How the Other Half Lives

Despite the wind storm this morning, I packed up the dogs and headed into the trails.  The landscape was still muted in shades of blue and grey, with bits of color emerging with each passing minute as the winter sun reluctantly pushed above the horizon.  The trees were celebrating the wind in a wild dance, much like the mosh-pit at a night club, thrashing and swaying in unison with the gusty, blustery rhythm.

We weren’t the only ones using poor judgment, willing to risk a branch to the noggin to get some fresh air and much needed exercise.  I had one or two conversations with the regular early morning folks, hollering over the roar of the swirling wind.  I was glad  we risked it - it’s not often that you get to see white caps on the duck pond…..well, practically, anyway.

There were plenty of branches down, alright.  Mostly small to medium evergreens with an old rotten tree down in the deeper forest.  We were hopping and sidestepping, but thankfully the debris was already under us and not striking from above.

These are the days that I want to be a dog.  Or at least be a guest in my one of my dog’s brains.  With their superior sniffers, these pups seem to find every freshly downed branch and inspect it with their rubbery black noses.  There are older branches, brought down in the last storm, that they simply ignore.  It’s the ones that have just tumbled from above that they find most interesting.

I like to think that they are assembling a picture with the scents they find on these bits of nature.  Up there, in the tops of the cedar trees and the cottonwood branches, live the mysterious tree dwelling wildlife.  The owls and eagles, who fly like birds, but their breath smells of meat.  The squirrels and chipmunks that taunt the dogs with their fluffy tails and then scamper up out of reach.  The raccoons, seen only in the dark of night.  Although the dogs have seen these creatures and chased them from time to time, the high-rise tree residents remain a mystery to them.

Each sniff of a downed branch gives the pup another detail of life in the sky.  This cedar branch - sniff - this was a perch of a mama owl who sat, watched and waited for her rodent prey to carelessly come out into the open to be her owlet’s breakfast.  That cottonwood twig - sniff - that was the top rung of the ladder to the entrance of the squirrel family’s den, it may even have a tuft of fur snagged in its craggy splinters.  The hunk of moss - sniff - a pillow for a slumbering chipmunk infant, now shivering while it’s chipmunk parents scramble to reconstruct their home.

I suppose it’s a bit like we humans, who seem to enjoy watching television shows about hoarders or the rich and famous.  We’re just trying to catch a glimpse of how others live.  Maybe to make us feel better about our superior lives, or to dream about what it might be like to live in a mansion with servants.  The creatures are likely more interesting.

Unfortunately I can’t be a dog for the day, or borrow their fantastic sense of smell.  I have tried -  I picked up one of the newly fallen bits, and even took a whiff myself, but all I can tell is the kind of tree it fell from.  Since I am merely human, I’ll just have to continue to imagine why the odor of those branches is so irresistible to my canine companions.

Purging Demons: Skinning Cats (and the time I pantsed my gym teacher)

Last night I was jolted awake by a disturbing dream about skinning a live cat.  Since I’m the type that will save big hairy spiders rather than squish them, I was wondering aloud at the breakfast table why I would have such horrible images in my head.  My daughter reminded me, “I’ll bet that comes from your jerk PE teacher in junior high.”  She had heard the story before, or at least part of it.

I attended junior high school in the late 1970s.  Junior high was basically what we now call middle school, but with grades 7 through 9.  Title IX was new (1972) bringing equality for girls and boys in sports and physical education, but there were clearly plenty of male chauvinistic attitudes and behaviors ingrained in the “old school” teachers of the day. 

Reigning over my junior high was the gym teacher, Mr. T, a muscle bound yet pot-bellied has-been athlete who tried to extend his glory days by surrounding himself with young athletes.  From the polyester shorts and tube socks to the sports jersey and slightly greased back flat-top hairdo, he was a type.

When not coaching football or barking out directions to a PE class, he could be seen sauntering up and down the hallway flanked by a couple of broad-shouldered ninth grade boys who shadowed him like bodyguards or henchmen.  There would often be a uniformed cheerleader close behind to complete his hallway posse.  Proximity meant popularity.  He favored the football players and humiliated the scrawny, but always with humor.  Most kids wanted to be on his good side so readily joined in his banter, no matter how demeaning.

It was considered a compliment to the girls if he flirted with you — yes, FLIRTED with your 12-, 13- or 14- year-old self.  The boys watched and learned.  They yearned to be one of his side-kicks.  He was their hero.  He was, on the surface, well-liked.  If he teased you in class, or mentioned the short length of your skirt, your unwritten popularity score would climb.

One day during passing time I entered the gym, crossing the striped shiny floor to get to the girls locker room.  There Mr T was, surrounded by the usual chuckling adolescent male primates…I mean classmates.  He muttered something to them and then hollered, “Hey Stone!  Get over here and hold this for me!”  The boys guffawed in anticipation, each trying to out-laugh the other to gain the favor of their middle-aged hero.  I entered their circle and the teacher put my hands on a preserved, dead, pregnant cat.  “Here, hold this cat while I skin it for my biology class,”  he said loudly enough for everyone in the gym to hear.  He only kept me there long enough to watch my skin turn green and tears fill my eyes.  Long enough to get a good laugh out of his groupies and send me on my way. This “joke” traumatized my pubescent self, and was a perfect example of his use of degrading humor to hold power over us.

In my ninth grade year Mr. T started a game with myself and a few of my girl friends.  During PE he would sneak up behind one of us and give a light tug on the corner of our shorts to make us jump - a pretend attempt at “pantsing”.  We would gasp and laugh, and in return would tug on his shorts when his back was turned. Shorts never came down more than an inch or so, but we would yank ‘em up fast in a game of tit-for-tat. 

One day there was a murmur of commotion at one end of the hall as our FIRST crap-food vending machine was being installed in the entryway to the school.  A crowd of awkward teens and tweens were admiring the shiny new machine while Mr T stood in the back, arms folded across his puffed-out chest - trying to make it more prominent than his ample belly, with the usual football player poised on each side.

My friends and I approached from behind to try to see what was so exciting.  What we saw was our opportunity.  There he was.  His back to us.  The usual polyester shorts.  The three of us decided to play the game, this time with ALL THREE of us tugging at once.  We tiptoed up so as to not alert the boy henchmen of our approach.  One, two, three….TUG x 3!  Three tugs - all at once.  As I bent over, the next thing I saw, the only thing I could see, were two pale, round, fleshy cheeks speckled with black wiry hairs and a greyish-white jock strap.  We jumped back and squealed, frozen in shock.  That is, until Mr. T, one hand clutching his shorts and pointing with the other, yelled, “TO THE OFFICE!  THE THREE OF YOU!”

We sat all alone, D, K and I, in the small conference room awaiting our punishment.  Visions of angry, disappointed parents, school suspensions and at least a swat or two (yes, there was a paddle in the office) filled our anxious thoughts.  Mr. T finally came in, still red in the face (from anger? or embarrassment?),  probably after he made sure that NOBODY saw what happened except maybe his young goons. He sat across from us in the big bad principal’s chair and blew out a frustrated sigh.  He did his best to scare the crap out of us (heck, we were already terrified) but we soon figured out that this incident would be kept a secret.  He didn’t come out and say so, but we figured out that if he told our parents or the principal, he would have to explain himself.  He would have to tell how this inappropriate game came about and he was at least smart enough to steer clear of that sh*t show.  We were sworn to secrecy in order to avoid punishment.

This all happened so long ago that I’m not quite sure which of these events took place first.  In my memory the cat skinning came first and I got him back with the pantsing.  But the reality is probably the reverse - the cat-skinning was perhaps his revenge.

Either way, this is all in the past and I’m happy to send it back there.  Maybe Mr. T was less evil in reality than how he lives in my memories and more a victim of the times, a product of a chauvinistic generation. I’m just glad that my daughters are flabbergasted by these stories. Happy that they cannot even imagine such a scenario in their schools. 

Now that I’ve written about this demon of middle school, I will consider it purged. The images will no longer haunt my dreams.  I shall take a deep breath and blow them away!  Good riddance, Mr T.

Some Things Just Take Time

Our family has suffered quite a bit of loss this spring.  Between the fog of grief that obscures the view of the outside world, and the mountain of tasks, both physical and legal, that comes with putting an end to someone’s existence on our planet, we have had little time for “normal”.  You know, like mowing the lawn.  And making a dinner beyond heating refried beans in the microwave to throw on a tortilla.

We finally cleared a few monstrous hurdles last week, and to celebrate our return to normal we decided to dig in the dirt!   Finding ourselves in late-May without a single bloom in our flower pots, Ella and I were determined to bring some new life to our sunny deck that becomes our living room in the summer months.

Ella has always been the champion of the under-dog.  When she was tiny she would rescue mosquitoes and flies from spiderwebs (and then, of course, feel terribly guilty that the spider would be hungry).  After a rain storm we would all walk the neighborhood and save hundreds of earthworms that had been flooded out of their earthen homes and stranded on the pavement.  I know I started the worm-saving tradition, but it is a job that Ella takes very seriously, often chasing a Robin away from a fat, writhing earthworm then tossing the slippery fellow into the bushes for safety.

This devotion to the weak and vulnerable carries over to Ella’s gardening.  Well, gardening is an overstatement as we merely fill pots and containers on our deck with pretty flowering plants and tomato-bearing greenery.  So when we head to the plant nursery we pass up the colorful displays of bloom-laden plants and healthy green starters.  We stroll past the rows of bright petunias, tall geraniums and delicate ground cover and head to the racks way in the back marked CLEARANCE.

I am the sort of shopper that always has to check the bargain racks before paying full price for anything.  But once I brought Ella with me to the nursery and she discovered the botanical version of The Island of Misfit Toys, she was hooked.  While I’m looking for a "score", say a plant thats blooms have faded but the rest is healthy with potential for a season full of color, Ella is looking for the sorriest, most pathetic looking green being (sometimes not so green) that no one, ever, would take home.  THAT is the plant she wants to save - the one that nobody else wants.

She showed me a couple of wilted, and even somewhat crispy, plants that I was convinced were a waste of a whole dollar.  She pointed to a spot of green on one that would be the start of its come-back to life and I let her place it in our cart.  The other had no such bright spot, but I also could not say no to this pathetic little fella.  She found a half-dozen bougainvillea and insisted we needed one more to keep our

The Pathetic Poppy

existing fussy plant company.  I gave in and she inspected each to find the ugliest, most pitiful in the bunch.  She did.

So we loaded our cart with my nearly good-looking rows of flower starts and her hopeful little misfits and checked out at the store register.  One fellow shopper commented that they’d better give us Ella’s chosen poppy plant for free, because it has no hope.  They DIDN’T give it for free, but we’ll show ‘em - that plant may be the prettiest one on the porch soon.  Maybe.

We plopped all of our new plant residents into their pots and Ella carefully watered her under-dog projects.  Now only time will tell.  Today we may not have a gorgeous floral display around us as we sip our tea and watch the birds, but in time we will enjoy every little bloom and will celebrate any life that appears in Ella’s pots.  And they will be worth the wait. Some things just take time.

We kept the tag for this one so we'll know what it is supposed to look like!

Pet or Pest? (the difference is only one letter)

About a month ago we found ourselves with a new pet mouse.  Not the kind you get from a store that runs on a squeaky wheel inside a cage.  We have the wild kind.

Lucky for us, we have a cat named Roger that practices catch and release when hunting.  He catches the critter outdoors, in their natural habitat, and brings them into our home.  He keeps them alive, not out of any merciful motivations, as he still murders them once he has them trapped between four walls.  

Our first thought was that he was bringing them in to teach his dim-witted runt sister, Lyra, that the cute little creatures are for killing and eating.  She may have learned a bit from him, as she now brings in moths and then tackles them as they flutter around.  But I have a feeling she would simply snuggle a mouse if she had the chance.

It is more likely that he is showing off his hunting prowess to his human subjects. Without fail he announces the catch with a loud yowl as he pops through the cat-door.  This guarantees we stop what we are doing and take notice of his awesomeness.  However, as soon as we hear that signature hollow “Me-OW-ow-ow!”, my daughters and I jump to action.  Thankfully nobody in our house is the type to jump on a chair and squeal "EEK" if we see a rodent, like in the old TV shows.  We hop into rescue mode.  

If we see feathers, we throw a shirt or towel on his head.  If we’re lucky he backs away while the bird stays tangled in the fabric, soon to be returned to the outdoors.  Mice are a little more difficult to catch, but we have made many-a-live catch, removing the rodent from his jaws and out to the greenbelt at the end of the block.  The mouse hunt often takes two of us, several containers and plenty of lively hoots and hollers as we chase the brown tail along the floorboards.

About a month ago we noticed Roger poised in front of the stove with ears and eyes aimed at the gap beneath, tuned to every sound and movement.  That usually means that there is food under there - the living, breathing kind.  Our guess was correct, he brought in a mouse when we were sleeping and lost the little fellow in the kitchen before he could dine on its flesh.  

Since then we have seen very few signs that the mouse is here, except for Roger’s obsession with staring at various appliances and cupboards.  No torn food packaging or nibbles on the fruit in the bowl on the counter.   

Once in a while we will hear a scuffle and squeak under the sink when the cat finally has the mouse cornered.  We all come running and the girls grab and toss Roger outside while we try to safely grab the mouse…with no luck.  One day Ella and I had the little guy trapped between us, behind the microwave.  We each held a plastic popcorn container and a lid.  I dropped a banana behind the oven and flushed the brown fur-ball out toward Ella’s side.  For a moment she had him in the container, but soon he launched out over her head and ran down her back to the safety of the gap under the stove. 

We usually know approximately where the mouse is based on where Roger chooses to hang out.  We purchased a humane trap to place near the stove, as that seems to be a favorite haunt, and loaded it with cheese.  But I’m beginning to think it is a myth that mice love cheese.  We found out that OUR mouse loves chocolate flavored energy gels - specifically the GU brand.  The neglected gel drawer was finally opened this weekend. Inside we found that of the variety of 30-40 GUs, Hammergels and Shotblocks, our friend not only opened, but licked clean the chocolate GUs, sampled other flavors of GU but did not eat much and did NOT touch a single Hammergel or Shotblock. We were quite surprised by the picky nature of our little friend.  And if you ask me, he has rather good taste!

We have strangely become attached to this mouse.  After cleaning out the energy gel drawer, my husband re-stocked it.  Not with energy gels, but with three tiny bowls: one full of water and the other two with different types of food. We wouldn’t want him to get hungry or thirsty while out-witting our cat, of course.

I think that, due to the mouse’s discriminating taste and his clear preference for the GU brand,  the GU company ought to sponsor this mouse and make him a spokesmodel.  I mean, there are tigers, camels, ducks and even a very popular lizard that represent many companies.  Why not a cute little mouse?  Heck, look what a grand job Mickey does for Disney!  

Our only job now is to reload the humane trap with chocolate GU, catch that little fella, outfit him in a GU t-shirt and get ourselves a sponsorship.  He’s gonna be rich and famous, and all because of our cat.  Thanks Roger!

Dear Mr. Smoker Guy

Dear Mr. Smoker Guy, driving down the street in your itty-bitty Fiat that is oh-so fuel efficient while puffing clouds of tar and nicotine out of your cracked driver’s window.  

Please help me understand something that has been a mystery to me since the beginning of my time on this earth.  Why is it that when you are done inhaling all of the tobacco and are left with the tar-stained stub, that you find it acceptable to toss this trash from the window of your environmentally friendly car? This butt of the cigarette rolls a few feet on the pavement and lays to rest, where it sits for days and days, flattened by hundreds of tires.  Rain will probably eventually wash your butt to the gutter of the road where it will tumble down into the storm drain out of sight.   Once there it will travel to the nearest body of water to become poisonous animal food, or just decorate the shore of our lovely beaches and foul the water with nicotine residue.

Of course, you are not the only one to do this, so maybe you think that it’s okay, because…you know, why not?  You see butts fly from the windows of crusty old Chevys, gas-guzzling Hummers and even modest mini-vans.  So, what’s one more?  

Someone once told me that butts are biodegradable so it is okay to toss them where ever you please because they will, at some point months or years from now, disintegrate and become part of the soil.  In that case, maybe I should have thrown my banana peel, apple core and orange rind out my window today during my trip home from work!  Hmmm.  That gives me an idea.  I am not planning to plant a garden this year, so why don’t I start throwing my compost out onto the street with yours?

Maybe because you are a tax payer you believe that you deserve to throw your stinky trash onto the street because you pay good money to the city government to keep our town shiny and attractive?  Those bureaucrats probably have nothing better to spend money on anyway.  Heck, who needs streetlights, safe crosswalks and pot-hole free roads?

Or, could it be that you just don’t give a rip?  You don’t need to consider litter laws or a healthy environment because you will be dead soon from lung cancer and for all you care the world can fester in garbage without you?

Whatever the reason, I’m glad you stared me down through your rear-view mirror when I gave a short toot of my horn as your smoldering butt rolled into my path this morning.  Maybe for one second you thought about the consequence of your action, or maybe you didn’t.  I know I will sleep better tonight if I believe you’ll think twice next time you hold a butt in your hand.

If You're Lucky...

If you’re lucky, you’ve had your heart broken by the loss of a beloved pet.  Yep, that’s what I said, lucky.  In the moment, it is impossible to feel fortunate as your heart is broken, but you are.  You are so lucky to have had that unconditional love and wordless connection for the fleeting period of time that is your pet’s life.  The painful hole in your chest that comes with loss is there because the furry little bugger burrowed deep into your being. Then she must leave you, and in her absence a big, fat, cavernous hole that you think is going to swallow you up.  But it won’t, because you are so lucky to have all of those great memories to fill that hole, and your pet can reside there forever.  Right there.

Some of us lose our furry loved ones suddenly, in an accident or disappearance.  Some of us watch life leave their bodies and their eyes incrementally, wondering how many days or hours we have left with our companion until they are gone.  We find logical things to make us feel better, “She lived a long and full life” or “Thank goodness it was quick and she didn’t know what happened.”  But it hurts just the same - real bad.  The fact is, we are stuck with the ridiculous reality that our pets’ life spans are limited to a fraction of our own, therefore the loss is unavoidable.

Forgive my emotional meanderings as I sit on the floor next to my best friend.  My girl is labradorable in every sense.  My fearless trail running partner in her youth, leading the pack over hills and through streams.  My joyful partner around the house, flashing her big brown eyes in hopes of tasty acknowledgements. And more recently on tail-wagging strolls through the neighborhood.  Of course she has always been the guardian of the night, snoozing at my bedside to ensure the family’s safety from raccoons and squirrels lurking in the trees outside the window.  

I believe that our pup’s joy and playful spirit is what has brought her well beyond the average life expectancy of her large breed.  Her head was too hard to be damaged by the deer that gored her (rather than be chased by a silly dog), and the determination to explore every trail kept her bad knees moving along.  Up until three weeks ago people were calling her “puppy” on the trail, consistently shocked to learn her real age in human years - a hair shy of 15.

Unfortunately, the Doc confirmed the worst last week.  She has cancer demons attacking her organs.  Those little suckers, like tiny lilliputians tying her down one thread at a time, are weighing her down and robbing her of her voracious appetite.  My dog loved to eat.  Even a few days ago roasted chicken was the magic that would get her tail thumping, but now we are running out of tasty tricks.  The most delectable meats, canned food and even peanut butter have her turning her nose.  She watches with hope and desire when I open the fridge, but turns away in queasy disappointment at each offering.

My girl still takes comfort in our presence and her eyes twinkle with happiness when we gently stroke her ears.  Her joyful personality is still sparkling, although in progressively smaller ways.  Our goal is to do everything we can to bring out the precious eye-twinkle with affection and the occasional perfect treat.  When there is no more twinkle we must let her go, in peace.

Even though I feel like I have a grenade in my chest, and the anticipation of pulling the pin is about killing me, I still feel like the luckiest person on the planet.  Fortunate because I have had the honor of loving, and being loved by, this beautiful dog.  I will carry her with me always.  I am very lucky indeed.

What If...

My dog isn’t feeling well.  Sure, she’s old.  She’s likely outlived her litter-mates and the average life-span of her breed.  However, my pooch has always had the appetite and lust for life of a pup half her age, so this sudden turn of behavior, her sudden decision to “act her age”, has me quite concerned.

This situation has me playing a game quite common among my peers (peers, as in the children I teach and coach as professional child-wrangler).  The What If? game.  You know, “What if all we had to do is think of our favorite food and it would just appear?” or “What if the rain turned into peanut butter and whenever we were hungry we could just lick our coats and umbrellas?”  Well….that would really suck for anyone allergic to peanuts.

I have a much more practical use for the What If? game.  Seriously.  What if, upon bringing a pet into our family, we were granted a limited amount of communication with our pet.  I mean real english language understanding - one on one idea exchange with clearly defined words.  

Keep in mind, I have a well thought-out rationale for why this verbal communication should be limited.  Because one of the reasons that having pets is so wonderful and good for the soul is that they cannot argue with you, accidentally say the wrong thing or deliberately insult you.  Instead we look, cross species, into each other’s eyes and see pure devotion,

affection and unconditional love.  Words would undoubtedly mess that whole magic up.  So as it is, when we get home at the end of the day and see the tail wagging and the happy bounce in her step we think, “Oh, you missed me and I’m happy to see you, too!”  When it is entirely possible that the dog is wagging and thinking, “FINALLY…dinner time!  I don’t care why you’re late, just gimme food!”  Sometimes less is more.  I don’t really want my dog to tell me how my jeans look, or what snack would be healthier than that leftover piece of cake, or that my job as food-deliverer is the reason she is ecstatic that I am home.

What if the rule is that we limit our communication to, say, 100 words per lifetime…or ten ideas exchanged per decade.  That way we/they would have to choose very carefully how to use these opportunities.  A smart dog would save their chances to communicate for the most important circumstances, such as today.  My pup could tell me exactly where it hurts, what she needs to feel better, and then life goes on as it should.  A selfish dog would waste all of his/her words on desires and cravings and would have nothing left for important times like this.  Not my dog.  An ugly human might use his/her opportunities for dominance or scolding.  Not me.

What if the idea exchange should only happen when both parties agree.  Like the Wonder Twins’ fist bump, (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktUx57i63e0) when both parties offer a fist or paw, and upon contact a spark flies, and so do the words.  That way words would never be misused or wasted.

All I know is I want to know why my girl is feeling punky so I can fix it.  I need her to feel better.  For now I’ll keep looking into her eyes for hints, and waiting for the vet to call with test results with fingers crossed.

What if?  

Atta girl!

Will Run for Cookies

Another soggy Thursday afternoon - we have been lucky that way.  No matter what the weather during the early week, we can count on plenty of rain and mud for our Trailblazers' run each Thursday.  Trailblazers is a program at the Whatcom Family YMCA that brings kids to trails, so they can blaze.

Wipers are thumping in a steady rhythm across the broad windshield of the YMCA van as I turn the red beast into a dark tunnel of evergreen trees that leads to Lake Padden Park.  Sitting directly behind me are 11 little people, bouncing in their seats with tons of boy energy.  Once parked, my co-pilot slides open the van door and the occupants bust out, racing to the playground to climb all over the equipment like ants on a picnic.

Our number doubles after the second van arrives.  Two girls, three coaches and a whole bunch of boys.  We move to the basketball court for drills.  “High knee skips!” Coach Jen hollers as they bolt across the pavement.  “These are warm-ups.  This is NOT a race!”  she reminds them.  Yeah, right.  For a good number of these kids EVERYTHING is a race.

Last week I had the pleasure of leading the route through the trails in my own neighborhood.  “Leader” is probably not a realistic term.  I was designated Chaser.  The general rule is that no Trailblazers should run ahead of the lead coach, or behind the rear, or sweeper coach.  The reality is that the competitive, high-energy, louder-than-life top-dog kids are going to duke it out the whole time for the lead, and the front coach hangs on for dear life.  

The run with the front pack was actually quite fun, and I called it my interval training for the week since we had to stop at all major turns to let the rest of the runners catch up.  We would run full-out for a quarter mile or so and STOP, gasping for air while the group gathered again.  When the sweeper coach approached along with the lolly-gagging stragglers, the top-dogs would start to walk up the trail in order to get the best position at the start of the next sprint.  And then we were OFF!

The mid-pack coach probably has the most peaceful, pleasant job.  You get to run with the level-headed kids who can run a steady pace and chat and don’t need to stop to catch their wind.  These kids breathe hard going up the steep trails, but then enjoy rolling effortlessly down the winding, wooded paths on the other side.

On THIS soggy Thursday, I am the sweeper.  My job is to stay with the tail-end group for safety, and to nudge them along the way.  Turns out I have three fellas to walk/jog with through the horse trails of Lake Padden.  These guys are so busy planning how they were going to turn one boy’s pet kitten into a super-hero that their minds are not on running.  A steady jog on the flats turns into a power hike on the hills and eventually a gentle stroll.  I hear all about the green and blue color-coordinated mittens and cape, and how this feline will carry a cannon that shoots popcorn and every kind of chip you can think of.  One fellow, Hank, would tire of the conversation and take off for a bit, running his heart out, but when the big group gathered he would rejoin his two pals and try to motivate them to run more.

Then I find out why Hank wants his two friends to run.  Apparently the Car Pool Mom told them at drop-off that she would give all three boys Girl Scout Cookies if they ran their hearts out today.  Hank’s mind is on cookies.  And each time he reminds his pals of the deal, they break out into a sprint…temporarily.  While we jog we chat about cookies.  How my dog will do ANYTHING for dog cookies - she doesn’t even need a leash on walks because she follows me for cookies.  Hank thinks it would be cool to cover a jet-powered car or spaceship in dog cookies so she would chase it into space.  Good idea.

When the boys slow to a stroll I shout “cookies!” and they pick up the pace.  During the last half mile each of the three boys ask me more than once, “Do you think we ran our hearts out today?”  

Each time I answer I try to choose my words carefully, “Well, I think you pushed yourselves,” and “Sure, and your goal next week can be to run even more!”  All they need to hear is the “Sure…” before they agree that they should ask me this question in front of Car Pool Mom.

In the end, the boys covered over 3 miles in the rain.  They climbed a few steep hills and slogged through some sloppy mud.  Their faces were damp with sweat and their cheeks were pink from the effort.  With visions of cookies dancing in their heads they felt like they ran their hearts out.  Bring on the cookies.

I think we have found a new motto to put on the back of the Trailblazers’ t-shirts:

“Will Run for Cookies!”

Love and The Three-Legged Race

On a recent afternoon, after I had said my goodbyes to co-workers at the Y,  I headed out the back door and up the steep concrete steps leading to the alley.  Ahead of me was a retired couple.  They stopped climbing and stepped aside to allow me to pass.  “We have bad knees,” the woman said.  “It’s gonna take us a while!”

“Oh, my knees have their bad days, too,” I replied.

We reached the alley together, more or less.  The man told me, as he linked arms with his wife, “Yep, I have a bum left knee, and she has a bad one on the right!”

“Well, you two ought to sign up for a three-legged race.  You’d do great!”  I joked.  We all laughed.  We parted ways and I could hear them giggling and chatting as they shuffled to their car.

My guess is that this charming couple had been together for decades, likely their entire adult lives.  They moved and talked together with ease, anticipating the other’s words and movements like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers on the dance floor.  I’ll bet their feet had danced together countless times, nimbly prancing, weaving in a complicated pattern upon many-a-dance-floor.  And now, in their golden years they lean on one another, just a little, with their bad knees in the middle.  

If we are lucky, we all have somebody in our life that we share this connection with.  Somebody who knows what you are thinking without hearing the words.  They recognize a look in the eye or a gesture that tells all.  And because they know, they react predictably and the dance of life continues.  

My sister once described my husband and I as using the Vulcan Mind-Meld to communicate.  For those of you who didn’t grow up in the 70s when, in my family, we marked time in Star Trek episodes, the Mind Meld is a technique for sharing thoughts, experiences, memories, and knowledge with another person (or alien).  The VMM is a form of telepathy that usually required physical contact.  From the beginning of our time together, we have shared this connection with only a few hiccups along the way.

If we are super-fortunate, we have more than one kind of partner in life.  The most typical  partnership is initiated by romance and results in love, but often this connection exists through family ties or platonic friendships.  You know each other so well that you don’t have to explain yourself.  My sisters and I have an extensive vocabulary and plenty of silly phrases that would sound like a foreign language to an outsider.  My daughters and I have simple gestures that will send each other into belly-laughs.  There are some long-running themes among my running group (pun intended) that, although we cannot speak of them in the company of others without blushing, can be alluded to with one single letter.

I think of all of these things on this red-heart emblazoned holiday, this day of love.  I have never been a believer in the obligation to buy roses and chocolates to express my affection.  I don’t expect a romantic dinner during which we gaze at each other under the light of twinkling candlelight.  I feel like love and appreciation should be understood every day of the year. 

Beyond February 14th my husband and I will continue to put our foreheads together for the Vulcan Mind Meld if we are lucky. We will tie our ankles together with an old rag, his left to my right, and continue trudging through this crazy life in our own personal three-legged race.

Making Connections

We have a delightful fellow in our community named Larry.  This diminutive, silver-haired fellow walks the trails and takes the bus downtown to visit the YMCA.  You’ll know it is him immediately because he is likely to blurt out, “Hey!  I know YOU!” which may or may not be true.  Lucky for me I have met him before and I can say, “Hi Larry!  I remember meeting you on the trail!” and shake his frail hand while exchanging brief small talk.  If he is not sure he might say, “I know you!  You are my mother,” or some other confusing relation.  Once you introduce yourself you will forever be recognized and greeted by our friend, Larry.

Although Larry’s behavior is not typical and makes some people uncomfortable, I don’t think it is all that strange, either.  Every day when I walk my dog, run the trails or even grocery shop, I strike up conversations with strangers.  Just this morning I chatted with three different sets of folks that I had never met, mostly about their dogs.  After a short exchange and a scrub behind the ears (for the dog, of course) we parted with a jovial, “Have a great day!” and I carried the glow of making a connection throughout the day. Next time I see them in the park I can wave and greet the pooch by name.  This is a nice reminder that we live in a community.

Of course there are the  people we encounter who have music plugged firmly into their ear-holes and can’t hear our greetings.  You can usually tell them even before you see the wires trailing down their necks by the blank, absent stare in their eyes.  Most of the time I’ll try to make eye contact and say a quick hello, but the zombie, straight-ahead stare tells all and they pass without a nod or a wave.

The other day I’m pretty sure I saw a woman with earphones actually drooling, mouth half open as if she were involved in some unmentionable private matter.  Eyes somewhat glazed over and fixed on some point in the distance, she jogged along on the same trail as my dog and myself, but in a completely different world than the one we inhabited.   I do realize, though, that listening to music is what gets some folks out the door to exercise, so I try not to judge.

Personally, I enjoy making connections along the way.  A little laugh or the shared spotting of wildlife makes me feel part of something bigger. Even if I don’t know the person’s name, political affiliations or even which team they root for, I’ve made a teeny connection.  Through the coincidence of time and place, we are out there sharing a common experience.

The next time you leave your front door, don’t forget to hold your head up and make eye-contact.  Look up from your phone in the grocery line and make faces at the baby in the cart in front of you.  Save the texts for later so you can exchange baby stories with his Mama.  And when you see a friendly little guy on the trail or downtown and he says, “Hey!  I know you!” you can smile and say, “You must be Larry.  Pleased to meet you!”

Shau Mei-Mei - Growing up "Half Chinese"

When our first born was still getting around on all fours, we moved to Taipei, Taiwan.  Up until her birth we had both been full-time school teachers.  If you know any such beings, you understand that full-time is putting it lightly, as teachers spend their evenings, weekends and midnight dreams focusing on their students’ work.  After having a child we realized that somebody needed to be a parent, too.  So we packed up our lives and moved across the world where my husband could earn enough as a teacher to support a family of three, and I could be a stay-at-home mom.

While he adjusted to his new job at the International School, Delaney and I explored the markets, alleys and playgrounds of our new neighborhood.  Each morning we would venture out from our comfortably air-conditioned apartment to one of the many nearby playgrounds to melt in the heat and humidity.  We played on the swings and flew down the polished concrete slides countless times with a “Wheeeee!”  We met many other families out for their morning fun, and did our best to make friends.  I studied Mandarin and became quite adept at my Mommy Chinese.  I could discuss the basics of age and gender, nationality and language limits, and of course the all-important snacks.

Delaney, a fair-skinned, sandy-haired kid with blue eyes and curly-whirly hair, was quite an attraction everywhere we went.  She stood out among the local children, who all had very straight black hair and sparkly brown eyes.  Daily she was asked to pose for pictures with other children and families.  Whenever we went into the crowded downtown we had to plan extra time for the conversations and photo shoots.  At one holiday celebration in the city square we had a line of at least 30 people waiting to pose with our Shirley Temple look-alike.  My friend who visited from the states commented that it was like traveling with Michael Jordan.

In Taiwan, as in most asian countries, all children are cherished.   And when said child’s appearance makes her a near celebrity, the child is downright spoiled by strangers.  At every shop she was given a special treat.  On every corner people would pinch her cheeks and rummage in their pocket for a gift.  Often a tiny jello cup or piece of brightly wrapped candy, we would accept the gift with a “Syeh-syeh, ni!” and go on our way.  In America we tell kids to not accept candy from strangers.  That was NOT our world, at home in Taiwan.  

Once, on a weekend get-away in the mountains, the three of us were enjoying a picnic.  While enjoying the panoramic view of the marble cliffs and lush greenery, amazed at all the beauty this island had to offer, we noticed a tour-bus pulling into the hotel. We watched as at least 50 young women poured out of the vehicle and made a bee-line to the polished stone picnic table at which we sat.  Each college-aged girl needed to squeeze our child, pose for a picture and give her a treasure.  We had to make many of these treats disappear before Delaney consumed them all at once.  We were never concerned about the safety of the gifts, just the sugar content!  After each and every one of them met Delaney, the mass of young ladies then re-boarded the bus and disappeared, bus and all.  Then our picnic was quiet once again.  Apparently, we were the tourist attraction of the moment.

After a year in Taipei Delaney was ready for more stimulation so we decided to put her in an english speaking preschool.  We had the option of going to a Chinese preschool, but we felt that she was getting enough exposure to the language and culture on our daily excursions.  It was time for some social experiences without Mom, and a chance to make friends in her own language.

Twice a week I would pack up a little lunch box, hoist my petite child onto my back in her aluminum framed pack (the closest thing we had to a vehicle while living in Taiwan) and hike the mile-and-a-half to school.  To avoid the noisy, congested and polluted main road, each day we tried a different route.  My favorite became the patch of rice paddies sandwiched between multi-storied buildings an all sides.  These green fields, dotted with lean-to shack residences, had raised paths that zigzagged the soggy terrain until they spat you out onto a paved alley very near the school.

One particular day it really struck me that our Delaney was integrated into this lifestyle and that life here was so NORMAL to her little self.  We were trying a new route through a quiet alley when she perked up and muttered, “I smell…” she hesitated and sniffed a couple of big whiffs and repeated, “I smell…a temple!”  A moment after this declaration we turned a corner and guess what?  There stood one of the small neighborhood temples that you’ll find all over Taipei, with wisps of incense smoke curling up to the sky.  Yes, my tiny daughter could find a temple with her nose.

When she was three years old we returned to the Pacific Northwest.  The distance between us and the grandparents had become too great and we were all hankering for extended family.  As we were reunited with aunts, uncles and cousins, we heard Delaney telling people, “I am half-Chinese!”  We laughed SO hard and tried to explain that sure, she knew some Chinese language but that she was not, indeed, Chinese.  I look back at that and realize how wise and simply true her statement was, and that we were wrong, at least in a sense.  We, in our adult brains, jumped to the definition of Chinese race and ethnicity, when that was not what our innocent little daughter was saying at all.  She was totally adapted to living in a Chinese culture, her sensibility was Chinese, and she learned to value what is valued in the Chinese culture.

I am sad that so many of her childhood memories are fuzzy.  Our now adult child feels 100 percent American, complete with stranger-danger fears and the need for personal space.  At least, for a time, she was very sweetly Half Chinese.

Feeling Root-bound

I have this plant perched on a cabinet that grows skyward without complaint.  The internet tells me that she is called a Dragon Tree and maybe that is why she never complains - she is fearless.  My other plants of this type are happy in my home, but tend to drop their lower leaves as they grow upward.  But this plant hangs onto every single spiked leaf as she produces more at the top. 

In recent months I noticed that her roots had run out of room in the pot, and the dirt was rising vertically, maintaining the cylindrical shape of the pot as it rose up with the plant itself.  She couldn’t find space in her confines and was searching outside her ceramic walls for more room. 

On this day I could relate.  I felt buried in the daily chores to keep my household running.  Laundry was piling up, the kitchen may be clean, but not organized, and my piles of clothing and extraneous household crap earmarked for a Goodwill donation were becoming a full-on mountain.  At every turn I noticed another unfinished project that would have to wait another day.  My responsibilities were starting to feel too big for my skin and I was feeling root-bound myself, looking for a way to rise up and out of this mess.

One of the many chores today was to buy groceries for our family and also for my mother-in-law who is  house-bound these days.  While I was at the one-stop shopping place, I wandered off to the garden section and bought an attractive, roomy pot for my green leafy friend along with some fresh black soil.

Later, with the spare moments between this and that, I spent a few short minutes moving this terribly root bound housemate into her new abode.  Surprised at the huge tangle of root fingers wrapped and twisted around and around, I felt guilty for ignoring her plight for so long.  I had always been a solid green thumb, something I inherited (and learned) from my Mama.  While I was at it I decided to liberate another neglected green beauty. A tropical plant in an itty-bitty pot inherited the Dragon's old pot and was able to stretch his roots as well.  My husband commented that it is too bad that houseplants aren’t like hermit crabs who line up by size and take over the shell next size up in an orderly fashion, all by themselves!

Now each time I look at these plants I imagine their twisted roots reaching into the fresh rich soil while yawning and stretching, feeling the relief of space and peace of mind.  And at the same time I, myself, stretch and feel the satisfaction of accomplishing one, maybe two, tiny things from my endless list.

This helps me to remember that moving forward merely takes one foot in front of the other, one inconsequential step at a time.  Although we’d all love a magic wand to wave our troubles and chores away in one big swoop, that is never going to happen!  To not feel root-bound, we just need to keep moving forward, one little step at a time and know that we will see the sunshine and start reaching out for the sky, too.

Happy in her new home.

The Best Dog Ever

I’ll bet that if you are smart enough to have a dog in your life that calls you their own, you hold the belief that YOUR dog is the best dog ever.  I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that is not possible.  Why?  Because MY dog, Riley Bean, is THE Best Dog Ever.

Close your jaw, un-slap your cheek and be prepared to stifle your disbelief because I am about to prove that my dog is the best.  First of all, my girl is not a cute little puppy, innocent of all things.  This dog has been around the block.  Foggy eyed and partially deaf, Riley is what we call mature. In fact, she is less than four months away from her Quinceañera.  And although there are countless reasons that she wins the Top Dog prize, I will list the top 5 here to prove my point.

1. Riley is always by my side.  Always.  When I’m sitting here on my computer she is within reach.  She can be found next to the stove, nose-a-twitching, when I’m sautéing beef.  At all times my loyal pooch will be right there.  Whether I’m sitting on the toilet, having an intimate moment with my honey or lacing my shoes for a run, my trusted pup is present and prepared for what ever might be coming next.  Especially when I’m cooking meat.

2. No need for a leash!  She doesn’t even wear a collar because I can trust her to heel for the entire outing (this might be due to my pocket filled with cookies that, more than occasionally, land in her mouth if she stays close by).  The only exceptions to this perfect behavior occur when a squirrel crosses our path, she gets a whiff of something interesting and follows her nose to somebody’s back yard, or she needs to take a dump but doesn’t want me to watch so she squats under the front window of a nice home and then I have to attempt a stealth retrieval, bread-bag on hand, before we both get caught and scolded.  But mostly she stays by my side on our daily walks.

3. Missy Perfect will only sleep on her dog beds or the carpet, and never jumps up on furniture.  In each of our main rooms she has her designated spots and is perfectly content to sleep on the soft pet beds.  There was just one winter when she was a little confused and was sure that the love seat was for her - after all it is the perfect size for a labrador.  Who could blame her?  Oh yeah, and the few times we caught her jumping on our bed because we had asked her to stay in there when we had people over for dinner.  I think when we said “stay!” she heard “play” - an honest mistake.  Otherwise she always sleeps on her own beds…when we are home.

4. Riley has never destroyed anything in the house.  In her whole life with us, (mind you, we adopted her as an adult so we have no puppy stories) Riley has never chewed a shoe, shredded a stuffed animal or scratched the floor or walls.  That one time when she ripped the cat-flap out of the door and chewed the surrounding wood was not really her

fault.  You see, we had gone to the neighbors for a barbecue where the sizzling meat smelled TOO delicious.  She thought we had forgotten about her and she didn’t want us to feel guilty for leaving her behind, so she found a way to get herself to the party without troubling us.  We forgave each other.  In the absence of such misunderstandings, we can trust her with anything.

5. She would never raid the garbage can.  Unless we leave it out in the middle of the floor - that would be an invitation and completely our own fault.  And when she raids the kids’ bedroom garbage cans for dirty kleenex (gag) it just means that the human girls are slacking and need to clean their rooms.  Nope, our Riley is no garbage eater!

Now, you might be saying, “My dog does all of those things and more!”  Well…does your dog gaze at you with twinkling eyes that say I love you with all my heart?  Or is your puppy so happy when you come home that he/she wiggles uncontrollably from nose to toes, quivering with pure joy?  Okay, okay.  So maybe, just maybe, your pooch can pull these things off to an adequate level that pleases you.

You can love your own dog and believe what you want to believe, but I know one thing for sure.  My dog, Riley Bean, is the Best Dog Ever.