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.