Dreaming on the Dog Couch, originally uploaded by tigerwillow.
The newest addition to our family. Rescue smooth-coated border collie. Lucy Rain Starr, a lovely girl who fits right into our family. All my girl dogs have “Starr” as their last name, and middle names are chosen whimsically. It was pouring down rain most of the day today, hence the name. More as the saga continues…
IT was going to be one of Rabbit’s busy days. As soon as he
woke up he felt important, as if everything depended upon him.
It was just the day for Organizing Something, or for Writing a
Notice Signed Rabbit, or for Seeing What Everybody Else Thought
About It. It was a perfect morning for hurrying round to Pooh,
and saying, “Very well, then, I’ll tell Piglet,” and then going
to Piglet, and saying, “Pooh thinks–but perhaps I’d better see
Owl first.” It was a Captainish sort of day, when everybody
said, “Yes, Rabbit ” and “No, Rabbit,” and waited until he had
told them.
You scored as Rabbit! (more…)
I wrote some letters today. Here are snippets for public viewing.
1.
February is bittersweet for me. January is a snowplow - all
the leftover pent-up energy and procrastinated chores, the Boy’s
birthday (which of course must be a standalone event, not at all like
Christmas), and then the annual convention for my company. We were in
Reno for a week of snow and cold and passive smoking. I returned with
a lungful and am still coughing.
But February is bittersweet. My dad died on Jan. 30, just a year ago.
I had a renewed concern that he has no shoes. I considered buying a
pair of men’s shoes and putting them in the closet where his coat (an
elegant Harris Tweed overcoat, purchased in Britain in the 50s), scarf
(a Burberry fleece) and safari jacket hang. If he shows up, he’ll be
well-dressed and he’ll have shoes. I can’t even get my mind around
missing him. The loss is still too gaspingly fresh.
And today is my mother’s birthday. I miss her profoundly. A year ago
today, I was driving out of Austin with a truck full of memories and
furniture. I spoke to my brother on the phone, and he brought up our
mother’s birthday to me. I knew it, but I didn’t want to seem
obsessively memorial. But he was. And it was one of the last best
conversations I had with him.
And here comes March and his death. But I have no idea what I would
say to them if they all showed up today for cake. We’d probably cut a
slice, and then watch CNN or the People’s Court. If I were in control
of these ghosts, I’d at least hope we would watch Nova or something on
the Science Channel.
2.
Some days, the grief is like moving through concrete. Not quite set-up
concrete. Some days, I hit patches of molasses, honey, drilling mud.
Some days, I hit chunks and icebergs. Occasionally, I can ski on top
and marvel at the view.
….
Today is Nancy’s birthday. She would be 87. And there’s a
part of me that thinks it would be so cool to have her around at 87,
IF (the longest word in the universe) she were a healthy person. Not
an alcoholic. In my mind, she is becoming more the pistol that I
always knew her to be, not the drunken bitter old lady. There’s a part
of me that likes the fact that my mom was such a character. I told
someone the story about her DUI. “She gave herself a DUI for her 78th
birthday.” Jaws drop. Heh. How many PTA moms claim that? In the south,
it’s called “colorful” when it’s not in your family. I think I will
claim “colorful.”
I have learned to walk. Twice.
Once as a baby, like everyone else.
Once as a six-year-old. I had to relearn to walk because the paralysis that came with polio erased my muscle memory. It’s harder the second time, trust me.
But because I got up again and walked, ran, skipped, danced, rode, jogged, tramped, hiked and otherwise ambulated, I know both the utter necessity of doing this, and the steel required. After a devastating loss, it’s the only choice that ever made sense to me. Rise up and walk.
A number of factors are at work right now, in my heart, in my week - and my answer has been “learn to walk. Again.” It’s my way of hitting Reset. But mind you, this is not the self-castigating “pick yourself up and walk, you big fat baby.” No, this is the tentative one-foot-in-front-of-the-other toddling. This is venturing forth into new territory - a place where I have no experience. Never before has the buck stopped here. But it does. People, plants and pets are counting on me. (And maybe a few pipes too.)
Look for me to be buying new shoes, hitting the gym, practicing my walking all alone on this path.