Is NEVER going to end never never. It is going to go on forever. There will never be another spring.
Not this week anyway, according to the weatherman. Men. More than One. All of them. Even the ones who are always wrong agree this time that the midwest is due to get socked with a good, old-fashioned, midwestern Blizzard.
As long as the power stays on, I will only be a little psychotic, not a lot. If the power goes out longer than a couple of hours I will be big-time psychopathic, homicidal, paranoid, delusional...all of it.
Brudder Elwood's good Mother called me tonight to see if I was ready for this storm that is supposed to dribble in tonight and then really get going tomorrow evening. I did go to the store. When I was talking to Debbie I suddenly realised that like any devout dog person, the dogs were taken care of-- I had bought ten pounds of hamburger for Cooper, extra treats and checked the kibble bin.
Also I got nothing for us. No extra toilet paper or candles or water or bread or eggs (I have eggs) and no contingency plan for the hundreds of dollars of food in the big freezer if THAT goes out again.
I have decided if the power goes out we will somehow get the dogs to the Animal Hospital and board them,
and just stay there at the AH with them. Why not? It's pretty much how we live now.
Back to winter.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
UNCLE HAL
Yesterday afternoon, while the snow was sifting heavily down and everything was kind of still, my Brother-in-Law, Harold Pendexter died. He left behind my husband's sister, Marcia, and his and Marcia's children: John and Dianne and their families, and Stephanie. And a thousand people whose lives he had touched in one way or another.
Hal was a type AAA. Loud, often overbearing, smart, politically conservative, outspoken. Also devoted passionately to his wife and children, to his job, to his life.
When Hal asked you a question: "How are your dogs?" Even though I knew for a fact that he did not care about dogs at all, I also knew he really meant the question, and he listened to the answer, and he asked more questions, and he listened to those answers, and you were, for those moments, the most important person at the table, or in the room. All his attention focused on you, and your dogs, and what you were saying about them.
When Hal wrote and asked "How are you and John?" he actually meant it. It was not a polite salutation, he wanted to know.
He was a passionate sports fan. He was a passionate Opera fan. I have no idea what else-- he bought two huge pieces of glass art from my son, he drove all the way to Tennessee to attend the wedding.
Hal was unique, as are we all. Before John's (my husband) mother died, we would all go to Marcia and Hal's for holiday dinners or desserts or whatever, and Genevieve, John and Marcia's Mother would say "Now Beverly, please, don't pick a fight with Hal today."
But always, sitting round the table, Hal would say something about politics, or social norms, or wars, and I would be instantly on the offensive. I was never very good at arguing with him but I always gave it a try. It was a game. My mistake was, early on, treating it as more than the game that it was. It was a serious game, but neither of us held a grudge.
Gradually, over the years, we both grew up.
Hal had a presence. A power. He was a fine man, a fantastic businessman, a devoted family man, and he DROVE people to excel, to try their best. It must have been hard on the kids, because I have no doubt that he drove them, as well. Marcia was always right there-- the mitigating factor: the gentling touch, the port in everyone's storms: but her devotion to Hal was unquestioned and profound.
I cannot now imagine the cosmos without that Presence, that Force. The laugh, the hugs, the guidence, the love of life, the quick riposte, the appreciation of arts and the interest he had in everyone, and everything.
We will miss you terribly, Hal. God be with you. And please, Hal-- don't argue with Him.
Hal was a type AAA. Loud, often overbearing, smart, politically conservative, outspoken. Also devoted passionately to his wife and children, to his job, to his life.
When Hal asked you a question: "How are your dogs?" Even though I knew for a fact that he did not care about dogs at all, I also knew he really meant the question, and he listened to the answer, and he asked more questions, and he listened to those answers, and you were, for those moments, the most important person at the table, or in the room. All his attention focused on you, and your dogs, and what you were saying about them.
When Hal wrote and asked "How are you and John?" he actually meant it. It was not a polite salutation, he wanted to know.
He was a passionate sports fan. He was a passionate Opera fan. I have no idea what else-- he bought two huge pieces of glass art from my son, he drove all the way to Tennessee to attend the wedding.
Hal was unique, as are we all. Before John's (my husband) mother died, we would all go to Marcia and Hal's for holiday dinners or desserts or whatever, and Genevieve, John and Marcia's Mother would say "Now Beverly, please, don't pick a fight with Hal today."
But always, sitting round the table, Hal would say something about politics, or social norms, or wars, and I would be instantly on the offensive. I was never very good at arguing with him but I always gave it a try. It was a game. My mistake was, early on, treating it as more than the game that it was. It was a serious game, but neither of us held a grudge.
Gradually, over the years, we both grew up.
Hal had a presence. A power. He was a fine man, a fantastic businessman, a devoted family man, and he DROVE people to excel, to try their best. It must have been hard on the kids, because I have no doubt that he drove them, as well. Marcia was always right there-- the mitigating factor: the gentling touch, the port in everyone's storms: but her devotion to Hal was unquestioned and profound.
I cannot now imagine the cosmos without that Presence, that Force. The laugh, the hugs, the guidence, the love of life, the quick riposte, the appreciation of arts and the interest he had in everyone, and everything.
We will miss you terribly, Hal. God be with you. And please, Hal-- don't argue with Him.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
FSAH DOGS
I went to work at FSAH in 1985.
I began in the kennels. I was probably at that time the oldest kennel attendant they had ever had. I was 40 years old. My "boss" was 19. The head honcho was 35 or thereabouts.
I cleaned kennels.
The first week there I lost 17 pounds.
There were two wards, a recovery unit, and two wings with indoor-outdoor kennels. There were 3 of us. Me, Heidi and Bobbie. Bobbie died of cancer last year. She was I think 57 years old when she died. She was still working there in grooming.
By the time I "retired" I had been there longer than anyone except the office manager and Doc.
By the time I "retired" I had been a kennel attendant, the Kennel Manager, a Vet Tech, and later I came back as a bather-brusher for the groomers. There wasn't much I hadn't done. Receptionist. Not a job I ever wanted and not one (with my temper) Doc was likely to offer.
Shortly after I started there I met Arko. Arko was a German Shepherd. He worked for a neighboring Village and he was a K-9 dog, one of the first of many who I met while I worked there. But Arko has always remained my favorite of all the cop dogs I have met there.
Some of them come in wearing muzzles, for a good reason. Arko wasn't like that. He knew who his friends were. When we cleaned the outside runs we would let Arko out and he would chase the hose, leaping and snapping at the water.
One night Arko was boarding and was in the back. This meant there were several doors between Arko and the front.
In the morning, we were greeted with Arko at the front door. He had spent the night "patrolling" the front: several food bags had been looted and the plants in the windows were on the floor. People tended to use the parking lot to turn around, and we thought Arko spent a lot of time leaping from chair to chair in the front window, "chasing off" intruders. We never did figure out how he got loose, or how he got through the doors.
Arko retired after a number of years on the police force. He was given to a local petting farm as a guard dog. Unfortunately, he developed oral cancer and was put down. I adored Arko. I have never forgotten what a neat, well-trained and intelligent dog he was.
And then there was Bob.
Bob was a Great Pyrenees, the first I had ever known. He came to us as an adorable, fuzzy, white, friendly little thing and grew into a huge, fuzzy, white, friendly big thing. I loved Bob. Bob was the kind of dog who, if you saw him outside as you drove by, you rolled the window down and yelled "Hi Bob!"
Bob was around for several years. At one time his owner told us that they were moving to Texas. They had a real estate agent who was working with them to sell their house, and she happened to walk in one day after no one answered the door.
Despite his fuzzy friendliness, Bob didn't know her. And so, the family found the real estate agent pinned against a wall with a large white Great Pyrenees sitting watching her, guarding his "flock". Every time she moved, he growled.
I don't know what happened to Bob, but it was a long, long time ago so I seriously doubt he is still alive. It doesn't matter. He imbued me with a lifelong love of Pyrenees, even though I will never own one. He and Arko taught me that dogs often know, better than we, who their friends are.
I began in the kennels. I was probably at that time the oldest kennel attendant they had ever had. I was 40 years old. My "boss" was 19. The head honcho was 35 or thereabouts.
I cleaned kennels.
The first week there I lost 17 pounds.
There were two wards, a recovery unit, and two wings with indoor-outdoor kennels. There were 3 of us. Me, Heidi and Bobbie. Bobbie died of cancer last year. She was I think 57 years old when she died. She was still working there in grooming.
By the time I "retired" I had been there longer than anyone except the office manager and Doc.
By the time I "retired" I had been a kennel attendant, the Kennel Manager, a Vet Tech, and later I came back as a bather-brusher for the groomers. There wasn't much I hadn't done. Receptionist. Not a job I ever wanted and not one (with my temper) Doc was likely to offer.
Shortly after I started there I met Arko. Arko was a German Shepherd. He worked for a neighboring Village and he was a K-9 dog, one of the first of many who I met while I worked there. But Arko has always remained my favorite of all the cop dogs I have met there.
Some of them come in wearing muzzles, for a good reason. Arko wasn't like that. He knew who his friends were. When we cleaned the outside runs we would let Arko out and he would chase the hose, leaping and snapping at the water.
One night Arko was boarding and was in the back. This meant there were several doors between Arko and the front.
Arko retired after a number of years on the police force. He was given to a local petting farm as a guard dog. Unfortunately, he developed oral cancer and was put down. I adored Arko. I have never forgotten what a neat, well-trained and intelligent dog he was.
And then there was Bob.
Bob was a Great Pyrenees, the first I had ever known. He came to us as an adorable, fuzzy, white, friendly little thing and grew into a huge, fuzzy, white, friendly big thing. I loved Bob. Bob was the kind of dog who, if you saw him outside as you drove by, you rolled the window down and yelled "Hi Bob!"
Despite his fuzzy friendliness, Bob didn't know her. And so, the family found the real estate agent pinned against a wall with a large white Great Pyrenees sitting watching her, guarding his "flock". Every time she moved, he growled.
I don't know what happened to Bob, but it was a long, long time ago so I seriously doubt he is still alive. It doesn't matter. He imbued me with a lifelong love of Pyrenees, even though I will never own one. He and Arko taught me that dogs often know, better than we, who their friends are.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
GOING TO THE GYM
I belong to a small, neighborhood gym. Called Classic Quality, or maybe Quality Classic. Never been sure.
They are situated across the street downtown (such as it is) from the Gallery. I joined a couple of years ago. I got a fantastic deal having to do with being over 60, a merchant (more or less) downtown, and a registration grace period. A year costs me $20 a month.
It is worth every penny.
I went for a long time. I worked out with a friend I ran into there who had taught my kids when they were in grade school. Then I did something to my back and I quit going.
I did not, however, stop my membership, and recently I started going again, every day except weekends.
I went in and did the treadmill for at least a mile, at a good clip (I cannot jog) and did abs.
Today I woke up and thought oh, I am so tired, I'm not going.
And then I thought: Oh that's nice, just skip it, and pretty soon you'll skip it every day.
And then I thought: It's just today I am sooo tired.
And then my conscience said: YOU FRIGGIN LAZY TURD GET YER SWEATS ON.
Now my conscience is often kind of iffy so I was surprised at it's vehemence and the fact that it was yelling. Often, I am sorry to report, my conscience is a vague whisper in the breeze, especially when it comes to exercise.
So ok yeah yeah, I went. I did my treadmill I did my abs and then as I was leaving Ali, the wife of the owner, said "We need to get you back on a regular workout schedule"
Uh Oh.
And so off we went to work my "upper body", which meant lifting heavy things.
Not very heavy, but heavy enough that my flab cried out in agony. It begged and pleaded for an end to the torment. Of course, it wasn't THAT bad, but when I left I could tell I had worked out. They expect me back tomorrow......
Gonna do my back tomorrow. Uh Hunh.
They are situated across the street downtown (such as it is) from the Gallery. I joined a couple of years ago. I got a fantastic deal having to do with being over 60, a merchant (more or less) downtown, and a registration grace period. A year costs me $20 a month.
It is worth every penny.
I went for a long time. I worked out with a friend I ran into there who had taught my kids when they were in grade school. Then I did something to my back and I quit going.
I did not, however, stop my membership, and recently I started going again, every day except weekends.
I went in and did the treadmill for at least a mile, at a good clip (I cannot jog) and did abs.
Today I woke up and thought oh, I am so tired, I'm not going.
And then I thought: Oh that's nice, just skip it, and pretty soon you'll skip it every day.
And then I thought: It's just today I am sooo tired.
And then my conscience said: YOU FRIGGIN LAZY TURD GET YER SWEATS ON.
Now my conscience is often kind of iffy so I was surprised at it's vehemence and the fact that it was yelling. Often, I am sorry to report, my conscience is a vague whisper in the breeze, especially when it comes to exercise.
So ok yeah yeah, I went. I did my treadmill I did my abs and then as I was leaving Ali, the wife of the owner, said "We need to get you back on a regular workout schedule"
Uh Oh.
And so off we went to work my "upper body", which meant lifting heavy things.
Not very heavy, but heavy enough that my flab cried out in agony. It begged and pleaded for an end to the torment. Of course, it wasn't THAT bad, but when I left I could tell I had worked out. They expect me back tomorrow......
Gonna do my back tomorrow. Uh Hunh.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
NOT MUCH #2
Winter has really zapped us, not weather-wise but energy-wise. Chronically tired, bored and grumpy. That's me. Dogs snarling at each other also. The level in the pantry is zero and I have to grocery shop today, three stores and I also have to cook Cooper's hamburger casserole. Hambuger, garlic powder, parmesan cheese, broken pieces of spaghetti. The worst is de-greasing the meat. If I just did not have to do that it would be great, but sirloin is too expensive. As it is, this is ground Chuck.
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The dogs are really bored. Even Conley. I bought some new toys but even that is not enough. They need green grass and fresh air and I need the snow to melt long enough to get the yard cleaned. We could not find salt that was ok to use with dog feets that was under $20. So without thinking I told John to buy kitty litter-- just the clay kind-- to give the dogs, especially Cooper, traction as they zoom in and out of the back door. Well it worked, except that i forgot what clay kitty litter is like when it is wet. Muck. That's what it is like. So muck it is, outside the back door, and we all track it in no matter what I do to feet or how many wiping pads are at the door inside and out, there is now melted kitty litter all over my floors and the utility room, where I do laundry. God help me if I drop anything on the floor!
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This is what the dogs do for about 20 hours a day. The rest of the time they are eating or challenging each other for no particular reason.
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Waiting for the mailman, the brown truck or FedEx or someone walking down the street or a door to slam a block away or just about anything.
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The dogs are really bored. Even Conley. I bought some new toys but even that is not enough. They need green grass and fresh air and I need the snow to melt long enough to get the yard cleaned. We could not find salt that was ok to use with dog feets that was under $20. So without thinking I told John to buy kitty litter-- just the clay kind-- to give the dogs, especially Cooper, traction as they zoom in and out of the back door. Well it worked, except that i forgot what clay kitty litter is like when it is wet. Muck. That's what it is like. So muck it is, outside the back door, and we all track it in no matter what I do to feet or how many wiping pads are at the door inside and out, there is now melted kitty litter all over my floors and the utility room, where I do laundry. God help me if I drop anything on the floor!
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Thursday, January 13, 2011
NEW SHOW
I am very excited and very apprehensive all at the same time. The Gallery where I have my jewelry has agreed to sponsor a show of my son's company's glasswork! This is very cool. Christopher and his partner, Matt Salley, have labored long and hard to bring their own glassblowing studio to fruition, and it is finally starting to go.
I have written about it before-- http://www.marblecityglassworks.com/ -- but to have an exhibition here, where we live is very neat, since the company is in Knoxville, Tennessee.
This is one of my favorite photos of Christopher blowing glass, but this was taken before he and Matt had their own studio, and Christopher was working for someone else. Matt and Christopher began working on their own studio in Matt's garage several years ago. Glassblowing, I hardly need to point out, is not like painting or drawing or making jewelry. You cannot pick up your paints or beads and move to another spot.
(Matt Salley)
There are the furnaces, the annealers, the glory hole, the glass itself-- the gas to power the furnaces, the equipment to blow the glass: pipes and rods and calipers and benches and gloves and glasses and a thousand other things of which I am blissfully unaware.
In the summertime, the temperatures are brutal: the furnaces running at 1200-1500 degrees in a place where it may already be 90 degrees outside. There is no way to air condition a hot shop.
Christopher and Matt are working hard and making beautiful products, and I sure hope this exhibition will be a hit. I am really looking forward to it.
I have written about it before-- http://www.marblecityglassworks.com/ -- but to have an exhibition here, where we live is very neat, since the company is in Knoxville, Tennessee.
(Matt Salley)
Christopher and Matt are working hard and making beautiful products, and I sure hope this exhibition will be a hit. I am really looking forward to it.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
NEW YEAR NOTHING DOING
I haven't written for ages. There is a reason. There is nothing going on that I think anyone really wants to hear about.
The dogs are pretty much trapped inside, altho they do go play in the snow periodically. Cooper goes out with them and sits and watches. A few days ago I took him out and played keep-away. Actually if you want to know the truth, I wasn't playing--he was. It was very cold out and I wanted him in. He goes out and sits on the deck.
I call him in.
He stares at me with this specially designed "stupid Belgian" look which is a total lie-- he is NOT stupid, but he manages to flatten the look in his eyes so that I could swear, did I not know him so well, that his brain has ceased to function altogether and he cannot tell me from a tree.
I tell him
"Come on, Cooper--get a treat!"
"Hunh?"
"Cooper, let's go. Come in. Treats I have treats."
"Hunh?"
Losing patience I step outside. Instantly he goes into a play bow, spins around and is gone, tail wagging furiously, laughter wafting back at me across the empty snow....
Uh Hunh. Ok you stay out then.
And I stomp inside, freezing.
A few minutes later I go to the door and there he sits. Staring at me.
"Cooper come in."
"Hunh?"
I raise my voice to a happy squeak
"Mommy has cookies!"
"Hunh?"
Capitulating then, I go out. Two steps out and there is the play bow, the spin, the flying leap off the deck and he is off, huffing across the yard and I then go after him, yelling "You Bastard! I'm going to get you!"
This is an old old game. And with three legs he can still play well. My chances of actually putting hands on this dog in this mood are now about 50%. A year ago, with four legs, it would have been zip to none.
We do a few rounds around the summer house, one around the sawhorses left out in the snow from putting the fence up, and then we meet and he sits-- his stamina is not what it was by any means. And we laugh. And go in and have treats which we share with the clamoring, jealous Bassets.
And that's my excitement for the day.
The dogs are pretty much trapped inside, altho they do go play in the snow periodically. Cooper goes out with them and sits and watches. A few days ago I took him out and played keep-away. Actually if you want to know the truth, I wasn't playing--he was. It was very cold out and I wanted him in. He goes out and sits on the deck.
I call him in.
He stares at me with this specially designed "stupid Belgian" look which is a total lie-- he is NOT stupid, but he manages to flatten the look in his eyes so that I could swear, did I not know him so well, that his brain has ceased to function altogether and he cannot tell me from a tree.
"Come on, Cooper--get a treat!"
"Hunh?"
"Cooper, let's go. Come in. Treats I have treats."
"Hunh?"
Losing patience I step outside. Instantly he goes into a play bow, spins around and is gone, tail wagging furiously, laughter wafting back at me across the empty snow....
Uh Hunh. Ok you stay out then.
And I stomp inside, freezing.
A few minutes later I go to the door and there he sits. Staring at me.
"Cooper come in."
"Hunh?"
I raise my voice to a happy squeak
"Mommy has cookies!"
"Hunh?"
Capitulating then, I go out. Two steps out and there is the play bow, the spin, the flying leap off the deck and he is off, huffing across the yard and I then go after him, yelling "You Bastard! I'm going to get you!"
This is an old old game. And with three legs he can still play well. My chances of actually putting hands on this dog in this mood are now about 50%. A year ago, with four legs, it would have been zip to none.
We do a few rounds around the summer house, one around the sawhorses left out in the snow from putting the fence up, and then we meet and he sits-- his stamina is not what it was by any means. And we laugh. And go in and have treats which we share with the clamoring, jealous Bassets.
And that's my excitement for the day.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
WHEN THE CHILDREN LEAVE HOME
Smart as can be. Vocabulary you wouldn't believe. Afraid of "deadly longlegs" and tornadoes, not that I blame her on the latter.
Wonderful in school. Happy, funny, lovable, hugable, loved kitties, loved school, honest as the day was long. And then came the next one. "The Germ".
And they grew and prospered. And moved out. One went to college and then the other. By then we had two dogs, a Basset and a Belgian. (We also had cats.)The older the children became, the more interesting were the dogs. The room downstairs that had had the TV and the couch and the stereo and we called the Kid's TV room, now had crates and a grooming table and some brushes and dog beds in it. It had morphed from the Tv room to the Kid room to the Dog room.
One child married and moved.
The other graduated and moved several states away.
We got another dog. By then, I was showing.The dog room sported crates, blankets, a tack box, ribbons, show photos, the grooming table, extra crates for the new car and the shows...folders with vaccination records. The bookcase contained the AKC Book of Standards, Dogs In Motion, DogSteps, The Winning Edge....Winnie The Pooh and the others were upstairs. The clothes in the closet had become blazers and dress pants, skirts and non-skid shoes. Vacations were planned around dog shows, Nationals and new puppies.
Kids came to visit and discovered only Dad and one of the dogs at home-- Mom was two hours away trotting around a ring in the pouring rain.
We moved the good couch upstairs and covered the old couch with blankets, throws and pillows. The floor space was speckled with dog hair and taken up mostly by dog beds. Shortlegs were everywhere, underfoot, in your lap, snuffling ears and even more private places. They stole sandwiches, drooled on your clothes and leaped on you with muddy paws. The Caveat: "Don't wear good clothes" became an accepted litany.
This is the horrifying truth. When I left home, my brother was already long gone, and my Mother took my bedroom. They had no pets. They threw huge parties, catered with bartenders. They had maids come in to clean.
There's not a maid alive that would come past the threshold of our home.
The terrifying truth is that when the children leave, the parents are free (more or less) to play. AND THEY DO. And then, suddenly the children look around and think "My God! They have lives separate from us!!" And altho they also have lives separate from their parents, they are shocked, maybe a little jealous. What they forget is that they came first, once upon a time, and they will continue to hold that spot in our hearts no matter how many dogs there are. It is written in the parental contract: children never really leave home....
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