I've been thinking about music a lot lately. Of course, I think about music all the time. I sing. The Rutter Requiem and the Faure Requiem are currently taking up a lot of space in my brain. I don't have any real memories associated them yet. I have heard quite a few older songs lately that have brought back other places and times.
For instance, just today I heard Elton John's I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues. That took me straight back to the days just before my husband and I were married. It became something of a theme song for us because he was in the Air Force, and was often away. Time on my hands always weighed heavily because I could have been with him if he was home. This was true of the first several years of our marriage.
Some songs remind me of fictional characters. I don't know why, but Billy Joel songs remind me of the Joe Maxwell character from the TV series Beauty and the Beast. (Of course, Bach and Grieg remind me of Vincent and Catherine, but that's to be expected, if you know anything about the series.)
The Four Tops can bring back my early childhood better than nursery rhyme songs can. I listened to the radio every night before I fell asleep, and my sister always put the radio on KHJ, and they played lots of Motown. Sugar Pie, Honeybunch was a favorite. Older Beatles songs bring the same sort of memories.
Don McLean takes me back to my early teens, and my introspective days. (Vincent, Everybody Loves Me, And I Love You So...) High School is brought back by Elton John's Caribou album, Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy, and Rock of the Westies. Also the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, and other Disco hits. (Hey, I graduated in '78. There wasn't a lot else on the radio, and no Pandora in those days.)
The Moody Blues reminds me of my first boyfriend. He was a big fan. He was a nice boy. We were SO young!
Queen's We Will Rock You reminds me of football games my senior year in high school. We Are The Champions does, too.
99 Luftballoons reminds me of dates with Matt. It always seemed to be on the jukeboxes or radios in whatever shop or little cafe we ended up in. Abba always reminds me of Matt. He listened to it constantly when we were dating. Only Fernando reminds me of something else. Driver's Ed. Fernando always seemed to be on the radio when we were out for driving practice with the psychotic driving instructor.
Abba's Arrival was played as the processional for our wedding "I've Been Waiting For You" was a song Matt dedicated to me, and "our" song was "The Way Old Friends Do."
The hymn Lift High The Cross reminds me of the time during the rebuilding of our cathedral after the Murrah bombing. We sang that at the dedication of the cross sent to replace our broken Celtic cross on the facade of the cathedral.
Scents are supposed to bring back the most vivid memories, but I know that certain songs can really take me back to another place and time pretty quickly. The fact that so many of us love our "oldies" is testimony to that effect, I think. Songs that remind you of good times are the ones you want to listen to when you need energy, and when you already have the blues, well, nothing works as well as the sad songs to help you get it out of your system.
I think I'll just sit here and listen to my Pandora shuffle for a while and see where it takes me...
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Monday, January 28, 2013
How To Be Happier
The above is good advice. It advocates a life of service, of being someone others can count on, not just admire.
Another way to look at it is to be the one who supports others. Be appreciative of those who do the thankless jobs in life. Do what you can to make their jobs easier. Be grateful for the ones who always show up on time and ready to go. When there is someone in your life that always makes you glad they are there, let them know.
If all you are able to be in this life is a member of the "audience", be the best one ever. Support those that entertain and challenge you. Do not just be a demanding fan or consumer of entertainment, encourage those who do good work. Even if they are just local kids in a school play, encourage those who put it all out there and really try. To get up in front of other people and perform is very, very scary. Even if you know you're good. Everybody has bad days, everybody has things go wrong, and to put yourself out there takes courage. Support the ones who face up to the challenge and give it their best.
There is a lady that I admire very much. She will tell you that she isn't anything special, just an ordinary person. She's wrong. She is extraordinary. She is supportive of the endeavors of others, and faithful in that support. She is a tireless volunteer for our library, and yet she is humble, unwilling to accept praise for all she does. She is also my fan club. She comes to all my voice recitals. She cheers on ALL the singers, not just me. She always tells the nervous ones how much better they are doing,(and they are!) , she always appreciates those of us with more experience and who have been working longer. Seeing her smiling face in the audience makes it a lot easier for me to get up there and sing my heart out. I value Vickie more than I can say. Her absence is always noticed, her presence very much enjoyed by all who know her.
This world needs more people willing to be supportive and fewer striving for notice. I tell you, Vickie's absence causes a lot more concern than the absence of a loud attention hound would. (We don't really have anyone in our circle that falls into that category. Everybody I know is pretty supportive, but then they are all church musicians or library folk , or some variation thereof.)
Still, think about the people around you, the ones that do or say little things that make your day brighter. The ones who are always prepared for the task at hand, and therefore make your job easier. Appreciate them. Tell them you do. You may find out that others appreciate you, as well.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Liturgies
Liturgy is a noun that refers to the prescribed form of public worship as set down in the Book of Common Prayer, for instance, or any book or order of worship designed by any denomination.
Liturgy is a way of doing things. An order, made with conscious design, to get us together and keep us together as we worship.
I find that many aspects of my life besides church can be bound by liturgies of their own. Certainly, having a set order to things that need to be done regularly is comforting, and often helpful. My daily lesson plans were in effect a liturgy for the conduct of the school day. Things go in a certain order for a specific reason, are done a certain way, with certain words, to keep the lesson consistent, and in part, to comfort the children.
Liturgies are comforting. You know what to expect and when it's coming up. They have the disadvantage of letting your brain coast on occasion, and you really shouldn't be doing that in church, the idea is to focus on worship. Same with the lessons at school. If we got too routine, the kids could respond while half asleep, and that isn't doing their minds any favors. So, for different days and seasons, liturgies change. Just often enough to keep you on your toes and paying attention. A response may be different, the order changed just a little, just enough to keep you from getting TOO comfortable.
Daily life is a whole series of little routines that could become liturgy, if we use them as a way to be grateful for the little things we need that are provided for us daily. If you have children, and/or pets, you know the importance of routine and order, and the strict adherence thereto, in getting anything accomplished, especially in the morning.
At our house, we have the liturgy of the Cat in the Morning. She must get up and get under Matthew's feet as he is getting dressed, just to keep his coordination sharp. She must then see that he gets out the door and off to work on time. Then she must make sure I am up, and the bed is made, so that she can have her breakfast. After that, she makes sure I leave for my walk, and then goes to take her morning nap. Having to work around the cat's liturgy of gratitude for her people and her food gives me a set order of things to accomplish while still half asleep, and serves to get me out of bed, and thinking about the day ahead, and about the nature of life, the universe, and everything.
When I taught school, daily routines were the glue that held our collective sanity together. Taking roll, saying the pledge, going over the day's seat work assignments, making sure homework was collected, taking the lunch count, these things got us together and started on our day. They got us focused on the learning to come.
Those common experiences, those routines, or liturgies, cemented us together as a community in school, in our homes, and in our places of worship. There is an old joke I always think of when I muse about liturgy: How do you find the Episcopalians in a Star Wars movie? Anytime somebody says "May the Force be with you." they respond "And also with you!"
Our responses are comforting and familiar. (Though those of us who do Rite I will say "And with thy spirit.") The Pledge of Allegiance is comforting to some people because it is something they learned in childhood, something they, and everyone they went to school with knows by heart. It is common to them, even if they have nothing else in common. Psalm 23 is something that is very familiar to many Christians and Jews as well. It has been memorized by many, and is a source of comfort. It is something those who know it have and cherish in common. These things bind us together and comfort us.
If we look at our daily routines with an eye toward gratitude for all we are fortunate enough to have, they can become liturgies, our lives can become worship even in the smallest details. If we look at our interactions as a community, whether at work, worship, or school, we can make all those occasions a prayer of gratitude for our shared lives, for the knowledge that we are all in this together, all coming at life from different angles, but all of us here, and not knowing how long, and trying to make the best of it.
Liturgy is a way of doing things. An order, made with conscious design, to get us together and keep us together as we worship.
I find that many aspects of my life besides church can be bound by liturgies of their own. Certainly, having a set order to things that need to be done regularly is comforting, and often helpful. My daily lesson plans were in effect a liturgy for the conduct of the school day. Things go in a certain order for a specific reason, are done a certain way, with certain words, to keep the lesson consistent, and in part, to comfort the children.
Liturgies are comforting. You know what to expect and when it's coming up. They have the disadvantage of letting your brain coast on occasion, and you really shouldn't be doing that in church, the idea is to focus on worship. Same with the lessons at school. If we got too routine, the kids could respond while half asleep, and that isn't doing their minds any favors. So, for different days and seasons, liturgies change. Just often enough to keep you on your toes and paying attention. A response may be different, the order changed just a little, just enough to keep you from getting TOO comfortable.
Daily life is a whole series of little routines that could become liturgy, if we use them as a way to be grateful for the little things we need that are provided for us daily. If you have children, and/or pets, you know the importance of routine and order, and the strict adherence thereto, in getting anything accomplished, especially in the morning.
At our house, we have the liturgy of the Cat in the Morning. She must get up and get under Matthew's feet as he is getting dressed, just to keep his coordination sharp. She must then see that he gets out the door and off to work on time. Then she must make sure I am up, and the bed is made, so that she can have her breakfast. After that, she makes sure I leave for my walk, and then goes to take her morning nap. Having to work around the cat's liturgy of gratitude for her people and her food gives me a set order of things to accomplish while still half asleep, and serves to get me out of bed, and thinking about the day ahead, and about the nature of life, the universe, and everything.
When I taught school, daily routines were the glue that held our collective sanity together. Taking roll, saying the pledge, going over the day's seat work assignments, making sure homework was collected, taking the lunch count, these things got us together and started on our day. They got us focused on the learning to come.
Those common experiences, those routines, or liturgies, cemented us together as a community in school, in our homes, and in our places of worship. There is an old joke I always think of when I muse about liturgy: How do you find the Episcopalians in a Star Wars movie? Anytime somebody says "May the Force be with you." they respond "And also with you!"
Our responses are comforting and familiar. (Though those of us who do Rite I will say "And with thy spirit.") The Pledge of Allegiance is comforting to some people because it is something they learned in childhood, something they, and everyone they went to school with knows by heart. It is common to them, even if they have nothing else in common. Psalm 23 is something that is very familiar to many Christians and Jews as well. It has been memorized by many, and is a source of comfort. It is something those who know it have and cherish in common. These things bind us together and comfort us.
If we look at our daily routines with an eye toward gratitude for all we are fortunate enough to have, they can become liturgies, our lives can become worship even in the smallest details. If we look at our interactions as a community, whether at work, worship, or school, we can make all those occasions a prayer of gratitude for our shared lives, for the knowledge that we are all in this together, all coming at life from different angles, but all of us here, and not knowing how long, and trying to make the best of it.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Avoidance Behavior
There are some things we put off just because we really don't want to do them. They are hard, or inconvenient, or boring, or all three. Housework, other common chores, writing. Well, writing isn't usually boring, but it is hard, and can be unpleasant when one doesn't feel there is anything to say. Or perhaps there is a lot to say, and the saying of it is very difficult.
I often try to avoid housework, because after almost 29 years of keeping house, I am rather weary of it at times. At other times, the housework is a way to avoid something else. Sometimes the housework is a necessary literal as well as figurative clearing of the decks so that other work can commence. Dealing with the distracting details, like the dust bunnies in the hall, or the feeling that you would probably pretend not to be home if anyone came to the door simply because the state of your floors was embarrassing
So, this evening, rather than try to come up with a decent blog post, I cleaned house. I feel better now, because the environment I find myself in is more comfortable, and doesn't distract me with feelings of unmet obligations in the "real" world.
Several times in my life I have retreated into books or movies as a way to avoid thinking about things I'd rather not deal with, or to distract myself from the fact that I was in a stale and stagnant place. The alternate realities found in books and movies give a respite from what is currently bothering me. I am sure that this is a normal condition among human creatures. Needing an escape, if only for awhile. There are movies I have watched over and over, just because something in the story spoke to me, or amused me. There are books and stories I have read and re-read for the same reason.
Writing is not an escape for me. I find I cannot write fiction. It doesn't matter that I have always had a vivid imagination, and have lovely daydreams, I find I cannot put them on the page. Poetry works, but poetry is about feelings, about dealing with joys and sorrows and sometimes humdrums of life, not usually about fantasy and escape. Oh, I suppose it could be, but mine usually isn't.
Now, I guess I should amend my claim that I cannot write fiction at all. I have written some little stories about ghosts. Those have been rather well received by the friends who have read them, but I have not let them out for critical comment. They are my children, and I don't feel like watching them die. They are not the sort of stories that would be popular with children these days. They are old-fashioned, based very loosely on stories I was told as a child by neighbors and family members.
A few of my poems have been published, but I was not paid for them, they were printed in a small local newspaper when I was in high school. One was written for the high school year book supplement my senior year. I have all of my notebooks where I worked on my poems still. I still have about three journals going that are specifically for poem building. Very rarely does anything come of it. The best ones have sprung themselves on me almost fully formed.
I remember the very first one I ever wrote for my personal "keeper" notebook.
Of Thoughts and rhymes and mystic verses
Loves and hates and evil curses
Life abounds in wondrous power
Opening up like a complex flower.
I wrote that in 1975 or so. Fairly typical teenage stuff, at least for me.
The last one that really presented itself to me almost complete came to me during an organ concert at church. We were sitting down in the chancel, which is not usual, and I could see the stained glass window in the first dormer on the Epistle side of the church, and that is the one that our regular homeless person used to look up at and talk to before and after church. Looking up at the angel, I wondered what Adam said to it, and what he heard in response. "Adam's Angel" came to me then, almost complete. I had to wait until I got out of the church to write it down, and I remember being afraid I would forget something important. I don't think I did:
Adam's Angel
(A meditation during the organ recital, Nov. 17, 1998)
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
To the rest of us
She is nothing but colored glass
An adornment
But she speaks to Adam;
Or maybe only he will hear her.
Adam isn't always clean
In his Army coat of scruffy green
But he is always serene
As he goes on his way
Beaming.
Doing the Angel's bidding.
"He talks to himself."
One will say.
"He's insane."
Says another.
I don't care.
He talks to angels
And the church wouldn't feel right
Without Adam
Besides,
Isn't he our brother?
Adam, in the old coat,
Who talks to stained glass angels,
And sees a truth we don't.
This one is in my notes on my Facebook page, and I shared it after I wrote it with a few people at church.
All of this is to say that sometimes I have to make myself write, and sometimes the writing makes me write. Sometimes the words just want out, and I can't stop them.
Most of the time, though, it is a slog. A lot of staring at the paper or the screen and wondering what ever made me think I had anything worthwhile to say to the world. It still feels a little egotistical, writing all this and sharing it with the world on my blog, but I need to do it. I need the discipline. And, if something I manage to put out there actually strikes a chord with someone who happens upon this blog, and it helps them or makes them laugh, or cheers them, or gives encouragement, then it's worth it. Even if it just lets them say, "So, I'm not the only one..."
I often try to avoid housework, because after almost 29 years of keeping house, I am rather weary of it at times. At other times, the housework is a way to avoid something else. Sometimes the housework is a necessary literal as well as figurative clearing of the decks so that other work can commence. Dealing with the distracting details, like the dust bunnies in the hall, or the feeling that you would probably pretend not to be home if anyone came to the door simply because the state of your floors was embarrassing
So, this evening, rather than try to come up with a decent blog post, I cleaned house. I feel better now, because the environment I find myself in is more comfortable, and doesn't distract me with feelings of unmet obligations in the "real" world.
Several times in my life I have retreated into books or movies as a way to avoid thinking about things I'd rather not deal with, or to distract myself from the fact that I was in a stale and stagnant place. The alternate realities found in books and movies give a respite from what is currently bothering me. I am sure that this is a normal condition among human creatures. Needing an escape, if only for awhile. There are movies I have watched over and over, just because something in the story spoke to me, or amused me. There are books and stories I have read and re-read for the same reason.
Writing is not an escape for me. I find I cannot write fiction. It doesn't matter that I have always had a vivid imagination, and have lovely daydreams, I find I cannot put them on the page. Poetry works, but poetry is about feelings, about dealing with joys and sorrows and sometimes humdrums of life, not usually about fantasy and escape. Oh, I suppose it could be, but mine usually isn't.
Now, I guess I should amend my claim that I cannot write fiction at all. I have written some little stories about ghosts. Those have been rather well received by the friends who have read them, but I have not let them out for critical comment. They are my children, and I don't feel like watching them die. They are not the sort of stories that would be popular with children these days. They are old-fashioned, based very loosely on stories I was told as a child by neighbors and family members.
A few of my poems have been published, but I was not paid for them, they were printed in a small local newspaper when I was in high school. One was written for the high school year book supplement my senior year. I have all of my notebooks where I worked on my poems still. I still have about three journals going that are specifically for poem building. Very rarely does anything come of it. The best ones have sprung themselves on me almost fully formed.
I remember the very first one I ever wrote for my personal "keeper" notebook.
Of Thoughts and rhymes and mystic verses
Loves and hates and evil curses
Life abounds in wondrous power
Opening up like a complex flower.
I wrote that in 1975 or so. Fairly typical teenage stuff, at least for me.
The last one that really presented itself to me almost complete came to me during an organ concert at church. We were sitting down in the chancel, which is not usual, and I could see the stained glass window in the first dormer on the Epistle side of the church, and that is the one that our regular homeless person used to look up at and talk to before and after church. Looking up at the angel, I wondered what Adam said to it, and what he heard in response. "Adam's Angel" came to me then, almost complete. I had to wait until I got out of the church to write it down, and I remember being afraid I would forget something important. I don't think I did:
Adam's Angel
(A meditation during the organ recital, Nov. 17, 1998)
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
To the rest of us
She is nothing but colored glass
An adornment
But she speaks to Adam;
Or maybe only he will hear her.
Adam isn't always clean
In his Army coat of scruffy green
But he is always serene
As he goes on his way
Beaming.
Doing the Angel's bidding.
"He talks to himself."
One will say.
"He's insane."
Says another.
I don't care.
He talks to angels
And the church wouldn't feel right
Without Adam
Besides,
Isn't he our brother?
Adam, in the old coat,
Who talks to stained glass angels,
And sees a truth we don't.
This one is in my notes on my Facebook page, and I shared it after I wrote it with a few people at church.
All of this is to say that sometimes I have to make myself write, and sometimes the writing makes me write. Sometimes the words just want out, and I can't stop them.
Most of the time, though, it is a slog. A lot of staring at the paper or the screen and wondering what ever made me think I had anything worthwhile to say to the world. It still feels a little egotistical, writing all this and sharing it with the world on my blog, but I need to do it. I need the discipline. And, if something I manage to put out there actually strikes a chord with someone who happens upon this blog, and it helps them or makes them laugh, or cheers them, or gives encouragement, then it's worth it. Even if it just lets them say, "So, I'm not the only one..."
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Aging Brain
Yes, we all have those days, no matter what age we are. You oversleep because you forgot to set the alarm. You lose your keys, you leave the coffee cup on top of the car and drive off. We can only hope those things don't all happen on the same day.
Just recently, I myself have done things like put something in the wrong place at work, forget that I had a morning shift instead of the usual afternoon one, and just this evening, I forgot that it was men only night at church choir rehearsal. No harm done by any of those. The misplaced item was easily found, I made up the missed hour at work, and an alto in the choir also forgot, so she gave me a ride home so I didn't have to wait until my husband was done with rehearsal.
The reason we blame these things we do on our age is that well, lots of things are harder than they used to be. Things hurt that didn't used to, it takes longer to do some things than it used to, in my case, my eyes don't work as well as they used to, and my allergies are worse. I also have my own private tropical heat wave that follows me around and manifests itself suddenly and usually at very inconvenient times. (Like when I am sound asleep.) That is one reason many women my age DO have memory lapses. Our sleep is disturbed on a regular basis. This can interfere with a lot of things, especially memory and mental focus.
Often these days I think my lack of focus is as much due to the fact that I am doing more things now than I have in recent years. I have additional commitments beyond just work and church. Matt and I sing in another chorus besides just the church choir now, and I have challenged myself to get certain things done (like writing) that I have neglected in the past. After "coasting"" for awhile, my brain is not so good at keeping all the little details in order any more. Guess it's time to start putting stuff on the cell phone calendar again. At least it will remind me of things. (Now I just have to remember to put the stuff ON it. )
Here's hoping I get enough sleep tonight to have a functional brain in the morning!
This was a couple of years ago. Except for the glasses, everything is pretty much the same.
Just recently, I myself have done things like put something in the wrong place at work, forget that I had a morning shift instead of the usual afternoon one, and just this evening, I forgot that it was men only night at church choir rehearsal. No harm done by any of those. The misplaced item was easily found, I made up the missed hour at work, and an alto in the choir also forgot, so she gave me a ride home so I didn't have to wait until my husband was done with rehearsal.
The reason we blame these things we do on our age is that well, lots of things are harder than they used to be. Things hurt that didn't used to, it takes longer to do some things than it used to, in my case, my eyes don't work as well as they used to, and my allergies are worse. I also have my own private tropical heat wave that follows me around and manifests itself suddenly and usually at very inconvenient times. (Like when I am sound asleep.) That is one reason many women my age DO have memory lapses. Our sleep is disturbed on a regular basis. This can interfere with a lot of things, especially memory and mental focus.
Often these days I think my lack of focus is as much due to the fact that I am doing more things now than I have in recent years. I have additional commitments beyond just work and church. Matt and I sing in another chorus besides just the church choir now, and I have challenged myself to get certain things done (like writing) that I have neglected in the past. After "coasting"" for awhile, my brain is not so good at keeping all the little details in order any more. Guess it's time to start putting stuff on the cell phone calendar again. At least it will remind me of things. (Now I just have to remember to put the stuff ON it. )
Here's hoping I get enough sleep tonight to have a functional brain in the morning!
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Losing My Pop
It has been 27 years since we lost my Pop. He has now been gone longer than I knew him. Yet he lives on every day in the four of us. My oldest brother has his name, my sister has many of his attitudes and home repair talents, my other brother has some of his sense of humor, I just have his ghost living in my head.
Pop was the final authority whose approval meant the most to me. Everything I have ever done was to impress that man. I was his baby girl, but he always demanded my best effort in all pursuits.
The following thoughts were first written down more than ten years ago.
When I think of the hospital where my father lay beginning to die, I see brown. Hundreds of shades and varieties of brown-ness, that is what the place evokes in my memory.
My Pop, always so powerful, always a physically imposing presence, lying in Intensive Care with belching and bleeping and blinking machines around him. His merry, mischievous blue eyes hidden forever from us. (And he had the bluest eyes I have ever seen. None of us inherited them, but one of my nephews did.) He lay there so still and helpless and seemingly small, this invincible giant of my childhood, the only hero I ever had.
Pop fought in the Pacific in WWII. He was in the infantry and spent two years slogging around on tropical islands. He never talked much about what it was like, and he told me he was glad Matt was in the Air Force, so he would likely not have such a bad time if he ever had to go to war. (True. Matt was aircrew, and they are considered important assets, and therefore taken good care of.)
My heart was numb and shattered in a million pieces. In more pain than I have ever known, yet remote, unfeeling, observing from a distance.
Those first days after the accident feel like they happened to someone else. My poor Mom, with her only anchor slipping away, was still more worried about us kids. She knew how much we all loved Pop. He was president of my oldest brother's fan club, he was my sister's motivator and her mentor in home repair, he was my other brother's biggest fan, and his source of reassurance about being the father of little boys. For me, Pop was the one person in the world whose praise meant the most. He was a tough critic, a severe judge, and a willing support of my endeavors in life. He gave me my nickname, (which is what everybody calls me now), he built my playhouse, made me a special swing, taught me to drive, always worried that I got my feelings hurt too easily, and in short, he was my coach. Where Mom was my best friend, and taught me a lot of neat things, and understood the way my mind works a little better than I wanted her to, Pop was the one who got me through all the challenges I would rather have ignored. Pop was the constant source of "Oh yes you CAN, if you really WANT to!"
Pop always demanded my best effort, and then asked for more.
It hit me with such sickening force, the sight of my very vibrant, very lively Pop awash in the immobile bland brownnesss of that hospital. I wanted him to open his eyes and start complaining about the doctors and the schedules and the procedures like he would normally have done, but he lay there uncharacteristically silent, docile and unmoving. It took his strong, stubborn body a year to die, but my very much beloved Pop was already gone, and he didn't even say goodbye.
People compliment me on my baking now, and I appreciate it, but I would rather hear pop carry on about "strumbelly pie" or tell me how good the cheese crackers are in between bites.
My husband is very supportive, and he cheers me on, but Pop's approval always meant the most to me.
Pop worked hard at everything he ever did, and expected me to, also. Whenever something came too easily to me, he wanted me to go back and work even harder, "so it will really be yours" he'd say.
He was so proud of all of us kids. He never told us so. He told the others. He'd tell my brothers and sister what he thought about things I had done, not me. He'd tell me about them. Nothing about life with Pop was ever grey or drab brown. It was always colorful, loud and lively.
Mom has a quietness and more peaceful way about her, but Pop was always bold and bright.
He was always physically strong, though he wasn't very big, really. (Only about 5'9, but he was muscular.) His tough stubborn attitude went out ahead of him and moved people out of his path as if by magic. He always seemed so powerful to me. Seeing him in that plaqce that makes us all powerless was horrible.
When his body finally realized that he was gone, we were able at last to lay him to rest. What a lovely day it was- clear and bright, and he would have loved the view of downtown Los Angeles from his plot at Rose Hills. We all cried, but whether it was sorrow or just relief that he was finally free of his pain, I do not know.
I think about him often - it seems sometimes he tells me to do things - like make strawberry pie for Easter and give one to Susan and Bud. I think sometimes he is with us on Sunday mornings to hear our singing. I know I sensed him near on Christmas Eve - that first one back in the Cathedral, and how he must have enjoyed the music.
The hardest thing about not having him around anymore is not having him there to show our "neat things" and accomplishments to. (I wonder what he would make of this computer on my desk, or the cell phone that is really a little computer to go?) I would LOVE to sing for him now! My voice now is so much more than it was when he died. (And he did like my singing even then.)
It is true that we still have Mom, but she is so supportive she always likes what we do. Pop was a picky audience, and he'd be honest if he really didn't like something.
Every year when I decorate the Christmas tree, I know Pop is near. That was our thing that we did together every year when I was growing up, right up until the year I got married. I will usually have at least one ornament that moves as though it were tugged on, when nobody or nothing could have moved it, to show me that Pop thinks it ought to be moved. And usually, I do move it to a better part of the tree.
I think Pop was amazed that I willingly stayed alone in that house in a not so good neighborhood in San Bernardino when Matt had to go TDY. I think he would have been further amazed that I willingly went to live in a foreign country, off-base, in the midst of people whose language I set out to quickly learn before we moved there. He would have been proud of me, staying alone in that apartment while Matt went off to Desert Shield/Storm. He would have liked the fact that I sent care packages not just for Matt, but for all the guys in his crew, and for the guys doing charge of quarters at Rhein-Main, AND for the Mobile Aerial Port Squadron that he was really part of. (He was deployed with the flying squadron instead so they'd have enough full flight crews to handle their proposed mission load.) He'd be proud of me now, working in the library and helping my community.
I wish he had lived long enough to see how I handled those things.
Monday, January 21, 2013
The Love Of Dogs
I started thinking about dogs Saturday. There has nearly always been a dog in my life. The first one I remember is our neighbor's dog, Skipper. Skipper was a terrier of some sort, and would play ball forever and ever, as long as somebody would throw it. The neighbor on the other side had a nice, calm Cocker Spaniel named Bobby. Bobby loved ginger snaps, and would do all sorts of tricks to get one. Our family didn't own a dog until I was about six years old. Then, because my teacher had a sweet little dog that she had to find a new home for, we got Misty.
This is a picture of me and Misty.
She was a sweet little terrier, all black, and she and I became fast friends. She taught me how much fun it was to have a dog of my own, and how much work. She also taught me one of my first lessons about the pain of loss. Misty got out of the yard one day, a few months after we got her, and got hit by a car. Right in front of our house. I cried for days. So did my Mom, because Misty was trying to follow her to our neighbor's across the street.
The next year, a lady who lived on my route to and from school had some cocker mix puppies that she was looking for good homes for. My Mom was walking with me, and we both fell in love with one golden little guy. He was about the color of peanut butter, so I named him Skippy.
This is Skippy when he was a few years old.
We had him for several years, and then, we suspect someone either took him or let him out. (Because soon after that, someone tried to break in.) Again, I cried for days. I loved Skippy, and he followed me around all the time. He had such short legs, that when he had to sneeze, he'd hop up in one of the patio chairs so he wouldn't bang his nose on the ground.
Shortly after we lost Skippy, we got a German Shepherd puppy and named her O.D. for Other Dog. (We were still hoping we'd find Skippy.) Odie, as we came to call her, was big, awkward, and loveable. She was scared to death of the Goodyear blimp One year a hot air balloon race came near our house, and the poor dog just came unglued. We had to bring her in the house and keep her away from the windows, and turn the TV up so she couldn't hear the burners on the balloons. My Mom took her to obedience classes, and she did pretty well, but when we moved to a house with hardwood floors, she couldn't come in without help because she was like Bambi on the ice on those polished floors. She lived a good long life and died peacefully of old age.
This is me and Odie. Nobody even tried to bother our house after we got her.
This is Doobie (left) and Dougal, our first Schipperke, he who could chase tennis balls forever.
This is Dougal trying to learn the fine are of out-stubborning a gopher from Doobie.
Now, when Matt and I got married, we inherited a dog from Matt's Mom who was moving up north with Debbie, Matt's sister, and already had one dog to take with her. Doobie was that dog's name, and she was so ugly, she was adorable. She was half Scottie and half Wire--Haired Dachshund. Doobie was fun-loving and happy go lucky, and even when she got out, she somehow always got delivered safely home. She had belonged to Matt's cousin Susan, who had to leave her with Matt's Mom when she went into the Air Force. (Where she became a dog handler!) Doobie could track gophers and catch them better than any dog I have ever seen. It was one of her favorite things to do. She, too, lived to a ripe old age, and we only had to have her put down when her chronic illnesses became too painful for the vets to do much for anymore. That was a very hard decision, and we still miss Doobie.
Dougal. Ah, Dougal. My baby boy, our first Schipperke. (Means Little Captain in Flemmish). Schips are a Belgian breed, kept commonly on barges to keep rats down and unwanted visitors out. Dougal was good at both. He was a most excellent watch dog. He had to be. I had to stay all alone in a not so hot neighborhood in San Bernardino when Matt was on TDY, and Dougal was my fierce protector. We got him when he was a puppy, and Matt had to go TDY the day after we got him. Dougal became very much MY dog, but he adored Matt. Matt would play with him a LOT longer than I would, you see. Dougal was the dog we took with us to Germany, who endeared himself to our German landlords, and the neighbor's kids. He went on LONG walks with me every day through the German countryside. (Our apartment was in a farmhouse, out in the country. There was no on-base housing available for NCOs at Rhein-Main when we arrived. ) Dougal was my dear companion and fierce protector for the long months that Matt was deployed with his squadron for Desert Shield/Storm. He was the dog that went bananas when Matt came home and wouldn't let him out of his sight. It made me cry to see how much that dog really loved Matt. The landlord's dog, Blackie, almost wouldn't let Matt get out of the car when he got home from the desert. He saw us coming up the drive, and started barking, and wagging his entire body, and then everybody who was upstairs in the landlord's apartment came out and greeted Matt as well. They had all taken good care of me while Matt was gone.
Above is Dougal on Matt's lap here in our Oklahoma house. The picture below it is one Matt made with the timer on the camera when he was home for 3 days during Desert Shield. (His crew got to bring home one of the C-130s that needed maintenance.) Notice that Dougal would NOT leave Matt alone. (And, oh, my God, was I really that skinny?!)
Dougal lived to be almost 18 years old. He was almost deaf, and almost blind, and then his kidneys gave out. We had to let him go. I missed him SO much. I still do. He was my baby boy. (We never had children. Only pets.)
I wrote this poem for him, but it could apply to any of the dogs I've lost. And I still have the best one yet to tell you about.
Bear. Oh. I still cry for my Bear. He was the sweetest dog EVER. He's been gone a little more than a year now, and I just can't make room in my heart for another dog yet. Bear's going to be a hard act to follow. As much as I love Dougal, Bear was sweeter, and his love meant more. Bear came to us from a breed rescue group. He was also a Schipperke, but he was larger than breed standard. (25lbs as opposed to 18 and longer and taller, too.) He had been tossed out of the house and made to live basically without human contact in a yard for most of his life. He was five years old when we got him. They said they had to put him out because he "couldn't be house trained." Excuse my French, but, bullsh*t. They just didn't want to try. The rescue folks convinced them to turn Bear over, and it took us almost a year of crate training and tethering, (tying him to us whenever he was loose in the house so he knew he was being watched), but we got that dog so well trained that he only ever had an accident when he was ill. He went from being a standoffish dog, uninterested in people, to being a love bug. It was like he just couldn't believe he could really stay in the house, get petted a lot, have treats, regular mealtimes, walks, and lots of new friends. I have written about Bear before. He was my walking buddy. He made friends everywhere he went. He was with us for eight years.
There's my Bear. Mr. Bear and Madame Skye would occasionally call a truce if it meant sharing a blanket. (We still have Madame, she is as despotic as ever. ) (That is Matt's office, by the way. Mine is NEVER that messy. I'd trip and fall on my a** if it was.)
Dogs and the unconditional love they give us can make life so much richer and fuller. Someday there may be a new dog in our house, and if so, it will be a rescue. They can turn out to be the most wonderful dogs EVER.
Here's my poem. Hope I can type it all right. Hard to type when you're trying not to cry.
For my Dougal
Where are you, old friend?
I listen for your step
Even though
I know you will not come.
Why did you have to go?
You weren't so old and tired yet, were you?
I know, dear heart, your eyes were growing dim, your ears missed much,
And more things hurt than didn't.
It was time to say our goodbyes.
But still, I find myself looking for you,
Listening for you -
Hoping to find you
Someplace besides my heart.
She was a sweet little terrier, all black, and she and I became fast friends. She taught me how much fun it was to have a dog of my own, and how much work. She also taught me one of my first lessons about the pain of loss. Misty got out of the yard one day, a few months after we got her, and got hit by a car. Right in front of our house. I cried for days. So did my Mom, because Misty was trying to follow her to our neighbor's across the street.
The next year, a lady who lived on my route to and from school had some cocker mix puppies that she was looking for good homes for. My Mom was walking with me, and we both fell in love with one golden little guy. He was about the color of peanut butter, so I named him Skippy.
We had him for several years, and then, we suspect someone either took him or let him out. (Because soon after that, someone tried to break in.) Again, I cried for days. I loved Skippy, and he followed me around all the time. He had such short legs, that when he had to sneeze, he'd hop up in one of the patio chairs so he wouldn't bang his nose on the ground.
Shortly after we lost Skippy, we got a German Shepherd puppy and named her O.D. for Other Dog. (We were still hoping we'd find Skippy.) Odie, as we came to call her, was big, awkward, and loveable. She was scared to death of the Goodyear blimp One year a hot air balloon race came near our house, and the poor dog just came unglued. We had to bring her in the house and keep her away from the windows, and turn the TV up so she couldn't hear the burners on the balloons. My Mom took her to obedience classes, and she did pretty well, but when we moved to a house with hardwood floors, she couldn't come in without help because she was like Bambi on the ice on those polished floors. She lived a good long life and died peacefully of old age.
This is Doobie (left) and Dougal, our first Schipperke, he who could chase tennis balls forever.
This is Dougal trying to learn the fine are of out-stubborning a gopher from Doobie.
Now, when Matt and I got married, we inherited a dog from Matt's Mom who was moving up north with Debbie, Matt's sister, and already had one dog to take with her. Doobie was that dog's name, and she was so ugly, she was adorable. She was half Scottie and half Wire--Haired Dachshund. Doobie was fun-loving and happy go lucky, and even when she got out, she somehow always got delivered safely home. She had belonged to Matt's cousin Susan, who had to leave her with Matt's Mom when she went into the Air Force. (Where she became a dog handler!) Doobie could track gophers and catch them better than any dog I have ever seen. It was one of her favorite things to do. She, too, lived to a ripe old age, and we only had to have her put down when her chronic illnesses became too painful for the vets to do much for anymore. That was a very hard decision, and we still miss Doobie.
Dougal. Ah, Dougal. My baby boy, our first Schipperke. (Means Little Captain in Flemmish). Schips are a Belgian breed, kept commonly on barges to keep rats down and unwanted visitors out. Dougal was good at both. He was a most excellent watch dog. He had to be. I had to stay all alone in a not so hot neighborhood in San Bernardino when Matt was on TDY, and Dougal was my fierce protector. We got him when he was a puppy, and Matt had to go TDY the day after we got him. Dougal became very much MY dog, but he adored Matt. Matt would play with him a LOT longer than I would, you see. Dougal was the dog we took with us to Germany, who endeared himself to our German landlords, and the neighbor's kids. He went on LONG walks with me every day through the German countryside. (Our apartment was in a farmhouse, out in the country. There was no on-base housing available for NCOs at Rhein-Main when we arrived. ) Dougal was my dear companion and fierce protector for the long months that Matt was deployed with his squadron for Desert Shield/Storm. He was the dog that went bananas when Matt came home and wouldn't let him out of his sight. It made me cry to see how much that dog really loved Matt. The landlord's dog, Blackie, almost wouldn't let Matt get out of the car when he got home from the desert. He saw us coming up the drive, and started barking, and wagging his entire body, and then everybody who was upstairs in the landlord's apartment came out and greeted Matt as well. They had all taken good care of me while Matt was gone.
Dougal lived to be almost 18 years old. He was almost deaf, and almost blind, and then his kidneys gave out. We had to let him go. I missed him SO much. I still do. He was my baby boy. (We never had children. Only pets.)
I wrote this poem for him, but it could apply to any of the dogs I've lost. And I still have the best one yet to tell you about.
Bear. Oh. I still cry for my Bear. He was the sweetest dog EVER. He's been gone a little more than a year now, and I just can't make room in my heart for another dog yet. Bear's going to be a hard act to follow. As much as I love Dougal, Bear was sweeter, and his love meant more. Bear came to us from a breed rescue group. He was also a Schipperke, but he was larger than breed standard. (25lbs as opposed to 18 and longer and taller, too.) He had been tossed out of the house and made to live basically without human contact in a yard for most of his life. He was five years old when we got him. They said they had to put him out because he "couldn't be house trained." Excuse my French, but, bullsh*t. They just didn't want to try. The rescue folks convinced them to turn Bear over, and it took us almost a year of crate training and tethering, (tying him to us whenever he was loose in the house so he knew he was being watched), but we got that dog so well trained that he only ever had an accident when he was ill. He went from being a standoffish dog, uninterested in people, to being a love bug. It was like he just couldn't believe he could really stay in the house, get petted a lot, have treats, regular mealtimes, walks, and lots of new friends. I have written about Bear before. He was my walking buddy. He made friends everywhere he went. He was with us for eight years.
Dogs and the unconditional love they give us can make life so much richer and fuller. Someday there may be a new dog in our house, and if so, it will be a rescue. They can turn out to be the most wonderful dogs EVER.
Here's my poem. Hope I can type it all right. Hard to type when you're trying not to cry.
For my Dougal
Where are you, old friend?
I listen for your step
Even though
I know you will not come.
Why did you have to go?
You weren't so old and tired yet, were you?
I know, dear heart, your eyes were growing dim, your ears missed much,
And more things hurt than didn't.
It was time to say our goodbyes.
But still, I find myself looking for you,
Listening for you -
Hoping to find you
Someplace besides my heart.
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