"Hail, Mary" - it isn't just for football anymore

“Hail, Mary”        - It isn’t just for football anymore

The frankness of the priest’s prayer that Sunday morning took me aback.  He invited the congregation to pray a “Hail, Mary” for any disappointment we may feel about Summer Vacation, something to that general effect.  Seeing as it was the first week of JULY, I found that a bit premature and perhaps a bit fatalistic.  It wasn’t my home church – because I don’t have one right now – but I had met this priest when he was just out of college a couple of decades ago.  He’s not a bitter little old man.  He’s not a negative, bummer person.  He’s a younger middle-aged priest who grew up in, I suppose, a regular family and had a bit of life experience.  And I imagine what you don’t have in your OWN life experience as a priest, you must pick up a few beauties just by listening to confessions.  But I couldn’t help wondering what motivated him to say that prayer. 

The narcissistic part of me – as minuscule as it might be – excuse me while I dust my halo in case it blinded you – felt like that prayer was staged just for me.   I am choosing to see that particular moment as a tip on how to cope with the stuff that was happening both in my life and in the lives of those around me.  For instance, I know three friends who had to put their dogs “down” in the course of the last two weeks.  I have lived through that, albeit just barely, about ten years ago and it is horrible.  It’s not the how of what happens, it is that it happens and it is a grief that in my experience stood all by itself in its relentlessness that makes it almost intolerable.  So many people who walk through that end up saying, “I will never get another dog again; I just can’t go through it.”  The fact is, getting another dog may be the only thing that heals your heart in that area.  You come to the realization that the acquisition of a canine household member is as much for your own need, as it is for the dog’s.  To the point, some dog out there needs you.  And you need a dog. 

Yes.  You need the aggravation, the vet bills, the potty accidents and all that negative because what a dog brings to the table so far blows all that off the map.  On a cold winter night, a small warm body snuggles into the crook behind your knee on the couch and rests a gentle muzzle on you as you watch a movie.  Dogs don’t ask to pick the movie; they let you choose and just enjoy it.  On a sunny autumn morning when the goats are in the pasture next door and you are trying to get ready for work, a dog will jump up on the couch search the view in the backyard and then bellow:  “GOAT!  GOAT!  GOAT!” as if you didn’t remember the neighbor’s goats were out there.  Dogs provide a security force second only to Schwarznegger.  And, dogs are excellent at character analysis:  they will identify bad people within seconds; whereas the rest of us give people a bit more time to prove themselves.  My dogs have always been spot-on with their take on people.  

All that by way of saying, I have found dogs invaluable and my heart goes out to my friends that have lost theirs.  Hail Mary  ….

On a completely different level, we have lost important people in our lives – in almost every case it has been after a struggle with extensive illness.  I lost a dear friend whom has been one of my summer vacation travel companions for over a decade.  I am feeling the sadness incrementally – I watched a movie that had a Gospel choir in it the other night and remembered her funeral and how “up” it was.  I think of her when I hear good music because she loved music so much and was very accomplished with it.  I think of her as the racial tensions in this country are being stirred up by insurrectionists.  She and I had a friendship that transcended race and we always considered each other a sister.  As I plan a beach vacation for the future, my heart feels a bit sore knowing that she won’t be with us.  And the next time I cook a lobster and steam it in beer with Old Bay Seasoning, I will think of her as well.  She and I taught our other friends how to dissect a lobster to get every available piece of meat out of it.  We should have made a tutorial video.  That would have been a blast.  I have my memories, but my memories will never be enough. Hail Mary ….

And also most recently, it appears that I have become a Weather Witch.  There are Weather Witching sticks they sell at the beach – and they really DO work.  You mount them on an outside wall and the level of humidity in the air impacts which direction the wood points.  The wooden stick actually re-orients itself based on weather.  There are a few other tourist gizmo’s that do the same thing.  My personal favorite is the braided yarn with two eyes.  The directions say to hang him outside with this diagnostic:  “If I’m wet, it’s raining.  If I’m frozen, it’s cold or snowing.”  In my case, I seem to be able to detect storms coming by doing one simple thing:  I go to the beach.

Two weeks ago I drove out to a lake that was made decades ago by flooding a few towns under water.  I don’t know how that happens.  Did they tear down the houses and fill in the basements and take out swingsets and stuff?  My brain gets snagged on that piece of history every time I recall it.  There is one particular perennial that grows in my back yard which I have tried to remove not once, not twice, but three times and it keeps coming back.  If my town was flooded, that plant would come up from the bottom of the lake and take over the world.  I’m sure of it.  Nonetheless, this lake I went to is a great place to swim and I was happy to drive out for the day.  As I handed the ticket boy my entrance fee, I saw the ominous clouds forming ahead of me.  I drove forward, hoping they’d pass.  I got my suit on, set up my lawnchair and within ten minutes it POURED.  I waited it out in my vehicle and tried a second time to re-establish my beachhead.  Nothing doing.  It poured again and I said, “I give up.”  Plus, sitting on a wet beach is just kind of gross.

Yesterday, I drove up North to a state park that is a couple of hours away.  The attraction:  an Olympic sized pool, and the prospect of going into the port village afterwards and wandering around gift shops to see what I don’t need to buy.  I pulled into the state park and asked the girl at the ticket booth, “Do you think that a storm is coming this way?”  Famous last word: “Nahhh.”  I drove in, put on my suit, got into the pool and circulated about 4 minutes before the lifeguard blew the whistle to get out due to thunder.  I thought of the “Hail, Mary.”  I also thought a few other more profane utterances, but there were kids around.  I sat out under the shelter wondering if I should get into clothes and leave or wait it out.  I waited about 20 minutes and the clouds moved over and around us – not one drop of rain, mind you – but thunder three times delayed our re-entry into the pool.  I think the rule is you can enter like 20 minutes after the last thunder.  No visible lightning around but recently I read that lightning from a storm 12 miles away can strike where you are…. made me feel like a target.  Eventually, all swimmers got back in the pool and I went along with the day as planned:  nap & swim & shop & eat. 

So, as I have been told since I was a child, “Into each life a little rain must fall.”  I’m just keeping my “Hail, Mary” handy.  You can borrow it if you want.  But I still want to know what Father was thinking about.  Yikes.

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Pet Adoption in America 101 - #2 - I'm Cat-a-tonic

Pet Adoption in America 101 - #2 - I'm Cat-a-tonic

In most chain pet-stores they have a practice at the cash register of asking you if you’d like to donate to help a homeless pet.  My usual response after the sticker shock of the bill is tell them, “No.  There are quite a few of those pets living in my house – I am contributing directly to the solution.”  My response usually flies over the head of the bright-eyed, freshly tattooed PETA cashier waiting on me.  Anybody can be a protester or demonstrator when they are living at their parents’ house, right?  Every now and then one of them may say, “Ooohhh that’s nice.   So how many pets do you have?”  At present, I need to be in a DPA (Domesticated Pets Anonymous) meeting before I quote an exact figure.  The only help my Higher Power has given me with this problem is a couple of deaths in the aviary this past month.  I don’t think that’s funny and I don’t think that’s a good solution to my truly non-problematic life situation!

So let’s talk about cats.  Most people don’t have to adopt a cat.  If you live long enough, someone else’s cat will adopt you.  Really that’s how it goes.  I think that cats leave their homes because of some very deep instinct that says, “Someone else may provide me better food so I’ll just wander out and check on that.”  That’s why I don’t let my cats outside.  They don’t have that option of shopping for a new home.  Plus they have the Life of Reilly at my house and they darn well better be knowing it.  And of course, I know that they are not going to fare too well if they run into the wildlife that exists in my part of the country.  Saving myself a trip to the vet that I don’t want to make, they live inside and lounge around all day.  My next life, maybe I should come back as a cat?

No.  I think it probably stinks to be a cat.  Even though we perceive them as aloof and individualistic, they really are dependent on people once they are domesticated.  They count on us to clean their box, remember to give them food & water, and pay attention to whether or not they are truly as healthy as they fake themselves to be.  I told someone recently that birds, not unlike cats, hide their illnesses until they are just about at Death’s Doorstep.  Then, it’s up to you to figure out what the next step is.  It’s a crazy thing. 

I could say I don’t think I was born a “cat-person,” I became one out of compassion.  But then again most pickles don’t realize they were cucumbers in their previous environment.  In 1992 I was living on the edge of a city and a grey tiger kitten was roaming through the yard a few houses down.  The little girl sitting in the driveway played with it for about FIVE HOURS and then her mother took her inside and left the kitten out.  That really made me mad because now the kitten had no chance at remembering where it lived, and was all loved-up by a kid, and had to figure out what next.  Usually the tires of someone’s car are what’s next.  So I went over there, knowing nothing at all about cat care in any way, and picked the kitten up and brought it home.  Really Simba was the sort of kitten you would like to put a bonnet on and push in a baby carriage – she had such a great disposition.  When she was about two years old, I said to her, “You know, you are the perfect first cat.  You are also the perfect last cat.”

Not even two weeks later I was walking from the street to the driveway, and this adorable calico shot out from under a parked car and began doing figure-8’s around my ankles.  The perfect second cat?  I looked down and said, “So what’s your issue?”  She had come from the derelict empty house on our street – the one where the basement window was smashed out and cats came and went like cowboy’s going to the Saloon in an old west ghost town.  She meowed and continued the ankle hypnosis on me.  I looked down and said, “Well, then, come on….”  And she followed me into the house, upstairs, and went straight to the dogfood dish and ate dog food for what seemed an inestimable amount of hours. 

This new family member was of some concern to the primary cat.  And the dog was kind of stunned by the bold-faced thievery occurring at her dish.  But everyone got over it.  Even me.  I took the cat a day later to the vet’s office for a routine once-over.  The young vet took the cat from me and said, “I’m taking her in the back to test her for feline leukemia.  If she is positive I will have to put her down.”  She turned on her heel and walked out the door.  And I got teary-eyed at the prospect.  Well, 13 years later the healthy senior citizen cat is just sleeping and eating and occasionally being “charged” by the youngest dog in the house.   So as she begins to down-scale physically, I thought I should get a healthy cat in the picture.  (The first cat has been gone to Kitty Heaven over two years now.)

The run-around begins.  I have a mental picture of what I want:  a female, white, some color, short hair domestic kitten.  One shelter was so dirty that I walked through, that I could barely stand the smell.  Another shelter was difficult to find:  a non-descript brick building faded in the sun, it was probably an old armory or a school of some sort.  I never did get IN that building, but picked a cat named Priscilla from the online selection.  I called the woman in charge.  The conversation began:

Me:  “Hi.  I’m looking to adopt the cat Priscilla.”

Her:  “She isn’t ready yet.  We can’t let her go for a week.”

Me:  “Gee, that’s perfect because I will be coming back from vacation and can get her then.”

Her:  “We’ll talk to you then.”

I came back from vacation to a message on my answering machine:  “We are calling to see if you are still interested in one of our cats.  We have a great black cat here….”

HUH?  I call them:  “Hi.  You left a message about a black cat?  I was looking at Priscilla, the WHITE cat.”
“Oh, she’s been adopted out.”

Me:  “How could THAT happen?  You said she wasn’t ready to go.”

“Oh, well someone else came and took her brother Rodney so we let her go too.”

Goodbye.

I found an amazing kitten online in the Hudson area.  If they were selling her at cost for her breed, she would have been a very expensive designer cat.  They never returned my emails. 

I located a kitten in a shelter listed online.  It was a little bit further south than I wish it was, but you know how that goes.  I was a woman on a mission!  I called them on a rainy autumn Saturday and said I was coming.  I had sent my application down to the shelter via fax a week prior for the same cat.  I called them half-way there and they said, “On Saturdays we only do adoptions until 4:00 pm and we close at 4:30pm.”  I practically begged them, “Well, I am half way to you, should I turn around?  At least can I come see her?”  I pulled in the driveway to see a statue of St. Francis right in front of me.  It’s nice to know that one of Heaven’s finest “animal welfare agents” is on your side.  I checked my clock:  It was 4:28 pm.  Like a child in a candy store window, I put my hand on the glass and waved.  They let me in and told me promptly that adoptions were closed.

“Can I at least see the kitten?”

“Oh, okay.  She’s back here.”  The woman guided me through the cleanest shelter I have ever seen.  (And, sadly, I have choked my way through some very dirty ones.)  I kept walking to the pen in the back where two kittens played.  The kitten I had seen online, Sola, looked up at me as if she had detected me on radar, came right to the front of the cage and extended her paw out to me.  The woman said, “Do you want to see her?”  Sure.  She put the kitten in my arms.  Decision made.  And she says to me, “What do you think?”  I replied, “It’s a definite yes.”  She replied,  “Oh, okay.  I’ll take an extra 15 minutes and do the paperwork.”  Really.  All these commercials and spots on the evening news to place these animals and you have to coax cooperation out of the workers.  How frustrating.

Two years later, she is an incredibly beautiful white cat – seal point Siamese mix – every morning she sits on the bathroom sink and “visits” with me as I put my make up on.  And sometimes if I walk by her, she extends that paw to me just like she did when we first met.  It makes me wonder why adopters have to run the emotional gauntlet to secure this piece of happiness.

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Pet Adoption in America 101 - #1

I am going to write three articles and then ask you, the reader, to see if you agree with my starting hypothesis:  It is easier to adopt a human child from a foreign country than it is to adopt an animal from a rescue or shelter in the United States.  That seems like an outrageous claim to make, no?  And while the value of the adoption is certainly not comparable from an ethical standpoint, my premise is based on life experience over the past few years that has nonetheless given me a few grey hairs.  I’m not just talking about dogs either – I will tell the tales of feathers and fur – a dog story, a cat story, a bird story.  But I will begin with a people story.

A few years ago within months of losing my first dog, I had to take my newly adopted canine basket case to Doggie Boot camp.  I first registered with the cheapest dog trainers in the area for group training.  (Obviously I am going to omit names and company affiliations to protect people.  Although mostly it is just to protect me because they should be blown-in.)  I showed up with my very nervous dog to a group training session and the leader explained that we would get a certain amount of sessions for our registration fee. … and a fanny pack.  Why the fanny pack?  “To keep treats in,” I was told.  I approached the leader privately after class and said to her that I was going to un-register since our dog training philosophies were not the same.  I want a dog who is going to obey me even when I DON’T offer treats.* She assured me that even in the show ring dogs are provided treats.  She said she suggests string cheese because you can hold it in your mouth so you have both hands free to work with the dog.  And I’m thinking, there has to be a point where that gets slimy and yacky.  She took it one step further and said, “Well, when I train my dogs, I actually have the cheese in my mouth and spit it to them or dribble it down the front of my shirt so they are always watching my face.”  Yeah.  She really said that.  (italics added for emphasis)  And I really called her boss and got my money back.

My second choice for training the dog may have actually been a charm school drop-out.  Oh, for sure, he was a fantastic dog trainer:  fantastically expensive and very successful in his profession**.  In fact, I think he could train big cats for the circus and do even better.  But with people, um, not so much.  At the point of dropping a large sum of cash (to my budget) for the task at hand – which absolutely had to happen – I was I believe understandably edgy.  And also my dog hated men…  men who wore hats.  And the trainer was … a man … who wore a hat.  One of the first things he said to me was:  “You have the order of the universe screwed up.  It goes:  God, People, dogs.  You have the last two flipped.”  Charming.  Close the deal with a paying client by insulting or intimidating them to their face. 

I dropped the dog off for Day One of training with him alone.  Well, not really alone, since he lived with a pack of dogs that are of various terrorist-related breeds.  I handed him a plate of cookies I had baked as a good will gesture – you know, like giving an apple to the teacher.  He responded, “It is amazing how many women drop off their dogs and give me cookies.”  Ten years ago I took that on the chin.  If it happened today when I as a midlife woman have “come into my powers of wit & wile,” I would have replied, “Oh no, those aren’t for you.  I’m taking them to work with me this morning and I just needed you to hold them for a second.”  Beautiful 20/20 hindsight – Oh, for a second chance.

So how did the dog fare?  We worked our butts off for five weeks, she and  I.  She would heel, sit, stay, not jump on the counter and in the long run became a more well-adjusted dog.  She is a great dog for me.  But as he pointed out, she still will have issues because of whatever her first owner put her through.  After living with her for almost a decade I think that is pretty much true; however, she has mellowed considerably…. except for men with hats…. And I guess I don’t blame her.  I now feel funny around men with hats.  Her other faults are minor and I am at peace overlooking them.  In fact, I am afraid of vacuum cleaners too.  LOL.

Her Adoption:  Case Study #1

My first dog was from a shelter in Maricopa County, Arizona.  She was a beautiful white and red cocker spaniel that I believe never was able to potty train in all the 17+ years of her life.  When she was in her final stages of mammary cancer she spent most of her days sleeping on the cool tile floor in our bathroom.  I began my search for a bigger dog for more of a guarding function as well as companionship.  I went to a variety of shelters over a period of two years in my search.  One summer day, I passed through a kennel and found this beautiful liver-colored Labrador mix weighing 35 pounds curled quietly in a cage.  I spoke to her.  Her sad eyes reached right through to me.  I said to her, “come on, wag your tail and give me something to go on here.”  She lifted the tail and let it flop slightly.  Then she sadly rested her chin on her front paws again.  I told her:  “I will rescue you.  I will give you a great life.”  And the drama began.

I approached the kennel girl and asked her to please take the dog out and walk her down the long hallway away from me so I could see that her hips worked properly.  I squatted down (it was over ten years ago, I could do that then without getting stuck.  LOL.) and watched her gait.  At the end of the hallway, the girl dropped the lead and I called the dog.  She ran into my arms.  (insert tears here.)  Then, bombshell #1:  “You can’t have her today because she is under observation since she just came in two days ago.”  Fine.  I get that.  I called them on Monday morning to ask if I could get her.

“I’m sorry, there was a family that was interested in her and we are waiting to hear from them.”  I agreed that, yes, she would be happy with a family environment and said I would call back.  Next day.  I called back.  “I’m sorry, there was a guy after the family that was interested in her.  Well, he’s been through looking at a few dogs so I think he might just be kicking tires.  Call back tomorrow.”  I just put it out there to her:  “Look, I can give this dog the Life of Reilly.  I feel like you are giving me the run around.”  She told me to call again.  Third phone call.  “No.  He didn’t call us but she has bad diarrhea and we need to have her see our vet.”  Fourth phone call.  “How is the dog doing?”  Call back on Saturday morning.  My gosh, I’m running out of calendar days for all this jazz.  Final phone call.  “Um, we need you to bring in your other dog to make sure they are compatible.”  Are you KIDDING ME???!!  My other dog is in the bathroom, DYING as we speak, and you want me to haul her all the way out there???!!!  “Yes.  I’m sorry it’s policy.”  So I scooped my precious Serena up and drove her out there to meet this dog and they were fine.  I think it was almost a nose-to-nose handing off of the baton ceremony when they met.  And STILL the kennel staff would not let me take the dog home.  Next day, and I swear I’m never calling them again, I called and the girl cheerfully said, “Her stomach is all good now and you can take her home today.  We were hoping that she would get better so you could have her.”  I hung up the phone and cried.  And that was before I realized she’d have to have training at Boot camp.

WHO does this to people?  What other organization takes upon itself the right to string a customer along while at the same time flooding out the propaganda that you shouldn’t buy a brand-new, home-made puppy from a breeder?  Car salesmen even know that selling you a USED car is always second-best to selling a first-run vehicle.  And they tell you when they have one on the lot and it is “almost sold.”  You don’t ever call back, and call back, and call back.  They want to close the deal asap so you don’t walk.

*(footnote on dog training)  I have one dog in the house that I have treat-trained and she will sit in the garage until the cows come home unless I offer her a treat to walk up the two steps into the kitchen.  Initial point proven:  do NOT treat-train dogs. 

**(footnote on Dog Trainer #2)  I have actually referred quite a handful of people to him to train their dogs – but with the caveat to not expect gracious conversation.  Cesar will have no competition for his spot on tv.

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When Ice Cream is Bad for Me

When Ice Cream is Bad for Me

My mother told me just this morning that ice cream is bad for me.  Well, you know I’m going to fight that with:  “define bad.”  Is it an irritant of some sort?  I think not.  Over time, could it cause conditions that make me ill?  Hear me out, and judge for yourself.

So tonight I went out to eat dinner because my previous plan to go gamble with a very good friend and very small amount of money fell apart.  I drifted toward a favorite restaurant, parked my car and proceeded onward only to find someone dropped a $20 next to my vehicle.  My first thought, which was rooted deeply in my more base nature was:  “YES.  Finders, keepers; losers, weepers.”  Then I walked into the restaurant only to find it jam-packed with car enthusiasts.  Someone had asked me last week if I was going to the “Nationals” this weekend and I asked, “National what’s?”  It was really getting to my cranky zone of needing to eat and I did not want to sit around and wait for a table for one, so I spun on my heel and went back to my car.  And then it hit me.  The $20 still in my pocket was talking to me. 

The vehicle next to me was a Lincoln from out of state.  The bill in my pocket was folded in half twice.  It didn’t seem dusty like it blew across the lot; it didn’t seem rained on like it had been on the ground for a while.  And technically it was not mine.  So I came up with a solution:  random act of kindness - I put it on the windshield wiper of the Lincoln.  If it was his, he will feel shocked that it was there.  If it wasn’t his, he will think that people in Central New York are the nicest people on the planet.  I feel good about that.  Although, frankly, I would have liked the $20 myself but I will get over it.  Sometimes becoming a decent human being takes some work.  And maybe someone will leave money on my windshield some day.  Well, I can dream.

I drove onward to the next restaurant of choice.  Happily when I walked in I was not greeted with my all-time favorite restaurant hostess faux pas of:  “Just one?”  because some day I am going to explain that I am in no way, shape or form, “just one.”  I am enough trouble to be five or six of me on some days.  And I also will articulate that the word “just” is a belittling term that really could hurt a person’s feelings if they had any to start with.  Just greet me and seat me and we will all get along nicely.

The wait staff took me to the back of the restaurant and for a brief second I thought it would be a quiet dinner.  Wrong-ola.  The table next to me was a little girl, her mother, and her grandmother teaching the baby in the high chair to talk.  I’m good with that because it wasn’t screaming.  It was kind of cute.

Then these two guys walked in.  Frankly, at first glance I thought they might be “a couple.”  Boy was I about to get my sights re-adjusted.  I wish I could see the one who sat with his back to me.  I would like to know if he looked dumb.  I say that because he was getting a tutorial that only dumb people – or very desperate men – would tolerate.  I only actually saw one of the guys before they sat down.  The one that I saw, who left me with an odd first impression, began to “school” the other guy on “getting women.”  (I am thinking I don’t want to know what happens after the capture.)

A younger waitress came over to get them situated and provide them with an initial beverage.  The guy with his back to me began chit-chatting with her in a very friendly way asking her a bit about herself.  At the point she said, “I have two children,” he had to re-group and figure out if that meant she was committed to someone else or not.  I am not reading into this.  When she walked away from the table, the other guy, let’s call him “Coach,” began interpreting the interface.  Coach told him, “She is cute.  She was friendly to you.  She likes you.”

I wanted to comment over my shoulder, “You’re a self-absorbed idiot.  She is just being a friendly waitress to get a good tip.” 

Coach started talking about how he’s met so many girls in the past few weeks and they were all hot and yada, yada, yada.  Then he kind of switched gears and mentioned it was hard for him being single again and in midlife.  No, buddy, that has nothing to do with it.  It’s just that you are obviously a jerk.

The other guy, let’s call him Vic (short for Victim of Bad Advice), seemed like he was trying to learn how to be friendly with women, but was low on long-term confidence.  The thing that Coach was trying to do was to really get him to be like him.  Which begs the questions, “IF Coach is such a stellar expert on women, why is he sitting in this dinky restaurant trying to get this other guy on board his train?  Why isn’t he out on a date with these women that seem to find him so irresistible?”  I propose to you that they don’t exist.

A woman who knew Coach walked up to the table with a small child.  She greeted him and then went on her way to her table.  After she left, Coach mentioned what town she was from and told Vic that she has always been hot, even as she aged.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME????!!!!  If that woman knew you interpreted her that way, I hope she’d at least give you a good old fashioned slap in the face.  The reason why Coach isn’t going to find any lasting relationship is probably because, given the way he interprets women, and what his plans seem to be, he thinks of them only in a way that suits his own need for visual entertainment and/or recreational purposes.

Women are people.  Women have intelligence, thoughtfulness, feelings, and are an incredible blessing to men who know how to treat them with the respect they deserve.  Studies have shown that married men live longer than single men.  You can take that one step further and marvel that most men who are married may have life insurance policies that might make it worth them not living as long…. So they should feel damn lucky to find a woman who can appreciate whatever it is that they bring into a relationship.  

What Coach never told Vic … probably because he is too bleeping shallow to know it is this:  the one thing women find across-the-board, 100% attractive is KINDNESS.  You can be a guy who never saw the inside of a gym his whole life, but if you are Kind, you have shoe-in.  Coach mentioned a movie where a guy took his shirt off and “even though the actor was middle-aged, he still looked good”…. whatever that means.  Because I can tell you that when you say the two words “Sean Connery,” women are initially not thinking about him taking off his shirt.  Almost universally, Sean Connery has won females on one quality alone:  he portrays a man who is deeply kind or brave in the movies.  When he played King Arthur in Camelot, his appeal was strictly in that his character was so incredibly noble.  The beard didn’t hurt, but it was mostly his nobility.  

I will give you another tip that Vic could have used:  Go walk a friendly dog in the park somewhere.  If you are going to put any kind of effort into the attraction process, knock yourself out with the dog as your spokesman.  Get a Pomeranian, teach it that when you say, “Let’s go for ice cream!” it will leap up into your arms.  I think you could pretty much end up buying any single woman an ice cream as well after that stunt.  Women trust men that dogs trust.  I propose that it is mostly because dogs are excellent judges of character at first whiff.  They know “weasel” in 30 seconds or less. 

And finally, take a tip from the Book of Madeline, my little brown cocker spaniel.  All she has to do is sit there and look at me with those big brown eyes as if to say, “And what would you like today?”  and she has my heart all mushy.  When she goes out into the yard with her own dog instincts and decides to roll in bunny poo to make herself more “attractive,” it just backfires.  In fact, it is nauseating.

I asked the waitress for my ice cream to go.  I couldn’t take five more minutes of him.  Maybe Vic will figure it out himself.  Good luck to him.

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O'er the Land of the Free

O’er the Land of the Free

The beautiful and uncomplicated flag of the United States of America – a unique human enterprise in and of itself – flaps confidently, insistently, in the wind on a knoll above the country club of a rural golf course in Upstate New York.  It reminds me that the leisure I enjoy – as well as the right to be educated, work in the profession of my choice, and pick my own husband – is a product of this free society.  Women in other countries do not all have this.  Babies die in their arms from hunger as they wait for rain and crops, or aid from other countries so different from theirs that they are called other “worlds.”  My stresses are not theirs.  Oh, trust me, I have my stresses.  But the things that set my hair on fire are quite different and pale in comparison to my sisters’ across the globe.  And no matter how tight my own budget gets, I have vowed to never forget them.  Any gift of Mercy only needs a checkbook, a pen, and a stamped envelope because there are so many charitable organizations in the Land of the Free and Home of the Generous – yet another fruit of freedom is the ability to be generous.

A proverb written in the Hebrew Scriptures states:  “the sun shines on the just and the unjust.”  It is even so with the flag of North America.  It flies to remind us to be the very best we can be; while at the same time abides all kinds of inconsistencies within its borders as we struggle to identify what The Best actually is.  While some propose that being the Best is a singular and solitary trait to be grabbed by wealthy, powerful, and self-centered; others propose that being the Best is to completely dissolve boundaries, limits, and sanity in the name of freedom.  Both extremes are equally reprehensible.  In the meantime, it might be time for a national lesson of some sort on how to uphold the ability to respect all people and yet disagree, if we choose, with their thoughts.  Perhaps a lesson on Respecting the Freedom of Conscience inherent in each human being is in order?

Adjacent from the flag unfurled in the winds of summer is a cemetery.  The flat, simple headstones marked with memories of people, real and true human beings, who walked this soil before us and worked out their own salvation in fear and trembling just like we do.  The granite tombstones are bleached in the sunlight – the names may have been eroded from the harsh winters they have endured, yet both of those natural factors remind us that both the best and worst experiences bring out a clarified meaning in our lives as well:  our names may fade, but let our deeds and words leave a legacy of peace and freedom for those who will live, laugh and work here in decades to come.

A silly ballad from the 1970’s came to my head as I drove the hills, “Please Mister Custer, I don’t wanna go…..”  And as I looked at ramshackle mobile homes and farm houses that needed vinyl siding to be carefully placed over the insulated wrap exposed on them, I thought of the plaintive wail in that song.  Perhaps some balladeer would like to revise the lyrics to:  “Please Mister G’vner, I don’t wanna lose my home…”  Houses should not have trees draping over them as if to hide their sorrowful condition.  Nor should they have to have posts “shoring up” front porch roofs because the owner is not able to fix it due to extreme poverty.  Oh if every ear of corn from Upstate NY that makes it to the cookouts of the Albany elites and the governor’s mansion could tell the story of the families that bring forth the food from the earth!  The corn itself could then lobby for justice for the farmers and their families!

Yesterday there was a weather forecast of strong winds and hail.  Today I see that the prayers of some farmers’ grannies were answered.  There was no hail and the corn will be “knee high by the 4^th of July” as we all wish and hope for! 

I see the man standing underneath the overhang of the Masonic Temple on the main street.  He is shielding his eyes from the glare of the late-day sun.  Taped to the window next to him is a sign boasting an upcoming Flea Market… or is it a leftover sign from days gone by?  How much do fleas cost these days anyways?  He holds a grocery store bag in his hand as if nothing of consequence is in it.  I wonder if his take home pay is enough to actually take him home to where he wants to be. 

I chuckle at the woman sitting with her legs propped up on the chair in front of her.  She is texting.  She is also sitting in the front parking lot of a neighborhood watering hole that looks almost utterly abandoned of customers or life of some sort.  There is something comical about her presence there.  She reminds me of a movie star on vacation:  dark shirt and jeans, dark sunglasses, and she is texting away.  The modern technology of texting is now ever-present even in places like these - places that exist solely for quenching the universal thirst of man for an ice cold beverage after a hard day’s work.  The value of that momentary relief, I am told, may be diminished by something as simple as being served in a glass bottle or in a can.  Silly me, I thought beer was beer.  Yet given the number of wooden posts for growing hops that have been put up in the last 18 months across this State, maybe I need to do some reading up on this and things related.

Front yards have cages for bunnies, chickens running around, picking here and there for whatever interests them and bored dogs watching traffic as they lie on the grass.  Every single borough I pass through seems to have a dollar store of some kind.  I can’t imagine how they survived fifty years ago without all this junk!  Or can I?!  One village that I drove through had a white country church with a pointed spire that had something on it’s very tip that I couldn’t quite make out.  I can easily imagine that the church itself may have been featured on a delightful Americana Christmas card with pretty multi-colored lights off-setting it’s prim white exterior with precisely perfect black shutters.  I drive further and I see the best thing of all:  a hand-carved Sasquatch looming at the doorway of a small establishment. 

If every town had a Sasquatch, parents could fabricate some first-rate stories.  This would then take on a life of its own among the teenage crowd.  Add a little magic to the stories and it may just scare kids enough to keep them off the streets and out of trouble at night.  Every legend and folk story has a purpose.   Sasquatch could also be adorned with decorations for holidays.  (I’ll let you go with your own imagination on that one.)  Think:  O’Sasquatch… that’ll get you on a trail.

So many, many pieces of Americana to absorb on my ride!  I stopped three times just to jot notes down on a piece of paper.  Well, okay, once was to buy more strawberries for jamming from a roadside stand.  But when I stopped at the convenience store, this guy in a big-arse red truck pulled in next to me.  He looked at me for a minute and then from the back seat of my vehicle came a loud BELLOW…. Madeline, in her crate – and we have cause to believe she is a living descendant of the Sasquatch himself – startled that guy right back into focus.  I smiled to myself.  I have a 26 pound chaperone in the back seat.

As we came over the crest of another hill, a small sign of block-style-letters asked me:  “Are you happy in the Lord?”  I live in the greatest country in the world.  My life is not always easy.  I work hard.  But am I happy in the Lord?  You bet I am.

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