Lobster On My Shoulder …

April 15, 2023 ~ Saturday (tax day in America … a sunny, cool, spring day – at least it’s not snowing!)

I need to do some things – like go to Home Depot and get more mulch and soil (I emptied 65 bags of such on my front yard two days ago – I am so sore, even my toes hurt!) … treat myself to a Starbucks cuz I’ve got a freebie coming my way … do some laundry.

You know – important stuff.

But, I can’t seem to get my motivation sparked in the slightest. One of those days. And if the lack of motivation, complete body soreness, and an out-of-nowhere sinus headache were not enough … I’ve had this damn song stuck in my head since … whenever. Long enough.

(And – WARNING – you might have these songs stuck in your head after reading this post!)

What is it with some songs? You hear them – and I’m talking about even some you first heard 50 some years ago – and there you are innocently brushing your teeth one morning or just about to doze off to dreamland one night and … BAM! … “Afternoon Delight” is playing (loudly) in your head! Where the hell did that come from?

I don’t consider myself a musical person. I don’t play anything other than the radio. I can’t hold a tune – not even in the car or shower. But, here I am – stuffed with thousands of songs that insidiously play over and over again on that endless reel in my brain and make me half crazy. Where are those things stored? Is there a special room in the brain for commercial jingles and bad song lyrics?

There is a radio station I listen to, only while driving, here in Denver – Legends 95.3 FM – that plays oldies. And, I’m talking oldies to ME, which are mostly songs from the ’60s and ’70s … but then a few other older oldies are thrown in from time to time. And there is even a show dedicated to “one-hit wonders”. I have a love-hate relationship with this station.

I love the songs they play – well, most of them. They fill me with nostalgia and great memories and I know almost all of the words to these songs. I find this last bit amazing because if I want to sing a song if I’m nervous or in the shower … I can’t think of ANY song to sing and if I do, it’s something that I don’t really know the lyrics to and then it is even more pitifully awful. Like Neil Diamond’s “Forever in Blue Jeans” – I thought it was about some hip pastor … a reverend in blue jeans! Duh! But – when the radio is on – I’m belting out the lyrics as if I wrote them all myself yesterday! Why is that?

Anyway – I’m sick of songs sticking in my head. I’d like a song in my heart – but not ones stuck in my head (endlessly)!

And this happening is actually very common. I thought it might be some sort of syndrome but such an occurrence is actually known as an “earworm” – which, in itself, sounds supremely nasty but it’s not an actual parasite but just a very common thing and happens mostly with popular songs or tunes. It’s also known as Involuntary Musical Imagery (which sounds much better than an earworm) and it’s said that people with obsessive-compulsive disorder, who have high sensitivity or have just plain ol’ good memories are subject to this. Oh, lucky me – three for three!

This past week I did a lot of driving around. So – as a ride-along, I flip on my trusty companion radio and take a trip to Tune Town. The first day I got in the car and turned on the radio (set to Legends) and what assaulted my hearing organs? That utterly horrible song about some jerk who left the cake out in the rain! Seriously (and I’m sorry because now you’ll be singing that song for weeks) – it was an awful song. Was then – is even worse now! Jimmy Webb, the lyricist of that song should have been banned from writing anything else – ever. Why? Why write a stupid song like that? And, of course, it is one of those that haunt me and sticks in my brain for days and days and weeks on end.

The next day I got in the car, not thinking too much about “MacArthur Park” and that stupid cake in the rain anymore, and what came on first? “Gitarzan”! OMG – seriously? You know that one – it’s Gitarzan – he’s a guitar man – he hangs by his knees as he swings from the trees without a trapeze – in his bvd’s ... THANKS, Ray Stevens! Yeah, thanks for NOTHING except a pounding headache and these stupid lyrics that have been stuck in my brain since 1969. Seriously, 54 years of that. Horrors. And the worst of that is, I can sing all the parts and all of the voices, including the chimp’s, during that song – belting it out like I’m Whitney or Babs!

Later that day Marilyn McCoo was lamenting about Bill and her wedding bell blues – oh, she loved him so … and I was thinking I lucked out with that one but the very next song was “My Sharona”. WHY???? Was I being punished for something? Of course, then my brain linked that song to Weird Al’s rendition of it as “My Bologna” and … just OY!

Some days I really think I need to switch to talk radio!

March 10, 2023 ~ Friday (Amazingly nice out – we must be expecting a surprise blizzard!)

I like rainbows. Dorothy traveled over one. Israel (Izzy) Kamakawiwoʻole sang (so beautifully) about “somewhere” over one. Sunshine after storms creates them. They are the symbol of love and acceptance. And who doesn’t like the rainbow-shaped marshmallows in the Lucky Charms cereal? (After all, they are magically delicious!)

And bridges … suspension, wooden, covered, rope … they are wonderful. I love any bridge (especially in Paris, Germany, or London). There is a beautiful one spanning the channel on the north side of the island, where I used to live. Gorgeous truss work. While in South Carolina once, I watched three swans walk over a stone bridge – it was ethereally beautiful and a vision that is etched into my memory. My great-grandfather was a bridge tender (as they were called) across the Chicago River when my dad was just a boy. I have a photo of 10-year-old me straddling the international marker on the bridge between Canada and the United States. You cross any bridge and you are somewhere else. Bridges are lovely. Other than the height, what’s not to love?

But when you put them together, you get something beautiful but also heartbreaking. Sigh. It’s been too often, and I, personally, need a hiatus from all things rainbows and bridges for a while as it seems that I’ve been visiting the “Rainbow Bridge” way too often of late.

Not quite three years ago on an oddly quiet and no-dog day, I got a neighbor’s notification that a little dog was picked up at a busy intersection in town. (As in busy, I mean one street tee’d into the other with only one stop sign and if there were more than two cars, it was considered to be “busy”. The speed limit was a whopping 25 mph but people usually drove at 18 mph – meaning it was a typical road in that sleepy, island town of fewer than 1000 people). But still, that was no place for a very tiny stray dog. The neighbor wanted to know what to “do” with it. I said I’d be RIGHT over.

And that is how Aunt Bea came into my life. In the time of masks, Covid, isolation, and uncertainty – with the U.S. surpassing 170,000 deaths on that date – a sweet, tan and white, somewhat furry, snaggle-toothed, roughly (per my vet) 19-year-old, 8-lb chihuahua-wonder wandered into my life … and made herself at home in my heart.

At first I was calling her Baby … and then it was shortened to B. And then, as I was hoping someone (but not really hoping all that much) would call me to claim her – I told her I just wanted her to be home. Cuz, at the end of the day, there’s no place like home. And it was then that I decided to call her Dorothy. But, as the days went on – that name didn’t quite stick or fit. I kept calling her “B” and one day I was thinking about home and comfort and thought – everyone should have an Aunt Bea. And there ya go … “B” became (Aunt) Bea.

I’d never had a dog that tiny before (she must have been like a gerbil when a puppy!). She was like the Cocker Spaniel pups we used to have but never got bigger than their fourth week in size. She had medium-length fur, a tan spot on her right side that looked like the silhouette of Mickey Mouse ears, tiny pencil legs, and long, slender, squirrel-like toes. No one claimed her and after a few days I had grown so attached, I was worried someone actually would! But, try as I might (and I did try!) … no one ever did. Lucky me. And just like that, somehow, I had a new dog.

And for the next 928 days I lived with that toothless (I had all of her oh-god-so-rotten teeth extracted) gummy baby who twirled circles when she was happy, pawed at my feet for her breakfast, threw a toy around a whole 2x, and who had a penchant for licking (up) noses. She was a funny little hedgehog of a dog who skittered around the house … scurrying here and there for a bit, eating whenever and whatever she could get her little pink gums on, and then sleeping the other 22 hours of each day.

I made her homemade food (no teeth/hard to eat much of anything) … and no matter what she ate – and man, did she eat – she always had room for doggy dessert. I hate to admit it, but the girl loved her cake!

As time went on, her hearing left her … her eyesight in the past few months, too, and she increased her sleeping by at least another hour. She was the potato of choice in the house.

And, as life goes and after a rough weekend with her having seizures, I found myself driving with her to the vet’s office, earlier this week, as I tried to prepare myself for the heartbreaking task of saying goodbye to my sweet little companion for the last time. That damned Rainbow Bridge was before us and … even through the tears and aching heart and not wanting to … I knew she needed to go. But, damn, it never gets any easier!

I had her wrapped in a cozy towel and we were led into a candlelit room with a sofa and soft music. (Soooo nice!) And there on the end table below a lovely little picture of dogs and cats running in green grass, by a bridge and under a rainbow, was a basket with a banner on it – “Rainbow Bridge Buffet”. And in my heartache, I laughed … it was just the sweetest thing. Containers of bacon strips, cupcakes, Oreo cookies, mini candy bars, a variety of dog treats, and a tub of chocolate frosting were in the basket for the “last treat” of whoever was un/fortunate enough to be in that room.

I brought a powdered donut (aka: cake) with me but chocolate frosting! Fabulous – that topped the cake! Literally! So, I gave Bea some donut and then scooped out some frosting and let her lick it off my finger. Heaven! (Well, almost – but not quite yet!) The vet came in to take her back to get the IV set and after we chatted, he gently took Bea from me and then winked at me and said, “We’re taking the tub with us!”

Ten minutes later, Bea was settled in my arms, wrapped in a sweet little blanket – all ready for her journey. I kissed her one last time and a few minutes or so later, she was gone – off to the Rainbow Bridge – with 1/4 tub of chocolate frosting in her tummy and a hint of it on her lips.

I can’t think of a better way to go. Maybe I’ll put in an order for that for myself.

Thank you, Bea, for being such a cute, sweet, little love bug. Go have fun, you little goober.

February 2, 2023 … Thursday night (Groundhog Day … stupid rodent predicted six more weeks of winter!)

And so I start off on a lovely note.

I am one of those people, crazy perhaps, that thinks that the celebrity and hype of Punxsutawney Phil – the prognosticating groundhog – is a fun thing. Or used to be a fun thing. As I get older and the winters (seemingly get longer … as in January having 14,387 days), I dare say I’m not much of a fan anymore!

MORE winter?! Oh, Phil! How could you do this to us????? I was really counting on you!

I am an animal lover – from birth, I might say. Anything slimy, scaly, furry or feathered … I’d love to hold – at least once in my lifetime (well, except for a tarantula, snake or one of those giant, hissing cockroaches). And so it goes for the famed groundhog. They are just so darn cute! I’d love to hold one, assured it wouldn’t eat my face off … but, where does one go to hold a groundhog?

Maybe to Punxsutawney, PA … where the weather forecasting rodent resides. (Although he really lives, not out in some forest, but in the library building.) I don’t think anyone can really get near “Phil” unless one is in the Groundhog Club (yes – there actually is a Groundhog Club – consisting of a dozen or so lucky members who take care of Phil year-round!) and one super-lucky member who is the “handler” of the furry guy gets to hold him during the ceremony. But, still, it would be exciting to hold one of those chunky, furry bodies. Are they soft? Coarse? Oily? Do they have that mousey-smell to them or are they more like a dog? I’d like to find out first hand!

The infamous movie Groundhog Day – was playing today … over and over and over again. I laughed about that. If you haven’t seen the movie – you need to. It’s where character Phil Connors gets “stuck” in Punxsutawney forever and a day before he figures out his life. And fyi – someone calculated out how long he was actually stuck there reliving that day over and over again and it was something like 33 years!

Anyway, a million years before that movie came out, I was a kid, and I’d watch the celebration on some morning TV program and marvel about it. And every year before Feb 2nd’s arrival, I’d dream of going to PA to be part of the celebration. Every year I’d wonder what it would be like to go? Well, being young and not having the means to do so, I never went. And back then, it would have been me and another 57 people. It was sweet, quiet, unassuming. Today it is insanity run amok with 10,000 to 20,000 people attending the festivities. Oh my and no thanks!

Sources of all things groundhog say that the origin of this weather-predicting rodent was brought to the States by Germans settling in PA (who also brought with them the lore of Christmas trees and the Easter bunny). In Germany, however, it was either a badger or a hedgehog that was the forecasting animal.

Since badgers and hedgehogs were less plentiful (non-existent/not native to the area) than groundhogs in the mid 1880’s in Pennsylvania, the animal was changed to the groundhog (apparently there was a plethora of them). And while one might think the groundhog (marmota monax) is like the prairie dog in its existence, it is the most solitary of the marmot species. There might be a lot of them in one area – but they don’t necessarily have any organized social structure and are not reliant on each other. They really are just big squirrels (without the tails) and can weigh up to 15 pounds. They are hibernators and are dormant for months – usually emerging from their dens in February (hence, the timing for this tradition). Groundhogs only live a mere 3-6 years. A group of them is called a coterie and babies are called kits. In various parts of the country, they are also known as woodchucks, whistle-pigs (for the sounds they make) and land beavers.

So, how did this all get started? An early diary entry, from 1840, has writings about a weather-forecasting rodent … however, most people think the official ceremony started in 1887 when people gathered at Gobbler’s Knob to see when Spring would arrive via their tried and (not so) true weather forecasting rodent tradition.

The whole thing is as such: if the groundhog comes out of his burrows and it’s a clear day/so that the sun is out and he sees his shadow … he is surprised and frightened and scampers back into his hole – meaning that there is surely at least six more weeks of winter. If it’s a cloudy day and he doesn’t see his shadow … then it’s an early Spring.

This is all backwards to ME … because, if I were a groundhog and I woke up from my nice, cozy den and looked outside and saw that it was sunny out – I’d for sure say, “HOORAY! Spring must be right around the corner! Yipee! I’m going to go find me some clover.” And if it was gray/cloudy – I’d emerge and see the sky and scoot right back into my nest of leaves and say, “Oh, the hell with it/it’s still winter/ I’m going back to bed!”

Anyway, I’m not a groundhog. Pity. Cuz I’d like my prognostications better!

In any case – the stupid rodent saw his shadow today and oh, surprise surprise – we are in for more winter. Like we needed a groundhog to tell us that! It was -9° here over the weekend and more snow. I don’t think most of us need a rodent telling us that we are still in winter’s vise grip!

In any case, rodent or no rodent (there’s a weather predicting white squirrel in NC and a lobster named Lucy in Nova Scotia) … Come On, Spring!

January 13, 2023 ~ Friday (am needing coffee but though sunny, there’s still too much snow on the ground for this lover of green) …

Well, earlier this morning, something came to my mind and I thought … Oh, that would be good to blog about. Well, a few hours later and I realized that that thought had gone out of my head as fast as a rocket to the moon! So, I sat down to write – thinking sitting in front of the laptop would conjure up those lost thoughts from somewhere deep inside me – but I came up empty!

So here, instead, is what came to mind.

Argh! I am a pirate today … at least for a while until my nerve block wears off later. I had eye surgery yesterday – and am wearing a patch. I (finally) got that ghost glob sucked out of my eyeball – a lovely leftover souvenir from my cataract surgery/retinal detachment. It’s been a long and annoying 2 years and yay … it’s finally gone! Today, I’m seeing cross-eyed without the patch – due to the nerves still being woozy; I feel like I’m going to fall over or like I have vertigo without it. So, patch it is! I will just have to hunt and peck on this keyboard while I write and I’ll still be a better typist than Bluebeard any day!

Speaking of Bluebeard … how did he get that name? Wanting to know, I looked it up (thank you Google and all things internet) and now kind of wish I hadn’t! Yes, I have instant edification and enlightenment but ew … I was gravely (no pun intended) mistaken. Bluebeard was never a pirate though he has always been linked to piracy. He was actually a horrible character (a multi-murderer with a blue beard) in a (very gruesome) fairy tale by Charles Perrault which first appeared in 1695 titled Contes de ma mère l’oye (in English: Tales of Mother Goose). Who knew? This was far from the Mom Goose stories I read to my kids at bedtime! The story (however made-up) was influenced by a real-life pedophile and murderer. And, apparently, the term “bluebeard” is now short-hand (in some circles) for serial killer.

Sometimes enlightenment is horrible. Ew.

The pirate I’m thinking of was, instead, Blackbeard (real name: Edward Teach) who was nicknamed as such for his black beard and fearsome appearance/nature. He was an English pirate (previously a sailor?) who sailed around the West Indies in the early 1700s. He was killed in action (stab wounds) in late 1718. In any case – I’m going to put the creepy Blue/Blackbeard images out of my mind and just think of Johnny Depp. A far better pirate in my (patched) mind’s eye.

Anyway … this all got me thinking about names. Names are important(even a pet’s) and can shape a person’s personality and even future. If you get the chance to name someone or something – be careful when choosing a name … do some research! Joseph Schmo might sound lovely but you know someone is going to shorten it to Joe Schmo and … well … there you have it! Some names are lyrical or pretty sounding. Some meanings are sweet while others are far from it. I’m glad I’m not named Ursula as I think of the skinny, fan club president in Bye, Bye Birdie or of the sea witch from The Little Mermaid. Not the best name (though Ursula Andress was quite the dish back in the day). But, some other names seemingly are destined to become best seller novelists or ball players. Ernie Banks is a name that well-fits a baseball player. Good thing Arnold Palmer ended up being a golfer cuz his name sounds like one. Ernest Hemingway was meant to become an author with his name. And, it’s a good thing Walt Disney wasn’t named Walt Voulgaropoulos or some such other hard to pronounce name. It just wouldn’t have had the same ring to it to say you’re going to Voulgaropoulosland! Sometimes things are just destined to be.

And, sometimes names are just a mouthful or they play on one’s tongue … like the kid’s name in my 7th grade class – Draghi Rahdnich. And, years later, my mom worked with a woman named Doberslava Bisamaczic … or thereabouts. Their names have stuck with me for decades! We had a little dachshund when I was young … her name was Ginger. But, we called her Marvin. It was far better – that moniker just fit. I once knew a Hu Wu as well as a Betty Betty … both nicely rhythmic. And, for what it’s worth, my maiden name was Leslie Leske … say that out loud 3x and you’ll know why I shortened it to Les and then was happy to take on my married name! (What WERE my parents thinking?!)

And, I’m sure you remember those silly fake book titles from jokes in the ’70s or so … Shell Collector by Sandy Beach … Yellow River by I.P. Daily … Ape Antics by Hu Flung Poo or made up names like … Kandy Kane, April Showers, Summer Brown, Whitey Teeth, and Jim Shoe.

And it being Friday, the 13th – I thought I’d look up names that don’t have the best meanings or that bring bad luck (sorry folks if you have one of these!). Molly translates to “bitter” … Tristan means “noisy” … Portia means “pig” (not overly flattering unless you were one) … Kennedy means “ugly head” (and btw, supposedly, there hasn’t been a child named Kennedy in England since 1999!) … Diablo means the Devil … Deidre implies sadness … and Mallory and Jonah … well, they both just bring bad luck all the way around!

And then there’s Ima Goen … the character I made up for my short-story smash years ago while living on the island. There was a contest for 100-word stories (no more/no less – exactly 100 words) and the entries were read by actors in the performance arts. Fake book covers were displayed on a screen and the entries were read/performed one Saturday night in the little theater. All great fun.

Here’s “Ima Goen” again … (best read with a Southern drawl in mind) …

“Ima Goen”

You’d think my mama and daddy were humorous folks. Not so.

Contrarily, my name defies their stern nature. My name is Ima Goen … and that’s what I plan on doin’.

I’m sick of saying Ima Goen … cuz I know someone’s gonna ask me, “Where?”

It ain’t funny. So, I’m a goin’. I don’t know where … and I don’t know when but I’m a goin’ somewhere where I can breathe air so fresh my lungs will laugh.

Today’s not the day. But one day – I’ll just go.

And when I do … I’ll no longer be Ima Goen. I’ll be Ima Gone.

January 9, 2023 … Monday pm (a big melt today/less snow – hurrah!)

Happy New Year! If you’re in anything like my mindset, the holidays seem like eons ago … and that the eve of this new year wasn’t a mere week in the rear view mirror.

And so we start … 2023.

There are so many things I’ve had on my mind to write about since we hailed in the new year … but the one thing that has been laying heavily these past few days has been the memory of my paternal grandmother. I always find it a bit mysterious (and a bit eerie) when someone from my past makes me feel such a presence … a memory urgency. Why now? Are they around? Trying to send me a message or just say, “Hi!”????? I don’t know. One of those things.

But, regardless, there I was the other day … minding my own business and turning over my 2022 files to hold what will come this year and she popped into my thoughts. And not only did she pop into them – but along with the memories was this tsunami of bittersweetness … one of utter happiness along with absolute sadness that she was no longer. Was I feeling nostalgic while sorting through receipts? Did some bit of paperwork catch my eye that sparked the neurotransmitter which then sparked the memory of the woman I have not had in my life for nearly 40 years?

What can I say? I don’t know what sparked this all but I do know this … she was a gem … and I miss her.

Irene Churan Leske was my dad’s mom. She was born on a temperate day (you can find anything on the internet) in August, 1903 … in Chicago … the city she never moved from. She was of Bohemian heritage (where I get my big, fat knees from!) … one of five kids (4 girls … (Molly, Lottie, Blanche, Irene) and Uncle Eddie). I don’t think they had much money but they were a tight-knit bunch. By the time I came along and had any decent memory, the three oldest sisters had passed from breast cancer. Grandma would be afflicted with that cancer, as well, but somehow her treatments worked – where her sister’s and niece’s hadn’t – and lived a full life until it came back and claimed her when she was 80 – a week after she became a great-grandmother (of twins). We all know she waited for those babies to arrive!

If I could use one word to describe her it would be … classy. But, that is just one dimension of her complex and lovely being. She was very fashionable. She was always “dressed to the 9s” – no matter what she was doing. I have a photo (circa 1931) of her (and my dad as a toddler) in a long wool (or so it looks) winter coat with a huge fur collar (and cuffs) … a beautiful jaunty hat with a veil over her eyes does nothing but enhance her high cheek bones, petite nature and love of style. She was pure class.

She was an amazing saleswoman. She could sell ice cubes to polar bears and sand to camels. She had interior design skills beyond any schooling – it was just innate with her and she was always leading the “newest thing” by about a year. She (and my Grandfather) were incredible ice dancers … skating in a club for years in their Chicago area. She was so graceful; and they both were so fluid. It was lovely – even at a young age I knew that was something special to behold – watching them float over the ice so effortlessly.

She was an intrepid “L” rider – often telling anyone sitting in the first seat of the first car that it was her grandchild’s first train ride and would they please give up their seat so I could sit there and experience the train as a conductor would. EVERY TIME we rode – she’d ask! I probably sat in that seat 50x – always as a “first timer”. LOL. We went all over the city together – but usually to Marshall Field’s department store (when department stores were department stores!) … with 8 floors of goods, a restaurant where we’d lunch, and a Tiffany ceiling. The store was magnificent and our outings were always so special. And, if I didn’t come home with a souvenir from the store – a punch out balsa wood monkey that hung on my milk glass at lunch or a knock-off Barbie outfit – I’d still be filled with memories to last a lifetime.

She was the one who cooked for days and days (and days) for 20 of us at Thanksgiving. She was well known for her 13 vegetables gracing the table (and the most perfectly cubed turnips!). She set a pretty table with varied and tasty foods and I have to think that she must have slept for 3 days after the holiday! But before she rested and before we all went home … after about 2 hours after the dinner was done and the kids were playing in their cavernous (fabulous) basement and the women were drying the last dish (no dishwasher there!) … she’d lay out another gargantuan feast of sandwich goods, leftovers, and desserts. She was something!

But the thing I think I miss most about her was her twinkly sparkle. She was one of those people who was just lit from the inside. She was a tremendous story teller – always using her hands and sound effects – very animated – and anyone listening was purely enraptured. But besides being spellbound – everyone would be hysterical because she’d have everyone laughing until they were crying and she’d abandon her story for a bit until everyone could all regain their composure and then she’d start in again. She was truly wonderful. Her eyes sparkled … and she knew how to make anyone (and everyone) feel like they were the most important person not just in the room – but on the planet. To me, she was the female version of the wizard from The Wizard of Oz.

Whenever we got together she’d say that, “We had Dutch – didn’t we?” … and that meant the very best of times.

And, honestly, yes – we did.

When I was little I’d stay overnight on Sundays … after a family meal at Gma and Gpa’s. She’d fill their huge, cast iron, deep soaker tub with bubbles and plop me in for a good soak while she finished the dishes. After I was dry and tucked into cozy pajamas, she’d pop popcorn and we’d settle on the floor of the living room to watch The Dinah Shore Show on TV … but not ANY TV … it was a portable – on a wheeled stand – and (omg) … COLOR! We’d eat buttered (so much butter!) popcorn and since I was all about glitz and glamour (I started early) … we’d ooh and ahh over Dinah’s ball gowns (the peach sparkly one was a show-stopper with encrusted crystals on the bodice and a billion yards of flowing chiffon as the skirt). A million years later and I remember that dress! Yes, we had Dutch!

So, why that day was her presence so strong? I don’t know. But, yeah, I miss her … and the ones who went after her. She was sick but attended our wedding; from that day I have one rare photo of her talking with someone in the receiving line … and that’s it. Too bad. But, I remember her whispering to me as she kissed me congratulations, that Tim was charming and a “keeper”. Yeah – he was … and then some. I hope they are having Dutch!

In any case … a shout out to my Grandmother who I remember with much love and fondness. Later this summer I’ll do something fun in her honor on the 120th anniversary of her birth. This is my year to remember, in depth, those that were so important to me.

And so we start … 2023. This new year that holds so much possibility, mystery, and just a few million memories worth sharing.

December 7, 2022 ~ Wednesday morning (too early)

For those of you who know me, you know I’m a night owl – not an early riser. Yet – here I am. I was awakened by pounding on my front door this morning a bit after 7am. I live in an area where I’m not about to open my door at that hour … so, I have no idea who it was or what they needed. Probably one of the many homeless looking for assistance. I’d like to help but …

So, here I am writing the piece that was in my head yesterday as I drove up to my daughter’s home to drop off my empty holiday decoration bins. They’ll stay there until three some weeks from now, when I’ll need them again to refill after taking said decs down. Oh the joys of a small place with no storage!

As I was driving, a wave of recollection washed over me. I lived in this area for 34 years … how can I forget (so completely) some things about being here? I don’t know, but I do/I have. And as I was puttering along the backroads, looking out at the scenery, I realized that the fifth Denver season – that I had somehow forgotten about – had most certainly arrived (obviously, some time ago, but I was just realizing it). Oh, most places have four seasons … Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall. Here, taking up a good chunk of time between Fall and Spring, is the season of Brown.

Everything here is brown. Or at the very least, a shade of it … beige, chocolate, tan, taupe, puce, khaki … you know, BROWN! Bland, blah, boring. You get the idea. For a gal who loves green … it’s horribly ugly and a bit depressing. The leftover fallen leaves are brown, crunchy and munched up lying in brown heaps … the sidewalks and grassy areas melt into one beige, tawny landscape … the now naked tree trunks and branches are brown … the fencing is brown … the local roofs are brown … the foothills in the distance are brown … the whole Denver area seems to be BROWN!

I was thinking, as I was driving along, that it should be illegal (somehow) to use brown brick and/or paint in this area. Why add to the already blighted surroundings with man-made structures of anything brown? Why not go the way of those in the Nordic regions? Blues, yellows, reds? Those colors would have to be better than the ubiquitous, obnoxious, eye-wearying, brain-numbing, soul-sucking brown. Or if not that bright … how about grays, maroons, and greens? Something other than what is now the norm. Right?

There are good browns, though, too … Brown University … Charlie Brown … James Brown … the brown of a sweet prairie dog or the brown yumness of a Hershey’s chocolate bar.

I digress.

Anyway – as I was driving, I was looking west over the foothills (also so, sooo brown). Some of the hills are dotted with trees … dark freckles on the hillsides … and some of the hills are completely barren except for grasses (also brown). Sigh. I miss the greenness of the island! I don’t miss much from the island (other than friends and that damn gas station chicken) but I do miss the greenness of it. The lush, always green forests and roadways. I’m living in a land of insipidness. Toto, we are not in the NW anymore.

Along the way I passed the backside of what I thought was an old, seemingly abandoned, military outpost. However, I don’t think it is abandoned but is still being used as a mental health facility. I might be wrong. Hopefully I am as it, sadly, just looks like some chilling, horror movie set! There were acres and acres of old barrack buildings, mountains of discarded whatnot (grills, machinery, ???) … if it’s actually still in use – clean it up Colorado! It’s depressing, unsightly and more than a bit creepy.

Past the weather-beaten prairie grasses of the area, there was a small lake. I slowed down to watch the geese as they came in for landing. I’d been watching several groups flying overhead as I was driving … so perfectly lovely … and now some of them were coming in for a rest. I’ve watched this phenomena a few times this week – lucky enough to catch the flock just at the right moment of descension … wings spread and wafting, feet forward … they seemingly drop from the sky like parachuted skydivers, landing perfectly … sometimes in between two other geese … without a feather out of place on any of them. It was mesmerizing and I realized I needed to pay more attention to the road than the geese. The perils of driving the back roads are many for me!

Like train whistles (which were non-existent), geese sightings were a rarity on the island … few would fly over the island and even fewer lived there. And, I’m referring to Canada Geese. It’s been a novelty for me, this season, to see them again. It’s a lovely, calming autumnal thing for me … watching them fly overhead in their V-formations. According to all things internet … “Geese fly in v-formation to conserve their energy during long migratory flights. They do this by using the slipstream created by the bird in front of them to make it easier to fly. You can often see one side longer because of crosswinds.” … and I thought one side was longer just because there were more birds on that side!

Canada Geese fly around 40 mph but can go as fast as 70 mph with strong tail-winds. They can fly for as long as 24 hours and sometimes cover 1500 miles in a single day! Researchers think that the honking heard from the flocks is a positioning statement … keeping the integrity of the flock and for changing positions during flight. Each bird flies a bit higher than the bird in front of him/her. When one goose gets tired, it will fall back and another will take its place … kind of akin to one honking – “I’m beat/I’m going to take a breather and fly at the back for a bit.”

While Canada Geese don’t have the night vision that cats do (kind of eerie), they have excellent vision and memories which enable them to spot landmarks in the air and on the ground. In the dark they can see 12x greater than humans and they also see color better than we do, too.

Migrating flocks can be 30-100 birds but each V-formation could be a smaller group of that same flock. Migrating patterns and routes don’t change much – so the geese you see this year around your local pond or office park, quite possibly will be the same as next year. While most birds don’t remember their family members after their first year, Canada Geese do and sometimes migrate with their families. They also mate for life and can live up to 15 years in the wild (but some pet geese have been known to live far longer … into their 40s!). They weigh between 5 and 14 pounds – typically, males are heavier than females.

A group of geese (on the ground or in the water) is called a gaggle; when in the air – a skein, team or wedge. And when they are flying very close together, they are called a plump.

As I am writing this, I just heard honking from above. How apropos! Maybe they are announcing their arrival … or maybe they are honking out, “Man, it’s brown here!”

It’s a bit more than two weeks til the Christmas holiday and the season is in full swing – after all, I’ve been watching Hallmark holiday movies since late October! My house is decked … but no boughs of holly (too spiny) … the tree is outside waiting for me to bring it in and adorn it (soon) … cookies will be made (next week) … packages will be wrapped (tomorrow) and cards will be send out (soon enough). It doesn’t feel like the holidays yet – maybe I need more music? Or maybe a little Christmas goose? (Not cooked, just outside on my lawn … a friend to the squirrels who have adopted me!)

I should thank whomever pounded on my door for getting me up. The morning light that is filtering through my (hard water spotted) windows is lovely this time of day. I am not usually up to notice it! By the time I’m up (an hour from now) the sun is angled differently and it no longer makes its way into the house … and by noon, due to the building next door … it might as well be twilight! There is no sunshine in the house again until late in the afternoon when it oh-so-briefly shines though my back kitchen window before it disappears over the rooftop behind me.

It’s time for me to fly off for the day. Hope you enjoy yours.

November 7, 2022 ~ Monday (a difficult day)

Today I said a (very, very) tearful good-bye to my sweet companion of 17 months … Annie.

She came into my life on an extremely hot (for the NW) day in June 2021 as an 11 year old, relinquished, sweet old lady, black lab. Her owner had dementia and she needed rehoming. A friend of mine worked with the local lab rescue and had placed my last lab rescue (Clara) with me a few years back. She knew I was yearning for another.

And so, on that day – the day after I arrived back from Colorado with my 92 year old mom, in the middle of a high 90s heatwave, and 11 dogs on my calendar to be arriving at my home for doggy daycare the next day – I got a call saying there was a dog, and the gal in charge wanted no one but me to have her. How could I refuse?

And so, Annie came home. Home for the next 512 days.

I am so grateful I had her in my life. So thankful the rescue group thought I was worthy. So heartbroken that she is now gone. She was a beautiful big old girl … 90 pounds on a lean day, sleek black fur, a big square head, soulful brown eyes, and the heart of an angel.

Today was Euthanasia Part X for me. She was the tenth pet I’ve put down … and I tell you, it seems like it should get easier each time. But it doesn’t. She was the hardest one yet. I didn’t want to let go of this dear, sweet soul. And yet – I had to.

From the start, Annie fit right in … easy, sweet. She’d wake up from a nap and come find me and plant a big, fat dog kiss on me. Just a little “something” to remind me of her love. She was that way.

She’d lie on the couch with me, head in my lap – asleep … or just looking at me with those beautiful brown eyes. She was a constant companion. Lovely, loyal, loving.

Last fall, she underwent surgery for lipoma removal and dental issues. She came through weary, but intact and happily healed. We went on countless walks down the cliff road … I’d take her to the forest … we’d go up to the top of the meadow where the off leash dog area was … and we’d walk the beach. I loved watching her run into the water. She’d swim about – showing off her mermaid and synchronized swimming skills to all the local walkers and birds. She loved the water. I loved our outings.

She loved people … and she seemed to love other dogs.

But, late last year things changed. Not with people – she still adored everyone, but she’d had enough of other dogs – mainly small ones. Her arthritis was increasing and she didn’t want to have other dogs around her … “fear of pain” is what the vet called it. So, I put up gates and she was relegated to the front of the house … and Bea, my tiny, old chihuahua and other small guest dogs, were kept in the back of the house. She didn’t mind bigger dogs – so, if I had one, they were welcome to hang out with her. It worked out very well.

Before the move this past Spring, I noticed her slowing down … more pain/aging body. So, we up’d her meds and kept an eye on the lipomas which started popping up again. She was a lumpy old gal. Her back legs were wobblier than ever … and I think it was around then that I dubbed her “Baby Walrus” because her movements were like one. She’d flounder around, back legs caving in and I’d lift her up and get her going again. She’d climb into the back seat of my car with relative ease – but when getting out of it, she’d practically fall out like jello plopping out of a mold.

Her body was not cooperating but her loving ways continued. She was always ready to give a kiss or show her pleasure with a body/tail wag. And, boy, did she love her food!

On the second day of our trip from Washington to Denver, she got her front paw wedged under the driver’s seat as she was trying to extricate herself from my tiny Fiat. It was horrible. There we were, at a dusty rest stop in Utah, with people thinking I was beating my dog – both of us crying. I finally managed to push her walrus-like body back into the car and get her paw loose. She limped for a week. I felt AWFUL.

And that leg never really got much better. She favored it. I noticed a lump at her shoulder. Small/I’d keep my eye on it. Was it from the incident? Or, was it something else? Over the next few months, she slowed even more … I thought it was the heat. Cuz, god knows, it was an awfully HOT summer in Denver … the coolest of days here could compare to our warmest island days. We were roasted and I attributed her malaise to the summer heat.

A few weeks ago, she was not moving much. I had to help her stand … help her wiggly old legs hold her body up to go outside/to walk to the back door/to get her down and up the stairs. I used a harness … hoping my back wouldn’t go out before hers. A visit (and xrays) to our vet confirmed back and neck issues (one of the worst backs he’d seen, he told me) … he wondered why she wasn’t paralyzed. But, a bit of prednisone and some careful, slow walking seemed to make things a whole lot better.

Until this weekend.

She had been favoring that right front leg more and more. As I snuggled next to her on the floor on Saturday morning, I was telling her I was going to take her to a chiropractor to align her spine and that she’d feel so much better. My hands massaged her body … flanks, head, legs … and then under her neck and to her shoulders. It was then that I realized that the golfball-sized lump was now about the size of a softball and it was as hard as a rock. NOT good. How had this gone unnoticed? It dawned on me then that we were dealing with something very aggressive for it to grow in size, that much, in the matter of a few weeks.

I cried all day but made the call to have a service come to the home to relieve her of her pain as soon as they were able … I couldn’t let her go on. All weekend I hugged and fed her, petted and talked to her, helped her outside, and kissed her until her lips were chapped (well, practically). I cried my eyes out and second guessed my intentions. Maybe I could do … x,y,z? Maybe this or that? Maybe surgery? Maybe … whatever? Needless to say, it was a rough weekend.

But then, I remembered what I told a good friend when she was facing the end of life for her sweet, little dog. I said that we never regret helping them along too early … but we would always regret helping them along, too late. I needed to heed my own advice. I knew she wasn’t going to get any better and why prolong things? Why put her through pain or any discomfort, knowing that I was just putting off the inevitable? I could tell my sweet baby was uncomfortable … so, I gave her a few extra pain pills here and there … I figured they couldn’t hurt.

This morning I woke to her without use of her legs … she was worse than Bambi on the ice. I got her standing upright, then walked her outside – me straddling her, arms under her tummy, crab-walking along – and then back in. I was glad I made the call. I gave her a hearty breakfast and an hour later a second breakfast. Why not?

The attending vet arrived at 10:30 … and was so sweet, kind, patient, and compassionate. If helping a pet to go forward could be peaceful and beautiful and “good” … it was all of those things. She looked Annie over and thanked me for making this hard decision. She looked at the mass on her shoulder and said she’d seen these before – they start out small and then all of a sudden they are massive (and inoperable). She said my timing was good … as another few days and it could have resulted in a fracture of that leg … or impaired breathing. I was thankful for her reassurance. It made it all a bit easier.

Annie was on her dog bed, snuggled in a purple blanket, with a little pillow under her head. She looked like she was all cozy in a sleeping bag, ready for a nap.

I gave her a million kisses, talked to her, petted her head and legs, fed her chicken and a chocolate cupcake. The sedative took effect after a few minutes. Her breathing was deep and she looked so content and relaxed. The next injection was the lethal dose … and after a few minutes, the doctor told me that Annie’s heart had stopped. She was gone. She left this world peacefully – with crumbs on her lips and knowing she was so very much loved. What more could I ever ask for her – other than more time? And, once it was all over and the vet had left with her, I stood, with a broken heart, in what felt like a too-empty house … and cried my eyes out again.

It’s going to take me a while to rehydrate from all these tears shed … and to have that hole in my heart start to heal. I’ve had plenty of other pets … lovely animals all … but I don’t know what it was about her … but she was a special gal. One of those soul-connectors. I am so thankful I had her in my life. I am so thankful that rescue chose me to care for her. I loved her dearly and completely. She will be sorely missed.

Good-bye, my sweet girl. Good-bye, baby walrus.

October 31, 2022 ~ Monday (night/10:46 pm)

I should be in bed. There, I said it. I’ve been thinking it for the past hour but something is gnawing at me. I am unsettled. Perhaps it was that today was Halloween … and so unlike the “old” Halloweens of years past. How I miss them!

Today was a beautiful day in Denver … 67°, sunny, a slight breeze. A true TREAT. I think back on the years when the kids were young and it always seemed that Halloween was cold. As in FRIGID. As in make sure their costumes fit over their parkas or snowsuits! I remember one year driving the kids from house to house in our neighborhood … I think we made five houses and then we went home to thaw out and drink hot cider.

This year there were no trick or treaters … NONE. That wasn’t much different from other years, though. I’ve never lived where costumed groups of kids would be ringing doorbells. Well, some – but not many. When I lived by the park, our street had only five houses – a park across the street, a pond and a school. No one wanted to come our way – too remote. My neighbors and I would count how many kids we’d have come by … it was a treat for us to hand out candy to six kids … four of them being our own! When I lived in Illinois, I was across from the cemetery … and only my neighbor’s toddlers came by so I usually went over to my parents’ who seemed to have hordes of kids … witches, pirates, ghouls. Such fun! On the island everyone around me was ancient and asleep before 7pm! And here? The only ones possibly ringing my doorbell would be the local homeless. I turned off my light early.

And, horrors! I didn’t even put costumes on the dogs this year. The dog costumes (and my stash of socks) are somewhere in with my things stored. And, I thought it kind of silly just to torture the animals in costumes just so I could laugh for a few minutes (at their expense)!

But, how I miss the days of yore! And the days of gore!

When my kids were little (elementary aged), we had parties every Halloween. I loved it! I’d spend all week prior to the day thinking up an indoor scavenger hunt … finding prizes to put at the end of the strings that I wove into a giant spider web in the living room – each kid getting the end of one string … they’d have to go up and under, all at the same time, winding up their black yarn strings to get their prizes. It was like a 3-D Twister game!

We played spooky music and had cauldrons of dry ice “fog” … ice hands (gloves filled with water and then frozen) were the ice cubes in the punch. Chocolate cupcakes with gummy worms crawling out of them awaited small hands – along with other treats, popcorn and candy.

We had costume contests … we played “Hot Potato” but with a skull or stuffed ghost or bat … the kids wrapped up partners with toilet paper/the first “mummy” covered from head to toe won. We made mazes to crawl through and made up creepy stories and passed around “body parts” (grapes for eyeballs, spaghetti for intestines, etc.) … all so ghoulish!

And then the kids would go out trick or treating. We let them loose out into the neighborhood – never fearing that a pedophile would be lurking nearby. Never worrying that a neighbor would poison our children. Never worrying that they’d be harmed or get into trouble or not be safe – at any time.

I was talking with a friend today and she said that her grandkids don’t know what a “real” Halloween is. Not like what we had as kids … not what our kids had as kids. And that was sobering and dismaying … and a bit sad.

I’m so out of touch with what this day means anymore … I’m hoping it is better for all these younger kids than what I’m thinking.

But then, as the evening wears down, I think of November – which will be arriving in 57 minutes and I let out a contented sigh. I do NOT know where October went … or June through September for that matter … but I am certainly happy that November is upon us.

Ahh, November.

I think it might just be my favorite month (at least in the top three). I am of Pilgrim stock … and maybe it’s in my genes … but I like that there is no glitz or glamour … no gifts or costumes … no changing of decorations or seasons. Thanksgiving comes at the end of the month – a final hurrah to my favorite season, Autumn. And, it is a time for settling in. It is Mother Nature’s way of telling us to breathe it all in. Cherish what is. Prepare. Fill our souls with quiet.

November seems to give us a breather … in between the heat of summer and the cold of winter … between the busyness of summer and the sometimes hectic nature of the holidays. I feel it gives us … almost makes us … slow down.

It’s a month for breathing in the crisp air … for watching the squirrels find treasures and then bury them/all the time with their fluffed out, question-marked tails twitching. The last of the leaves, the ones holding on tightly to be the last one, slowly flutter to the ground … filter through nearly bare branches and join their buddies in piles at the base of the trunks. I will never get enough of Autumn’s carpet.

This is the time of year when I want to cozy in. I read more. I write more. I eat more. Not necessarily in that order – or as a good thing! But, it’s a time when I take a step back and just let it all soak in. I take deeper breaths. I sleep more. I look at the sky more. It’s almost a primal thing … like some ancestral, primitive chord starts strumming inside of me – telling me to hunker down … slow down … relax … savor.

And then, there’s Thanksgiving. My favorite holiday – by far. Oh, yeah, I love Christmas and the winter holidays with their glitz, glitter and glamour … but I really love Thanksgiving with its simplicity and meaning. What’s not to love about being grateful and thankful and (hopefully) sharing time with those you love and who mean the most to you?

But, that is 24 days from now … I have over three full weeks before the turkeys are roasting or (if I’m lucky enough, the wild ones are gobbling outside my windows as they have in the past!) … where I can enjoy cozy sweaters … the waning sunlight of a crisp afternoon … the honking of geese as they fly overhead, their V formations filling the sky … the gray stillness of a local pond … mournful train whistles … and chimney smoke that lingers and tickles the nose.

The colors are more muted in November … all the splash of October is past. What color is left is softer and one leaf blends in with another that blends in with a still blooming flower or seed pod or grass stalk and it’s this soft blur of nature … a landscape awash in monochromatic watercolors.

I might miss the old days of the fun and noisy Halloweens … but I know when November comes around each year, the days will be the same – always.

Lovely, peaceful and comforting.

September 25, 2002 ~ Sunday evening

I’ve been here for four months now and I’m finally putting the final touches (so to speak) on my office. That can be narrowed down to finally hooking up my printer/scanner … dusting (for the zillionth time) … organizing the last of what was on my desk … rehanging wall art … putting things on my bulletin board … and going through roughly a million magazine clippings I’ve saved over the years of silly cartoons, dog pics, and whatnot.

And in the pile of whatnot, I came upon a poem I wrote for a small town in North Carolina. Morganton. I was traveling about, searching out a new hometown at the time (May 2021), and had been receiving their local newspapers and online event flyers as the town sounded so wonderful – on paper/online. When I arrived there, well … to be kind, I’ll just say, nope. Not so much. But, at that time the Chamber of Commerce was asking for entries about what a small town, more specifically – their small town – meant to the locals.

I wasn’t a local and it wasn’t about their town, but to me it’s the town I keep searching for. My someday small hometown.

Homesick …

Homesick … for a place I have never lived – never been. Where trees and hills cradle friendships, neighbors lend a hand, crickets sing their songs in wild concert.

I long to belong to a place that supports whomever you are or hope to be. Mainstreet welcoming strangers, strangers becoming family.

Evolving, caring, encompassing – where sunsets linger as long as neighbors on porches, sprinkling stories in periwinkle twilight and the calls to come home.

Home to a place I have never lived – never been. Where I can lay my head and breathe while fireflies kiss my dreams. Always welcome and embraced.

So I will never, ever again be … homesick.

September 22, 2022 ~ Thursday (very early morning – yawn!)

I can’t sleep. So what’s new?

I’ve been here, now, for 4 months. Time flies when you’re sick and unpacking boxes! It also flies when you are doing everything else.

I was lying in bed (mere moments ago) thinking of greener pastures. Literally. On the island I was surrounded by nature and all things green. Here … I am surrounded by concrete and all things beige. So, as I was trying to conjure up visions of green grass and sheep and counting what I miss about the island, my mind switched from all things ovine to all things bovine. Yeah – it sounds silly but … I miss the cows. Oh sure, I miss my friends. I miss the absolute beauty and tranquility of the island. I miss the natural surroundings and the wildlife and the slower pace. I miss the small town ease and familiarity and walkability. But, yeah … I miss the cows, too.

I am a small town girl at heart … a country-bumpkin one might say … but one who wants a Trader Joe’s nearby, too. And a few local cows wouldn’t hurt either!

I lived in Langley, on Whidbey Island, WA, for eight years. I could walk just about anywhere from my location – into town, to a winery, to the water, to the arts center, to the forests, and to a very sweet, very lovely little working farm.

The farm had goats (once) and has tons of flowers and produce and also … cows. I’d walk over to see them, from time to time, from my house (12 minutes or so … down my street, right down another, across the main road that leads to town, up the hill and around a curve) and feed them apples. Usually, I’d bring my own supply with me, but in autumn, I’d let their local apple trees provide the fruit. I’d glean whatever had fallen and using a trusty pocketknife, I’d cut the apples into quarters and hand feed the cows through the wire fencing. Nothing like a sticky, saliva-y, fat, white-pink tongue slobbering over the palm of your hand trying to suck in an apple! I loved it!

What can I say? I like cows!

While I favor just a handful of cow “types”, there are more than 70 recognized cattle breeds in the US and over 1000 worldwide! The “Oreo” of cows (the Belted Galloway) is my all time favorite. They are a bit shaggy, are a good beef cattle, and are an exceptionally calm and quiet cow. And, I just find them damn cute! And, for whatever reason, it seems they appear more often in folk art paintings than other types of cows. Why is that? Perhaps, it is because they are easier to paint than Holsteins (the black and white dairy cows). I know that if I were painting a pastoral setting, I’d do better painting a black cow with a white stripe around its middle than a spotted one … which, with my skills, would probably end up looking more like a Dalmation out standing in a field than a cow!

My other favs are Black Angus … they are primarily the nation’s “beef” cattle and the most common breed. I fell in love with these hunky beasts when I first came to Denver. We went to the National Western Stock Show (January 1980) and I couldn’t get enough of their stocky, muscular bodies, short legs, big heads and gorgeous black-velvet fur. If a cow can be beautiful, this one is.

But, I kind of think they are all beautiful, in their own ways. I think it’s the eyes. I love when an animal really looks at you … and when they do (to me) there is a little flutter in my soul. What is it with animals and that connection?

I also fancy Guernseys. They look like Holsteins but are a pretty caramel brown. They have straight backs, no horns, and are also gentle milk producers.

I like Jerseys, too. They are like the Guernsey and Holsteins in stature but are typically fawn or cream with cream markings with deer-like faces. They are docile and sweet and if you’ve ever looked at one of these creatures in the eye … your heart would surely melt a bit.

And, of course, Holsteins – the quintessential cow. Whenever anyone sees the word COW, I’d bet that is the image that comes to mind … the infamous black and white dairy cow … the image everyone draws or conjures up in thought.

I think my first encounter with a cow, when I first fell in love with all things COW, was when I was about five or six. Maybe younger. We had milk delivered to our house – the nice, old-fashioned glass milk bottles (with the cardboard stoppers) were brought to the doorstep by the milkman. I’d sit on the back steps awaiting his arrival. He used to come in a horse drawn cart … before my time … but when old enough to wait, I watched ours arrive by truck. And what a truck! It was a white truck from the Borden Dairy (established in 1857) with their logo on the side of a cow with a daisy behind her head. The cow’s name was Elsie. How I loved her! I even had a stuffed animal of her. It had a rubber/plastic head on a yellow/brown stuffed body which was in a sitting position (like a dog would sit – not how a cow would sit! That always bothered me!) Anyway – I loved that goofy cow cuddle baby. And my love affair with cows started with her and continues on!

In the Hindu religion, the cow is sacred (believing it to be a gift from the gods). Whenever I see a cow, I kind of have to agree. They are just some magnificent animals … offering so much and needing so little in return … and what faces! One can’t name a cow any ordinary name. No cow can be a Linda or a Karen or a Michael. The names Bossie, Flossie, Moo-Moo, Elmer, Milk Dud, Buttercup, and Bess come to mind. Yes, it needs to be special … a cow can’t have just any random name.

If I had a pet cow it would be named Emmaline, Mabel, Clara Belle or something like Eunice, Ruby, Violet, or Daisy. A good old-fashioned, sweet old lady name. And while I’m fantasizing about having a cow – I’ll go one step further …

On nice days (and in a fantasy – all the days are nice!) … we’d lie in the meadow (awash with wildflowers and grasses) watching fat dragonflies and dainty butterflies flit from flower to flower. All the while she’d be chewing her cud … her tasseled tail flicking off flies from her flanks … her long eyelashes lazily blinking in the sun … her front legs curled under her chest … her big, beautiful cow eyes looking lovingly at me … her softer than soft fur just begging to be petted. A girl can dream, right?

And, as much as I do love cows (on island or not) … I hate to say it as some (me included) would think me hypocritical … but I am also a huge fan of eating beef and liking leather (sueded/soft as butter/or pebbled – it doesn’t matter). All I can say is, well, it is what it is. I love my cows … and I admit that I like them just as much with a little char on them and maybe some onions and mushrooms on the side or as a nice pair of shoes or a pretty purse!

In any case … I need some cows!