Deus De Machina

The Christmas Tree is Dad's favorite thing in the world--maybe even topping whiskey. Now that he's sober these past few years, the tree is most decidedly his favorite thing. Unfortunately, in this house, everyone else would like to slip by with an artificial tree. Hang an attached plastic string of lights and other fancies, and call it a Yule Tradition. (Well, almost everyone else..).

For the second Christmas in a row, Dad has gently elicited my help in trimming and watering "a real tree". Kev and he go out to the same local civic organization lot; haggle; pick out the tallest tree there; haggle; tie it to one of several vehicles; haggle; lop of the top three feet--usually leaving a piece of trunk the size of a tangerine, which then needs "whittling down" to fix the star at the top. Then, still haggling, they get it smushed into the living-room, jammed in a tree stand that screws in four pieces of metal and sets the wet tree in a pot of water. Covered in pitch and sweat, Kev grabs a beer and exits, cussing under his breath. Headed home to his own smells of warming plastic and no fallen branches.

Then, Dad goes into his secret workroom in the cellar.There, he uncovers myriad hoards of boxes, which he has been collecting through the decades--and protecting from filching by his children, his grandchildren and his spouse. He is an organized collector, though. Each box is lovingly marked with dates and contents. Each ornament--whether it be plastic or blown glass, is adoringly wrapped in parchment-like kleenex. Dad even saves the tinsel.

"He what?!" I asked on the phone once, years back, from California.

"He's been taking each strand of silver tinsel off the tree, before he hauls it to the curb, after Christmas. Then he uncurls each piece and puts it in a special box..." Kev informs me.

I thought he was exaggerating--still a bit sore from the tree installation at 88 Maple, each year.

No hyperbole. Dad carefully unwraps the tinsel and proceeds to lay it on the couch. Then, while Mom and everyone else (our house has an unremitting stream of relatives and visitors--all the more intense, this year, as Dad lost his bid for the city council and people are still coming by to wish him adieu.) are out shopping, Dad begins, in the silence of a little boy with his fingers inching towards the forbidden cookie jar, to decorate the tree. And because, as the "squatter" and "returned Cartoon-from-California-artist", I am his "go-to" accomplice.

"They laugh because I saved the tinsel, but you know, the factory that makes this stuff closed down. You can't get it anymore!" Dad points out, as he uncurls a static-clinging strand from his thumb.

Dad has no sense of design. He's an amazing workman and can jerryrig anything from nothing--but his artistic touch is sadly lacking. He's the first to admit it, too. So, he engages me. And let's face it...though I abhore the death of the living tree and would have continued to buy one that could, after the season, be transplanted, somewhere, as I did every year in California, this is his house and I love the long-standing tradition of the evergreen in our midst, during Solstice Season and beyond. The pure, clean scent, rising above the holiday odors of cooking, the after-shaves and colognes of visitors, the washed-dog wet smell of Maeve; nothing comes close to the pine tree. No matter how cold or long I've been outside shoveling snow, or shopping in frenzied malls, that first "hit" of Christmas Tree revives me. So,we begin.

This is not an easy process.

Three to four hours later, with no breaks (neither for sustenance nor for the bathroom...)we are still putting ornaments on the tree. Some date back to my dead grandparents, on both sides. Some have been made by my siblings and myself--others are newer--created in classes attended by the grandkids. There are ornaments the uncles and aunts and cousins look for, amid the scraggly branches and falling needles, every year. There is a bi-plane for Uncle Bobby; a blown-glass nurse for Ann; about ten variations of Maeve--from photos in Christmas wreaths to clay-carved likenesses; there are the "Best Grandparents" sets in triplicate; there is even a silver bell I've hung every year I've been alive and could pick out my own favorite. It is a living history of our family during holidays. (It doesn't look half bad, either.)

Until Dad hangs the LED lights.

Kev and Ann insisted he replace the aged glass and material -cord electric strands, held together with duct tape and prayers, which we have had since before we moved into this house. (I can remember the lights getting so hot that we were admonished, as kids, "not to get near the tree when it's on"--as if it suddenly became infused with Evil.) I know that part of the thrill of Christmastime was all the stories of houses going up in flames because of bursting Christmas lights and dried-out branches...So, Dad caved, but he hates the lights. They aren't bright enough for him. (I think, secretly, he also liked bragging, that in all of his years of decorating his trees, not one had burst into flames!) Now that that threat has been extinguished, it just ain't the same...sigh.

So, he makes up for them by hanging three times as many strands and plugging in four extension cords and the brightest star he can find. This year, the tree weighs as much as I do, easily.

He allows Kev  to come back and put the star up--with reluctance on both sides. Kev is in a hurry and not  the best mood. (Ann is upstairs with niece Mer, wrapping gifts.Mom is listening to Bing Crosby in her room.)

Dad and I are admiring our finished creation. Dad is sipping his Ensure and I'm drinking a diet Coke. All of a sudden, in deep silence and gently, the entire tree begins creeping towards us!

Down, down she leans in her glory! (As if she's bowing in recognition--not in the least angry--just moving, alive, shocking us backwards.) Then, when the plastic tree- stand, with the ten gallons of water and the four steel rods pinning the trunk down, bends--the water in a mini-tsunami all over Mom's braided rug and the extension cords (egads!)--there is a popping and a tinkling and a crash of smashed glass and tinsel and sap and needles covering everything.!  Maeve careens downstairs, yelping a warning--as if she has come to us after all these years of fire danger, only to be confronted with a fainting tree--but warn us, she will!

Giving me the "sssshhhhh" sign, hoping Mom won't hear (and she didn't, deaf in one ear, the other focused on Bing Crosby's wails, behind her bedroom door), Dad pushes me into the mess of tree and ornaments.

Together, we haul it up. However, without water, the skewers can't hold; they twist out of the bark. By now, Dad, who is a spindly little man in his dotage, can't hold,either. I am at a right angle, my glasses below my nostrils, keeping the tree and its remaining lights, decorations and tinsel, from crushing my father.

Mer bolts down after the dog. Ann yells behind her. I hollar, "Call your father to get back here, now!"

Kev  finally arrives and helps us re-right the tree.

It goes down again, causing as much damage as the first time. Ann has a  laundry basket and additional cursing, picking up shards of our grannies' ornaments out of the braided rug, and trying to keep Maeve from dancing on them--or worse, getting an ornament "hook" in a paw. Mer doesn't know if she should cry or laugh. (We send her up to keep Mom busy, and from coming down to see what is going on.)

All together, we wrangle the tree, again. This time, Dad's had it.

"I should have wired it to the wall, like last year! I told you!" He heads to his workroom. He emerges with piano wire, clippers, pliers, hammer and eyebolts.  He finds the holes he made in the woodwork, behind the lace curtains Bev lovingly hangs each year, and puts eyebolts into the windowsills. Now, with wiring worthy of the San Francisco Bay Bridge, the tree is upright and majestic, if a bit denuded. Dad is more than satisfied.

He picks tinsel off the dog. Himself. Me.
He straightens the silver strands out and begins to rehang them, piece by piece.
Ann hides the broken ornaments.
Kev Krazy Glue's the Christmas star and reboots it, back on top.

When Mom finally comes down, she notices Maeve won't sit anywhere near the tree--even to get to her bone. Bev is suspicious, b ut Maeve keeps our secret--just dreaming with one blood-shot eye on the tree
at all times.

"Well, at least those new lights won't burn us to death in our sleep..." Mom sighs. "It is a nice tree, all in all."

I pick a pine needle from my teeth and breathe in.

Dad merely smiles.    

STROKE !

Something wakes me early...it's Sunday and I can sleep in--past the parents scrounging their breakfasts; past the sister doing her early morning on-lines; past the dog looking for attention and toast crumbs...I can sleep in till ten, if I want; but I don't.

Showered, changed, surprisingly alert before coffee--I am trying to remember the elusive details of a particularly pleasing dream when Dad falls into his easy chair, trembling.  Ann is on his heels, coughing out a series of orders to us all: "I'll get him breakfast...sit,Dad! Ma, you didn't see what I just saw...get a blood pressure cuff...Karen's is better...Dad, just sit down and stay here until I get you something to eat!"

The dog is bounding at my feet, demanding I pay attention to her before anyone else. Dad is looking withdrawn and slightly sad...his teeth aren't in yet and his pj's hang on him like a second limp skin. Mom is yelling and running around and fighting with Ann that Dad is just dehydrated...or worn out from raking leaves all day the afternoon before-solo, as usual, refusing help in the yard--or it's an aftereffect of depression over the loss of his council seat...or...Ann ignores her and yells at her to shut up. Ann saw Dad go down while he was trying to get dressed and then almost go down again, while he unscrewed the peanut butter jar, for his toast. Now he's sitting quietly while Bev is upstairs, hunting for her blood pressure monitor.

I am keeping him company. He is talking in an upbeat mood. No words slurred. No pain and clutching of head or chest or arm...he tells me his legs are acting weirdly...going weak all of a sudden...but other than that, he's fine...looking forward to "60 Minutes" on t.v. and the football games of any Sunday afternoon. Ann calls me into the kitchen: "He won't listen...he needs to go up to the ER right now...look at his color...he's yellow! And Bev won't listen, either...I think he's having a stroke...Let me get some food into him, and then we can check his blood pressure and pulse...but I'm warning you, prepare for a shitstorm!"

I bring Dad his coffee. I put it on the little coffeestand made specifically to stand up by his easy chair. No more beer in his life, this "nook" is reserved for the black morning brew he prefers--or the occasional can of Coke. His hand suddenly karate chops to the side, cleanly knocking the coffee mug half-way into the hall between the living room and the kitchen. There is a widening puddle of dark liquid slipping down one wall. All he says to me is: "Better wipe it up before your Mother gets downstairs!"
I do, alerting Ann, who pounds back into the livingroom, admonishing him, and carrying some peanut buttered toast. "Eat this and we'll see how you feel in a minute," she tells him.

His hand can barely hold the bread, but he can bite and chew and swallow fine. He's also talking sanely to us, one eye on the morning news on the widescreen. The dog sits next to him...doggedly waiting for a hand-out. "We share breakfast every morning, don't we, Maeve?" he tries to lean over and stroke her head. She backs off, aware of the trembling, empty palm.

"Go get your blood pressure cuff, Karen!" Ann barks at me. I run upstairs, take it down, feeling eighty-four, myself. "I don't know how that thing works, you put it on him," she orders.  I roll up his top and attach the velcro. The cuff keeps sliding down his arm, against his bone. He's about one twenty-five these days and the cuff cannot register his bp.
I try it on myself. It's fine. The whirring computer accurately reads my rising bp....I turn it off.
Ann takes his pulse.
"It's there, but we need to get you to ER, Pop," she tells him.
He looks like he's going to say "No", but I support Ann. I'm not the gruff and ready nurse. I am the flakey California failure--but I'm the oldest and closest to any of his "sons" in the house this morning, so he doesn't argue. "Dad, let's go...just to make sure nothing's really wrong, okay?" I try not to sound like I'm begging.

Mom is down the stairs with her bp monitor, which she is loudly declaring is "the best"!

I tell her we are taking him to the ER.
He almost goes down again as we get him out of his chair and head towards the door. Mom is pulling on his jacket. Ann is telling him to take the Irish shaleighleigh he got on his trip to the Emerald Isle, so he won't fall on his face as I escort him out the backdoor. He is cursing and grumbling, but lets me take his arm. I am shocked at how chicken-thin he is...this ex-footballer and fear figure of my teen years. But, he lets me help him as he nearly stumbles to his knees, again. Finally we get to the garage. Ann pulls out the car. He and Ann are arguing as she tries to shuffle him too quickly and again, falls into that psychiatric barking nurse nobody better question me Head of ER state. Even as their medical proxy and ArchAngel daughter, this gruffness does no one any good. On the other hand, maybe it is his karma. God knows we all were held captive by his gruffness and my Mom's, when we were growing up...sigh.

We pull out of 88 Maple and head to the hospital. It's Sunday. Below us, the street is filling with older people about to attend the first morning mass at Sacred Heart. Our Church. The streets are wet and foggy. The cold of early November rushes past us. Ann navigates to the hospital, old hand that she is. This is my first trip with either parental unit there, but Ann has been doing this for years now. Still, this time she is grim.
When we pull up to valet parking there is no valet.

"Go inside and get a wheelchair..." Ann tells me.
"Don't I have to ask, first..." I am already out of the car.
"Just grab one. We'll put him in and then I'll park and meet you inside..." Ann answers.
I open Dad's door, readying him.
I enter the lobby. It's darkened and deserted. I pull out a waiting wheelchair, stunned at how unguarded everything still is in my little hometown. Far cry from the ER mornings in L.A. ! I take the chair out to the car. We practically haul Dad's bony ass into it and then, like I'm a kid pushing a grocery cart for the first time, I push my Dad inside.

We go up to the registration desk. He's got his medical info in a small wallet and hands it to me. I hand it to the nurse. She takes it. There is a young father with two croupy kidlets in front of us and some working guy who smashed his hand, with his drinking buddy. We are third. The nurse takes one look at Dad, has a mini conference with Ann, who has no arrived at our side, and they haul Dad from my hands and whisk him into the bowels of the ER. Chagrined, unsure of what to do, keyless, I sit down.

The little kids come up to me. They hold out crayons and an ER coloring book. They show me what they've done. I smile. Tell them it's great. They show me more. The young Dad gives me a wide smile, clearly relieved to have some help in the early morning. The two workmen get up when the registration nurse returns. She tells me nothing. She takes the kids and the father into another closed off room. The workmen follow and turn off where she points. I am left in silence with only the fluorescent lights for company. I sit.
No magazines.

I pick up an abandoned crayon. It's tip is worn round. Crayola. Crimson. I begin to color where the two kids left off...     

streetrap: LEAFDUST

streetrap: LEAFDUST: Autumn in New England is more than cold nights, fiery colors and rounded pumpkins. This year, the ghosts of Halloweenie are creeping around...

LEAFDUST

Autumn in New England is more than cold nights, fiery colors and rounded pumpkins. This year, the ghosts of Halloweenie are creeping around my homestead; coming in to visit. Perhaps it is because my Mother is dying of lymphoma (though she swears she will "be around for years to bother you all..." or because I am entering my second year of unemployment. (In 2011 America, I am not alone: I go to school almost full-time in my licensure program for my MA credential to teach AND student teach every day, from 7:00 a.m. to whenever the students and other faculty let me leave (smile), AND continue to write...however, none of these enterprises shows up on the radar because none of them are generating income. In America of 2011, it matters not if you toil from sun-up to sun-down; it only matters if you have created a "bottom line" that is taxable. So, I am technically one of the millions who are currently "jobless"...still.) Perhaps the ghosts are coming not for Mom, but for me?  Hmmm...

Autumn in New England is a time of reflection and drawing inward. Though record global temperatures make some days feel like August, the nights have the snap and crackle of the stars beginning to crystallize. Perhaps not yet time for a hat, but definitely time for a hoodie or sweater. Summer ales are phasing out to Octoberfest brews. Hot dogs and hamburgers are being replaced by beef stews and crock-pot casseroles. When Dunkin Donuts begins pouring pumpkin flavored coffee, you know September has ceased and the true Fall has begun.

The ghosts know it, too.

Reading "Hamlet" in AP Seniors Literature class has affected my mood. The melancholic Dane joins his dead father in my dreams. I wake up answering to both. The Seniors in my three AP classes might make jokes about the dated verbiage of Shakespeare, but for me, his lines frame my nightmares. Howling rain against my windows only adds to the reality of the fright. Perhaps Hamlet's death becomes the ultimate peace--release from indecision; release from woe. Or, perhaps he only really wanted to follow Dear Old Dad and the lovely Ophelia, afterall? Hmmmm...

Like the Danish laddie, I feel caught in my thoughts. Afraid of my dreams. On the edge of my seat wondering what to do--if anything. Are we, in fact, simply pawns in the night, moved by an Angry God, out of boredom? Or, are the wonders to come blowing around us--hidden by the decaying leaves? Need we simply close our eyes to the blinding dust, for a little while longer?

Perchance there is still time to dream?

GOODNIGHT, IRENE...

It is now almost three p.m. on the Atlantic Seaboard of the United States of America. For northern MA, the storm is blowing its last gasps; leaving us with waves of standing water. For little Gardner, MA, the big maple tree I grew up with, in the backyard, has withstood another surprise "attack" by Mother Nature. I'm sure it's pissed off, as any child is, after being "whipped". (Especially such a hard-working and good-hearted child as this maple...offering squirrels sanctuary, birds homes, and shade for all the humans playing beneath her.) But parents are often cruel, in the guise of doing what is best. So, perhaps Hurricane Irene, the lusty aunt Mother Nature sent to straighten us out, is only carrying out her duties, as assigned. In any case, the maple tree and the Minns family are drying out, little worse for the wear.

What remains surprising to me is how over-wrought the press and politicos were, as the storm approached. This is New England, after all. We survive countless unnamed ice and snowstorms throughout the winter. (And winter often lasts more than six months at a time...) Just this past spring, tornadoes ripped all along inner New England, causing permanent FEMA offices to sprout up like mushrooms. (My brother, Bud, is staffing one of those roving bands of merry men, even as I type this up.) So, we are no strangers to wild weather. What made this storm so different?

Perhaps because it came upon the heels of a 5.8 earthquake (which I didn't feel, accustomed as I am to living on the faultline of Wilshire Blvd., in downtown L.A., for so many years). Quite a surprise to these East Coast natives! Or, is is the return to our Puritan roots, despite increasingly diverse cultures around us? (Is the END really closer than it was, say, a few months ago--really, really closer? If so, I'm going to be severely upset that The Aliens didn't at least clear up the mystery before God closes the curtains...)

Perhaps, as Republicans and Democrats wrestle with each other over champagne brunches and golf holidays on the islands, they are trying to take our minds off the stagnant unemployment rates and rising poverty? Or, is racism still so institutionalized, that the unveiling of the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial, in Washington, D.C., was so threatening a display, that the mad scientists in our meteorlogical  environs cooked up a hurricane menace to shut down the Capitol celebration? Or, was it just practice for getting ready for what may occur on a new 9/11 anniversary?

Slow news day doesn't cut it as an explanation. The world is afire--both good and bad--there is plenty to report. Perhaps because there is a lot of financial and political "clout" on the East Coast, we got special attention--unlike the South, where hurricanes are the price one is supposed to pay for mild temps and loads of sunshine; the South, where poverty and class stratification is so wide and "expected"...hmmmm.

I can't help but muse, as I look out from my second floor window, at gusts of 60 mile an hour wet spray and blown maple leaves. Yesterday, Wal-Mart and Hannaford and Stop and Shop were crammed with people clutching baskets; running wildly up and down aisles. Water, batteries, milk, diapers, toilet paper and canned food was disappearing as if we were in the middle of a war zone.( I suppose matches, candles, kerosene, propane, pet food and extra first aid supplies, too, were being scarfed up.) But people were laughing; almost in a holiday mood, as they grappled with fluorescent lanterns and propane stoves...

I made my way to school supplies--tomorrow is the first day of Gardner High School--and my new "first day" as a full-time student teacher...again. (Quite frankly, Hurricane Irene paled in comparison to how I was going to scrape together a hundred bucks to pay for my own "school supplies". It's almost more expensive being a "student - teacher" than it is, being a student...) I made my way home, to iron my clothes for the school week ahead--before the power went out (as was predicted). I checked all my e-mails and blogs and called friends I was worried about. By nightfall, there was only a wee bit of rain--a few spattering sprinkles.

SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE was a half-hour delayed, because of "storm watch" on t.v. And while I am sensitive that nine people, so far, over five states, lost their lives because of storm influences, I wonder if something else might not have scooped them off the Earth, without the help of Hurricane Irene? (As I am wondering this, Ann comes to my room and informs me: "Two gigantic branches just came down on the front lawn--crushed the rhododendrons flat! Guess we'll need a chainsaw, after all!")

I fell asleep, finally, still waiting for the inevitable. When I woke up, a hard rain was indeed falling.
I lifted my shades and saw the maple tree flailing in gusts that had to be 60 mph, as predicted. But, the power was on. Dad was listening to the news as he made coffee and cooked bacon for Sunday breakfast, downstairs. Someone was in the shower;I knew we had water, too. (The dog was nervous, but she doesn't like any kind of wind.) I checked my Subaru in the street: all was well. No power-lines down; no fallen trees across her top. I checked my kayak out back. Still chained to the garage, still covered and safe. The entire house was intact. Cozy. Not even a basement flooding, as Dad had worried about after the terrible forecasts on t.v.

Now, between gusts, neighborhood cats are out, patrolling, checking for wind-flung birds, stunned just enough to be easy to catch. Squirrels are running up and down the fence. I can hear the bluejays screaming that the bird feeders are up and running, and my sister Ann has just tossed out some peanuts, lest anyone go hungry...

Am I disappointed that disaster has been averted? No! Do I think that a bigger disaster may come, now that the media has begun to sound like "Chicken Little", and we will be taken unawares? Perhaps. Can we do much with any of these musings?

Duck.
 Cover.
Pray.
Make sure your toilet paper and bottled water supplies are adequate.
Be kind.
I'll let you know if I think of anything else.

Peace. Out.
minns

HIT AND RUN : a Liberal's Lament

(Disclaimer: this blog is about a real incident that just occurred...its intent is not to disparage either differently assembled human beings, nor white Liberal females of a certain age who just happen to be blonde...it is merely a cautionary tale wrapped around a moral dilemna. The totally- politically-correct may be offended. Forgive me. Please.)

Helayne's car-karma continues:

Sunday morning. I haven't cracked an eyelid nor the Sunday edition of the paper, when the phone rings.

From upstairs, loudly: "Karen, it's for YOU!"

I shuffle to the land-line on the wall. 

Me: Hullo...?

Helayne: Oh my God! You will not believe what just happened!  Well, actually, yesterday, but I was so exhausted I couldn't even talk. I sent an e-mail, didn't you get it?

Me: Uh, no...I was studying for my CLEP exam...fell asleep with the book on my lap, in fact...you want me to go read the e-mail?

H: Oh my God!  Yesterday, I was taking the boys home from a ball game. We turned on to Shore drive and we saw a red car parked in front of our house. Under the apple tree. No big deal... we were almost in the driveway. But suddenly, the red car gunned its engine and peeled backwards! Backwards! Like twenty miles an hour! I started blaring my horn. The boys were yelling out the windows!

Me: (Suddenly wide awake.) Did you throw the Rav4 into reverse?

H: I didn't have time! I started screaming and laying on the horn and trying to shift into reverse, but he just sped up and hit us! Total bash of my front end!

Me: Are you all right? How about the guys?

H: We are fine...those Rav4s are solid...you know I have always said--

Me: Helayne! Finish the story! What happened???!!

H: Well, his car died after the crash. I stayed in the SUV. The boys took out their cell phones and dialed 911. I was hollaring at the guy in the red car, but I figured I better stay in my car, I mean, he could have been anybody--

Me: Yeah, he coulda had a gun, a broken bottle...a chainsaw...

H: Suddenly, his driver's side door flies open, and he gets out--

Me: Was he huge? Was he carrying anything?

H: Karen--it was so sad!

Me: Was he bleeding?

H: No...but, well, he was strange looking--

Me: How strange? A meat mask?  Nude? Really hairy?

H: No! Shut up! I mean, I was in shock, so, my first impression wasn't all there...but , when he got out, all I could think was "I've been hit by a Troll--a real-life Troll!  That's awful, I know, but that was my first thought!  He had, like, one short arm and one longer arm and there was something wrong with one of his legs...then I realized, he's my neighbor, from the next street over, on the corner! I've seen him across the road, in his yard!

Me: That doesn't excuse him from ignoring your horn, nor speeding backwards into your vehicle...c'mon!

H: I know, I know, I just felt bad ,when he got out, and I realized who he really was...until he came over to my car...

Me: Then he took out the pick axe...

H: No! But...he really... smelled...

Me: Like BO ?

H: Like booze...he was staggering...

Me: From his leg?

H: He didn't get the shortened leg in the crash--

Me: I don't mean that! I mean, like, was that  his usual way of walking...because of his...leg...being short...on one side...I mean...differently abled...physically challenged...

H: Oh, I thought, you meant he'd gotten crippled in the crash-- no--he was staggering because I'm sure he was drunk --he didn't knock his head or anything--his airbag didn't go off--he just rammed my front end at twenty five miles an hour and  staggered over to my car, smelling like a beer can,  while we were  freaking out. HE wasn't even upset!

Me: Did he say anything?

H: Yes, yes he did! He moved to the point of the crash, checked out HIS bumper, noting that mine was totally caved in, and said, "Well, MY car doesn't even look scratched! Hey, guess I don't have to call the police and report it, eh?"

Me: Man--he must have been high!

H: That's what the boys were saying, in the back seat! They got the police and the police said they'd send someone over right away--to get the insurance info and the  license plate number. I told the man that the police were coming--I didn't even get out of the car!

Me: Did he exchange insurance stuff?

H: No! He just said the accident wasn't bad enough and got into his car and pulled a u-turn and drove back down the street, to his driveway, and parked! Then he staggered into his house and slammed the front door! We can see his door from our house! That's how I know he's a neighbor!

Me: Did the police arrive?

H: Yes, right away. A really sweet, young officer. I told him what had happened. The boys told him what they experienced, which, of course, was the same thing. We pointed to where the guy had parked his car and gone into his house. I said that I thought the man was drunk...but...I mean...he's also differently abled--I mean, what if he's mentally differently abled, too? I mean, I felt bad, but I was also really upset--you should see the SUV! The entire front bumper is hanging! 

Me: But, YOU are all right? You sure you don't need to go to the hospital to get checked out? Or the boys?

H: No, we were all belted in and we saw the guy coming, so I guess we were braced...He stopped once he hit us, so, it isn't like we slid and got hit again...I'm a nurse...I'd know if something was wrong...

Me: Helayne, shouldn't feel guilty....you didn't cause the accident...you weren't texting or talking to the boys or drinking while you were driving...It's unfortunate the guy has a short arm and leg...but you didn't  tell him to back into you at twenty five miles an hour!

H: Yeah, and when I asked him why he didn't react to the horn--or even look behind him before going in reverse--he  said, "Well, I heard a horn coming from somewhere but I couldn't locate the direction..."

Me: That's what mirrors are for, or looking over your shoulder...geez! 

H: And I did smell him--

Me: You did say that you noticed he had a strange aroma when he approached your vehicle.

H: I told the cop. I was glad he got there so fast, too. I mean, when the cop went over to the guy's house, to interview him, there's no way the cop wouldn't notice the odor. I mean...if it is alcohol...or drugs...I just hope...well...

Me: Well what? 

H: Well, like, he isn't mentally handicapped, or on meds that made him do it...I just feel bad about reporting him, I guess...cause...well...you know...

 Me: Because you thought he looked like a Troll when he staggered out of his car???!!!Helayne...he shouldn't be driving if he's on those kinds of meds...or handicapped in such a way he can't hear a horn blaring right behind him OR not be able to make use of his mirrors or look over his shoulder before throwing the car in reverse! It's got nothing to do with what he looks like!

H: People walk up and down this road, on their bikes, jogging--all the time...old people walking in the morning and at sundown...even dogs and cats around here--

Me: And the geese! Don't forget the Canadian geese coming up from the pond!

H: I tell Timmy all the time, do not  go out running after the sun goes down, even in summer--this is a lesson for both boys...I guess.

Me: Yup...

H: I guess I  feel bad...about the arm and leg...thinking he looks like a Troll...I think he goes across the road and comes over to Shore Drive, in front of my house, to back into his driveway, across the street. It's at a slant,so I think he has to build up momentum to make it...

Me: Oh that's great! Helayne, he was driving out of control, unsafely, wasn't listening or looking, and that's a helluva strategy, across two roads, to back into his driveway! Plus, the guy might have been drunk! 

H: The cop helped me pull out the major dent, in the front of the bumper--

Me: Remember when Tortuga got hit in the parking lot? The bump came out, but the whole bumper was just hanging there, in space! They had to weld a big L-joint or something, under the frame, to rehang the bumper. You have to get your insurance folks to do an estimate and get it fixed, no matter what it looks like--if the guy was one hundred percent able-bodied, you'd be after his butt, and I don't mean in a good way!

H: You're right...You know, he isn't much younger than us--

Me: YOUNGER than us???? I thought it was an old dude!

H: He was about our age, actually--

Me: Get on the phone with the insurance company, Helayne. Seriously.  My cousin with Down's Syndrome and my other cousin with MS would advise the same.

H: I did call...the insurance people are coming over on Monday...I just feel...icky.

Me: I would feel icky if my deductible was too high.

H: What is it with us and cars, Minns?

Me: I don't know. Maybe we were Nazis in another life...or Trolls.

H: That isn't even funny.

Me: I'm being serious. Take an aspirin. I'm glad you are okay.

H: Happy Sunday...Guess we aren't going kayaking. Bye.

(When I got off the phone, Maeve was sitting on the kitchen floor, smiling.)

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

Hey, this is a "blog-out" to my favorite DeVincenzo's as they travel from Colorado back to our hometown, to see their family. I know you are reading this and driving with the kid and dogs and are enjoying all the backroad wonders this end of America keeps to itself! I wish I were taking the journey with you--on so many levels...a van of good music, better food and company and those truly Buddhavibes that I haven't quite found around our piece of real estate. So travel safe, travel fast (but not too fast) and play some Dead in my name! Hah.

A cautionary tale to keep you company: Helayne and I were coming home from Worcester State University one night,not long ago. We were talking but also paying attention to the road--deer and moose sightings lately, especially in the forested twisty paths leading back to Gardner. As we cruised through Westminister, suddenly, just on the border, brilliant blue lights and screaming sirens! I nearly choked on a jujube while Helayne pulled over, trembling. 

Helayne: In the dash--can you reach it, it's my registration...

Me: Helayne, put your hands on the steering wheel!

Helayne: Maybe it's behind me, in my hobo bag--can you crawl back over the seat and snatch it?

Me: Helayne! I'm serious! Put your hands on the steering wheel and cut the engine!

Helayne: Why? I have to reach my registration, Minns...

Me: Helayne! Put your hands on the wheel! Cops don't play around when they approach a car, especially at night, on an empty road! Put your hands on the wheel where they can see them!

Helayne: This isn't L.A....

Me: Trust me--Kevin's the LT. for the Gardner cops...I know what these guys go through when they pull people over...it's a big adrenlin bulge to their brains..."Do they have concealed guns? Drugs? Knives? Hidden dogs or people ready to jump when I approach the car? Explosives? They gonna try to ram me? Run?..."

Helayne: My God!  (She turns off engine and puts hands on the wheel.)

From my left side, I can see this cop get out of his SUV and hitch his pants up. He has a hand on a flashlight and one on his holster. My entire life in Los Angeles flashes before me as I watch him shine his light all through Helayne's SUV. Finally, he gets to the front seat. His light floods our laps and our faces. The cop steps back...and laughs out loud...

Cop: Ladies,do  you realize this is a 40 mile an hour zone, and 30, in the middle of town?

Helayne: I think I was doing that...

Cop: Nope. You were doing about 42...

Helayne: Officer, I am so sorry...we were talking and I guess I just didn't realize, as I came around that long curve...(Her voice is quavery and her hands are shaking...)

Cop: Do you know what a speeding ticket costs, these days? 

Helayne: Officer, please, I'm unemployed, I've got kids, I'm a single parent...I've --

Cop: Yeah...it's probably been years since you had a ticket...(He looks at H. and at me, then grins, again. I am a bit insulted, but say nothing...)

Cop: Well, I'll let you go with a warning, this time, cause you weren't going that fast...but watch it, okay?

Helayne: Yes, I will, and thank you, Officer. Truly.

Cop: Hitching pants, stepping back, steps forward, again: One more thing, you ladies might want to consider lowering the bass on your boom box when you are driving through town in the dark--I heard you coming all the way down the road!

Me: Officer, we weren't playing music. Just talking...must have been another car in front of us...or behind us...(I nod to the dark cd player on the dash.)

Cop: Hmmm....yeah, I guess I believe that...(He shines a light on our "old faces" again, laughing.) Steps away, waving us on.

Helayne is still jittery as we pull back on to the road and head towards South Gardner, past the dead wood beaver swamp...

Me: Well, I'm totally insulted! 

H.: Don't be! I'm thanking God in Heaven! That ticket's over a hundred bucks! How would I have paid it?

Me: Yeah, but he let us off cause he thought it was funny--two "old ladies", cruising around on a weeknight, speeding through the swamp--blaring rap with the bass up full blast!

H: I don't care, Minns....whatever works...we weren't playing the music, anyway...

So, my traveling buddies, watch out between Westminister and Gardner, going past Kay's...there's a twenty-something cop with a sense of humor that borders on the ageist, and big SUV with all the cop accutrements...turn down the music--at least the bass--and watch for shifting speed signs.

The beavers won't give you any trouble at all!

Peace.

minns

SUICIDE CLUB sideshowslideshow BASH

This morning I got up late after tossing and twisting my way through the ninety-nine degree night. Even the dog was up and roaming...no place was cool. All the air conditioning did was freeze my butt and shake me out of semi-consciousness. When I flipped it off, I woke in a pool of dampness, feeling as if my brain had melted between blinks. So, I admit my mood. I'm feeling old and worried and slightly worn around the edges.

My sister in law's Mom was diagnosed with a return of her cancer--only now it's spread. Even as I deal with Bev's chemo therapy (maybe) issues and Dana Farber coming up fast, I get this news. So, our family, both blooded and extended, is in full battle gear with the generation before us going down fast. Between this and the sucky economy (and most of my friends being unemployed and losing their benefits in minutes) and too many talented, amazing, pure-hearted people suffering or just freeze-framed in their lives) it's no wonder the final slap of muggy weather has done me in. 

Attempting to "refresh myself", I logged on to the L.A. scene, via the newspapers covering all those mean streets of my last life. The Suicide Club was hosting a book bash for a tattoo art school opening and was running a slide-show. Why do these slide shows always look the same?  I mean, seriously. I could have clipped this from my first days in L.A., at the end of the 70's...I mean at least the punkside of town...same leather, same school-girl cut plaid shred skirts, thigh high spike boots (or Doc Martins!) pale foundations on everyone,no matter one's age or race; same dyed black, bleached or maroon locks; same chains and tats and black or blood lips and nails; same piercings (maybe more ornate jewelry); same twenty somethings trying too hard and same thirty and forty somethings trying to attract them; same worn out has been fifty and up somethings who sponsored the event and then try to populate it so they have "a cool thing" to go to and Tweet home about...also looking for desperate sex and ego-inflaters...the art was just High School anime and tat art..mostly on sketch paper and some with the binder ring tear outs at the top still intact. Even the photos were bad...not ironically so, either...just poor flash photos of girls either anorexic or chubbed out, squashed into ill-fitting bustiers and raggedy fishnet hose, their butts out and breasts reflecting the flash better than their teeth. Everybody had ciggies and drinks and was grinning.

Grinning.

Guess I used to, too. 

In other clubs there were better d.j.'s ; better outfits; more expensive cover charges and probably even better art...or at least art that took more than an hour on the bus or between classes to "sketch" and then have framed at Aron Brothers...oh do I sound cranky? Or bitter? Or both?  I guess it's just I keep hearing these high falutin' rants in technology classes, about how all this technology in the class room has elevated the learning potential sky high and how did we ever get along without it and that the new kids coming up are so much more original and sophisticated visually and aurally, etc. and then I see what's being published and pushed out there and it seems it is the same old same old...only now it's same old same old times four...the images being produced are anything but original or high minded (Where's evidence of Bloom's Taxonomy? Huh?). People are doing what they've been doing for the last fifty plus years--before the Net and cell and FaceBook and Twitter and Flickr and the rest...and it doesn't look or sound much better. Or even different. Except now, we can see it the next day via media feeds, links to video and slide shows and on YouTube...for free.

I hope the weather breaks. I hope we all find interesting and self-sustaining employment. I hope we all heal. I hope we make it past the breakers--all of us.  

Lake Wampanoag

Helayne's inflatable kayak (Intek 1 Challenger) looks like the nose-cone of the Space Shuttle--downsized. It doesn't help that the cheapest life-vest at the Dollar Store was a red and yellow NASCAR decal model. When she plopped into the kayak, it was like someone had dropped an amusement park ride onto the lawn.
However, all it took was one afternoon, on the pond behind her house, to hook her on kayaking--even in an inflatable!

Of course, the giant lilypads (like green, lace doilies--eaten in perfect circles all around the inside rim of the leaves, by freshwater snails) and gently undulating grasses, had their effects, too. Or maybe it was the red- striped turtle, that waited until we drifted two feet from its rock, before taking a nose-dive into the water? Of course, the blue heron that sailed directly from a branch overhanging us, contributed. Not even when we got close to the two dams, which H. is terrified of, took away her joyous abandon.

"You know, I'm not even wearing make-up! I don't care what I look like--I have never been so relaxed in all of my life!" she called to me, across the rusty pond.

After watching me "dismount" from the interior of my hard-hulled vessel, and promptly slip in the muck at the edge, her mood only grew lighter. The ease of standing straight up, and simply walking out of her inflatable, compared to my roll and flip exit, finished the day of grace for her.

"Tomorrow, let's try a bigger body of water! I'm so up for it! I want to do this every day! Can you imagine? We'll have arms like Schwarzenegger if we paddle a few hours every morning!" Helayne was almost dancing on the grass as we pulled the kayaks up to her shed.

(It's been a while since Helayne has seen Arnold...)

"Okay, how about Lake Wampanoag, tomorrow? I haven't been on that lake for forty-five years! Seriously.
 I found this little  "put in", off the main camp road, between some blueberry bushes and white pine trees. Nobody will even see our cars. You up for it?" I asked her, wiping the "For Bald Guys Only" sunscreen I'd pinched from my Dad, off my eyebrows.

"Yes!"

Next afternoon, I was strapping my orange "Manta-the-Kayak" to "Tortguga", my low-flying Subaru. Twenty bungee cords, two ballistic webbing straps and a couple of foam "bricks" and we were almost ready. Helayne merely threw "Pocohantas" into the back of her Rav4.

"You know, maybe we can strap your kayak to the top of my car...I mean, if you get hung up in the woods or something..." she offered.

"H., neither you nor I can reach half-way to the rack on your vehicle...let's be real." I strung another bungee cord to my bumper. (It was a nice thought, though.)

Her teen-aged youngest son checked out the weather report for us. (In a single-parent family, one doesn't want to see one's single- parent struck by lightning. )He gave us the all-clear, bemused that I'd introduced his Mom to this whacky enterprise.

We drove through the center of town...me, resembling a real turtle, and H. a flash of silver, in the Rav4 with the inflatable kayak jammed all the way up to the front windshield, next to her.

When we passed the town golf course, we immediately entered another world : a tunnel of tree branches. Twenty degrees cooler, and resembling something Monet would have paused to paint, I couldn't help but be glad H. had been game enough to trust me, and to buy the inflatable kayak. Gardner is no high- risk area, but over the years, we have had a couple murderers and a serial killer come through town. And while I don't mind walking the dog out in the woods, alone, kayaking is not the best sport to take on solo...especially when one has to drive down long dirt roads and park in the trees, even before hitting the water.

 Helayne had acquiesced to something that not even my pro-surfing buddies in Huntington Beach, CA had agreed to do: go kayaking with me, more than once! I kept my eye on the rearview mirror, checking her progress, as I carefully avoided potholes in the outback road. Finally, we came to the camp gates, pulled in, and drove just a wee bit further, into the arms of the forest.

In walking Maeve, out here, one morning, I'd noticed a neglected turn-off and found how close it came to the edge of the lake. (Clearly, only fishermen, or maybe some teens had made use of the little break in the treeline.) I put Tortuga in park and hopped out. The pine incense cleared my head. The buzz of the cicadas and crickets in the grass, were giving us a hand for arriving safely--kayaks intact.  Helayne got out, ready to rock and roll the waves.

We hauled my kayak down, first,and carried it to the lip of the bank. Then,opening the back of her Rav4, we "released" her rocket: it popped out like silly string, ready to become immersed. I made sure my keys were in a pocket of my shorts that had buttons, and that my sunglasses were secure. Then, jumping into "Manta", I pushed off. Helayne was right behind me.

(We might have resembled a clown act from Barnum and Bailey's Circus, but we were deadly serious.)

Immediately, it was like what all good things are like: a cold beer on a hot afternoon; a hug from a well-missed friend; clean sheets on a bed when one's had a hard day; popcorn at a great movie; a first kiss...the list goes on. Simple pleasures. Sheer bliss. We found what we had come looking for.

The lake is large enough to be a real lake. The water is still clear. There are living fish, and frogs and dragonflies. Song birds scolded us from the trees overhanging the edges. No powerboats. Not even a sailboat to break the silence. Far off, across, on the other side, a couple other kayaks on the water. We basically had the lake to ourselves.

"I feel like an Indian--for reals!" Helayne laughed.

I back-paddled, and stifled my own giggles: between the huge red life-vest (emblazoned with a NASCAR decal) and the sheer silver vinyl sides of the inflatable, ( wearing  her Jackie Kennedy sunglasses) Helayne truly resembled some alien visage--a blonde ET, set down in the middle of Lake Wampanoag. No matter. We were there, on the water, independent of all contraptions. Authentic as the water lillies surrounding us.

We spent three hours paddling one half of the lake. We crossed it, twice. In the middle, I spotted a large waterfowl, swimming about ten yards off my bow.

"It's a loon!" I pointed out to H.

She paddled over. "No, I think it's a mallard duck...seriously, Minns..."

H. has known me since we were very young. I have always had "eye challenges"--not quite Helen Keller, but close. Nobody trusts my eyesight...)

"Really, I think it's a duck," H. insisted, kindly.

Either way, it was magical, to be on the same level in the water, with the wild bird. (I hesitated to tell H.how homesick it made me for Southern CA, where the brown pelicans would dive bomb straight down next to me, and swim close enough to my sea kayak to touch--or when dolphins would mark time with my paddling, on the waves.) For this second voyage on the flat waters of Gardner, a duck was miracle enough.

As we got around the point, a dot of an island stuck out. We paddled around it silently, until Helayne noticed, the entire island was covered in high bush blueberries--none ripe enough to pick--but there!

"Oh my God, Karen, we can come back in three weeks and bring....plastic bags! It's like treasure! The whole island is a blueberry garden!"

I was worried she might fall out of her boat in her excitement.

As the sun grew less brutal, we paddled to the far end of the lake. H. just lay back, drifting on the waves, letting them lull her into a bit of a nap. I explored all the inlets--seeking out snapping turtles and nesting birds along the bushy shore. The water was crystal enough to see the remains of mussel shells, littering the bottom. These were cousins to the shells collected by local Indians and strung and worked into lines of "wampum".

I could feel ancestors' lining the shore in the shadows, and I sent out silent prayers, unashamed of my feelings of connection and peace. As I watched a huge, navy- blue dragonfly light on the prow of my  kayak, I heard a scream!

Turning around, craning my neck, it was Helayne, hundreds of yards out in the middle of the lake!

(Calling would do nothing. She was too far off. I knew she wasn't sinking--I could see that. She had her enormous lifevest, anyway...)

I paddled full-tilt boogey to her side.

"You're right! You're right!" Helayne hollared as I pulled up beside her kayak."Did you hear it? It came up from under the water--they dive--under the water! It came up right beside me ...it screamed! Just like the movie, "On Golden Pond"! Do you remember? " The loons! The loons!"  Helayne clapped her hands together.  "I was in Miami when I saw that movie...it made me so homesick for New England, I cried through the whole thing...and now, a loon just popped up-- in front of me--yelling at me ! It's so cool, Minns! I love this sport! I want to be out here every day! I've never been so peaceful in my life!"

I watched the sparkle factor on the waves....watched the fast disappearing loon sink down into another dive...saw a pickerel skitter through the shadows on the rocks, below our drifting boats. (Yeah, I've missed this part of New England, too.)


Helayne floated off, lost in her reveries. (As puffed and comfortable as someone in an overstuffed recliner.) This was no white-water, adrenlin ride, for sure...but that was okay.

 I paddled into another water-lillied cove. Hanging over the banking were clumps of blueberry bushes--these were ready to be picked! I took  only a hanful, mindful of the birds and bears-- I couldn't refuse to take some back to Helayne. So, there we ended the afternoon: drifting on the cooling waters of Lake Wampanoag, smacking our berry-stained lips with the first fruits of the season; two, fifty-something, single women, (without make-up), unemployed in America, celebrating a new summer in an old friendship.

God bless the loons!

Maeve and Water

Maeve is a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel of eight years old. She is about nineteen pounds and diabetic. She has the beginning cateracts of older dogs. She mostly loves people (though recently, if men and small children get between her and anyone she values (wheter as food- giver or house- pack- member) she becomes cranky. She even discovered she can "disagree" with her previously-adored male vet. (He won't try to hug her again after giving her a nail trimming!)

If she's sound asleep, upstairs, and my Father comes quietly up to use the bathroom, Maeve will chase him all the way down the hallway. She is usually asleep on my nurse sister's bed (her original "Mom"), so protecting Ann is part of this. Also, Dad is of the old school, that you must "show dominance" to a dog...and since Dad, at 85, is the Head of this house, Maeve "must respect" him. (Which she mostly does--until her "Mom" comes in.) Then, it is like Maeve is the Princess, and the Queen is the only person she will listen to. The rest of us exist only "to serve".

Don't get me wrong. Maeve adores my Dad. He takes her out in the garage, where he spends most of his retirement hours. (He used to take her down to the basement, to his worshop, too, until she started peeing on the new furnace and dropping "presents" in the dirt cellar.) He takes her for rides in the car--whether to the grocery store,where they both wait for Bev to finish shopping, or to Wal-Mart, where he walks the dog around the parking lot, also waiting for Bev to finish shopping.

He doesn't take her to Church. He doesn't take her to his City Council meetings. When it thunders, it is to Dad that Maeve  runs, hidding behind his feet, even as she did when she was a pup. He feeds her breakfast (her "Mom" is still at work) and lets her out, first thing in the morning. (When I try to help, I get yelled at...that is "his job". )

 Maeve, however, could care less. In fact, lately, she's been coming into my room to wake me up and go out a bit earlier. Or, to play. Or, sometimes, for a cup of water. This is driving Dad crazy.

See, her bowl of water is next to her food bowl,  in the kitchen. She has always gone there for water and grub. That was Dad's and Mom's domain. When I moved back into 88 Maple, I took on the role of "auntie"...which in dog terms basically means "a playmate who will feed you treats..." She listens when she requires something. She is affectionate 99.9% of the time--only getting growly once, when a house full of guests were  rowdy, over Christmas. I tried hugging her, to comfort her ,because no one was paying her the proper attention...ahem...Well, my affection was NOT what was required. Maeve wanted all the guests out of the house; she wanted to go upstairs, to bed. Because I didn't "get" the psychic message, I was reprimanded. (She has picked that up, I'm sure, from the rest of the family...)

Aside from that, pretty much anything I want to do with her, is allowed, valued and appreciated. 

In this vein, one day, when she came into my room while I was writing, she  sat by my feet, looking me directly in the eye, and began licking her lips, like crazy. I knew she'd had "lunch" and been outside to pee. I scratched her her belly, behind her ears.

While she loved this, it wasn't the point. She kept licking her lips. It dawned on me: the dog was thirsty! (Could this really be? Was she really using a kind of doggie-lingo-sign- language to inform me of her desires?)

Somewhat lamely, I asked, "You want a drink?" 

She got up, barked excitedly and ran out of my room. In the hallway, she stood in front of the bathroom door, wagging her tail, tongue out, "smiling".

Since we were the only people upstairs, I didn't mind how strange this might look: I got a Dixie cup and filled it with tap water. I held it at her level. Maeve drank the whole cup, licked my nose, once, then walked back to her "Mom"'s room, for a nap.

The latest kink in our routine is: one Dixie cup isn't enough. After one full cup is drained, she will pull the cup from my fingers and drop it in front of me,then wait. If I don't respond, she will pounce on the empty cup,  take it to "her room", and wait in the doorway, looking at me.

Until my sister and parental units witnessed this, they didn't believe it, either. (Now, they think I taught her this trick...)

The only problem is that when she drinks from the cup, she slurps and there is a tiny wet spot on the upstairs rug, where she dribbled. Everyone has stepped in a "wet spot" and assumed it was Maeve's "other end", leaving the drip...this  always causes a four alarm gestalt response.

When Dad saw me letting her drink from the Dixie cup, he thought it was ridiculous-- but entertaining. (Until Maeve started to charge him in the hallway as he approached the bathroom.) Dad challenges ANY dog (or person) who challenges him...and staring her down, ala Dog Whisperer, or putting on a manly voice and scolding her loudly, does nothing--except to escalate her response. Mano v. Doggo.

Cavaliers are notorious for being brave and being stubborn. Especially if one tries to "command them".

Maeve is the alpha female of this household--except when her "Mom" is at home. So, if she's "guarding Mom", no one is going to get close...especially someone who is using "her" resources. Well, Maeve doesn't  growl or chase any of the women of the household  who use the bathroom, even if she's napping on the cool floor tiles. She just gets up, looks at us in exasperation,  moves into the hall. But when Dad comes up--look out.

Her latest ''trick" is chasing him ALL the way down the hallway. He isn't entertained anymore.

The other night, Ann gave me a plastic cup.( She said I'm using too many Dixie cups for Maeve. Use the plastic cup if I must give her a drink.) Well, Maeve sniffed it suspiciously, but when I put it down just inside my bedroom doorway, she liked the idea.

Maeve began coming in, checking out the cup,. If she was thirsty, carrying it to me. If she wanted more than one cupful of water, she'd drop the cup near me, or take it to "her room" and wait for me to notice...the game became a wee bit more sophisticated.

This week, it was incredibly hot and humid. Maeve wasn't sleeping well anywhere in the house. The bathroom floor seemed most comfortable. (Even with the air conditioning on and the fan in the hallway, it was icky. ) I kept my bedroom door closed to keep the cooler air in the room.

 I left Maeve's  cup of water outside my door. She immediately noticed it and was fine. But when Dad came upstairs, she went after him in the most vociferous way she ever has. He was furious!

"It's because you're giving her water up here--she has her water bowl in the kitchen. She knows it is downstairs--if she wants water, let her go downstairs!" Dad yelled at me.

The little plastic cup disappeared. Maeve and I were very sad.

"Hide this bowl in your room..." Ann slipped me a ceramic bowl, the next day.

 I placed the new water dish near my nightstand.

Of course, Mom found it first.

"Did you just give the dog water?  I stepped in a wet spot in the hall and I thought she'd had an accident..." Mom confronted me with a damp wash- cloth and the spray spot-remover. She eye-balled the ceramic bowl near my nightstand.

"Uh, well, yeah, but in my room...." I threw my arms up in surrender.

"Your Father doesn't want you to have a water dish up here!" 

So, the dish disappeared.

For the last two days, Maeve has come to my door, sniffed around, and taken to barking-- at me.

Of course I've caved. We are back to smuggled Dixie cups. (She is insisting on three cups at a time.) She has also tried to "call me" --from her "post" in her "Mom's " doorway.

That, I refuse. I am human. I can withstand conditioning-by-a-dog...

Wait...guess who just walked in...

Maeve, I'm writing about you in my blog--okay, okay--I'm coming! Don't get everyone in an uproar...

(Helayne's now trying this with her cats...so far, they love the idea...)   

By The Waters of Babylon

So I finally convinced Helayne to get a kayak! Broke as we both are, working our asses off in this licensure program, and tired of hearing me wax eulogic about the joys of being "on the water", Helayne, with her house rented from other friend, Ann G. on a pond, broke down, yesterday and hit the Web, in search of an affordable craft. 

We e-mailed back and forth all afternoon, in syncronous search. I was thrilled, as having a friend to kayak with me is not only a treat, it is also an aquatic blessing. Ann G. has a lake house and two kayaks and I've already been on the water with her, but she has to drive in from the Boston coast and it is too far and few times that we get to paddle together. Helayne I see almost every day! And while she used to be a runner and still is a dancer and a cross-country skier, for moi, the only really joyous excercise is in a kayak. For reals. 

My kayak, gift from my siblings (mostly nurse Annie), still hasn't been officially christened. I've scoped out a few possible launching sites--including two on H.'s pond--and now have Tortuga-the-Subaru with a rack, to get the kayak to water. But, I still haven't hoisted her aboard and am afraid to find I can't quite reach up there to lash her down OR the lashings won't work and I'll have to save some non-existent bucks to buy a better rack for kayaks...I am used to years of driving a pick-up on the California coastline and just tossing my kayaks into the extended truck bed. Sooooo independent and easy! Not so now...Bev and Jim have thumbs downed the idea of a pickup driven by their already "odd" daughter parked permanently in the yard...a Subaru, old as it is, still looks like a station wagon from a distance...so it is allowed. Even with the surfer rack and peace sign on the bumper...I have to figure this out.

Helayne has a Rav Four without a rack. It's way too high for either of us to hoist a kayak on top. Also, she isn't an inherent paddler--though she did learn to sail in Newport, RI. It's different. Sooo...to invest a lot of dough into getting even a used kayak didn't make sense. AFter an afternoon on E-Bay and Amazon, I realized, my first personally owned crafts were inflatables--and I paddled them in the Pacific with no ill adventures. (Well, one, but that was because I had borrowed a Tahiti two person kayak which is a big no-no to begin with, AND was trying to impress the other paddler--who had never been in a kayak--with my ocean going prowess. All was well and good until a huge wave at the break folded the kayak in half, putting the passenger upside down and on top of me as we wiped out on the beach in front of the whole party...embarrassing to say the least.) All in all though, I 've always been safe and happy in my one person vessels. Which is why I eventually took the plunge and invested in hard-hulled, real ocean-worthy kayaks. But the inflatables are a great entry point.

It occurred to Helayne when she began to compare prices, online. 

"What about an inflatable boat?" she asked.

I was off and running. Of course! Brilliant! I then e-mailed her my adventures, my thumbs-up to the idea, and my research on the newest and best rated solo inflatable craft for recreation in flat water (lakes and ponds) which is all she's really interested in doing.

After twenty minutes, she was sold. She made the committment, finding a better deal on the same boat than I'd found, and bought it. It packs up into a two by three sack, comes with a paddle and a foot pump. It has about six separate chambers that are pretty rugged--unless you drop it on jagged glass or nails. It's made of the same stuff a Boston Whaler I was given, years ago, was made of. If you pop a chamber, the kayak will still get you to shore....And though it holds one person plus maybe a water bottle, it's big enough for the kind of quiet meditation on open water that we both are seeking these days.

"It'll be here by Tuesday!" Helayne finally broke down and just phoned me.

I am as excited as she is.

My homework is wrestling "Manta", my kayak, on top of "Tortuga", my Subaru, and breaking either of them or myself, in the process.

Then, off to Helayne's house to inflate the boat and put both into the pond for a virgin voyage.

Even the snapping turtles and mosquitoes are worth bearing in order to cruise silently amid the lilypads, frogs and balletic watersnakes. The ducks and geese don't mind us; neither do the loons. Somewhere out there, a beaver or two also swim. Helayne's seen them at dawn. The Canadian geese will out paddle us, but we still share the same water. And the ubiquitous fish will watch us from below. 

Her pond is too small for motor craft, so only canoes and rowboats will pass us--but only on occasion. And then, when she's  comfortable, we can try a real, full-sized lake. For now, to have someone to paddle with, even if we don't exchange a word, is a real gift of friendship that I don't take lightly. Too often I've found myself hauling my kayak out of the truck and into the waves, solo--a real "no no". Even at night, sometimes, with lights duct taped bow and stern, getting a warning from the harbor patrol boys, but ignoring it, I would paddle out, drawn like so many sea-things, by a summer moon just too delicious to waste. Now, that is changing. For her, too, because of the lack of weight, if she gets the call in the middle of the night, she can slip from her house of teen-agers and just push her own craft into the pond, and float under her own rising moon.

To sailors and paddlers everywhere: namaste!

I'M BACK!!!!!

Well, I didn't ever really GO anywhere...except, back to school...yeah, finally borrowed six grand from the parental units, with a promise to pay it back when gainfully employed (please God) again...and went through the "doggie door" to enter a licensure/credentialling program at Worcester State University. This is a new program geared up to help educators comply with additional MA standards and licensing requirements for teachers. Basically: more hoops.

Of course, they would accept NO courses from my college days in New York. ("Must be from Massachusetts...") Of course my life in California these past 35 years counts for nothing--even though 99% of it has been involved with kids at risk and mostly about either educating the public or educating the kids, themselves...(I have come to internalize that all of this is karma, pure and simple...I angered some Teaching Spirits, early on, when I sought to enter the "real world" as a writer, first, a painter, second, and then, if necessary, to pursue being a teacher...WRONG! I've been reaping the rewards ever since...oh how I should have listened to everyone back here and just been an education major and a spinster school teacher from 1978 forward...sigh). So, my buddy, Helayne, already possessing an MA in ed, from said institution, but with no classroom experience (exactly mirroring my predictament but both of us having to jump through the same hoops to get into a High School classroom as teachers, in MA) suggested we begin by "Just taking two courses..." After meeting with one of the Deans, and submitting my resume, letters of reference and my Wells College transcripts--plus having the dough, up front, to take the two courses--we applied. Of course, they were the courses that anyone wanting to complete this program would have to take...but we went in, a bit undercover. (Details later...) Simultaneously, we had to prepare ourselves for the two hundred dollar test for professional credentialling...the MTELS...(another blog coming up...I can feel it...)...take them, also in January, pass three of them...( eight back to back hours of standardized testing...), apply "officially" to the program, get accepted...continue to take the requisite six full-courses, plus also CLEP (taking an exam) a basic psych course on human development...another almost hundred dollars plus book! It mattered not that all I've done is work, for decades, with at risk teens or that Helayne has been a nurse for 20 years, and has her degree in that! Even with the psych courses we already have taken over the  years, the trainings and the on the job experience, it counts for nada! So, we are taking, this summer, three full courses in Diversity, Inclusion and Technology (if I get my cut and paste and PowerPoint skills finessed, I'll be happy) plus the CLEP in psych. If we don't pass the CLEP, we have to wait six months to take a new test or take a class somewhere. Either way, we won't be able to do our already-set up last semester of full on student teaching, which involved getting "mentor teachers" at Gardner High School, preparing for teaching, full-on, in various classes from the end of August to the middle of December, taking another simultaneous seminar in teaching, in Worcester and paying the last thousands of dollars to finally pass and get our first license.

But, after all that, we can be hired, legally, and teach. Then, I have to finish up my MA (first taking another set of exams to prove I can handle a Master's program--even though the six courses I've been taking at WSU ARE the same courses in their MA of ED program and I'm pulling a 4.0 average, as of today--which sort of proves I can handle the program, right? However, still more hoops to jump through...and more money to pay. I don't know how I am going to afford the final MA...I will apply for scholarships and grants, few and far between as they are...I hope to be hired somewhere, to work through it, but so far, nada (failed the Wal Mart personality test and so far, even Mickey D's hasn't returned my calls...). Further, I doubt the parental units will front the twenty thousand or so that the MA is going to ultimately cost...and my credit has gone south. Being unemployed for two and a half years will do that...soooooo, student loans are probably going to be tough. But I have five years to finish the MA and I will be able, I'm assured, apply at least a couple of the MA courses I've already taken at WSU, to my WSU MA in ED, if I take it there. We'll see...moolah is everything.

In addition, these summer courses MUST teach everything that the fall and winter and spring courses do, but packed into fewer weeks. Most folks didn't take three summer courses. Now, Helayne and I have discovered why. We are traveling to Worcester every day and are in class approx. three or four hours each day--no breaks. For Helayne, it is coming back to three teens and three cats and insecure unemployment benefits. For me, it is home to Dad, now 85 and still hanging in there as a city councilor, and Mom, still fighting lymphoma and the recent removal of her sigmoid colon. Thank God nurse sister Ann is still in residence with us, but it looks like she's going to be a homeowner, by November, if all the planets align. Maeve, the wonderdog, will split her time between here, at 88 Maple Street, and with Ann, on weekends. Maeve has just lived too long amid all of us at 88 and I don't think she could truly live, full time, anyplace else--nor would the parental units do well without her. For me, that is one sunbeam in this tsunami of despair.But, I'm healthy. I have a kayak--yet to be launched because of school scheduling and Mom's illnesses--and thanks to the parents (and Ann) I have a 1999 Subaru Legacy--bluegreen--four cylinders, with a rack on top and a radio inside. Her name is "Tortuga". My first Subaru. My childhood buddy, Ann Marie, hooked me up with a town mechanic that is a very cool and up front guy. Helayne knows his kids--they played baseball with her sons--so he is a known quantity. He only works and sells Subarus that he rescues from scrap heaps. They are "vintage", but they run like dreams and don't look too bad. This is NE. There is salty streets and much ice on the roads in winter. There is rust. But, I used to drive a Baja Bug that had its battery held on by bungee cords and plywood over the floorboards in the backseat because you could see the road whizzing by, ala Flinstones. So, a little rust is no big deal.

Tortuga spots a big silver "Om" and a "yin-yang" on her butt, as well as a dragonfly and a peace sign on her bumper. Tiny replica hiking boots, a blue dolphin, and a hand-made Indian Medicine Wheel hang from the rear-view mirror. Ann gave me an acrylic blanket that is a replica of the Irish flag, for the backseat, where Maeve loves to take rides with me. My Subaru is low slung-- looks like a surfer's wagon from the old days--and Maeve can hop in and out with ease--much better than her Mom's Jeep or her grandparents' Toyota. So, Maeve helps me keep my joy intact. I can't wait till I push the kayak on top, strap her down, and drive Maeve over to Helayne's pond, out back. I think the next trick is to teach both of them how to become paddlers, with me.

Later...   

I'M FROM...an homage to Linda Christensen

I'd never heard of the poet/educator, Linda Christensen, until I began my initial license class, in curriculum development, with Dr. Sara Young. (A new, fast-track professional licensing program, for those of us whose careers had taken LIFE as the road to travel (instead of directly following the path of academia and credentials),begun at Worcester State University, with the blessings of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.) I find myself headed to become what I had so desperately avoided: a High School English Teacher. However, having known, up front and personal, on all coasts and directions, multitudinous English teachers over the years, my perspective on what and who an English Teacher might be, has vastly enlarged. (Or maybe I've just grown-up?) In any case, my karmic path keeps pulling me back to teaching jobs, so, I've decided to "pay attention" and do this thing for real. Legit. On track and with the blessings of the Commonwealth.

Since I am back here, with aging parents and blood family, and still looking for gainful employment, it makes sense to seek the licenses that will help meet best ends. Teaching IS something I've always done and loved. It is the idea of lesson plans and dry curriculum and state- mandated (now Federal, too) standards and testing that curdles my innards. Always has. Always will. But, hey, every job has a down-side. (Even this writer's business...)

So, I've begun the journey at Worcester State University. I am being cheered on by old friends, one of whom is taking these classes right beside me. (And if Helayne hadn't introduced me to this program, or didn't have a car, I would probably still be straddling both coasts, about to slip into the abyss of "no jobs"...) But Helayne, who has her MA in history from WSU, found this new program. She set up an interview with the assistant Dean to talk sense to me. (Helayne also has a dependable car.) It helps, immensely, that we've been close buddies since Gardner High, so many decades back...(Fate makes us classmates, once again.)

When Dr. Sara Young gave us the first assignment of checking out the "I'm From" poems by Linda Christensen, who developed the poetry and its recipe to give kids in her own classrooms a route to painless introductions, I was game. Hey, in all those years at UCI Farm School, I'd taught poetry and prose to two generations of kids. I know the power of the written word--especially to tongue-tied adolescents. (Same in L.A., via GLASS, Inc. high risk foster teens.) All those group therapy writing classes demonstrated this fact.

So, now it is my turn.

(In honor of the lesson plan and work of Linda Christensen and her poetry, I toss my hat into the ring:)

I'M FROM

 (a poem in homage to Linda Christensen, via the promptings of  Dr. Sara Young )

Fairy-folk dancing around the Sacred Heart of Jesus,

Tucked in tight mid the hairy legged Vikings

As they headed out to pillage

Across cold north seas.

I'm from tree-hugging Druids and Saints who

Burned with them; from red-skinned

Warriors and blonde tressed

Hunters; blue-eyed healers who could not see.

I'm from wild-mouthed Irish, both Protestant and

Catholic; from ice-minded Norsemen; all

Fighters and French; from uncounted Natives;

The wind still blows us.

I'm from place-cards invisible; maps yet unwritten;

Gene pools and dark ponds and

Star trails in Heaven; I am Hope; I am Joy; I am

Salted ,and Alive with this Love.

Karen Marie Christa Minns