Thursday, January 26, 2012

Buddy and Olivia

Like most everyone, I enjoy an uninterrupted night’s sleep, and I usually get one. Before I retreat to my bedroom I let Buddy the dog out for the last sales call of the evening. We then have a conversation where I remind him not to bark unless it’s an emergency. He then spends the night in the garage below our bedroom, where he usually lays quietly.

Sometimes during the night he will bark to convince an outside trespasser to retreat to the woods. That kind of bark usually comes in a quick series of serious warnings, which gets me out of bed to survey the situation.

But more often it comes as a single sound meaning, “Are you awake?” If my feet don’t hit the floor within a minute or two, it changes to “Can you come down here for a minute?” “Please?” comes a few minutes later.

If I lay in bed long enough hoping that he’ll stop, his bark will change to “I’m not going to quit, so you may as well come down here so I can show you what I want.” Walking through a cold, dark house to check on a barking dog can test any man’s patience. Most often it’s nothing – he just wants to come in, and that’s against the night time rules. But once in a while he can’t wait for our early morning appointment.

I try to take Buddy for a walk the first thing most every morning and last Thursday, the coldest of the season, we gave it a good try. That morning’s walk was shorter and quicker than usual. Normally the half-mile takes a leisurely 15 minutes. But 11 below and a burning northwest wind sent Buddy running back to the house immediately after his two business appointments. I was content to follow him.

The morning routine is the same. I go out to the garage where Mr. Important (the name he prefers) greets me with a strong nudge. He’s a big dog – a cross between a black Labrador and a Great Dane. He’s not as big as an elephant, but when I am lacing my boots he almost pushes me off the step with his large head.

Usually we have two cats waiting outside the door for us. Pretzel, named one summer day by two young sisters who were visiting from town, and Olivia. Olivia and her two brothers, Newt and John, were given to me by a guy who had been in a band with a singer who had an Australian accent.

Pretzel prefers to sit in the warm garage on Buddy’s pillow purring loudly to show his appreciation, while he waits for our return. Olivia insists on walking with us. I have tried to dissuade her from what I consider an unnatural act for a cat, but she’s as stubborn as a mule, so she joins us. Staying close to the side of the road she trots to keep up. After about ten minutes she will casually cross my path, which is her way of asking for a lift.

The three of us walking together probably looks kind of strange; a cat and dog, sworn enemies, walking together on the same path with the same goal in mind. I suppose if a dog and cat can walk together, then it’s possible for elephants and mules (or donkeys) to get along as well. Republicans and Democrats, conservatives and liberals should quit fighting like cats and dogs and treat each other respectfully as fellow humans.

I know it’s possible because I’ve seen it done. But, I’ve also read poisonous prose personally attacking someone because their politics differ. Hissing and snarling should be left to animals. Strive for clarity and civility in your communication, or take a walk to cool down. You’ll sleep better at night.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Peter's Essays

Saturday I took the tree down, and with Buddy the dog happily prancing ahead of me, I dragged it through the pasture. Then without any fanfare, I threw it on the brush pile, thus ending another Christmas season. We like to hang onto good times a little longer at our house I guess, but sooner or later you have to move on and rely on memories and pictures to keep the spirit alive. Please allow me to share just one more story about this Christmas.

A friend of mine showed me a present she received for Christmas this year. It wasn’t expensive, it wasn’t new, and it wasn’t useful or even practical. It was just six pages written in beautiful cursive handwriting.

Once upon a time a 9-year old boy named Peter sat down to write. I can’t tell if this had been a school assignment, a suggestion from his mother, or if the mood had just hit him. Peter talked about how much he weighed, how tall he was, the color of his hair and eyes. In Peter’s first essay I learned that his father was a farmer and that Peter had to walk two miles to go to school.

The following year Peter wrote a letter to his friend James (and perhaps never sent it) happily reporting about the skates he received for Christmas and he included a “hearty,” thank you for the “kind present’ James had given him.

The next four essays, written during the next few years, were about Christmas. According to Peter, his “family likes to sing hymns on Christmas evening.” Winter was a “jolly season,” with “sleigh bells jingling on the streets.” The house was decorated “with holly and mistletoe.” But even as a little boy Peter knew that winter was hard on some because he wrote, “poor people don’t like winter because they have not enough money to buy coal to keep their houses warm.”

It’s obvious that this was written a long time ago. When Peter sat down to write he had no way of knowing what a great gift he would be giving his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren 90 years later. Fortunately, Peter, or most likely Peter’s mother, saved these writings in a special box.

Recently, that box was discovered by Peter’s granddaughter. Recognizing how special these words were, she and her mother made several beautiful copies and gave them to Peter’s children this past Christmas.

What a wonderful legacy. The words of a little boy, written long ago, saved by his mother, then again by him, to be read and shared over 90 years later are priceless. We only have a glimpse of a little boy and his world. Both are gone now, but because Peter’s written words were preserved, his family can learn a little more about him and feel a little closer to the man who was once a little boy.

Learn from Peter and write. Write your story and leave a legacy that time cannot erase. Write a letter to a friend, describe yourself, write about your father, record how your family celebrates Christmas or keep a journal, because someday somebody will want to read what you wrote.

When I turned from the brush pile toward the barn I was surprised to see the trail left by the tree and me. Dragging the tree through the pasture had mixed the leaves on the ground with the dusting of snow that fell last week. I had left a mark that showed I had been there. Soon time, wind and weather will erase all evidence of my passing. To leave a more permanent trail of life’s journeys, Peter’s family recommends ink and paper.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Cloning

It’s nothing to brag about but I believe I have a good imagination; at least I imagine that I do. However, I am not sure I can imagine all the changes (good and bad) science and technology will bring us. The other day I shared my lack of vision with my smart friend Jim. Like most of my friends, Jim had an opinion. He thinks cloning will be the next big thing and that if people our age live another 30 years they will most likely live past 100. That got me thinking.

Let’s imagine that someday cloning yourself would be as easy as copying a document. Maybe Time-Life will introduce the “Home Cloning Kit,” (some assembly required, must be 18 or older, and has been know to cause depression in some cases).

Having a duplicate me to have around would make old age more attainable. With someone to help shoulder the stress my life expectancy should naturally increase. Plus, if I can get past all the creepy stuff that accompany cloning, it would help solve the all too frequent problem of needing to be in two (or more) places at the same time.

For instance, last Saturday I needed to be in four places. To begin with I have found that I am much happier if I have my column written Saturday instead of Sunday night (Grandfather Clock is about to strike nine).

I couldn’t do that though, because my younger sister, Joanne, and her family had come down from the North Country to have a weekend at a hotel in the Cities. Some things can wait and some are clearly more important than others.

I didn’t have all day to do that either because I wanted to watch the basketball team my son coaches play in a tournament here in town. But, I also wanted to go see my cousin Sheri perform with her band, “Locklin Road,” in Le Center for the official kickoff of the St. Patrick’s Day season.

I would never trust anyone else to write my column (not even another me) – even if it meant an improvement. Maybe time with my sister would have been a better option to send my clone to. Family comes first. I could get a full report from my clone at the end of the day.

“So how was time with Joanne and her family?”

“Not so good. I kept mixing her and her daughters up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t keep their names straight. They look so much alike. They should wear name tags.”

On second thought, maybe that’s not such a good idea.

Maybe the basketball tournament would have been a good choice.

“How was the tournament?”

“I didn’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“Apparently there are expected rules of decorum that you aren’t aware of.”

“Such as?”

“Well it seems that referees are sensitive about their eyesight. I was asked to leave.”

Forget that one. Perhaps I could have sent my clone to see my cousin play Irish music.

“What’s this I hear about your behavior in Le Center?”

“I thought you liked to dance.”

“But not on tables, and certainly not the jig, how embarrassing. And singing with the band? I can’t sing.”

“Maybe you can’t, but I can. It was fun. You know you should spend more time with your cousins. They’re fun.”

“I know, I know. Don’t start OK?”

You know when I think about it, I can’t imagine how cloning would add years to my life; it would only seem like it. One of me is more than I can handle anyway.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Sliding

Now that we finally have some snow on the ground we may be able use the new inflatable plastic/rubber snow tubes that were under the tree; a very big change from the sleds or toboggans of my childhood. They lack any steering apparatus, but you can ride down the hill in cushioned comfort. Some changes are easier on the body than others.

Several sliding conveyances have coasted through my life, leaving their tracks. My first memory of sliding was at “Leonard’s Hill.” It was across the highway and Dad used to take us there. I don’t know that anyone ever asked for permission, but often on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon (or during Christmas vacation) you would find five or six cars parked along the county road on top of the hill.

Dressed in boots that covered itchy wool socks, two pairs of patched pants, bulky coats that fit over layers of sweaters and sweatshirts, scratchy scarves wrapped tightly around the face and neck, stocking hats to keep the head warm and dry, with mittens clipped to coats kids would climb out of station wagons and pull sleds, saucers and toboggans out of the back.

The sleds, “Flexible Flyers,” had metal runners and a wooden platform. They were supposed to steer, but it was rather an unreliable method. During one memorable run down that hill my sister, Colleen, and I had our faces cut up when we lost control of our sled on an icy spot. On another day I watched my brother, Terry, lose his hat half-way through an involuntary air-born flip on a saucer.

Before the roads were paved Dad would pull us around the neighborhood behind the car. I’m not sure Dad had his seatbelt on, and we certainly weren’t wearing any helmets – considered very dangerous now. The rolling hills that bordered our town and the wooded ravines which opened inside the city limits provided many sledding sites.

Below the hill, a half-mile from our house, was Goetz’s farm. When conditions were right I could walk to the end of our block and slide on the road almost the whole way. There in the woods above the old brewery was “Runaway,” a wild sliding run named by the boys who lived below the hill from my house. It took some skill and luck to make it all the way to the bottom. Shari, a neighbor girl, broke her arm on a tree when she missed a turn on this hill.

Across town was a deep ravine near my friend Jim’s house. In junior-high we spent many hours sliding down there with our heads covered with long tasseled stocking hats or something borrowed from Frosty and his legion of snow men. Those long runs and long days seemed to last forever.

Somewhere along the line, plastic began to replace wood and metal in sled construction, and then during high school I put away the sleds for snowmobiles, skis and a Chevette. It wasn’t until many years later that I rediscovered the joy of sliding with my children. About that time I went to Mom and Dad’s house and grabbed the old flyer off the garage wall.

I pulled my two kids around on it for trick-or-treating in 1991 before most of the twenty-nine inches fell. We replaced the steel and wood sled with a series of cheap plastic models after Jennifer, my daughter, and I hit a bump on a steep hill behind our house and the sled hit her in the face. The snow angels protected her from harm greater than a big bruise. I carried the sled and a very unhappy little girl up the hill.

Jennifer is now a happy, married young woman and the sled has made tracks to her house. There was a day when that sled flew down the hills, but now it sits quietly in her yard; a gift to decorate her home during her first Christmas out of our house. Some changes are harder on the body than others.