed to estimate how many breathes I took that year, subtract the number of mouthfuls of food I consumed, and estimate what I was going to owe in tax dollars next year. In that dream, I just went home and laid myself down on the dining room table, closed my mouth tightly and tried not to breathe.

I woke up with a great tenderness for all of the groaning dining tables across the great nation with their burden of papers, and all the suppers eaten as people crouched with their plates on their laps.

Just Do It

I’ve been on the slow path to recovery from a ruptured disc. Slow is always difficult for someone used to getting things accomplished efficiently. But slow affords the opportunity to better notice things along the way.

My inspiration this week has come in the form of a dog. He is a German shepherd named Nike. Nike has had a stroke and has almost totally lost the use of his hind legs. One of his hind legs flops on the ground as he walks, and has to be protected with bandages. The other one is completely inert.

Nevertheless, this dog walks. He walks twice a day, every day, on the Strand. Nike is a “Just Do It” dog. He also has a “Just Do It” human who gets him up and about every two hours, takes him to her real estate office with her everyday, and takes him on his glorious walks.

She has also done something else: She has found Nike his wheels. Nike walks with his hind quarters suspended by an ingenious set of rear wheels, hind leg supported in a soft sling. These WalkinWheels were created by Eddie, who has custom-designed ingenious contraptions for dogs, sheep, pigs, llamas and even – yes – chickens. Seeing will be believing, so check it out at www.eddieswheels.com.

Eddie has found a way to help. And Nike has found a way to “Just Do It”. I would guess that Nike doesn’t think too much about how he is doing it. He just gets up, gets out, and gets going. It may not be the way he learned to walk the first time around, but, by golly, he gets his strong front legs going and somehow the rest of the dog comes along. One day, one fantastic day, he even spotted a squirrel, hesitated just for a moment, and took off after that squirrel, running This dog knows how to live.

We may encounter injuries and setbacks. We don’t always feel we have what it takes. But if we can just find our wheels and believe in them, get up and get going, we can do it too.

Why Is the Toilet in the Hallway?

My friend Amelia, who is five years old, asks the most provocative questions. Her latest one was, “Why is the toilet in the hall?”

This question prompts complex philosophical inquiry. There are many ways to explain such a phenomenon, as exemplified below.

“Well, it’s better there than in the bedroom!” This is usually going to be true, depending of course on what goes on in the bedroom.

“You see, when you don’t know how else to fix your life, you tend to turn your attention to plumbing.” When in doubt, upgrade your flushing capacities; you can’t go wrong.

“Well, the time was right. We decided to remodel our daughter’s bathroom before she moves out. She will enjoy it for a whole two months. Carpe diem.” Carpe momentus stupido.

“Well, we didn’t know if we were selling or staying, so we decided to embark on a project to further confound ourselves.”

As for the psychotherapist’s take on the toilet in the hall, as long as nobody uses it, there should be no permanent psychological harm.

Why the toilet is still in the hallway? Because, madam, you’re not in as much of a mess as other clients.” This is cause for optimism.

None of my explanations quite seemed to impress Amelia. So I distracted her by showing her the marvels of the black hole in the floor, down which goes the poop. She gaped in amazement. Now this,this indeed, was a profound revelation.

Young at Heart

Never judge a person by her age. 

I have a friend who is truly young at heart.  It just seems to come naturally to her.  She is inquisitive, spontaneous, energetic and imaginative.  Her eyes sparkle as if she were on the brink of a discovery.  Although I’ve only known her for a few years, she accepts me like a life-long friend.  She delights in simple things, and her laugh gurgles like a fresh stream after a rain shower.  I simply feel young when I am with her.  Her name is Amelia. 

Last night, Amelia was my dinner guest.   Within minutes of walking through the door, she was on the floor hugging the golden retriever.  After a rousing game of tug and fetch, she was eager to help cook the meal.  Amelia gives me fresh insights on everything.  For example, she is the only cook I know who needs no spoons. Why use spoons when you have your fingers?  Mixing cornbread, applying marinade, no problem.  The set of ten tools you were born with are sufficient. 

Amelia is also a believer in “taste as you go”.  Although this has the potential of disaster to the recipe, the results are nevertheless excellent when the method is equally applied to all ingredients.  She will always be welcome wherever she goes: She is the only guest I know who gets as much pleasure from washing the bowls as she does from eating the food. 

She leads with her heart.  Her passion for pink inspired the utmost creativity with desert, transforming whipped cream, strawberries and vanilla yogurt into a dream-bowl of frothy wonderfulness. 

To top off a most illuminating culinary experience, we indulged in our mutual love of literature by reading Pinkalicious.

If you need distraction from life’s complexities, it’s a good idea to seek out a good friend --  preferably one who, like Amelia, is five years old.

Martinis at 3

Sometimes life’s detours are better than it’s destinations.

One day last week, my plan was to get drawer liners and bathmats. En route, I approached my friend Suzie’s empty house. After 32 years there, she had moved to lovely but landlocked Arizona.  Impulsively pulled out my cell phone and dialed her number.  A ring.   Vavam!  Her image appeared -- not on the phone, but in her front yard!  I immediately pulled over and attempted to kidnap her for two hours.  I applied all my charm, and she resisted.  The errand list was driving her like a cowboy. 

I finally coaxed Suzie into the car with promises of doing errands—all the while scheming to  spend one precious hour with her relaxing in some sunshine, on a beautiful day, in the beach community she has forsaken, with the friend she has left behind.  My dark side plotted a means to cajole this desert-and-mountain convert into acknowledging that beach is beautiful.

So, two destinations later, we were heading towards the ocean -- two old friends with a car stuffed with bathmats.  Seeking a sunny spot, somehow we found ourselves sitting down at Hennessy’s. 

It was three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. 

Who was this person sitting in Hennessy's in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week?  I was supposed to be in my windowless office, surrounded by books, clicking away at endless emails, managing task lists, people and budgets and hoping at best for some diverting text message.  Wasn’t I?  No more!  I had shut that office door for its final time.  If not work time, then, wasn’t it time for homework, milk and cookies?  Well, I didn’t see any.

It was 3 o’clock, and it was HAPPY HOUR.  Lord, I didn’t even know people got happy so early in the day.  So, with limited savvy in the ordering of martinis, but emboldened by the offer of two for one, I ordered a most girly pink Cosmo. 

Gazing left, over the railing, I could see the blue Pacific rising up the wall of the horizon.  Looking up, I could imagine that the handsome bartender was glancing at me with appreciative eyes -- if I did not more realistically assess that he, too, was admiring the sparkling sea beyond me. 

Glancing right, I could see a twenty-something woman in a casual dark ponytail, scribbling on a well-filled, legal-sized yellow tablet.  My secretary, when I had a secretary, had always kept me supplied with stacks of these talismans which I believed invoked my best thinking.  I therefore assumed THINKING was happening at the adjacent table.  This young woman’s ink was black and her focus was enviable. 

I, myself, reserved by nature, did not inquire about the black ink. 

My friend, who has fewer inhibitions and therefore makes more friends, blurted out, “What are you writing?” 

The young woman looked up with pondering brown eyes and said simply,  “I’m writing a book.”  My ears pricked up. 

Then the Cosmo started talking, and my confession gushed.  “That’s what I‘ve always wanted to do!” 

And so the conversation expanded.  Here was a girl, age twenty-six, who obviously had it more together than I.  She had achieved miracles.  She had put black ink onto a tablet.  She had an agent who had offered her a book deal.  How did the happen?  Well, she had always been writing.  A few years ago, she had started writing a blog.  An agent had discovered her blog and approached her. 

Where does this girl live, anyway, in Never-Never-Web-Land? 

“A blog?”  My ears were now ringing and the Cosmo was half drained.  “I just started a blog a few weeks ago,” I responded with some dignity. 

The two-for-one martini deal was getting good.  Emboldened, I offered her my blog address.  She gave me hers, BecomingJennie.com.  Feeling suddenly chummy, I asked,“ Jennie, how many hits have you gotten?”

“Well, one day I woke up and actually cried when I hit ten thousand hits.”  I had to repeat the number.  She probably thought I was deaf in addition to being sixty years old.  My jaw dropped and my martini nearly splashed into my lap.  No!   Surely this girl lives on the moon, and has redefined cyberspace.

She must have sensed incredulity quickly turning into to E-Envy.  Generously, she offered up some advice, such as keeping a blog name short.  I reflected on my long, sweet-and-sassy name and looked with dismay at my empty martini glass.  I encouraged Suzie to order another martini, so I could drink half of it without feeling I had ordered a second martini. 

Suzie asked, “So what do you write about?” 

Jenny answered, “Well, basically, about life.”  I lifted my eyebrows. Didn’t you have to have more wrinkles before you could write on that topic?  She must have sensed my skepticism.  Turning a page of her tablet, she sighed, “It seems like I’ve already lived several lifetimes.” How could one achieve this so early on in the game?  Later, when I would hit her site, I would get some clues; it wasn’t easy. 

In my twenties, I don’t think I knew very much about life.   I was too busy achieving the predictable.  It takes a long time for most of us to figure out life. 

“Well, Jennie, I’ve got to tell you, if you think you have a lot to say about life and living now, just wait ‘til you hit your 60’s!  It will amaze you!  But be prepared:  You’ll be trying to figure it out all over again, just like when you were twenty. ” 

With an extravagant flourish, I paid the bill and walked out with my long-time, old-young pal.  I was smiling.  I might be just a beginner, and I might not understand a lot about life.  But I had just had my very first martini at 3.  And I was going to write about it. 

GRACE IN THE GRAY AREAS: 100 steps to grace for 2011

GRACE IN THE GRAY AREAS: 100 steps to grace for 2011

Chris Foster offers a list of 100 steps to grace. For any of us seeking a path, here is a way to create your own way.

What if you or I embarked on all 100 of these steps, one step at a time?

Has anyone done this?

How long would it take?  Does it matter?  

How would my path change? Would your path cross mine? 

Our Angel of Macy

     There are times in your life that you meet just the right person at just the right time.  This was just the right time to meet Ada. 

     I was actually feeling rather dismayed at what life had dealt me.  I had ruptured a disc in my spine, and was living in fear of triggering a recurrence of some rather vividly memorable pain.   Words, such as “possible permanent nerve damage” , pronounced by men in white coats, were still ringing in my ears.  

     You could imagine how someone might rupture a disc.  Yes, lifting a glass coffee table top would be a plausible explanation.  But the other occurrence is harder to explain.

     The day before, I ran over my own laptop computer.  Yes, demolished it under the wheels of the car. That’s a little harder to fathom.  So I will tell you how to do it.  First, you fill your mind with the presentation you will be giving to a hundred people in the next hour.  Next, you set down your nice, new, soft-sided briefcase which holds your nice, new Macbook Pro, by the side of the car as you make an urgent phone call.  Then, you just get in the car and pull out of the parking lot. 

     So, having completed those deft maneuvers, I heard a strange crunching sound under the tires.  Still completely clueless, I glanced in my rearview mirror and spotted my tattered briefcase on the pavement.  A strange premonition came over me as I approached the scene of the accident.   My turkey sandwich looked like road kill, my watch was shattered,  and my 4-month-old laptop had a screen that looked like it would bring many more than seven  years of bad luck.   Miraculously, my powerpoint, was still intact.  The show must go on!  And then I laughed, somewhat hysterically:   The ice-breaker which had eluded me until this moment,  just occurred to me., my own version of “A funny thing happened on my way to the auditorium . . .”.  The presentation would now be seen as minor miracle, my audience engaged in the pathos of the event.   Heck of an expensive way to create an authentic anecdote. 

     So, yesterday, still reeling from recent events, I entered Macy’s.  Relieved to have come through yesterday with my professional reputation intact, but chagrined at my personal ineptitude and my physical limitations, I was resolutely seeking reparations.  This was not the kind of indulgent shopping that evokes a serotonin rush, like multiple hits of dark chocolate.  This shopping was more like several swigs of Slimfast, a defiant act of trying to restore, at significant sacrifice, what you know you once had.

      And so I met Ada.  First, actually, I smelled Ada.  She exuded the fresh essence of soap as I followed her down the aisle of Macy’s.  Then, I saw Ada.  A large black woman, she was dressed in a black paisley blouse and a wide black skirt, her kinky, slightly grayed hair neatly clipped in a bun.  She lumbered in black shoes as sturdy as bricks.  Just a little later, I got to know Ada.

     For reasons of scanty service in Macy’s, I returned several times to Ada.   Ada did indeed seem to be the only living soul capable of taking my money in return for merchandise.  But there was something else about Ada.:  I liked coming back to Ada.  There was just something about her.  I sensed it. Each of her ministrations behind the watch counter were done with just a little extra care.  When I was looking down at the display, she was concerned I had a stomachache, ‘cause Ada knew that’s what she does when her stomach hurts.  When I remarked on the extra care she was giving, she drew herself tall and explained, “That’s just how I treat all my customers.”  Then she added, “I’m just so thankful to come to work every day.” 

     The last straw—or the best part—occurred on my last return to Ada, after discovering that I had missed my appointment at the Apple store because the watch I had just purchased, as aesthetically acceptable as it was, did not tell time.  It seemed that the battery was dead on arrival on my wrist, and it appeared that there was no other watch in my measly price range that didn’t dangle on my child-sized wrist.  Nevertheless, I just had faith that Ada was going to make it all right.  And Ada assured me she had that faith, too.   During the wait for the line management process to affect the appropriate reparations, Ada and I had a heart-to-heart.   Heaven knows why, yes It does!  I poured out recent traumas, and she told me of hers.  Ada has “arther-itis”  in her spine.  She’s had it since a child.  Her left leg is semi-paralyzed; she has to lift it with her hands if she wants to raise her leg.  Edema has swelled her calves and arms.  She is diabetic.  She was off work for a year having not one but two knee replacements.  She sometimes loses control of her limbs and falls down the stairs.  She was off work for a year having not one but two knee replacements.  But it was the happiest day of her life when the doctor said she could go back to work.  She loves her station;  she greets co-workers and customers with hellos, and smiles, and encouraging words from behind her glass enclosure.  People go out of their way to come in through “her door”.  This woman--as infirm as she is--this woman, she glows.

     I asked her, “Ada, what is your source?”  She knew exactly what I meant and she had a ready answer.  “Jesus!” she declared.  “He gives us life each and every day.” 

     And, though I am not of a church-going nature, I said a silent amen.   Aloud, I said, “Ada, He does something for you.   He surely does.”  She replied , “Honey, He does something for all of us, He surely does.”

     And so it is.  On the very same day, two things occurred.  First, an angel alighted on the shoulder of the Apple Store manager and whispered into his ear something about mercy for loyal customers who have certain lapses of mental functioning which require them to purchase two identical IPhones and two identical computers in a span of four months.  I was granted complete repairs on my laptop at no cost.  Halleluia!  Later that day, the same angel’s wings cast a benign shadow across my MRI report and brought to the neurosurgeon’s lips the pronouncement, “Thou hast no need of the surgeon’s knife, nor the nurse’s needle.” 

    And so, at the end of the day, I folded my hands and offered a prayer thanks for Ada and told the angel where to find Ada, behind the watch counter near the north door of Macys.

Valentines

Valentine’s Day

For many years, I studiously ignored Valentine’s Day.  This began, I think, in the days of the conscientious objector.  So idealistic I was, or so I thought, in the seventies when I was in my twenties.   I rejected such pro forma declarations of love, requisite on a given day, and spurred by the Hallmark conglomerate.  Think of all the days-before-the-day, when my husband was spared the angst of “Oh-My-God-I’ve-got-to-get-her-something”.  (I say “husband’ because I think there was only one Valentine’s Day in my life when I had a boyfriend who had not yet turned into a husband.) A rejection of Valentine's Day now has a name; it is called "Anti-Valentine's Day".  It bears a cynical tone and carries the freight of bitterness--a  far cry from the lofty notion that love is something more than chocolate, cards and reservations.  

As a child, I made valentines.  That was before love became consciously pursued or a commodity that could be lost.  They were joyously lacy, sticky red and gloriously, innocently conventional.  To me, they were beautiful.   I can’t remember who they were for:  It mattered not.  What was important was that there was love in my life and I was making them.  I reveled in the paper lace, the thrilling mastery of cutting a heart shape, the glue, the scraps falling on the floor—the glorious mess of it all!  With young-wise dignity, I knew that the purpose was to release these masterpieces into the hands of others.   I flung myself into the task with the naïve certainty that someone would be happy when they saw it. 

I made one adult valentine card.  It was 38 years ago.  It had no lace, but it had layers of hearts in different hues, one layer peeling back to reveal the next one underneath.  Within these layers, I wrote my poem.   It was read, I was thanked, it was tossed, and that was that.  I never made another one.  I lived a loving life, but that was that.  

Many years later, I learned to write love poems again.  I understood better what there was to say. Some are joyous, some sad.  But the saddest love poems are the ones unsent.  

Swimmers at Dawn

I am up before dawn today, just to see what the day is going to bring.  I fortify myself with a steaming coffee latte, which never tastes better than on a cold winter morning at the beach.  I head for that place of transition, where the ocean reaches shore.  It is a good place to dump your troubles and then see what answers the tide washes to your feet.  Walking to the end of the pier, land slips away and ocean deepens in the dawn.  I hug my sweatshirt and wrap my hands around my warm cup, gazing at the calm undulations brightened by a new sun.  I spot a lone swimmer, swaying in the swells, slowly progressing across the bay, steady kicks breaking the surface and strong strokes slipping under. 

Why did he leave the comfort of his bed this chilly morning to submerge himself in this frigid, foreign element?  Why does he take the hard way from one pier to the next?  Maybe it is because he is alive, and the sun this morning shines brighter and earlier than usual?   For that matter, why did I wake up hours before dawn today?  Is this crazy?  Or crazy-good?

The swimmer pauses and floats.  He looks around, finds his relationship to terra firma, measures his progress with puzzled, blinking eyes.  What is familiar seems so far away and small.  He spots a fellow swimmer many yards behind, and another beyond.  He pushes on with stronger strokes.

These swimmers are unafraid of the deep water.  In fact, they have fought their way past the breakers to get where they are.  Amazingly, it is calmer in the deep than when one clings to the shore, pulled and tossed and tumbled across the sand.

I spot a dolphin arcing out of the water, my reward for the early rise.  Is the dolphin playing, or seeking food?  Maybe for him it is all the same.  He is in his element, doing what he was born to do.  That is his bliss.  We humans must seek and search to find this.  We have to plunge in, shiver and shake, blink and wonder, go deep and kick hard. 

The Kitchen Magician

Yesterday, I engaged in some noteworthy kitchen wizardry.  After a morning of physical therapy for an injury that cannot be seen with the naked eye, and negotiating the installation of granite countertops, ,which I was beginning to fear would also never be seen by the naked eye, I went on to higher pursuits.  I read another chapter of Smart Women Don’t Retire—They Break Free! and then topped it off by hitting the website thetransitionnetwork.com.  This cranked  me up so much,  I flung myself out of the house to do something I had dreamed of doing when I retired.

  I went at high noon on a weekday to the Hermosa Beach farmer’s market.  The motto “Think global, act local” was ringing gloriously in my ears. I virtuously steered  myself past the hot dogs and kettle corn to the organic items, and was glowing with eco-glory as I carried dinner-to-be  in my recyclable canvas bag.  There was only one flaw in my buy-local pursuit: I came home with Black Cod from New Zealand!

This transgression led, if not to long-range environmental disaster, to immediate culinary disaster. It was not due to the freshness of the fish or the quality of the miso sauce, hand made by “Dave”.  In fact my respect for the marinating properties of this sauce has skyrocketed.  

In plain fact, I fell on the knife of linguistic arrogance.  The Asian fish seller told me correctly how to prepare the cod.  When describing the process of marinating, he said, “Half an hour.  No more is good.”  This was the prophetic truth he spoke.  What I heard was, “Half an hour.  No, more is good.”  The  English major should have been more mindful of the placement of that comma. 

So, in the spirit of my new-found hours available for meal preparation, I decided to make this dish “more better”.  I knew the delights of a Miso Baked Black Cod, and wanted mine to be outstanding.  So, I began marinating it at 2:00 in the afternoon.  Mmm, that sauce was good stuff.

Well, imagine my surprise when I took that sucker out of the oven at dinner time.  The fish had flattened, and was oozing into a spreading pool of miso sauce.  Dissolving!  Vanished!  The damn fish was liquefied. 

I humbly offer advice.  Do not, I repeat, “DO, NOT” underestimate the power of miso sauce to take high-quality protein and break down those molecules beyond recognition.  That stuff will quite literally be your culinary undoing. 

Viet

Viet

I have recently been reading books, talking with therapists, wrestling with life change, and challenging my relationships.  In other words, I have been conscientiously complicating my life.  Today, I did something simple.  It was really quite related to my previous topic of doggie diarrhea.  After a nice feeding of white rice, I took Daisy, the Diarrhea Dog, out on a test walk on the Manhattan Beach Strand.  All went well, with all outlets in proper working order, with all the proper on and off sphincters functional.  For this I gave thanks at the local Starbucks.  Sitting on the seat outside in the sun, with a dog that no one would think would be capable of such despicable displays as were the case the day before,  Daisy received the usual parade of admirers, and served in her best capacity as a conversation starter.  I met  Viet.  Predictably, Viet is from Vietnam.  Viet speaks in profound but broken English.  Although his syntax is inaccurate, he speaks truth better than I do with my nine years of higher education and my substantial resume.  He told me how people in this country don’t know how to be happy.  People in this beach town, which for so long prided itself for its laid-back attitude, live very complicated lives.  They pay a price for success.  They come to the U. S. for the American dream and have to then go to Mexico to achieve the Mexican dream.  He told me a story of a man in Vietnam who committed a crime, which ruined his chances for a good life.  He became a monk and walked from monastery to monastery with only his clothes on his back.  And he lived a good life.  Viet and I shared a simple moment.  Viet said four profound words:  “Free From – Free To”.  He said this four times.  I told Viet he was indeed a wise man.  He said that there was a reason that we connected today.  Viet today was my monk.  He wandered into my walk.  He was serendipity.

Shit Does Happen

In caring for my aging golden retriever, who by human years is a venerable 94 years old, I have learned a lot about life.  For two days, I have been trying to maintain control of a phenomenon over which I have no control.  This is, quite simply, the status of my dog’s bowels and the day’s degree of doggie continence.  This has profound influence over the start of my day and the assessed success of my day.  When how many loads of laundry must be done and how much disinfectant must be used and how to hoist a 75-pound dog into the kitchen sink become the necessary logistics of one’s day, life becomes profoundly simple.   You are either meeting the aging process gracefully, responsibly and caringly or you are not.  When it comes to doggie diarrhea, there is only one way to approach, and that is with as much grace as you can muster as you wipe up shit, with the supreme caring which tells you why on God’s earth you are doing what you are doing—and above all, with thoroughness.  How many things that we do can we say this about?  This is not a bad way to live life.

From the Sordid to the Sublime

Today the fact that shit happens, happened to be good.  There is a profound lesson here, if one can just think beyond the shit that happens to what happens after the shit.  I went to the therapist.  What happens in these sessions ranges from the shitty to the sublime.  It has to do with life’s leashes, life’s commands, the joy of a full belly, the rare freedom of life’s free-range runs, and quite a lot to do with cleaning up messes.  For the sake of clearing one’s mind and one’s conscience, I then set out to walk the younger dog of the two in my charge.  For the sake of seeing another point of view, I went to the cliffs of Palos Verdes.  I thereupon engaged in leash holding, leash releasing, deep breath cleansing, panting—and, horror of horrors, coping with unexpected doggie diarrhea.  Surprisingly, I was quite unprepared for this.  Standard pick-up procedures were rendered completely inadequate.  Not only that, the dog now had front quarters that were the cutest thing on four legs, and hind quarters that were an offense against humanity. Although I was equipped with sunhat, cell phone and two twenty dollar bills, none of these items seemed adequate for the job. 

This shit that happened then triggered an unplanned excursion in search of purity.  My eyes cast around in search of a source of water.  No hose in sight.  No water.  No water?  What was that I had been gazing at with such awe?  The greatest imaginable expanse of water—the Pacific Ocean.  Salt water and sand seemed at the moment vastly more preferable in the back seat of my BMW than the extremely objectionable current alternative.  So, I walked along the cliff path with a new objective—beach.  As I neared the cove near the breath-taking, high-end resort, Terranea, reality hit.  Assuredly, there was the cove.  But unfortunately, the tide was out, and access to the cleansing waters was rocky.  I considered a kayak conveniently placed on the sand, for mere moments, until the vision of balancing a 75-poung retriever on a plastic sliver cleared from my head.  Turning back to the path, still redolent with the fragrance of feces, I simply walked without aim, hoping to spot evidence of a leaky irrigation system on the resort grounds.  I looked longingly at a pool, and then shamed myself into dismissing the thought.  Then, what to my delighted eyes did appear?  A beachside shower!  Knowing that I would become showered myself in the process, I selflessly took off as many of my clothes as would prevent arrest, and set about torturing my dog by holding her tail, and doing my best to aim water from on high, blowing in a brisk wind, on the hind quarters of my dog.  Bravely, using an innovative saturate, smooth, drag and squeeze method, I managed to reasonably restore my dog’s dignity.  I then gave my first heartfelt thanks for the 90-degree heat wave, and walked jauntily down the path, air-drying my pet as we went.  Hunger was setting in, and I started fantasizing about lunch on a beachfront terrace.  In a state of unrealistic dreaminess, I headed with my wet diarrhea dog to the nearest food source.  Miracles of miracles, dogs were allowed on the “other side of the plexiglass”.  Thank the heavens, the other side of the plexiglass held an unobstructed view of the vast Pacific, Catalina Island and even the Channel Islands and we were in sole possession of the entire territory.   My dog was served ice water, I was served ice tea and salad, and diarrhea dog and I had a simply elegant time.  A dolphin dove and swam in the sea in front of us, and the breeze and the sun bathed us in purity.  Life is good, shit and all.