I LOVE SNOW!!! Unfortunately, I don't live in a region where it is constant but sporadic. That being said however, last winter we were deluged with one of the larger snowfall amounts in recent St. Louis memory. In past years we always seem to be just on the cusp of the demarcation line so to speak. It reminds me of the famous Maxwell Smart line, "missed it by that much".
Now, it's quite possible that were I to live in a region of ubiquitous amounts or were it so pervasive that I couldn't get out, I may think or say differently. However, that could have its rewards as I could sit in front of my screen a good part of the day pounding out rather profound if not inescapable volumes for this blog.
But, as it was the day after Christmas that it came, and our wishes for a White Christmas were hopelessly dashed, I like to think, better late than never. And we still have to tread through 3 more months of winter and it would remote for nary another storm to blanket our area. So, I'm forever hopeful that another one will soon be on its way. Now, as a school teacher, I must say I have my limits on how many times I can watch in earnest in the wee hours of the morn' our local news report our school district is closed. I can joyously shout really only 5 times and after that, I know it's going to eat ridiculously into my summer vacation as it did last year, having to make up days. But it sure is nice to crawl back into a warm bed or stoke the fireplace and curl up with furballs and canines and a good comforter, (or Meg Ryan if you're reading)
But getting back to that first snow and its pristine silence, cascading to earth. It's always bleak and the sky is inhospitable while it falls. And the hush of a flake dancing, toppling is a paradox in itself. I've often been in a forest as it snowed and the stillness often cries of an aging austerity that proves so uninviting. It's that paradox of silence that penetrates my soul. In the redeeming quality of that snowflake once landed, one sees the glint of sparkle; light and fashion sculpted into a promise of redemption and vision. Oh, how I love the snow!
This was an original article that was written in the New York Sun in 1897 by Francis Church after Philip O'Halon's 8yr. old daughter-Virginia had posed the question to him. He suggested she write a letter to the New York Sun saying, "if it's printed in the Sun, then it's so".
This is the response given by Mr. Church:
Dear Editor—
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanlon
Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.
You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
I'd just like to add that Yes, Daniel there is a Santa Claus also. Every time you witness a kind act, or the cry of a newborn baby, or the smell of puppy breath, or the gentle kiss of a raindrop on a blade of grass, or listen to the eerie silence of freshly fallen snow, or the dance of a sun beam caressing your pillow, or the smile of a wrinkled brow, or the laughter of a child at play, or the dance of a flame charring a log, or the soft kiss planted on your cheek. Yes, these timeless happenings occur each and every day telling me that Santa is here.
No, I haven't forgotten about my blog, nor has the fluid inspirations of my psyche been diminished. Like the other great writers of the literary field, we all sometimes get mental anemia. For those of you that seriously know me, you understand that I make such a ludicrous comment with great levity!! In this case it's been more of a physical anemia....basically adhering my gluteus maximus to the couch. Sometimes I think it got hermetically sealed there. But then again there's been another reason which is more in tune with my mental state. As I looked back at my last posting (Aug. 23rd), it brings a stark reminder of why I made my last post and rekindles some sadness that I languished in. And as much as I tried to avoid that event, the harsh reality of it still lingers. But, I've been down that road before, will go down that road again, and the circle of life will continue. But my grief lessens and the day to day mechanisms move forward. I've had many "inspirations" over the last two months to plunk finger to key board and dust off the grey matter and write. It doesn't take a provocative inclination to encourage me. It can be the simple laugh of a child, the unwitting glance of a person in the market, the haunting aroma of a rain storm, or more simply, the wet kiss from my dogs. I can't pinpoint what has struck me now, but I grasp the sense to resume.
And while I'm not quite sure I'm going to have anything quite profound to write, (and it really doesn't matter at all) the sheer joy in occupying my space on my blog is enough. Besides, the real estate is cheap. Where else can I put down my thoughts and not get charged for it? Blogger is free, for the time being.
I could put down that I've got some new electronic toys to my arsenal, which have added to the ease of everyday living. But I'd also have to clarify that by stating quite unequivocally that I could just write stuff down (like I did years ago) rather than put them on my calendar on my iPhone, or continue to use my older camera, and listen more to the radio rather than affixing my pre cataract eyes to the big screen tv that adorns me living room, and instead of relying on the ease of powering up my iPad, just go to the library!! But, alas, all of these modern conveniences have woefully restricted my efforts at creativity. I wonder what Grandpa would have said?
I also could visit the abrupt and rather languid mentality of Reality television; something that I have thought several times of doing before and most probably will, but not in this post. As I detest them, and feel they are the scourge of mental decency for anyone who watches t.v. But, I will save that for another time.
I've met and spoke with several "new" acquaintances in my absence and this is always (and will continue to be) a truly irreproachable activity for me. I love meeting and acquiring new friends. Some say that the eyes are the window to the soul. I believe it's meeting and establishing new friendships that are the mirror of oneself.
I must confess that I really don't understand life and all it's wondrous hesitations. And even more so with death and the sublime interruption that it flails on us at the most inopportune times. Just when I think I may have an inkling to the schedule that has seemingly been ordained, the rug is pulled from me and I'm left gathering my emotions at another bend in the road and an abrupt hesitation at a very inopportune time. And as my heading implies, it really is a decree that has been determined by God for truly He does giveth and must taketh away. And that He did one week ago without warning, without preparation, without hesitation. He called my beloved little "Piper" home. The loan He had so graciously given me 15 yrs. ago was up and her final place was with Him. She will now follow Dancer and I know he was waiting for her at the gate to show her around. He'll introduce her to some friends of ours that have gone before and were waiting for her. And the Lord Taketh Away
And Dad, if you're reading, take care of my little girl.
I ask myself where did 18 yrs. go? What has transpired in that time. I could break it down into minutes which would be 9,460,800, or hrs. which would be 157,680, and days-6570. 18 years in itself sounds like an eternity and if we were to calculate our lives in compartments of hours, it would resonate with the veracity of an almost immortal perpetuation. I imagine if we were to sit in our BarcaLounger staring aimlessly at the Timex counting those 9 million minutes, one would either suffer an incurable sense of boredom or risk a delusional sense of immortality. But, we neither have the inclination to subject ourselves to such boredom nor would we entertain the idea of delusion, albeit at some times during our lives, risking delusion over reality can be, how shall I put it, somewhat jocular. We could also debate the essence of psychological time vs. physical time and really get into something the philosophers referred to as phenomenological time. If I've lost you by now...sorry. You're probably wondering where in the hell is he going with this Aristotelian metaphysical discussion? And certainly what does it have to do with the title of this post-101? Quite simply today would have been her 101st. birthday. And it's been 18 yrs. since we last celebrated one. I didn't post anything on the 9th, several days ago as that was the day she died. And looking back at those 18 yrs., 6570 days, 157,680 hrs. and 9,460,800 minutes, I can honestly tell you I've missed her presence each one of those increments. So, withstanding all that philosophical jargon, and I think of what we would be doing with her today if she were still alive. Hopefully, she would be living with one of her children, but realistically taking care of a centenarian would have it's own set of trials. But humoring me for a moment, one of us would have taken her to lunch, and then to dinner at one of her established restaurants, and if she was up to it...a round of Bingo. As I was driving home this evening, I passed one of her Bingo Halls that she frequented. This being Wednesday, I know she would have wanted to go. And with any luck, she would have come out of the hall, smelling like a tobacco farm, but smiling like a Cheshire cat as she had won the grand prize-$400.
There's so much I want to tell her and let her know what a wonderful mom she was. I want her to know what I've been doing in those 18 years. I want to take her to Bingo one more time. I want her to hear her voice just one more time and feel my arms around her. But, somehow, I know she's been watching and listening the entire 18 years, 6570 days, 157,680 hrs. and 9, 460, 800 minutes.
This little quote comes from a lady who wasn't handed the easiest of lives. In fact, one could say that from the moment she was born, it was going to be a struggle against all odds-Helen Keller. It's one that I cherish quite profoundly and very deeply in my heart. In spite of setbacks, hardships, sufferings, the memory of a beloved friend remains in my heart stronger than ever....even after 135 days. We ventured to one of our favorite haunts tonight. It was the first time our new arrival came with us. I had to remind him it is a special place, almost hallowed ground. We were all there tonight, sharing it's peace, reminiscing of days gone by. "I shall say that life is good".
I remember him well as a young boy looking up to him as sons do their fathers. I remember as a young boy of 3 devilishly playing in our coal bin only to imagine some cosmic escape on the wings of Flash Gordon as I sullied myself from the soot. For some reason or other, I miraculously escaped his hand being hermetically sealed against my bottom. It was against his nature to use his hand for disciplinary correction. I only remember once when I was about 6 that his wrath was tested that I received a spanking; and even then it wasn't of any noteworthy proportion and unlike the cartoon characters depicted in those days, I was able to sit down after the experience. I can remember even trying to put the proverbial pillow on my backside as to lessen the blow.
I remember him buying my first bicycle-a 3 speed Italian Road bike made by Bianchi. I know we didn't have Consumer Reports back then but that bike outclassed the Schwinn by a hundredfold. Being of Italian heritage, it was going to be THE only bike for his son. I even remember what the cost of it was-$69. In 1958, that very well could have been a fourth of his paycheck. Being the only son had it's ranking privileges though and while mom's child bearing days were over, I was the last of the Bello clan to carry on the family name. Nothing was going to be too good for me, plus being the baby of the family didn't hurt either. In addition, I had two older sisters. Why....it was like the second coming of Christ.....well....not really, but you get the picture.
What happens to young sons as they get older and the bond or faint whisper of separation from their roots begins to flourish, that innocence begins to deteriorate. Or was it his inner demons that began to surface and the perils of raising a family became rooted in the bottle? Was the embarrassment of marrying a divorced woman with a child too much for him to muster? His lack or inability to relinquish those demons became paramount and his frustration exacerbated the problem. Gone were those childlike games of catch, strolls hand in hand at the zoo, and the surprise gifts on paydays. They were regrettably replaced by suspicion and contempt and a ridiculously feral attack on his family. As this behavior escalated, the admonishments became more directed at me. Now being the only son, had it's drawbacks. The years sped by and conciliatory acts of redemption were lethargic. Fleeting successes refused to penetrate my anger. And then, almost miraculously, almost ordained by heaven, he quit. No longer relying on the crutch of the bottle, his demeanor and attitude changed. Those wasted years of separation seemed too distant and that father-son loss began to fade, only to replaced cruelly by another invader; one that would eventually claim him. It was one that had sequestered itself and overlooked by others. All to late in the end to really intervene, his last 26 days of life were spent in the hospital. We became closer than ever as I felt his life slipping through my hands. Whatever previous efforts at atonement had failed, it was his love and presence that I knew were always there. The haunting words, "if you build it, he will come", encompassed my mind. I sat there with my sister that night, in the dark, as he lapsed in and out of consciousness, not really knowing if I was there. I hope in some small way, he knew that I was there to "ease his pain". "Hey Dad, you wanna have catch?" Happy Father's Day,
I spoke with him today like I do each day as if nothing has transpired from 122 days ago. I know he's listening, keeping watch echoing my thoughts deep in the caverns of my mind. Today would have been HIS special day as each of them have and come to celebrate. I know at this time last year, it was my fervent prayer that he would have been with me to mark this occasion. I attempted to "bargain" shamelessly with God to give me another year. But the words, "the Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away hauntingly ring in my ears.
We would have arisen early as that robin in my back yard searching for the proverbial worm. He would have searched aimlessly about the house for something totally ridiculous for what do you give an 84 yr. old but maybe a new lease on life. As is customary, just he and I would have piled into the "bellomobile" and headed off to the nearest store. This being his lucky day, he would have been able to saunter in and sashay about the aisles meandering about eyeing what suited his fancy. If he was lucky, some unsuspecting babe would have felt a wet nose on her backside or better yet, the infamous sniff at her crotch. Embarrassingly, I would have had to excuse his manners, harboring some totally farcical explanation, that for a senior citizen, he can't really see or smell that well anymore. Knowing full well it was a totally inept and nonsensical description only to be chuckling ridiculously under my breath.
I would have guided him to the shelf with some semblance of a reinforcer that garnered some sort of preposterous sound that faintly approximated a duck. Only to be amused by the cocking of his head and the excitement of his body would I continue the taunting till he feverishly jumped and slobbered on it. Then we were committed and the words, "lovely to look at, once it's wet, consider it bought for your pet" rang through my head. So, we would continue our journey in this target rich environment and venture down another aisle as I told him we couldn't go home empty handed without something for his friends. I knew full well that once he arrived home, his excitement for his $12.99 toy would diminish faster than a block of ice on a hot asphalt pavement, only to be "stolen" from his grasp by the "Remster". But I have to admit that watching the teasing and interplay of the three of them only brought smiles to my face.
I told him about the "new kid on the block", but again, he knows the little bugger is here certainly not as a replacement for him, but to bring some joy and happiness back. I know he would approve and I'm eager to speak to him again and get his response. I know he would tell me that I did a good thing and the little pooper needed a good home and he won't find a better one. I know he'll be telling him what a softy I am, and that all he'll need to do is look at me with those "baby browns" and I'll melt. I'll tell him that I'd like to believe that I adopted Kody but he rescued me. Dancer, meet Kody. Give him a tour and don't teach him to jump on the counter to get the cat morsels!!
Happy 12th Birthday Dancer, till we meet again.
I have to admit that I don't have many pet peeves at this stage of my life. One of the tranquilities of life's experiences that has surreptitiously crept up on me almost without me being aware. But the one pet peeve I steadfastly cling to almost like hot asphalt to my shoe on a blistering St. Louis summer day is reality tv shows. I just don't get the appeal of them and the morbid and almost aberrant fixation people, not just Americans, because this is a global issue that people in general have for them. But in saying this, I have to confess to being a bonafide regular viewer of one of the first "reality" shows back in the 50's when CANDID CAMERA first aired. I can remember sitting with my parents watching as Alan Funt concocted story after story of people just being themselves, as he used to close the show with that classic line. And I have to admit to busting a gut a time or two as Art Linkletter quizzed the ever precocious 5 yr. old on seeing her pregnant mother take a shower and asking her, "mommy, are you getting fat", and the mother replied, "Yes, honey, remember Mommy has a baby growing in her tummy", and her daughter replies, "Yeah, I know, but what's growing in your butt"? But there was a sense of innocence and childlike benevolence in these shows. Today we have Snooki enticing Pauly D to start a fight at a local bar in New Jersey, or Paris Hilton and Nicole Richey (The Simple Life) trying to figure out how to get the cap off a bottle of cleaning solution. Is it any better when Barbara Wa-Wa listed the cast of Jersey Shore as one of the top 10 most fascinating people of 2010.
But as we give these people/shows more attention and continue to "idolize" them in some morose and dismal manner, these shows will continue to propagate. Have our lives become so boring that the misgivings and failings of a Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston, and God forbid-"the Donald" are the flak juice we need to jump start our lives? Do we get that much of a serotonin hit when The Bachelor gives that final rose to some unsuspecting tart only to be mesmerized by him calling her the "most amazing woman he's ever met"? I have to accept the fact that there are minimal "reality" shows that have substance-"The Deadliest Catch", or "Survivor Man" do share somewhat of a National Geographic mentality. How a North Atlantic crab fisherman or Les Stroud teaching me how to survive should I become stranded while hiking in Colorado will certainly benefit me if not save my life. But watching Joe Dumb Fuck trying to elude his wife Sara I'm So Stupid while he bangs Martha Big Tits only to be caught by the discriminating eye of Joey Greco and his merry band of cameramen from Cheaters only brings the ad nauseum to my palate. But the one thing about these shows that continues to allow them to gain momentum is money. As long as John Q continues to watch and drive the Nielsons, we're (or at least I am) stuck with them.
So, what I propose to my millions of faithful followers, when the new season of Jersey Shore starts.....CHANGE THE CHANNEL and watch something more substantial...wholesome, entertaining, and educational.....THE 3 STOOGES!!!
96….where did the time go and soon to be 25. Time is pervasive, extensive, and it never stops. In the moment, we often wonder, “gosh, I wish time would hurry up”, or “won’t this day ever end”? And yet, now as the golden years seem to rise faster than the morning sun, time becomes inescapable. Several months ago, I wrote of wishing time would stop…..now….not move on so that death would not overtake him. I thought this also 25 yrs. ago as he lay in his bed, overcome by a hideous and unavoidable outcome. But, as my own humanity was severely tested, then and a few months ago, I realize how truly transient I am. We’re like the proverbial incandescent light bulb. When we’re born, it may say on the crib-1200hrs. Whether we “last” those 1200 hrs. is anyone’s guess. Certainly when he was born, his package read: “621,960 hrs.”, or 71 yrs. Not an extended lifeline for him. I would have wished he would have purchased the extended warranty. But as he abused his body, the extended warranty probably would have been a futile and wasteful investment. But that’s neither here nor there and as much as I miss him, I know he’s with me each day. We had a “communique” of sorts several weeks ago with the help of another. I often believed he was listening to me and looking out for me. I had asked him last year at this time to look after my boy and to use whatever influence he had to give him more time. I’m not sure exactly how that played out, but as he told me, he’s taking care of the entire brood now and that for me is golden. His message to me is a symphony of thoughts. I think we communicate more now than we did when he was alive. And as his messages come through mentally, I miss the sound of his voice. I miss him telling me he loves me and as his son, how proud he is of me. Here me tonight, Paul, I’m proud you’re my Dad. Happy Birthday and for old times sake will you sing it for me one more time?
I don't consider myself a patriotic kind of guy but I do know that I love my country immeasurably and wouldn't want to live anywhere else. I also know that the blokes who purport to dictate policy and say they're only out to make our lives better would all be better off on a very slow boat to China and it wouldn't hurt much if there was a slow leak in the hull. We Americans have an inimitable spirit that is daunting to those that don't know us very well. This has been evidenced by the recent tragedies that have befallen the town of Joplin, (in my own state) and also Tuscaloosa, Alabama. In Joplin, you see flags standing tall amongst what truly looks like a bomb was dropped there. You see neighbor helping neighbor, people who don't even know these people coming from all over to assist them rebuild, search for their loved ones, and provide that ever radiant and sweet lullaby of hope.
And so it goes with our American Soldier on this Memorial Day weekend. We often forget about this lonely 19 yr. old kid (and he truly is a kid) half way across the globe, striding surreptitiously down some God forsaken street, packing his HK416, hoping to God that he doesn't come across an IED. And it's that IED that has sent so many of his buds home either in a box or without their arms or legs. Let's face it, he shouldn't be there or we shouldn't be there. Whether you're in agreement or not with government policy and the assault of the Taliban is our main objective, we often forget about that 19 yr. old hunkered down in some rat infested hole, eating MRE's and trying to clear sand and dust out of his face. The only place he should be hunkered down is in the backseat of his Mustang trying to get inside the pants of his girlfriend, wondering if he's going to score tonight or not.
So, as I "hunker" down in my BarcaLounger tonight, sipping on a Coors munching on some ribs from Bandana's, I'll think of Private Lopez, praying for his safe return. God Bless You for keeping me safe!
My previous post spoke of a mother rabbit and her baby "kits" that had taken up refuge in my back yard for the last several weeks. And as many young animals they are subject to the perils of ending up as delicacies for wayfaring predators, especially feral cats or red tailed hawks. I've kept a watchful eye for them and did see them (3) two days ago. They were actually enjoying a romp through what was much needed to be cut grass with their mother. She was quite playful with them as they darted about a mixture of rose of sharon bushes, star cherry tree, and ornamental grasses that decorate my yard. And while I haven't seen any of the local predators, I've not seen the kits since then. So, I'm hoping that they've moved on maybe to more fervent territories, or are just being quite coy and selfish about showing their furry little faces to me. I did check out their previous bungalow this evening and while there were remnants of their fur, it appears that they haven't been back for several days. I will continue to hope that they are around here and will again tell me they're on their way to being just plain "cwazy wabbits".
Since I don't have a pic of the bunnies, their mom will have to do.
I don't consider this post significantly momentous and it certainly won't make the 3rd, 4th, or even 5th page of the daily newspaper, but maybe what it means to me is that the cycle of life continues each year whether you're human or animal. And it's sort of a really touching cycle that occurs usually each spring. Obviously you see a "wabbit" as Elmer would longingly call out. Nah...it's not Bugs but maybe Bugs' girlfriend. It's a Mommy Rabbit and she's carrying, or actually nursing her young. They're lying beneath her in a clump of grass enjoying their daily sustenance. I happened to come along them a couple of weeks ago as I was mowing the lawn and saw this clump of dead grass in the middle of the lawn. As I surveyed the area prior to mowing, looking for rocks or twigs larger than what I lazily would just mow over, I noticed the clump of grass. As I was about to just pick up the grass and give it the old heave, I just decided to garner a look-see. And squirming beneath the mound, were tiny baby "kits". I'm not sure how many there were, but I did see that they didn't have any fur so I guess they were only a few weeks old as they start to fur out about 3-4 weeks. The mother rabbit is quite diligent as she usually comes about the same time each day to nurse and check on them.
As I checked on them this evening, I can see that they are turning into little "fur balls". And the fact that they've made it this "fur" (how's that for a pun?) in their very short life is a testament to survival. My innate desire to protect them goes beyond survival of the fittest even though I know it's nature's way. There has been a hawk taking up residence in my area over the last few years but I haven't seen it as of late, possibly as the "hunting" has been limited and we certainly have our fair share of cats that are on the prowl. So, as these little kits strive to adulthood, I hope the cycle of life continues for them and once again I won't be to upset when I see those familiar little chunks taken off my hostas each spring.
It's the eve of Mother's Day and the images I've selected are a continuation from several days ago of the beginning buds from two of my rose bushes-Black Cherry on the top and the Double Delight on the bottom. They've now opened and are exposing not just their intoxicating beauty but their bouquet as well. I've superimposed them on their buds so you can see from whence they've come. And while this blog, nor this post are meant to be lessons in roses, I did say it's the eve of Mother's Day. Certainly my thoughts saunter to my Mom now and wander what we would be doing with her this day. Born in 1910, she'd be 101 yrs. young. I'd envision picking her up from some living situation whether it would be an assisted living or one of her children's homes. The thought of having her live somewhere other than with one of us would have been devastating. But, as the needs of the aged often become more than one can manage, this may have been necessary. She was a spry 83 when she died and had she lived, her vigor and enthusiasm for life would have been tough to ignore. As a boy growing up, and even as an adult, to conjure up Mom as some convalescent sitting in a day room staring aimlessly at Alex Trebeck without some mental effort at answering the question, "the best sauce to use with homemade ravioli", "what is marinara" would have been deftly callous. In spite of her lack of educational knowledge, she was quite schooled in the arena of life. And while she wasn't one to preach, nor can I really remember her bantering some clever or perceptive adage to me, it was her gently nature and her muted stoicism that has always struck a cord with me. It's not necessary for me to speculate on what she would say to me now, 61 years into my life, for she's here with me each day and she speaks loudly in my ear, " I love you son." Happy Mother's Day Mom!
I love roses and have about 30 of them adorning my front yard. If you like to garden and hear the word "rose" all sorts of fears, anxieties, and down right misery can be conjured up with idea of how difficult they are to grow. Aside from a few minor issues of Japanese Beetles, aphids, black spot disease, rust infections, downy mildew, and a few others, they're not that difficult to grow....with a bit of tongue in cheek here. But seriously, they're not all that bad and aside from my yearly infestation of Japanese beetles, I don't have really any of the other issues mentioned. These two buds here will bring forth a beautiful flower in the next several days and I will post them when they finally open. The top image is a Black Cherry and the bottom is a Double Delight. Both are in the Floribunda class and are deliciously fragrant.
But this post isn't meant to be a lesson in gardening and the care of roses although the significance of the rose is rather unique and I will note a couple of facts about the rose. The origin of the cultivated rose comes from Northern Persia and the oldest rose fossil is said to have been found in Colorado dating more than 35 million years ago. And for all you lovelorn people (primarily men) out there, if you were to give your significant other 108 roses, it would mean, "Please Marry Me". So watch out how many you give!!
But, I'm digressing here. I've titled this post, "Beginnings" as we're in to Spring here in crazy weather St. Louis. And while we've been experiencing Seattle like patterns here (and this is not a slight to my very special friend living there in case she checks in) but with all the rain and the growth of my roses, it's telling me another season is about to begin which translates for me as a "beginning" and a cleansing of my soul so to speak. For the mental desolation I had been experiencing the last several months is fading. I've always enjoyed this time of year as I walk amongst my roses garden but for this year it's extra special. Their "return" to life is just that, after lying dormant through the winter, somewhat denuded of life, covered with either snow or mulch are now springing forth (no pun intended...well maybe just this once),with a display of color, fragrance, and accord. Death can be that destruction that forbids that dormancy to again rise from the earth. It is with these new buds that eventually bring forth that harmony and new beginning.
I've sort of gotten away recently from my blog as I look at the date of my last post. And yet the date isn't of consequence as my last couple of weeks I've been emotionally processing an "awakening" of sorts that is, or has lead me on a journey away from my grief. Grief and sorrow, allowed to fester and seed itself can have devastating consequences. It can also be a mental crutch that permeates oneself and almost provides a distorted sense of comfort. It applies a veneer to the true self and mask itself in a facade of contentment. Neither the veneer or the contentment are real and eventually must be stripped away. Through this awakening or manifestation that I have been experiencing are doing just that for me-stripping away the veneer and false contentment that I have allowed to plant inside of me. I'm hesitant to openly reveal this awakening at this juncture and while I disdain when others put forth veiled statements, I'm still "processing" it. At some time in the not to distant future, I'll openly reveal the circumstances. For now though, it has been a relief to experience a change of heart, a new found comfort and a satisfaction that everything and everyone is alright. It's these sorts of times that I must step outside of familiar "bookmarked" modus operandi and almost throw caution to the wind and give rise to the fact that another has an ability to answer questions for me and interrupt that veneer that I had learned to feel comfort in. But even in looking outward at this contentious experience, the walls of doubt can be erected. It is with a certain degree of hope (and I've always contended I have plenty of this) that has little by little disassembled that wall. It's sort of a gamble to entrust that hope in something speculative, but in the long run, worth the risk.
"You don't have to live forever, you just have to live". And it is with these words that end one of the most charming and simply poetic movies-TUCK EVERLASTING. It is a movie that has been out for a number of years and I just watched it for the first time. If you've not seen it, it's central theme is of mortality and while my most recent life situation and experience tailors me to want to embrace it-immortality that is. I've often spoke of death and the most damning element to it is that it is so....damn permanent. And yet, the thought of immortality in some ways sounds inviting, the family depicted in the movie don't necessarily strive to embrace their "gift". They seem to deny the beauty of not having to die. It's not so much that the thought of dying but a little over a year ago, I so wished that time would stand still...no going forward....no going backward. But, as the plot and depiction of the move entails that to do this would certainly disrupt the circle of life. And that is the key to life; it is a circle that does not break and no matter how many roadblocks, travesties, accomplishments, that present themselves to us, we must continue to move forward. We can't look behind us.
And it is with these thoughts I give this image and this song.
I believe that each person has the choice to adhere his/her own ideology in a Deity. Whether you refer to this entity as God, or a Higher Power, Supreme Being, or Allah, really is circumstantial. For what I've inordinately discovered in my 61 years the one element you need to pursue this idea, is faith. Faith has never been an issue for me, but perseverance and application have. I really prefer to shun dialogues involving religion and faith for mine has always been uncharacteristically cloistered and rather confined. Although, I can look back some 45 years ago and wonder what kind of priest I would have made, had I completed my studies having the kind of outlook I hold true today. I guess that's where the "Spirit" would have had a significant role in my formation and the issue hopefully would have been mute.
But I'm digressing here and you're wondering where's this post going?? Today's Gospel was the story of the blind man who sat in front of the temple. Jesus hops along, spits in the ground, makes a paste and packs it on the man and tells him to go wash in the pool of Siloam. The man does as Jesus instructs and lo' and behold, he can see. There is ensuing discussion from the Pharisees about Jesus healing on the Sabbath, and was this right, and why was this guy blind; was it because of his parents who sinned or was he a sinner. For the purpose of this post, it's irrelevant to me but the healing water and the "faith" this man had are.
I listened to a Holy Man today weave the intricacies of this story into a spiritual tapestry for not just my life, but for many as well. I am often spellbound by his knowledge and his grace of how he weaves these parables in such an informal enthusiasm without resonating fire and brimstone. He struck a cord that our lives are often reflected by significant events where we need that faith to extract us from either rejecting our God or positioning and aligning us stronger. He used the example of his brother dying several years ago and it put him in a tailspin of despair of which I was easily able to identify with. It was his faith and the healing waters of his baptism that brought him through. And it will be with my undying faith and the healing waters of my baptism that Christ will bring me through as well. The idea I'm trying to convey is that our lives are often a struggle, a roller coaster of successes and failures. How or what we choose to use to uphold our dignity and determination hopefully is predicated on one's faith.
I think it Carter Chambers may have said it best, "Our lives are streams flowing into the same river towards whatever heaven lies in the mist beyond the falls, My dear friend, "Close your eyes and let the waters take you."
As I slowly trod through the grieving process of my loss, I continue to be taken aback at the generosity and almost visceral approach of friends and family. Last week I received a decidedly pertinent display of
kindness and a heartfelt gesture of endearment from the doctors and staff at Colorado State University who treated Dancer during his radiation treatments there. It was a simple children's book when a pet dies, called "Dog Heaven". It was written and beautifully illustrated obviously for a child to garner for them an emotional outlet to understand where their beloved pet goes when it dies. Each of the staff at written some very touching words of comfort to help me deal with my loss and their fond remembrances of Dancer during his stay at the hospital.
I have been blessed with all kinds of "earth" angels during this passage of gathering my sadness and attempting to reconstruct another focus on enjoyment of what I have, not what I've lost. Because I've not really "lost" him. He's still "here" with me, not just in the physical form I've been used to. Enough about physicality and spirit but to focus on the title of this post. I've been introduced to another "earth angel", well, not actually introduced because he's been here all along. I just didn't recognize the size of his compassion and understanding. After all, how often do we even consider the perception and discerning mentality of an 11 yr. old? I may have been neglectful of this by not recognizing some of the insightful presentations he has already designed on his computer. And now, during my moments of sadness, his sensitivity has uncovered not just his intelligence but his compassion as well. Here is an email that he sent me which again reiterates my forever aspiration that despair will subside.
STRONG PERSON
A strong person knows how to keep their life in order. Even with tears in their eyes, they still manage to say "I'm ok" with a smile. Send this to a strong person. I just did. God is good. Change is coming. God saw your sadness and said hard times are over. If you believe in Him, send this to ten people including me. Watch what happens in thirty minutes! Be honest and send this to anyone who made you smile this year.
It may surprise you how many you get back. Thanks for making me smile.
Live, Laugh, Love
I had the where for all to venture out and do some photographing of which I've been seriously in a mental state of decline as of late. As I've briefly mentioned the weather in St. Louis as being atmospherically preposterous-most of the time. It's Spring here, but you wouldn't know it as we received "Christmas" in Spring this past weekend and received about 5" of wet snow. I traipsed through the wet stuff at our Missouri Botanical Gardens and this shot gave me hope, hope that the real Spring is just around the corner. In light of the snow, you can still visibly see the blossoms on the Tulip Trees that haven't completely fallen.
As my most recent posts have been somewhat somber, depressing, and well, let’s face it-grim, I thought I could really liven this one up and brood over the fact that I turned 61 today. And before my thousands of adoring readers and followers (Paul S.) start to send me well wishes and possibly even money, please understand that I’m only accepting marriage proposals from either Jennifer Aniston, Meg Ryan, Juliette Binoche, Diane Lane, Tea Leoni, or Kate Beckinsale. You can see that I’m attempting to broach these posts with some levity and add some lightheartedness to them. However, at any time I could sink further into a massive depression, start taking massive doses of Cymbalta, and even worse, start telling you the plots behind front running shows such as “Keeping up with the Kardashians”, “Kim and Kourtney take on New York”, or the best yet-“Jersey Shore”; ohhhh, don’t you just love “Snooki”?
But as I said this post is meant to be more of a reflection of my 61 years as I received a discerning email the other day which gave me pause of what’s transpired in my life time. It was entitled: “Growing Up without a Cell Phone”. And it very well could have been entitled “Growing Up without all the Conveniences we have today”. And while the “conveniences” listed in my initial email are way to many to mention, I’d like to muse over those communication devices and how they’ve brought many of us together, they’ve also served to alienate us. Instead of mailing a photo of the newborn grand daughter, it’s sent via email. And please, how many grand parents can navigate around the old Epson? When we’re angry with the spouse, instead of talking it out, we send them a passive aggressive text message. With Caller ID, we can pick and choose who we want to talk to rather than “face the music”. Remember, that phone call could be the Publishers Sweepstakes telling you won the $1,000,000 for life……yeah right. But, we can hope.
I’m not dismissing the total technological environment for there are many benefits. Just look at “blogging”. These blogs reach the entire world. I guess in my 61 yrs. I’ve overcome my shyness and would rather “face the music”.
I, like many others share an affinity with James Taylor, his lyrics, his music, and probably his persona. Like my attachment to John Denver, James Taylor has provided that bridge to a impassioned milieu. That settling atmosphere that I am seeking to again ignite the exhilaration that I've known before. Death has its own way of dulling the rapture once felt. Little by little, the flame begins to glow and the the threat of melancholy starts to ebb. The tide flows out, and with each new wave upon the shore, a little of that shore is washed back into the sea. I still miss Dancer everyday. I still like to believe he's visiting somewhere and will be home soon. I know that's not the case though and that he's running with my other furry beasts that have gone on before him. I know we'll all get to cross the Rainbow Bridge together.
We often subject ourselves to slavery of the mind. That cascading debacle of sadness or emotional stagnation that overwhelms us becomes toxic or sordid. To allow oneself to procure such a proclivity is self defeating. Thus, I find myself struggling with these very dispositions. And yet, putting another layer or façade on my mask only heightens this weakness. It almost becomes like the scene in COOL HAND LUKE where Luke is required to dig a ditch and once it’s dug, Boss Kean comes over and tells him to get the dirt out of his yard. Luke, must get the dirt out of Boss Kean’s yard and back into the hole again and Boss Paul comes to tell him to get the dirt out of his hole. It’s this very “mind game” that plays trickery with oneself to break one’s own spirit. I refuse to be overcome by my own “mind game” of despair.
I was sent a very uplifting email today that conjures up this very aspect of productive thinking. It reads:
John is the kind of guy you love to hate. He is always in a good mood and always has something positive to say. When someone would ask him how he was doing, he would reply, 'If I were any better, I would be twins!' He was a natural motivator. If an employee was having a bad day, John was there telling the employee how to look on the positive side of the situation. Seeing this style really made me curious, so one day I went up and asked him, 'I don't get it!' 'You can't be a positive person all of the time.How do you do it?' He replied, 'Each morning I wake up and say to myself, you havetwo choices today. You can choose to be in a good mood or...you can chooseto be in a bad mood I choose to be in a good mood.' Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be a victim or..I can choose to learn from it. I choose to learn from it. Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept their complaining or...I can point out the positive side of life. I choose the positive side of life. 'Yeah, right, it's not that easy,' I protested. 'Yes, it is,' he said. 'Life is all about choices. When you cut away all the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to situations. You choose how people affect your mood. You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. The bottom line: It's your choice how you live your life.' I reflected on what he said. Soon hereafter, I left the Tower Industry to start my own business. We lost touch, but I often thought about him when I made a choice about life instead of reacting to it. Several years later, I heard that he was involved in a serious accident, falling some 60 feet from a communications tower. After 18 hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, he was released from the hospital with rods placed in his back. I saw him about six months after the accident. When I asked him how he was, he replied, 'If I were any better, I'd be twins...Wanna see my scars?' I declined to see his wounds, but I did ask him what had gone through his mind as the accident took place. 'The first thing that went through my mind was the well-being of my soon-to-be born daughter,' he replied. 'Then, as I lay on the ground, I remembered that I had two choices: I could choose to live or...I could choose to die. I chose to live.' 'Weren't you scared? Did you lose consciousness?' I asked. He continued, '...the paramedics were great. They kept telling me I was going to be fine. But when they wheeled me into the ER and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, I read 'he's a dead man'. I knew I needed to take action.' 'What did you do?' I asked. 'Well, there was a big burly nurse shouting questions at me,' said John. 'She asked if I was allergic to anything 'Yes, I replied.' The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply. I took a deep breath and yelled, 'Gravity'' Over their laughter, I told them, 'I am choosing to live. Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead.' He lived, thanks to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude....I learned from him that every day we have the choice to live fully. Attitude, after all, is everything. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.' Matthew 6:34. After all today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday.
I have admitted in several posts over the last few years that I unabashedly and most refreshingly have been a dedicated fan of John Denver for many years and still am to this day. I can't count the number of times I've been to Colorado and enjoyed the perils of skiing the moguls in Aspen, white water rafting, backing over Buckskin Pass from the Maroon Bells to Snowmass Lake, or laying my motorcycle on its side skirting the twistys on the Million Dollar Highway. These are shining moments of celebration and I always carried a John Denver cassette or CD blasting the eardrums and belting out in my off key voice one of his tunes. I've shared these moments with some very special friends but as of late, my most prized companions were Piper, Remy, and of course-Dancer. I could always rely on a John Denver tune to pick me up from whatever doldrums were resting on my shoulders. It was John's way of weaving his poetry of lyrics with his perpetual "Rocky Mountain High" that would bring forth an ecstasy of peace to my squandered mind. They were my "drugs" of choice in a world of deceit and confusion already wasted in mind altering narcotics.
And so it is again that I've come to a place of familiarity of despair. I need a "drug" to lift me out from my sadness to take me back to that "Rocky Mountain High", up over Buckskin Pass, and on that last run down Ruthie's Slip in Aspen where you look at the setting sun and can't tell where earth ends and heaven begins. I long to return to the mountains for my God speaks so dearly to me. I knew that my next trip there would most likely be without my Boy. We will return soon, and while Dancer won't be with us, I know his spirit and his essence will be the Sunshine On My Shoulders and he will always forever make me smile.
While I understand that to indulge myself in grief for too long of a period will only jeopardize my spirit, I fully realize that the grieving process does not have a time frame to it. To grieve and at whose pace depends on that person. There isn't a manual or code of reference that outlines this.
I received a very much cherished note from a long time love this evening that pointed out this very fact to me. And while I continue on this path of sadness, she pointed out that this process is in a very unique way of honoring his life. To "rush" this process would only lay groundwork for despair at some future juncture. So, I try to use this time and use a portion of my energy to continue to hold him close to my heart and repair those broken feelings by creating and showing very sweet and dear tokens of what a great and constant companion he was.
Christmas is and always will be my most favorite time of the year. Here is a short video of Christmas 2009; a Christmas I most surely believed I would not have seen with him.
I know that somewhere there is another person who is suffering a grief greater than mine. I know that as quotes go, "time heals all wounds" is one of everlasting permanence. I know that when the Lord closes the door, somewhere He opens a window. I know that in the scheme of life, the greater sorrow will only strengthen my resolve. I know that for every tear spent, an my angel is there to dry them. I know that as this eloquent and resolute simple song will maintain an err of joy for me. I thank you Charlie for writing it.
Smile though your heart is aching
Smile even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You'll see the sun come shining through for you
Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear may be ever so near
That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile
That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile
There is a verse entitled "Safely Home" that attempts to console the grieving person. It embodies that portion of sadness that we struggle with and truly gives reward to that despair. I received a bit of "compensation" today in that I was able to bring Dancer's ashes "safely home" tonight. While it was an overwhelming and immense slap in the face that the death process is still very much real, it gave me something tangible and I could at least "hold" him again. I've been reading a fascinating book, "The Divine Life of Animals" by Ptolemy Tompkins in which he outlays his attempt to discover whether the souls of animals live on. It's been somewhat therapeutic for me, sort of a validation of an already confirmed belief that I have. By accepting Dancer's ashes, it was a confirmation that while his "physical" body is not here, his presence or spirit is still with me. This is something that Tompkins speaks of in his book when he researches that primitive humanity believed that beyond the mere physical form of blood, shape, muscle, bone, their lived another form of spirit,and soul. And when the physical form was no longer navigating the material world, it returns to it's spiritual world and it's unity. "In the primitive world, the true or essential animal is a spiritual entity, ans all its external bodily trappings are just that: external and nothing more" While all of this sounds plausible, the cold hard fact is that Dancer's not with me in his physical form but at least I now have something I can "hold" onto.
As I continue to lament my misfortune and procrastinate in really focusing on the wonderful highlights of what proved to be a life interrupted, I stop for a moment and find one of those highlights this evening. I spoke with a very dear friend tonight and strictly out of affection for her, and I know she'll assume this to be a capricious compliment, she's quite a "broad". I've an umbrella of friends who've looked after me during the last 18 or so months, and most assuredly the last 2 weeks and I'd be remiss in not giving them credit. Most certainly my friends in California whose pups went and are still going through the same disease that befell my boy. But for this "broad" who has been, and I hate to use the term "battling" for it connotes some time of war to me, living with her own cancer. For that's what she's doing...living with it and for all practical purposes, right now ahead of the contest. She lost her beloved Aussie not to long ago, from the same disease. I've asked the question of why must our beloved friends be intercepted with such a insidious disease? It's unpleasant enough that humans have to go through this. And so it is with this lady. And yet, during this process, her resolve is surely tested again and again and she maintains her self confidence and reliance on her main constant-God. Her family continues to provide that shroud of love and devotion to her. And during my global sadness, she has been the mother that I so desperately miss. The one that if she were here, I know I could lay my head in her lap and cry like a baby, and somehow, things would be better. I've always contended that I have relied on an extraordinary amount of Hope, but you can't have enough Hope unless you have Faith. Here's looking at you....you Ol' Broad.
As I move into the thirteenth day of my loss, the reality begins to strike greater consequence for me and I begin to question my original resolve and wonder what else could I have done. I always promise myself not to journey down this path as in this very process only additional heartache and anguish crowds my judgment. But, it is not without merit and is part of the process of experiencing such a loss. It doesn't have to be the loss of a pet, but this invariably occurred when my parents died as well. I ask myself the painstaking question..."What else could I have done?" And the most gut wrenching one of all...."Why Him?" To pursue this, will only frustrate and actually embarrass myself. Not many people would have undertaken such an avenue of correction. If you've read any of my previous posts, the one verse, "It's Just a Dog" will pretty much answer this question. And I've already given my answer to "Why Him" as explained by my biblical quote from Ecclesiastes, "to everything under Heaven, there is a reason". But, as I struggle with this monumental loss and have such difficulty in accepting this heinous outcome, I look at the quote I've used for the heading of this post. There will be amendment in experiencing such a disappointment.
Here is one of my favorite photos of him and his buddy asleep on the couch. I can't begin to tell you how empty my sofa looks now. As his time came near, it was difficult for him to position himself there. As I lie on the sofa now and rest my hand on the top of the cushions, I gently whisper his name..."Dancer, my boy".
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
With these words, W.H. Auden began one of his most prolific poems about death. It was with the death of a very dear person to him that he attempts to control and yet shun his emotions about the passing of this person. I look at life now as a journey and unfortunately death is included in this. I look upon death in such a finite manner now having experienced it so many times. As a child my first encounter with death came at my Aunt Elsie's. I only knew of what the "Good Book" told me that all good persons would go to Heaven and those that weren't went to Hell. I always hoped that when my time came, I would go to Heaven. And yet, I can recall also remember our first pet dog-"Duke" having to be taken away by the Humane Society. It wasn't till much later I understood that he had distemper and would have to be "put to sleep". Such a lovely and enticing term for an animal. How totally incongruous to be labeled that way. For such an act of total permanence, to be referred to in a non destructive manner. One that would belie that total infinite act; one that would enable us to think, "Hey, this is just for a little while". For when we "sleep", isn't it just for a little while? We'll soon awake and ready to get on with our lives like nothing has happened.
But, with Dancer, it's not that way at all. And while this path on his journey was enabled 8 days ago, his "sleep" period will be forever. Damn, I hate the permanence of this. I want him back.
As I mentioned in my last post that I had watched "The Bucket List" the other evening and took away from it more insights. I guess that's one of the reasons I enjoy watching a movie several times. One of the points I started to engage in was this nature of animals, and in this case Dancer's, of the afterlife and whether he'll greet me in heaven. I can only say, when my time comes, I'm going to get the warmest welcome with all the animals that have gone before him and the ones that will come after. But to get back to the subject if animals do indeed go to heaven, one could argue on both planes. Depending on which arena you subscribe to; religious or scientific, will determine your beliefs. I think you know where I stand on this one but one has to look at whether an animal has a soul. Again, depending on your religious affiliation and if you look at an animal as a spiritual being with a soul. I cannot believe that God created such a life without rendering it's purpose on earth. There are those who view them strictly as utilitarian but even so, I cannot believe that when the day is done, that the working dog who gathered his sheep, or the cow that just produced 5 gallons of milk, or the Hereford who will eventually feed 25 people does not garner an ounce of gratitude from that person. I certainly view Dancer in the light of the joy he brought to my life and cannot fathom that God did not put him for that purpose and that He will not allow Dancer to return. I guess if they were good enough to get on the Ark, then they'll be good enough to enter heaven.
It is in those flowing waters that I cherish the words of Carter Chambers, "Our lives are streams flowing into the same river towards whatever heaven lies in the mist beyond the falls. Close your eyes my Dancer, and let the waters take you."
I watched the "Bucket List" the other evening. A rather precarious event for me in light of the fragility of my emotional state. Sometimes it can have a reverse effect and bring some comfort. I enjoyed the movie as I've seen it several times and each time I watch it, I pick up a subtle cue or am validated by the message that lies herein. I got to thinking about Carter and Edward and their creation of their "bucket list" and wondered if a dog (or cat for that matter) would have a "Bucket List"? I guess depending on how much we attempt to humanize our pets would make that determination. And, I fall prey to that somewhat nonsensical effort. But, bear with me on this one for if you're an animal lover in the slightest sense, you'll understand where I'm coming from. Dancer is (was) a special dog; as all of my present and past dogs (and cats) have been. Each very unique in their own demeanor, description, behavior. Dancer boy was no different. I know each animal, even those that are abused beyond belief have a sense of loyalty to their owner and it's only in the cruelty or compassion that the dog receives will determine it's outcome. Nary the dog that's been struck, chained, whipped, starved, and with proper training and rehabilitation I hope could overcome that abuse. I like to think that Dancer got the best home in the world. Maybe his list would have included more dog treats, or another trip to Montana, possibly a run at being a Grand Master Flyball Dog. Well, he certainly didn't know how many points he was winning, or the trophies he received. He did it for the shear enjoyment and he knew how excited I became to see him flying down the track. But then again, maybe his most fun times were spent in the company of his "Dad", relaxing on the sofa or in the "Frasier" chair. I'll miss seeing him there.
For all the billions of viewers "out there" who are regulars to my blog...:>) you've noticed that my best friend was called home this past Saturday and I've been attempting to "memorialize" him with my posts as of late. It's only been four days and the barometer I've used to sequence the anguish I'm feeling is how often I have to clean my eyeglasses or take my contacts out because of the excess tear goop that adheres to them. There are times I must admit that I feel nothing. I experience such a feeling of ennui that I'm wondering if there's something wrong-emotionally. But, as I begin to do that mental rummaging I'm snapped back to reality and realize I'm in the present and the future has come and gone. The present is no longer, and as Einstein says, "the future will come soon enough". I find myself still in this archaic pine of loss for him. I have to remind myself to get out of bed in the morning and as I get in the car to go to school and walk to the classroom, I'm in a fragile state of mind. I'm transfixed to another dimension and that longing wish for time to have stood still escapes me. I'm transported back to here and remembrance of four days ago and the agony sets in. It DID happen and HE IS GONE. I think of going to watch a sunset for that was one of our favorite things to do. I got to take pictures of a majestic wonder of God's creation; that indomitable beauty of not being able to tell where the earth stopped and heaven began, and Piper, Remy, and Dancer would sit patiently with me. But alas, the thought scurries from me and reality sets in for it will only be two that go with me and the sadness overcomes me. Until I can drum up the strength to do so, this one's for you, my friend.
Several days ago I posted about my best friend's passing. He was 77yrs. young, that's 11 yrs. in dog years. And I use this quote for today's post as some 18 mos. ago, I wished I could have stopped time in it's tracks. I searched for some cosmic herculean power that could have froze time and prevented any further passage. The consequences would have eliminated the sorrow I'm experiencing now, would have saved his life, and countless other undertakings to occur. But now my life is blanketed by such an indescribable and irrefutable anguish that I wish time would accelerate as the race car at Indy. The days languish and the minutes prevail as the heat on a summer's day. I ask myself for the future to come, but unfortunately not soon enough. The youthful zealot only fears time as it impedes their progress. I think Einstein's quote I used several weeks ago, "I don't worry about the future, it will come soon enough". For my little boy, the future came far too soon. And while I prefer to think that he didn't die of cancer, his future and ultimately, he just ran out of time.
I often think how I will get by in the days, weeks, and months to come. I will have to remind myself to get out of bed in the morning, the sun will rise, and another day will begin. I will be so very sad that he's not here with me, but so very thankful that for the last 11 yrs. he gave me his best.
I met him just a little over 11yrs. ago. I didn’t know what circumstances would ensue this union that was about to commence as I meandered down this gravel charred road that lead to his house. I remember it being a warm day in August as they usually are in St Louis and I cautioned myself that all meetings don’t fair well that are blanketed with the heat. I was optimistic however and it was difficult to contain the excitement I was beginning to feel.
I parked the car and strolled to the back yard where I was greeted by his “play” mom who said to go inside the yard and she would bring the group out. As I walked through the gate, plopped myself down on the ground, I was literally overrun by the pouncing and prancing, barking and yapping of a dialogue I knew far to well. Like a lion who circles her prey waiting for the first chance to strike, they closed in to inspect this “stranger”. With a cautious and rather demure pace several were perplexed at this thing that dared to enter their domain. He was the only one that was beyond reproach and eagerly trotted to me and promptly made his home in my lap. I knew in an instant we were meant for each other.
I got to bring him home but not without a little drama for another young boy with some emotional difficulties was being considered as a potential master. He certainly had the personality to charm and settle one as his was one of a gentle nature, a manner quite fitting for such an individual. However, it was not to be and I was able to bring him home on Aug. 28, 1999. He promptly settled in causing some havoc with the “Queen of the House” needling and disrupting her routine. He found my other four legged friends enticing and had to attempt to dislodge them from their lairs as well.
He grew as most young boys his age do….gangly, their legs far exceeding their bodies for that “ugly” growth period but after several months, he “grew” into his body and proved to be a striking and strapping well proportioned young boy.
As most boys of his age, his energy level was an exuberant bundle of warp speed. It was time to get him involved in a sport that would channel and yet allow that energy to abound. Come the wonderful sports of Flyball and Agility. His ability and speed at Flyball was something to behold. He had found a way to let loose with that excitement. His expertise in Agility would have excelled only to be limited by my senility in being able to remember which way to run on the course. “Is he supposed to go up the Dog Walk, or through the Tunnel”? If they only would have had a GPS device, I could have programmed it and he certainly would have followed it home.
I was often jealous of him with his flowing auburn hair and split eye colors of blue and amber. He was a “charmer” with any woman I would bring home, often shadowing them more than me and promptly would warm their hearts. He would follow them around like the proverbial “puppy dog” and ignore me. I had to remind him of who fed him and paid the bills. He would often give me that longing look and lick on my face as his attempt at redemption. How could I resist?
We traveled extensively with his canine buds to Colorado, Michigan, Wyoming, Idaho, Utah, Montana, Canada and Maine, and Wisconsin. He relished in these travels not seemingly caring where we headed as long as he was with “dad”.
As it doesn’t seem fair for humans to be beset by frailty or disease, to have our pets endure such a travesty is a cruelty beyond proportion. And so it was with him that fateful day in July of 2009 when our worst fears were confirmed-cancer. Like I was stabbed in the heart to hear the prognosis of 2-3 months remaining of this beautiful boy was despicable. But then a ray of hope appeared and we traveled again. This time to what we hoped would stop this dreaded disease and cheat this insidious prognosis. And so it was with the advent of such progressive technology we attempted to stop his disease.
But with the intervention, his disease proved a formidable opponent and did not give in easily. It came back and we again traveled to make another effort at stopping its’ progress. But like many modern scientific interventions, it can only take one so far, then comes God. I continued to cling to hope, that hope is a good thing and no good thing ever dies. I asked for a miracle and continued to be given one day at a time. I wished to have more. As it is with any gift from God, they are on loan to us for only a brief time and they must be returned.
Dancer Bello was called back home this morning, 11 yrs, 8 mos. I won’t be saddened to the way he died, but will relish in how he lived. There will be one less dog to feed, less poop to pick up, and my vet bills will reduce. It will be such a tragic trade off. When I leave in the morning he won’t be there, sitting on the back of the couch watching me leave, nor will he be standing at the door waiting for me with his stuffed toy in his mouth. I cannot imagine my days to come.
"Don't stand by my grave and weep for I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glint on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn's rain. Do not stand by my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die."
This is an old Native American proverb that I will adhere to with his passing. My sadness now is overwhelming. The death of a pet has always been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure in my life. As I’ve aged, it only gets more difficult. I am so thankful for having been a part of his life. He has certainly enriched mine. I can only hope when my time comes and I’m passing by a certain set of Gates, that he’s standing there and will vouch for me.
“The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master”.
