Food for thought is the recipe I share

I ruminated for six days on the contents of this column and came up empty-handed. I went to bed on it, woke up on it and still nothing.

I installed the ritual chocolate and black tea (the best combination since Saturday and Sunday) that are my known catalysts for inspiration, and then proceeded to eat more than my allotted share of the “Dairy Milk” fruit and nut version with hopes that the extra sugar rush would flood the keyboard with ideas. Still nothing, save a strong urge to make myself throw up.

I was sitting at my desk and “Millie” the cat was nestled on my bed as a chocolate burp erupted from me. She gave me a slit-eyed flat stare that smacked of “don’t even think about it lady. Barfing is my department.”

I’d also just spent the entire weekend alone and while I embraced the change in plans, it was something I hadn’t done in a very, very long time. I half-expected the quiet solitude to raise my writer’s imagination to new levels. Alas, still nothing.

Even though I was on solo, conversations abounded. I’ve always talked to myself. Even in the local grocery store I’ve been known to do this, much to the raised eyebrow of the passerby who catches me talking to the selection of peanut butter.

I never will be bored if stranded alone on a desert island. I know this for sure.

I’ve been known to carry on rather interesting chat sessions on a wide variety of topics with “Yours Truly.” However, the conversations I engaged in this weekend were mostly with inanimate objects like the hammer that slammed into my thumb during a repair job on the plastic covering my screen porch, and the electrical outlet in the garage that I couldn’t find in the dark when I tried to plug in my Christmas lights. Some of that frank discussion was censored material that shall not be repeated here.

Sometimes if I leave the writing table and mess around with a mundane task the ignition on my imagination will light up, so this time I pulled out my recipe drawer and started sorting.

Evidently I am a pack rat. One hour later and none the word wiser, I had a bigger pile of useless, undeniably unappealing recipes on the floor for garbage than what remained in the drawer.

I rolled my eyes and shoved my hand into a baggie that contained assorted and yellowing newspaper cut outs of recipes. I’d had that little collection for at least eight years. It had been given to me. I’d thrown the baggie in the drawer and never looked inside—until now.

I pulled one out.

“Writer’s Block Cookies,” I said, reading what was printed at the top of the 4” x 2” snippet. I laughed out loud and then stared blankly at the unquestionable moment that had just aligned itself with me.

Food for thought is the recipe I share. (True story by the way.)

Writer’s Block Cookies

1 cup butter, softened, 1 ½ cups dark brown sugar, 2 eggs, 2 tsp vanilla, 2 tsp water, 2 cups flour, 1 tsp baking soda, 1 tsp baking powder, ½ tsp salt, 2 tsp cinnamon, ¼ tsp ground cloves, ½ tsp allspice, 2 cups rolled oats, 1-2 cups raisins.

Preheat oven to 350F. Cream butter until light and fluffy. Gradually add sugar. Add eggs, vanilla and water and beat until smooth. Sift dry ingredients together. Add to the butter mixture and mix well. Fold in oats and raisins. Drop by spoonfuls onto a greased cookie sheet, leaving enough space for the cookies to spread out. Bake 8 to 10 minutes, until golden. Makes 2 dozen large cookies.

Litte Miss Pioneer goes to hunt camp

I’ve always considered myself a “Northerner.” I’m a hardy soul at home in the elemental outdoors. I grew up loving the open air of the wilderness and I still do.

I also think I would have made a great pioneer woman in the Midwest tending to a small little cabin in the quiet wilderness and living a simple life with my hunter, gatherer, farmer man.

If given the choice today between a primitive cabin in the middle of nowhere or a swanky hotel across from the best shopping plaza, the cabin would win hands down. 

Yet, all of us have moments in our lives that test our courage. I read somewhere that “taking small children into a house with a white carpet” is one of those moments.

I admit that walking down a bush path to the “loo” in the dark of night is one of them too.

And when your hide hangs out in the elements while perched on a makeshift toilet for all the night creatures to see—a toilet that is devoid of four walls and a door—in the freezing cold of a November night, and your flashlight goes out and you drop the toilet paper and it goes rolling down the little hill away from you—into the dark, well, this too tests one’s courage.

Said pioneer woman also should not have picked up her flashlight and shone it into the dark forest that surrounded her. The “Blair Witch Project” was the only thing that came to mind.

I’m sure the look on my face, if captured on canvas, would have sold for a higher bid than Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” did in auction at Sotheby’s.

The famous image of a man holding his head screaming under a streaked, blood-red sky may be the modern symbol of human anxiety but that night I held the world record for the fastest pee.

This was part of my initiation and introduction to hunt camp a couple of weekends ago and despite the “loo business,” it was one of the best weekends I’ve had all year. Hands down.

I was invited to the secret hideaway by a certain outdoorsman who come the fall season, trades his Sperry deck shoes for hunting boots and the helm of his sailboat for a deer stand. 

I was so thrilled to be a part of the wilderness project that I drove the trip with a dose of brave counsel after sunset watching as civilization rose before me and then behind me sank again. I ventured into the middle of nowhere to a destination I had only seen once in the daylight from the passenger’s seat.

I managed this feat of bravery wearing my “big girl” pants while eating chocolate bars and listening to Stan Rogers chant songs about cracking the ramparts of the unknown.

All I knew for sure was that the huntsman would meet me at “the junction” and I was to watch for his headlights on a side road 20 miles into desolation.

I’d be living in a canvas tent with a woodstove for two cold nights in November with a man I hoped would not abandon ship when he saw my camping pajamas.

I arrived safe and sound and when I saw the tent, its chimney stack billowing puffs of smoke, and the glow of the warm light emanating from inside, I was sure I’d just stepped back in time. It looked like the old photographs I’d seen of my grandfather in logging camp in 1932.

I couldn’t find the words to tell the huntsman how much fun I was already having and I hadn’t even rolled out my sleeping bag on the little cot over in that corner. The fact that the cot spoke to me of Ibuprofen before and after sleeping on it fazed me not—and the little fire crackling in the woodstove was more divine than a whole package of “Dove” chocolates.

Supper the first night (and second night) was the huntsman’s homemade recipe—and this man can cook.The meat was tender, the vegetables crisp—and then I asked what it was that I was eating. 

“Texas Antelope Stew,” he replied between spoonfuls.

I gulped down the chunk in my mouth without chewing as I quietly reviewed my knowledge of antelope. There are 91 species most of which live in Africa and I was pretty sure none were loping around in this neck of the woods, so . . . .

A well-known smile and chuckle erupted from the cook when I asked for a qualified answer on just what I was eating. Thankfully he’d substituted venison. 

Morning of the deer hunt came early. 4 a.m. to be exact. I peeled open an eyelid and cracked a smile as the hunter began his morning ritual of stoking the fire, consuming bold brewed camp coffee and breakfast before his long walk to the deer stand before sunrise.

Had he any idea how much fun I was having just being there? I was enjoying the moment. I’d gone back in time and the world had once again dropped away, freeing me from the stressors of a fast-paced whirlwind of responsibilities.

I had a really great time in good company in a little canvas tent in the middle of nowhere on a cold weekend in November.

“This is definitely an element I enjoy,” I wrote in my diary later than morning, except when I had to make mad dashes to the “loo.” Sitting out there in the open wild in shivering constitution even in the daylight—well, that’s another story. 

The cat never forgets who rules the roost

Cat barf. It’s the one globule in this world that I wish I didn’t have to clean up. In fact, I would trade cat barf detail for sifting the solids out of the litter box any day.

In my the neck of the woods, cat barf rates right up there on my nemesis scale with the eight-legged arachnid, mostly because I usually find cat barf with my slipper or spilled over the edge of a cat bed and onto the nice new throw pillow I just purchased.

And said cat of barf just looks at me from her chair of monarchy with a slit-eyed sneer that smacks of, “thousands of years ago, cats were worshipped as gods. Cats have never forgotten this. Please clean that up.”

Pam Brown once penned, “Cats can work out mathematically the exact place to sit that will cause the most inconvenience.”

I know this statement is true because never in the heaving stage before a barf does “Millie” jump off her cat bed and scamper into the bathroom to the “Ralphing” throne and barf. Nope.

Murphy’s Law says cats work out their innards right where they happen to be sitting.

The only time I know the cat has been at the bathroom throne is when I find kitty paw marks on the toilet seat after she’s drunk the toilet water.

And inevitably I discover this after she’s been in my arms, making amends for the cat barf on the pillow and rubbing her wet whiskers against my cheek.

And then I have a momentary lapse of memory before snapping back to reality to find myself standing over the cat (that is now curled up and sleeping on my reading chair) with my mouth in a tight and evil grin, my eyes wide and bulging and my arms held up in front of me with the fingers on both hands curl over like eagle talons.

I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror and, yes, I looked like a demented cartoon character having a nervous breakdown.

Just as I disengaged my fangs and retracted my claws “Millie” woke up, sprawled onto her back in a “don’t you just love me” gesture, stretched out and poked the sharp nails of her back feet through the microfiber material on the chair three or four times, did a double twist and vaulted into the kitchen to the front door.

The still, small voice of doubt about the pros and cons of feline ownership was getting louder when I opened the door to let her outside but the mice strewn around the yard like a rodent civil war battle of 1812 paid the rent on my dissatisfaction.

Sure I complain. Yet, when push comes to shove, my cat always wins because even though it has a rather independent soul, it carries the same unconditional love message of all pets and I never get tired of being reminded of that.

Now if I could just teach “Millie” to deter skunks and ground hogs like old “Dot” did, I’d have it made. But something tells me a cat that drinks from the toilet is about as talented a feline as I’m going to get.

I stand corrected and in costume

On Sunday morning my dad was welcomed in his capacity as CEO of the plastic insulation project that my captain and I were stapling to my old screen porch. 

My dad is very good at many things, including it would seem, catching my misuse of the English language when he read last week’s column.

“It’s not a gander of geese, it’s a gaggle,” he said, standing there.

My captain piped up in concurrence, “a gander is a male goose as in—what’s good for the goose, is good for the gander,” officially outnumbering my bid to protest. 

And then, while working a pair of pliers, while standing on a ladder and pulling out all the staples I’d left in the wood last spring after I ripped off the plastic, my captain spilled out of most of the ‘Goosey Goosey Gander” nursery rhyme.

Surprised by this recitation and raising my eyebrow to meet that of Dr. Spock I thought to myself,  “Hmmm, my captain is wise in sweet form AND a man of mystery.” Not to mention that he’s all for finishing the project at hand.

‘Check,’ went the pencil to the list in my head.

So later that day when my captain departed for his neck of the woods and his own household projects earmarked for completion, I swallowed back the urge to ask the big question.

But then, just as he drove out of the driveway, I waved my arms and shouted, “Wait! Could you come back? I have spiders in the basement!”

Alas, I was too late as my voice fell unheard and wayside in the distance.

I pouted for five minutes and then channeled “Yosemite Sam,” ate some chocolate, grew some nerve, put on my big girl pants, and got suited up for the dreaded trip downstairs to clean and to face my archenemy. 

With a fear of spiders dropping by the handfuls from the basement ceiling, I figured a solid unit of headgear wouldn’t hurt. I rummaged in the tea towel drawer and found an old triangle of cloth, wrapped it around my head, and tucked in my ear lobes. 

I donned my leather work gloves, a pair of safety goggles, stuck my feet in some old gum rubbers, and unscrewed the broom handle to use as a weapon—good for whacking inanimate objects from a distance that may be home to unwanted horribles.

As I descended the staircase to the basement, I chanted about all the really good things that I was going to do to de-stress when this chore was all over—hot shower, more chocolate and Frank Sinatra music.

Through sweat and toil I tackled dust bunnies and spiders including the biggest and meanest-looking ones that jumped out of their webbed traps when I doused them with the “evil spray can of death.” They could be heard hitting the basement floor—and for the ones that tried to make a run for it, escape was futile. The broom handle came in handy.

“Millie” the cat was stretched out snoozing at the top of the stairs when I clamored up from the basement, sweaty and out of breath.

She took one look at me, and with bulging eyes of terror, jumped straight to the ceiling and around the top of the wall before escaping like a shot through a crack in the porch door.  

Then I glanced in the mirror.

Lord have mercy. It was a stroke of luck that my captain didn’t return to my doorstep that day to retrieve his coffee cup.

I looked like I stepped out of an apocalyptic horror movie, not to mention the cloth on my head—having been part of a sieving device for making tomato sauce was stained and made me look as if I was bleeding to death.

Guess what I’m wearing for Halloween?

Who I am is yet unknown

Who knew a gander of geese could put out so much sausage-like material. My neck of the woods suddenly is teeming with great green gobs of goose poop. It is a virtual war zone out there laden with log bombs that make every step a hazard and the bottom of every shoe I own a yucky grossly caked disaster.

The geese must swoop in when I’m at work or perhaps waddle in from the creek when the way is clear of human presence. Whichever method they are using, I reluctantly give the big birds credit for the stealth necessary to complete such a large emissions project.

My optimistic side is hoping all that fertilizer will make for greener pastures around here come next spring, although I suspect the manure will be sucked up by the dandelion roots and repopulate an ongoing and booming crop of the little yellow devils in every 12 hour period between April and September. 

Hence another reason I miss my old dog. She would have made the feathers fly when the geese stepped foot on her roving grounds. As it stands, the deer knew she was gone and took no time at all to trespass on parts of the lawn that haven’t seen hoof marks and little deer turds in the six years that I’ve lived here.

It’s been a tender soulful week and much more so than I expected. I’ve had to remind myself several times as I’ve made the trek home after work that there is no “one” here to come home to each day. 

And although my mind knows the dog days are done, my heart still hears the tinkle of her dog tag against the water bowl and I’ve even strained an ear to the air once or twice thinking I heard her barking outside.

Old habits die hard. Familiarity dies harder.

And I’ve realized that even though I thought I’d worked my loss recovery program to my very core, all it took was for my dog to die for a few unstitched scars to pull loose and ooze.

I know this because I decided to bury my dog on my country property and when I drove that shovel into the ground, it didn’t take but two minutes for the unattainable past to engulf me and become the only hospitable yet wretched place to be.

I promptly found myself in a pit of “why me” syndrome and I took it all out on a deep hole in the ground that I dug for my dog. I drove that shovel with sorrow and self-pity and cried and yelled to the Universe about why my house never gets off the “be swept clean” list.

It had nothing to do with the dog gone nor the choices made by a husband I loved who decided never to come back, nor the choices of a man I loved on a cold afternoon in January. 

It had everything to do with my seemingly unfinished business with loss and coming to grips with the parts of life I cannot control.

Mark Nepo wrote, “The current of life requires us to stand up, again and again, and we are not defeated when we are worn down, just exposed anew at a deeper level.”  This I believe.

I dug a grave for my dog and it made me kneel. And then I stood up—worn bare yet again—and so thankful I am still here, moving forward, still getting to know who I really am and grateful for your company, my friend.

Here's to you, my canine loves

I would much rather be writing a story about cornered skunks and wide-eyed squirrels and the flurry of cat fur that flies when ‘Cash’ and ‘Dot’ decide to play tag with unwilling members of the animal kingdom around here. 

But that won’t be happening today and it won’t be happening tomorrow.

When I began working a full time job on top of a part-time job six weeks ago, it didn’t take me long to discover that my six-year-old lab, was getting the short end of the stick. 

This simple-minded, happy-go-lucky, lovable, unconditional creature named ‘Cash’ had more energy than all my grandchildren and 16 “Energizer” bunnies. Keeping him kenneled up for 8-12 hours a day while I turned the daily grind was unfair to say the least and it bothered me to no end.

Dot on the other hand had earned some quiet time and I knew that at 84 years of age in “people years” she would do just fine snoozing away the day on her little memory foam bed in the hallway.

So, after much inner debate and consideration for what I thought best for my Cash I decided to find him a home that would allow him the freedom to be the canine masterpiece that he is, and where he wasn’t going to be stuck inside all day every day waiting for a chance to be someone’s dog.

I set out in the belief that I would know when the right home came along. I was not disappointed in my search.

A man named “Bob” came into Cash’s life. His story was poignant, his smile was genuine, his heart sincere, and most of all his gentle hand upon my dog and my dog’s response to this man’s touch was everything I could have hoped for.

And so I let Cash go.

It was hard and it hurt and yet it was the right thing to do. My captain, who is wise in sweet form, said that perhaps this man needed Cash more than I did. I believe this to be true. Very true.

But I needed Dot.

It would seem however that the Universe had other thoughts on that because early Friday morning as I comforted my gravely ill best doggie friend and stroked her graying fur and whispered into her ear how much I loved her as she drifted out of this world, I once again came face to face with the inevitable and heartbreaking truth that dogs don’t live forever and that sometimes no matter how much we love them we have to let them go.

There is nothing I can say that would convey I sorrowful I am that she is gone.

Dot was more than just a dog. She was a member of my family and she filled our hearts to the brim.

Dog days were old and perhaps in need of a rest. I sure wasn’t ready for that scenario.

I take comfort that the late Dr. Jon Fistler, who loved Dot as much as the rest of us did, will have welcomed her into the light with open arms and a long caress behind her ears.

So many of us who are pet owners share the crowd of sorrows that overwhelms us when the creatures we love die, and especially when they die unexpectedly.

They come into our lives with joy unbounded and teach us the meaning of true devotion.

They rest themselves against our souls and we become part of theirs.
And if someone out there believes a dog has no soul, they’ve never really loved a dog.

Dot, you done good. You done real good, old girl.

What I don't like and what I do

Maybe you’ll read this. Maybe you won’t.

If you do and you’re the one who ventured uninvited onto my country property with a cat in a pet carrier and dumped off the cat here—you are a loser. And no, you don’t get Brownie points for buying a brand new bag of cat food, ripping it open and leaving it for the cat you didn’t want. 

Yes, I live on an old farm. Yes, I have an old red barn. But I’m pretty sure there’s not a sign that you can see from the road—some 500ft away—that reads,  “If you don’t like your pet you can drop it off here and it’ll be looked after."

The fact that you had the gonads to step foot here without permission and to shed your responsibilities as a pet owner is deplorable. I guess that infrared-capable security camera I installed outside in the yard was a very good idea. See you around.

And by the way, your cat is nowhere to be found. Maybe it’s on a journey back to you, because I’m pretty sure it figured out right away that this wasn’t home. I sold the pet carrier and my own cats are enjoying the cat food very much. Thank you for buying the groceries.

And while I’m on the topic of responsibility I suppose I should stuff a bit of humor into this rant so that things stay balanced. Goodness knows I could go on and on about pet owners who wriggle out, shirk, and dodge accountability. 

Frankly I’ve had enough of that.

I just ate two big chunks of Nanaimo bar I bought at the grocery store and my poor little tummy is swollen and fighting with whatever artificial ingredients were in that thing. But oh my, it was good.

My favorite co-worker—the one who is an imp and can fit into size one jeans even after she eats for 10—will indeed have something to say about my dietary digression when she reads this. 

Those five bucks I inadvertently “owe” her for switching days off with me might have to be doubled in order to keep her criticism of my wolfing to a dull roar around the office.

Then again, maybe she won’t read this and I can go on to say that consuming more food in the fall season must be a genetic throwback to my caveman days because as soon as the temperature begins to dip, I have calorie-laden foods on my brain.

I walked into the grocery store at 5:30 this evening dragging my knuckles on the floor and salivating as wonderful smells overtook me from the bakery shelf, forcing me to go right past the desserts with one hand outstretched and scooping whatever I could get into my shopping basket.

Temporary rationale set in as I scooted by the meat department and picked out a healthy little pork chop and, again, when I cased the broccoli and threw a crown or two in, all the while careful not to crush the little heap of desserts that covered the bottom of the basket.

And it wasn’t like I needed to buy any sweets. My captain had hidden a half-bag of chocolate “Dove Promises” in my handbag a few nights ago and they would have provided me with all the satisfaction I could ask for, including some really great and wise quotes on the inside of each wrapper.

It says on the bag that I can eat seven of the little devils before I reach 220 calories. Hmmm. Perhaps I should pare it down a little and eat only three.

I unwrapped the first of the trio and read the quote.

“There’s a time for compromise. It’s called ‘later’.”

I reached in and grabbed four more. Seven it is. 

What matters most are little things

There are men that somehow just grip your eyes and hold them hard like a spell and such was he, as he pointed the flashlight in my direction and with inflection, all bundled in woolies and lumberjack red, his face unshaven—said, as I turned my head—“The lady that’s known as Lou.”

It made everyone laugh as he carried on his narration, drawing us into the story.

The husky rendition of “The Shooting of Dan McGrew,” echoed across the little bay in the south arm of Rainy Lake as six hardy sailors sat around a mighty campfire taking turns reciting the poetry of Robert Service.

I sat there listening to the banter and the tales of the night, clad in my own version of woolies and a toque, and I was so very thankful that I didn’t pull out of the weekend adventure like I’d considered doing—and all because the weather was nasty.

Mother Nature, who would not be moved, threw a cold, windy party for the Rendezvous Yacht Club’s annual fall cruise. But as I am learning, sailors are seldom moved from the love of the sail and while they sail with safety paramount, they are a determined lot of jolly, brave and roving tars.

Admittedly, I had a big whimpering lip in the days, hours, and yes! minutes leading up to the fall cruise as I watched the weather forecast marry Murphy’s Law and slide into the belly of winter.

Despite my misgivings, I channeled Stan Rogers and his song “Northwest Passage” and forged on with my own brave counsel. I was determined to crack the ramparts of my hesitation and take passage over to the adventure.

I quit shaving my legs to gain an extra layer of warmth and packed enough long johns and wool socks to outfit a small team of lumberjacks. I would wear three layers of clothing at all times, lipchap and no makeup. (Thankfully my captain is farsighted.)

As I dragged my rock-weight baggage to the trunk of my car it was all I could do not to run screaming into the house, duct tape myself into my housecoat and hide under the bed until I missed the boat. I felt like the “little engine that could” battling one or two wheels stuck in a vat of molasses.

So I belted out, ”Ah, for just one time I would take the Northwest Passage . . .” and the northerner in me rallied!

Late Friday afternoon I drove across the Noden Causeway to meet up with my captain and his sailboat and I looked out over the lake at the seething boiling cauldron as ice-cold rain pelted my windshield.

I was sure I’d lost my mind.

I stood in the rain on the dock and watched the “Morning Dove” dip and swing it’s way to me across the channel. My teeth chattered up a dentist’s bill and my frozen carcass, clad in the pathetic little raincoat I’d found hanging in the barn where it had been collecting pigeon feathers since 2006, was numb and shivering from top to bottom.

I was sure I was off my rocker.

But it was too late for the quitter in me to win. I had one last tantrum, the likes of which looked like “Yosemite Sam” having a fit over an undone plan, and then I stepped onto the boat and sailed from land and the world dropped away.

That night, while we were tucked in a bay on the lake and well-anchored, the gales of November came two months early and blew the pants off September, yet I was safe and sound and warm and happy in a v-berth with the sounds of such a monster raging outside.

And the following night after a day’s chilly sail to the next anchorage and before the mighty campfire drew us in at night; I kicked Mother Nature’s booty and jumped in the cold lake. Emphasis on cold and on screaming how cold it was. Extra emphasis on fun. 

Robert Service wrote a poem about finding the joy in little things and I concur.  

When I ponder, amid this tangled web of fate, about what a fantastic summer I have had, it is the seemingly little things that have brought me the most joy; among them, holding my captain’s hand, a little boat that dips and swings, a sail that fills with wind, the stunning fall colors along the lakeshore, and being in jolly roving company around a warm fire while the words of Robert Service and the songs of Stan Rogers flowed freely through us.

It’s the little things that matter most. Thank you.

(Now hurry up Spring 2013 so we can go sailing again!)

The dog rules on earning one's keep

I was sitting on my wicker couch by the creek a couple of days ago on one of those windy September afternoons that produces very bad hair and smacks of a season I am not yet prepared for.

Where did the summer go? I could have sworn it was June 1st just yesterday and now suddenly I’m seeing more leaves on the ground than on the trees. The furnace has been turned over on a chilly night or two, and hot chocolate is starting to sound like a good alternative to a cold glass of water.

I am a first born list maker and the one I wrote out at the beginning of the summer with all the “to-do’s” I wanted to accomplish before mid-September is sadly little more than half-done.

This one-woman show needs a genetic scientist, a DNA swab, and a cloning program in order to get things done around here.

As I was sitting there by the creek, I asked the dogs when I might expect them to earn their keep and help out. All I got was a wet-nose rub and sloppy lick of canine jowls across the hand I’d just washed.

Then “Dot” promptly trotted to the spot on the ground nearby, where the cat had spat out a mouse’s giblets (now covered in flies) and ate them, then looked at owner as if to ask, “Does that count?”

Owner wanted to throw up but was afraid the dog might eat that too, so instead walked off towards the barn to bang her head on some boards in the hope of shaking up a plan to duplicate herself once, maybe twice.

The dogs followed me in—no surprise on that score.There’s always something better for dogs to do wherever I’m headed—or so I assume—seeing as how they are but a sniff away from me at all times.

And as I entered the barn that day, they were right on the mark.

The canine capers tore from zero to 60 in record time as the pigeon that lives in the hayloft made a run for it, having been found pecking at some old grain seed in a pail sitting on the main floor of the barn.

It was all I could do to duck out of the way as the bug-eyed bird scaled the free space over my head and soared up the stairs to his safety zone, trailed in high gear by a frenzy of fur and barking.

The calamity up there was phenomenal. Not only was it a deafening racket but a fine and steady stream of old hay dust poured through the cracks in the floor caking everything below including my hair and the five nice pieces of newly-painted screen door trim that could have used another hour’s drying time.

The helter skelter was not my idea of dogs earning their keep and a few choice words from the ‘Alpha’ pulled them off pigeon duty and to outside where, pumped with doggie endorphins from all that flurry, they sped off into the field in pursuit of the invisible intruder.

I got busy in the barn and the next thing I knew two hours had passed as I’d fallen into those chores that had been a part of the half-done list of mine.

The dogs had come and gone tenfold during that time, wandering aimlessly in front of the barn doors as I had banned them from entry.

However by the time I finished up and headed back to the house the chumps were nowhere to be found and for a moment I reveled in the quiet of their absence.

I should have known something was up.

No sooner did I walk into the house did the two saps come racing out of the field, and straight past me and through the open door.

The stench of wild animal poop was wretched and unmistakable and when I looked upon the disaster I’m sure my bottom jaw cracked as it hit the floor.

Both dogs’ backs were covered in brown doo-doo; their fur matted with it and hay stubble. Obviously they’d rolled in it in the field and marked themselves in a canine victory rub.

I wanted to duct tape them to the barn wall and walk away but they looked as happy as a pig in . . . .  well, you get the idea.

And for a split second there I smiled thinking, “who am I to decide what constitutes a dog earning its keep around here?” and then I realized I’d just been hired to wash them off. 

Think twice and choose wisely

Sometimes when I open my mouth what comes out are words I wish I had never said out loud. I’ve made that mistake a few times lately and of course the afterlife of regret lingers longer than it’s welcome, like the smell of campfire in my hair that takes two or three shampoos to wash out.

In Gordon Livingston’s book “Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart” he expands on what he believes are “30 True Things You Need to Know Now.”

He’s a hard sell realist for someone like me, who has a much lighter and playful view of the world despite having faced dark sides of it. Nonetheless Livingston’s advice is worth pondering.

He expands in chapter one about “If the map doesn’t agree with the ground, the map is wrong.”

In my book, chapter one would focus on “Don’t say the first thing that comes to mind because it’s probably a bad idea.”

The latter advice tends to contradict my belief in going with one’s intuition or in telling one’s truth, but sometimes even I, too, mistake what’s on the tip of my tongue and mind as the right thing to bring forth to the world around me.

Needless to say when I recently asked a woman I was acquainted with and didn’t see often when her baby was due—as I glanced at her tummy—and her eyebrows suddenly amalgamated in a flat stare that surpassed even my very best such expression, I instantly understood the definition of comeuppance.

The little chap already was eight months old.

The words “I’m sorry” suddenly seemed like the stupidest two-word sentence ever invented and the humiliating exposure of what to say next was as painful as the blistering sunburn I got in the summer of 1972. 

At that moment I wanted to pull a portable black hole from my pants pocket, throw it down in the middle of the department store, jump in and teleport to an overcrowded fish market in Shanghai, China.

I considered using a portable hole a couple of other times this week to escape the tornado that true change spins into life when working full time after a long draught.

And there were a couple of times during the “Adjustment Reaction” period that I was sure I was duct taped to perpetual cycles on the “Round Up” amusement ride at the Emo Fall Fair.

In fact the ride was such that I wore myself out and forgot to get off and write a column last week. That disappointed me greatly.

My captain believes there is a silver lining to be found in most conundrums. 

All I had to do was miss one week of column writing to find out that I have more readers that I thought I did as many of them made known to me my lapse in their regular reading schedule.

I can assure you this train of thought is not headed for the dead-end rail. And thanks for pushing me back on to the track.

Smart is as smart does

 Maybe my pets can read and thus know that I write about them. Maybe when I’m gone to work they make themselves at home in the living room (where the “Dog Rule” manual states they are not allowed) and read my column in the newspaper or maybe they surf my online blog for the latest scoop.

Nonetheless something is up. I have a sneaking suspicion that the animals are in cahoots with each other. “One-upmanship” appears to be on the rise around here.

I say this after getting up from breakfast at the kitchen table this morning to find that “Millie” the cat barfed up an unknown substance on my bedspread that I can only describe as something I’ve seen in the movie “Alien.”

And as I hauled the quilt outside to scrape off the juicy chunks before throwing it in the washing machine I looked out over the farmyard to see Cash writhing his snout continuously in the grass as Dot furiously swung a black and white rodent to and fro in her teeth.

It only took a matter of seconds for the stench to reach my nostrils.

It was 7:30 a.m. and already my day had more lead in it than a 20-gauge shotgun shell.

Oh, how easily I could have gone off like that shotgun but I decided to disengage from it all and “go with the flow.”

I’m smart like that.

As I stare out my bedroom window from my writing desk just now, I watch as a robin perched on the clothesline prunes its feather and then poops on my new pair of freshly washed jeans hanging below where bird sits. Hmmm.  It’s a “Fables of the Green Forest” kind of morning.

A Facebook notification “bling” lights up my iPhone and I see that my favorite reporter just left a comment on my recent status. “Fascinating observation,” was his remark to my new mantra I posted.

I have a “Quotes for Work” file on my computer and I dredge it often for brain food.

I’m smart like that.

I added a new quote to it on Friday—“Worrying is like praying for what you don’t want.” 

I am reminded of a story my Captain told to me last week over a cup of coffee. He, who is wise in sweet form, was recalling his school days and English class and the dry spells he encountered when it was time to write a story. His teacher told him to think of a favorite quote and then write something about it. It made all the difference in removing his creative block.

“Worrying is like praying for what you don’t want.”  I found this most fascinating observation marked as “Zen tip #89” on one of the websites I frequent. I’m not sure what the first 88 tips are but they must be totally awesome, given my opinion of #89.

I freely admit that I worry a lot, even though I spend an inordinate amount of time reading and studying the ways in which not to do that.

I worry about the old, rusted, tried and true gears of my life like finances, paying bills, affording house repairs, and fitting life into life’s busy schedule and I’ve discovered that I do most of this unproductive nonsense while riding my lawn tractor.

In fact, that light bulb just went off last night, being Sunday, when I was cutting the front lawn.

I would start off anticipating the upcoming first day at my new full time job—a true story that begins on August 29^th—and by the next go ‘round of the lawn I’d be right back in the mud of worry.

I’d realize where I was in my head, change tracks and kick start the excitement again about the new adventure in employment and then unknowingly wander off into the land of fret by the time I’d made a full circle again.

And if my recall is as good as I think it is, it seems to me I’ve rode this tractor on similar mental grounds before during the hazy times of the past where my mind would get sucked into the dark vortex of stewing and suffering about all the reasons why my ex-husband had chosen a life that didn’t include me.

Back then by the time I was done mowing, I’d be reduced to nothing but a drained soul with no possibility or hope—and for someone with a great passion for the power of positive thinking this mind ritual I put myself through was grave business.

Maybe I need to hire someone to cut my grass?

I’ve written so many times about the power of choice, choosing my thoughts the same way I choose my clothes every day—choose wisely. I’m still learning.

So the “worrying is like praying for what you don’t want,” quote has struck a chord with me. I don’t want to focus on the things in life I don’t want.

Thoughts become things. Choose good ones.

Sometimes I’m smart like that.

From here to the kennel and back

I’m staring at a blank screen. My mind is empty and the clock is ticking. This scenario doesn’t happen to me very often when it’s time to write my column. It means my life is sailing along on with calm winds at my back and my slate is relatively clean.

Of course, all I have to do is put the latter paragraph into writing and my neck of the woods erupts into a plethora of dog barking and cat frenzy, giving me plenty of fodder to scoop into a 550-word essay.

First of all my canine capers are hardly ever on leashes around here. For the most part “Dot” and “Cash” know where their boundaries are and unless provoked by the one who occasionally gets too close to the property line and whose incessant woofing sound like canine expletives and “You want a piece of me, dawg?” my two four-legged friends stick to home plate.

The only other times the four-legged frenzies are missing in action is, as I have said before, when a skunk or other small rodent dares venture within sniffing distance—or after I bring them home from an extended stay at the “Doggie Hotel.”

Once out of the car and on home ground the dogs disperse into the wilds to take the poop they’ve been holding back since they left home and then head straight for the house where inside they flop down and fall asleep for hours relieved to be back on familiar territory.

It’s always the same comical routine. They watch me line the back seat of the car with drop sheets and they know it’s time for a car ride. Doggy excitement abounds as they race around the yard yapping like the “Frisky Puppy” in a “Looney Tunes” cartoon.

Then they sit so patiently yet teeming with adrenaline as I slip on their dog collars and leashes and open the door to the back seat of the car as they leap in.

My goal is to get behind the steering wheel before they explode into the front seat with all that dog hair. I rarely win that battle.

It’s really quite an exciting ride to the dog kennel for all of us creatures. Dog noses are shoved out open car windows into the wind, tongues are flapping, ears are flopping, tails are wagging, and their driver is smiling and thinking about how much she is looking forward to the “dog days” off.

But all canine caper joy screeches to a halt when they bound out to play in the kennel field and then see the gate close and realize I am leaving them behind. The howling and whooping begins as my foot hits the accelerator and I tear off into the land of the free. I’ve often wondered how long the dogs can hear my squealing joy as I disappear down the highway.

Dogs know the sound of their master’s car. When I return days later to pick them up, I still am out of shouting range when the sound of Cash hailing my arrival with his version of joyous whooping and howling frenzy reaches my ears.

Repeat excitement ensues on the ride home except that I’m wearing ear plugs to save my hearing from damage done by ecstatic and energetic hollers from two capers who shout “I Miss You When You’re Gone!!!” as if they just won the lottery.

But then, what am I thinking?  They did win the lottery.

The funniest part of all is when after arriving back home and with a couple of hours of rest and relaxation under their doggie belts, I jest with “Do you want to go for a car ride?”

Dot looks up at me from the floor with a flat stare while Cash already has leapt from his sleeping spot and through the screen door before  “Do you . .” is out of my mouth.

There’s never a shortage of laughter around here.

Put the dark energy to rest

 My soul sister told me the other day over tea that she wants to “live in color.” The desire was voiced after sharing her sadness about the recent death of a friend. We talked a long time about this and we both had a compelling sense to fall into the world with our eyes closed and our arms outstretched.

Why? Why not? After all, none of us are guaranteed much of anything in this life other than the moment we are in. It makes sense to me, too, to live in color as much as I can.

Above my writing station is a quote by author and former Liberal Party politician Michael Ignatieff that reads, “One of the greatest feelings in life is the conviction that you have lived the life you wanted to live—with the rough and the smooth, the good and the bad—but yours, shaped by your own choices, and not someone else’s.”

The philosophy therein is mine—body and soul.

I was taught in a “Time for Me” workshop last year to use “I-statements” when sharing my thoughts and feelings with others. 

It’s a hard lesson to employ, especially when I want the nods of support of the people I’m talking with. Using “I” instead of “we” “you” “they” when sharing feelings on a subject can be daunting and leave me “out there” on a ledge by myself.

But at the dimming of the day I know that if I don’t take off my own skin and stand naked in my very own beliefs about a thing, I have done myself a severe injustice.

So at the advice of my soul sister, I return once again to a subject I thought I had left said and done in this fickle world of writing about my life adventures. This is where putting my honesty into the hands of my readers can come back to me as a hot poker to niggle at half-stitched scars.

Some of what I write here is hiccupped on repeat, like an old record skipping over the same six words.

I cannot remember the last time I wrote in anger, but this time I am angry. The reason for this particular column is twofold.

It is a clearinghouse for my frustrations once again about the archaic reactions based on old and rusty rules of socially acceptable time frames for grieving born in another century. 

And in my “readership wish book,” it is warrior’s stand for anyone else out there who has been through the grief grinder and who may be wading through an ill-supported system as they make their way back to life.

I am here to remind you that your grief is unique, your recovery in your own way is unique and there will be hurdles. Be a hurdler.

What is the biggest chance you have ever taken?

I know what mine is. The biggest chance I ever took was a deliberate leap to find happiness again and I am appalled that, still, I meet up with careless-mouthed dream stealers in my bid for a happy life. 

No one in this whole wide world can tell me that I don’t know how life can change in an instant. I learned that lesson the hard way when I drove into my yard on a cold winter night and found myself helpless in the face of death.

But it was not the end of my life; it was just the beginning of a different one. I am driven to grow from all the walks of my life and anyone who knows the many, many hardships I have experienced, knows I am not a quitter. I am not wedded to my past. I am a strong and beautiful soul and my goal is to be happy.

And yet despite all my strengths I am weak. I am human. I hurt.

Suffering a loss, whatever it may be, is a unique experience for each of us. For those of us trying to find the happiness we want and deserve please don’t take us down.

Remember those six words. And I repeat.

“Mouth closed, ears open, presence available.”