The Last Trick Up My Sleeve (and on the Kitchen Counter)

Look at Gimpy's face:

From any angle it's a sweet face. That's because he's so sweet.

He's my go-to dog for hugs and kisses, the most affectionate dog I've ever had. He'll cuddle with anyone who'll sit still long enough, bestow kisses on anyone who'll allow it. He's smart, friendly, funny--a wonderful dog, really. The only problem with Gimpy is, he's a...well, there's no use trying to put a polite name on it...he's a thief. A repeat offender.

He's been stealing things since his first days here. He seems to have a fetish for soft things: towels and washcloths (freshly laundered and folded or, better yet, used), small blankets or throws, and the occasional paper towel or tissue someone has accidentally left where he can find it. His favorites are dishtowels and dishcloths. He can and does (several times a day) snitch them from way back on the kitchen counter, which means he's stretching up and putting his front paws on the counter. His criminal acts are increasing my towel-washing and counter-wiping chores.

It's annoying when I reach for the dishtowel I used half an hour earlier and it isn't there, but I know right where to look for it. Gimpy hides things in the same places all the time. The missing item will be in the den (either on the futon or in his crate), in my bedroom on Levi's bed (go figure), or on the living room rug on the far side of the coffee table. Often I'll find Gimpy right there with the booty, lying on top of it or holding it lovingly between his paws.

I know he knows he's doing something wrong when he steals, because he's sneaky about it. He never ever takes anything in front of us, and the fact that we can't catch him in the act makes it difficult to correct the behavior. It's the stealing we want to stop; nobody cares if he snuggles with things as long as they aren't our things.

Even if he does seem to know he's doing a bad thing, it's clear that he hates being thought of as a bad dog. He practically turns himself inside out with shame when we confront him with the stolen goods, and I'm sure he'd avoid going through that embarrassment if he could. Maybe he's a kleptomaniac.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, I had an idea: a booby-trap. I gathered the supplies...

...then put the pennies in the can and taped over the top:

I wrapped the can of pennies in one end of a dishtowel, then laid it on its side with the rest of the towel just on the edge of the kitchen counter. It must have looked like easy pickings, because it probably wasn't twenty minutes before we heard a crash and Gimpy came bounding into the living room with eyes as big as saucers. We made a fuss, of course, loudly scolding while quietly hoping his brain synapses were firing and making a connection between the noise and the towel.

We immediately set up the booby-trap again, of course, and another couple of days passed (something of a record) before he stole again. When he did, he took a different towel, one with a different pattern and one that was harder for him to reach than the towel with the can in it. (I was actually kind of proud of his thought process and problem-solving skills when he avoided the trap.) This time I wrapped the can of pennies in a third towel, another different pattern, and set it up again. He fell for the trap the next day, bringing the can crashing to the floor and harsh words raining down on his spirit.

Once again I wrapped up the can of pennies, setting it well within his reach in a different place on the counter. That was about a week ago. He hasn't touched it yet, nor has he stolen anything from anywhere else in the house. At this point we're beginning to feel some cautious optimism.

My next challenge is to figure out what kind of cuddly thing I can give Gimpy that he'll like as much as a towel but won't confuse with one. The soft things he presently "owns" don't seem to meet his cuddling needs. Except for Lucy.

Gimpy (right) on the futon in the den with Lucy, a dog bed stolen from

the bedroom, a towel stolen from the dirty clothes, a stuffed-animal carcass

and a tennis ball. Gimpy does the stealing and willingly shares with Lucy.

He's a good dog, really, with a great big heart and a bad habit.

Louisiana Ice

After yesterday's sub-freezing temperatures and "frozen precipitation," I stepped out onto the patio first thing this morning to take a picture of these tiny icicles hanging from the patio table:

I was back inside, taking my coat off, when Kim called, "Mom, I think you need to bring your camera out again and take a look at the back of the house." So I did. I've lived in this house nearly seventeen years, and it's the first time I've ever seen anything like this:

They looked ever bigger when I stood right under them:

Frankly, I was impressed. Lucy, however, couldn't have cared less.

The Great Duck Rescue

We're experiencing another cold spell today, nothing like the so-called polar vortex that's wreaking havoc on much of the nation, but still very cold for us. Tomorrow is supposed to be even colder. Local news outlets are, of course, issuing warnings to protect  "the four P's--people, pets, plants and pipes," so we're doing that. I didn't realize there had even been a discussion about the possibility of a rare Louisiana snowfall until I watched TV last night and heard the evening news crew groan in disappointment when the weatherman told them that, no, conditions aren't quite right, it won't be snowing here after all.

Our last snow was about five years ago. I have pictures of Butch and Kadi playing in it. Oh, wait--I probably wrote about it at the time--yes, here's the post. I remember that day well, especially the concerned phone calls I kept getting from my daughter Kim as the day wore on. The more I've thought about it this morning, the more tickled I've gotten, so I asked Kim for permission to repost what she wrote on her own website about that day. Here's her story (the beautiful photo is hers, too):

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Untitled

by Kim Neely

Believe it or not, this is what we woke up to here on Thursday morning:

To say that we were all excited would definitely be an understatement. We hardly ever get to see snow in these parts, so when we do, it's reason to celebrate. People were calling all their friends, running around with their cameras getting proof for posterity, and it seemed as though every other house had a snowman in front of it. Very cool, except for one episode that my friends and family aren't going to let me forget about any time soon.

There was a duck in the lake, about 4 feet from the bank on the other side, that kept swimming in the same place for hours. I had been seeing him there from 6:30 in the morning until around 10 AM, every time I passed by my window, before I realized that he was just swimming in the same spot and that I had never seen a duck do that for so long before. He looked OK, not like he was injured or anything, but there was snow accumulating on his back. Wasn't he cold? I just thought it odd that he wasn't off somewhere with the other ducks. I became convinced that he must have snagged one of his feet in something beneath the water and gotten stuck there. I worried about him for another long while, even soliciting advice about the situation from a few friends on the phone, before I finally broke down and drove to the management office of my apartment complex. My plan was to borrow the pool skimmer to try and rescue the duck, but they wouldn't let me use the skimmer - some nonsense about "possible liability issues." (I refrained from telling the nice management lady that if I wanted to go stand at the edge of the lake and help the duck, I was damned well going to do it, whether it was with the building's skimmer or the one I was about to go buy at the hardware store.) Anyway, she said she'd get the property manager and one of the maintenance guys to go check out the duck and see if they could help it, so I came back to my apartment and waited. After about an hour, when the duck was still there and I hadn't seen anyone out by the lake trying to help get it unstuck, I called Management Lady again to see what she'd found out.

There was kind of an awkward silence, and then she says, "Ms. Neely, the property manager did go out to see about the duck, and he says...um...well...he says it's a decoy."

"Is he sure?" I asked. She said he was, and I wanted to argue with her for a minute, but instead, I apologized for the inconvenience and hung up. I still wasn't convinced, but not long afterward, the sun came out and the surface of the water calmed, and I could see very clearly that the duck in distress was, indeed, faux. Even as I write this, 3 days later, it's still out there, "swimming" in the same spot.

I am choosing not to be embarrassed about this.

When I Was "Little Susie"

While I was writing about the Everly Brothers the other day, I recalled an event that happened when I was 18 years old. It won't do any good to tell you about it unless you remember this portion of the lyrics to the Everly Brothers' song, "Wake Up Little Susie":

"Wake up little Susie, wake up

Wake up little susie, wake up

We both fell sound asleep

Wake up little Susie and weep

The movie's over, it's four o'clock

And we're in trouble deep"

It was the spring of 1961, three months after I'd broken up with a man I'd end up marrying later that same year. At the law office where I'd worked since the previous spring, we had a new girl, Jude, who became a good friend. Jude was determined I would not sit around and mope after the breakup. She'd gone to a different high school than I did and immediately set about introducing me to a few boys she knew from school. They were nice boys, and I enjoyed meeting them and spending time with them. Most of them were a little on the country side compared to my own classmates, not that that was a problem. Except for Sidney.

Sidney was a greaser. He was Danny Zuko from Grease and Fonzie from Happy Days long before I ever heard of those characters. He wore the jeans, the black leather jacket and the motorcycle boots, and he slicked his hair back in the same ducktail hairstyle. There were no gangs in our East Texas town; the only other person I ever saw there who dressed like Sidney was a recent transplant from the Bronx.

Jude assured me that Sidney was a nice guy in spite of his cool, tough guy image, and when he asked me to go with him to the drive-in movie one night, I agreed. Jude was right: Sidney was nice. He had good manners. He opened the car door for me, offered popcorn and a soft drink from the concession stand, and, when the movie started, he stayed on his side of the car.

I don't remember what movie was playing, but it wasn't interesting enough to keep me awake. I didn't get enough sleep in those days and had a habit of falling asleep as soon as I relaxed in a semi-dark place. Sidney must have had the same issues.

The next thing I knew, he was waking me up. It was two o'clock in the morning. We were the only car in the parking lot, and the only lights we could see came from the moon and the stars. I knew my mother would be angry and doubted seriously that she would believe my true story about what had happened. Sidney apologized and said he'd have me home in five minutes.

But his car wouldn't start. The battery was dead, and there was no one around to jump us off. I could have walked to my house--we could see the movie screen from our front yard--but I wasn't about to take a walk at that time of night. So, Sidney took off walking while I sat in his car alone in the drive-in parking lot. I don't know where he went, the hospital across the highway maybe, but he walked somewhere to make a phone call. He called his mother.

Poor Sidney. Something is wrong in the universe when a guy in a black leather jacket has to call his mother to jump off his ride in the middle of the night. Especially when he's on a date. That is not cool. He knew it, and I knew the embarrassment was killing him.

His mother came, and the two of them drove me home in her car. If I remember correctly, she did have enough compassion to let Sidney drive it. Sidney walked me to the door--his shoulders slumped all the way--apologized again, and politely said goodnight. I assume they went back to the drive-in after that and got his car started. (My mother slept through the whole thing--never had any idea how late I got home.)

Sidney never asked me out again. I didn't blame him. Once or twice in the months that followed before I married and moved away, Sidney and I would spot one another among the throngs of teenagers circling the parking lot at Zack's. We would acknowledge each other with a subtle wave and a sympathetic expression, then go our separate ways.

Those tough guys? Sometimes they're the tenderest inside.

Traces of Everly

My friend Annette, in a lovely tribute to the late Phil Everly the other day, referred to "the sweet beauty of harmony" that the Everly Brothers introduced to the world of rock and roll in the late 1950s, inspiring countless vocal artists to follow them along the path of harmony ever since. I was a young teen in Springfield, Missouri when "Bye Bye Love" hit the airwaves in 1956, followed by "Wake Up Little Susie" in the first part of 1957. Those songs caught my ear but not my heart; it's ballads I love. The B-side of "Wake Up Little Susie," "Maybe Tomorrow," was more my kind of music.

The song that secured my everlasting fandom came out in 1958: "All I Have to Do Is Dream." I bought that one with my babysitting money. By that time my family had moved from Southwest Missouri to East Texas, I had a new stepfather and stepsister, a new school, and a few new friends. I loved music then as much as I do now. At home my sisters and I harmonized while we washed the supper dishes, and Everly Brothers songs made up a large part of our repertoire. At school I was the tall, skinny alto in both the girls' chorus and the mixed chorus, safe places where I felt I belonged, and my love of singing harmony grew in leaps and bounds. To this day I can't sing a Christmas carol without slipping into the alto part.

I've always been able to carry a tune, but my voice, never anything special, is tighter now than it used to be. Many notes are no longer reachable. But still I sing. I turn up the music and sing along, old songs, new ones, songs recorded in harmony and others that should have been. I do it when I'm alone so I can sing as loudly as I want, and let me tell you, blowing all that air out of my lungs is one of the best things I do for myself these days. There is joy in harmony.

So many popular songs I've heard over the past half century are reminiscent of Everly Brothers tunes, and today's Saturday Song Selection is one of them. As I've listened to it this week, I've even found myself adding a third part to the two-part harmony of these talented Swedish sisters. Why don't you sing along with them, too? The lyrics are right there, and you know you want to.



The song is "Emmylou," performed by First Aid Kit.
Thanks to jamiecroft23 for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.

Seeking Warmth

The Internet's "Hourly Weather Forecast" says it's supposed to be 60°F outside at noon today in this zip code, which is quite nice for outdoors at this time of year. It's ten degrees warmer than that in the house, but I swear I'm chilled to the bone. Do you think getting older makes one colder-natured?

At night I try to remember to turn on the electric blanket a few minutes early so the bed will be nice and warm when I get into it. Then, when I do go to bed, I take my bathrobe with me. Once I've crawled in and pulled up the covers, I spread the bathrobe over me like a Snuggie to keep my arms warm while I read. I always get too warm sometime during the night and wake up just enough to turn off the electric blanket, but still, after all that heat, the perfectly reasonable house temperature feels shockingly cold.

While I'm talking temperature (which I promise to stop doing any day now), I forgot to tell you how we kept the dogs warm last week when the wind chill temperature was 10°F. Three of our four dogs have winter coats; Lucy has outgrown hers. It's quite a challenge to put four dogs into coats at the same time, which we did over and over for a couple of days. Gimpy didn't like his much at all. Levi didn't seem to mind the coat itself but was impatient while I was fastening the straps and repeatedly inched away toward the door. Oliver strutted around like a proud peacock the instant Kim put the coat on him, just like he did last year. And Lucy, bless her heart, was amiable and cooperative as we rigged her up with a folded towel and two headbands.

Here's how Levi and Gimpy looked this time last year, when they tried on their new coats for the first time:

And here's the best shot I got of the two of them last week, after they'd figured out that coats are highly grabbable:

Here is Ollie in his coat of many colors, with Lucy, who resembled a fat burrito:

You know I'll complain endlessly about the Louisiana heat this summer, but right now I'm thankful we live this far south.

Bright Sprig of Hopefulness

This was the view that greeted me when I stepped out onto the patio about seven-thirty yesterday morning:

Look at that sun, low in the sky, touching up the frosted lawns, adding golden highlights to cover the gray. See how it brightened my neighbor's garden shed...

 ...and her old oak tree that sits next to my driveway?

The sunlight felt like nourishment at the breast of Mother Nature, and the temperature rose into the mid-sixties. What a blessing.

I'd show you a picture of our view at seven-thirty this morning, but taking photos in the rain would have ruined my camera. Yes, it's gray and drizzly again, but yesterday's sunshine was enough to feed my spirit for at least another day or two.

The good thing about rain is that the dogs don't like it much. They go outside when they have to, finish their business quickly, and come right back inside. When it isn't raining, they do their business then race around the backyard, their feet sinking into the swampy ground, kicking up mud onto their legs and underbellies. Levi even got mud on his face yesterday afternoon, probably kicked up there while he was chasing Gimpy.

That mud gets tracked in, of course, gets shaken off their coats and slung onto open doors. I was looking at the back doorway yesterday, thinking all the parts of it need to be scrubbed, when I spotted another living thing that's trying to grow and, like me, needs sunshine to thrive:

Bless its little heart. I question its judgment but have to admire its boldness. Wish us both luck, okay?

The Sun'll Come Out Tomorrow. It Will, Right?

If you ask me, 2014 hasn't gotten off to a very good start. I hope the first ten days weren't representative of what's to come for the rest of the year. It isn't that anything terrible has happened, just that nothing much has happened at all. That's my problem.

I had ideas and projects for the new year, things to do, goals to accomplish. I expected to get started on them the morning after the ball dropped in Times Square. Instead, I've done nothing. I dropped the ball. There are still gift bows on the dining room table. The bar area of the kitchen counter is covered with mail, mostly advertising flyers that could be dumped into the trash can with one sweep of an arm if I didn't know there are other things buried between the pages and the ripped-open envelopes. A receipt I might need is in that pile. A couple of dollars and a few coins, change from a take-out dinner. A recipe we tried and liked. Nope, it'll all need to be sorted.

I'm eight days behind in my "You Can Draw in 30 Days" workbook. I haven't registered for February classes because I can't remember my membership password and haven't felt like digging around to find the slip of paper I wrote it on. Besides, if I've done virtually nothing in the first ten days of January, why would I think I'll have the energy to take a couple of classes in February? I will, though.

Levi and Gimpy desperately need grooming. All that rolling around on wet grass may feel good in the moment, but it's taken a toll on their curly hair. Their coats are long, thick as wool, and tangled now to the point that combing them is impossible. They need to be shorn like sheep, but there are still too many cold days ahead of us to do that. Instead, I keep their scissors on the table next to my end of the sofa and snip out a tangle here, a mat there, when either of them lies next to me with his head in my lap.

Like everywhere else in the country, we've had record cold weather. Granted, our Southeast Louisiana broken records didn't see temperatures as low as those in the northern part of the nation, but most people here don't have outerwear for weather that hovers at the edge of the teens. It drives us indoors. It drives some of us back into bed, under our electric blankets.

My old, worn-out joints have been achier than ever, especially my right knee, which snap-locks into whatever position I put it in for more than two seconds, then protests vigorously when I try to straighten it or readjust its angle. It hurts like the dickens and makes me walk like Grandpappy Amos of The Real McCoys. That limping thing was a big problem earlier this week when a stomach virus felled me for a day or two. You think "the runs" are bad? Try "the hobbles."

Wah-Wah. (Debbie Downer noise.)

Okay, let's look on the positive side of things:

• That stuff on the table and the bar? Nobody cares. I'll get to it when I get to it.
• Those gift bows that need to be put away? I popped a few gold and silver ones into a round, stainless steel dog dish and took a picture of them. Shiny and pretty!
• The "You Can Draw..." project? I could easily catch up in one day, and the house won't look noticeably worse if I spend a whole day drawing.
• The classes? I love taking classes. They'll get me off my behind when nothing else will!
• The matted dogs? They're happy. They're warm. We'll clip any tight places and get through this tangly season together.
• The weather? It's much warmer today, and the sun peeked through a few minutes ago. It didn't stay, but it reminded me it's there.
• The achy joints? I used to live with those constantly. They got better. They will again.
• The stomach virus? Had it just long enough for Kim to cook me the best chicken soup I've ever tasted--with matzo balls, which I'd never tasted. Delicious.
• Bonus positive item? I've lost eight pounds since January 2nd.
• Second bonus positive item? Kim told me this week that she brought a 10x magnifying mirror with her when she moved in. Look out, ragged eyebrows!

Here comes the sun again. I'm gonna straighten out my leg, then get dressed and take the dogs outside for a good roll in the wet grass.

Chocolate Choices

While washing the dogs' dishes at the kitchen sink yesterday, I noticed a box of candy canes I'd stashed on a window shelf while Kim and I were making Christmas candies last week. I looked at them longingly, then tossed them in the trash. They aren't even close to being my favorite candy, but I knew I might break down and eat some if I didn't get rid of them.

It occurred to me this morning that giving up sugar and other carbs may not be a resolution, but it's clearly a re-solution--something that has solved a problem once and now must solve it all over again. I totally blew it over the past couple of months. I cheated big time at a Halloween party, overindulged at Thanksgiving, and didn't pay close attention to staying on program in between. Then came the Christmas holidays. We made cookies and candy, and Kim made a cannoli-filling dip (OH-EM-GEE!), and if you'd seen me stuffing all those sweets into my mouth, you'd have thought I was in training for some nationally recognized eatathon.

Anyway, candy is what I wanted to write about today, but the two paragraphs above are not what I intended to write about candy; you may disregard them if it's not too late.

 

What I wanted to discuss is store-bought candy, specifically, the kind of assorted chocolates that come in a box with a neatly labeled flavor diagram in the lid. A neighbor brought us a box of those this year, and they started me thinking.

When I was a kid and my mother worked at the stock exchange, the wealthy old men who visited her office daily to watch their investments were a rich source of boxed chocolates every Christmas. We're talking big boxes, most of them with more than one layer. Candy boxes didn't come with diagrams in those days, which is why Forrest Gump's mother was able to say, truthfully, "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."

That uncertainty was a problem at our house. I gagged at the thought of accidentally biting into a jelly-filled chocolate, and I don't know if the jelly or something else was my little sister's least favorite, but she and I both had our dislikes and preferences. We learned early on that we could pick a chocolate out of the box, plunge a small thumb far enough into the bottom of it to expose the filling, and, if we'd been careful, nobody could tell from the top that it had been disturbed. There would come a time in the life of each box when the only chocolates left in it were the broken-open rejects that even the adults didn't like.

I'm pretty sure I continued the chocolate-poking practice into adulthood, probably passing the technique along to my children, but it's been years and years since I've done that disgusting thing. Probably, I'd say, about as many years as it's been since candy companies started putting diagrams in the lids.

So, here's what I want to know from those of you old enough to remember when assorted chocolates didn't come with labels: Did you gratefully accept whatever flavor life imposed on you, or did you find a way to work around that?

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In keeping with tradition, I wanted the first Saturday Song Selection of the new year to reflect the theme of the post, so I started looking for songs about sugar or candy. The best one I found, musically speaking, is good enough that it just this minute became the first song I've downloaded in the new year. If you like your music (and maybe your chocolate) on the dark side, you can click here to listen to The Grateful Dead sing "Candyman." That one doesn't fit the mood of the post, though, so I'll go with one that's super energetic, the way a good sugar high ought to be: 

The song is "Sugar Sugar" by the Archies.

Thanks to Todd S for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.

Reset

Aaaaand...the clock has started ticking down a brand new year. Whoopee!

I've written here before that the fallacious do-over concept makes New Year's Day my favorite holiday. This year will be better, I declare every year, and usually I feel that way the whole day long on January 1st.

This year I didn't. I had the familiar, warm, fuzzy sense of anticipation on New Year's Eve, but I woke up the next morning feeling distinctly...well...pissy. The weather was cold, and the sky was dull gray and drizzly (pissy, too) just like it's been for most of the last week. I wanted sunshine and sparkly blue skies with fluffy, optimistic clouds scooting across them. I wanted bluebirds singing and got only the raucous cawing of a couple of old crows.

My younger daughter and her husband had invited us over for a traditional New Year's Day meal, so we went, even though I didn't feel fit for company and was afraid I'd cast a pall over the whole event. Instead, the great company lifted my bad mood higher and higher as the day went on. The good food didn't hurt anything, either (the diet didn't start again until today).

There wasn't a big crowd like there was at Christmas, just four adults for the meal, plus two granddaughters and a great-grandson, Owen, who came later. When my daughter greeted Owen with a hug and asked him how he was doing, he announced somberly, "Bob died." Bob (named for Bob the Builder) is an iPad. The battery ran down.

At three-and-a-half, Owen can't read, but he's proficient with the iPad, and his scheming skills are highly developed for his age. His mother told us he brought the iPad to her the other night, pointed at the screen, and said, "See, Mama, it says right here it's okay to mix the Play-Doh colors." Heh-heh. Good try, little buddy.

He's beginning to like jokes, especially practical jokes, but he can't quite pull them off. The newest one he's learned is supposed to begin with the promise of a kiss on the cheek, but Owen botches it every time by saying, "Here, I'm gonna kiss you on your raspberry." Even though we know what's coming, the joke ends the way it's supposed to, with a big laugh that a small boy finds very gratifying.

Anyway, as I said, the bad mood lifted. Hope and optimism finally arrived this morning, albeit exhausted from the trip and missing some luggage. Tired as they are, they'll help me meet goals (not resolutions!) and challenges in 2014.

Right off the bat, the no-sugar lifestyle is back in effect (Kim threw out cookies this morning--be still my heart!), and after I finish writing this, I'll begin working my way through Mark Kistler's You Can Draw in 30 Days book. I know from experience that the sugar ban will help with everything, and I think the workbook will build some skills I'll need when I take another painting class in February.

Those two things are just the beginning. There's a long list of other projects I intend to tackle this year (too many to itemize here) and an equally long list of self-improvement goals (including becoming quicker to respond to emails and slower to anger when I see misleading Tea Party posts on Facebook). Looking around this room now, I see that better housekeeping should be on one of the lists, but...meh.

One can only do so much.

Happy New Year!

"My dear acquaintance, it's so good to know you
For strength of your hand
That is loving and giving,
And a happy new year
With love overflowing
With joy in our hearts for the blessed new year!" *

Wishing all of you a wonderful 2014!




The song is "My Dear Acquaintance" by Regina Spektor.
Thanks to George T for posting the video on YouTube.
Click here to read the lyrics.

What I've Been Reading: The Last Books of 2013

Though other activities have eaten into my reading time in 2013, books have remained my number-one form of rest and relaxation, their pages (paper or digital) my favorite places to get away from it all. I've read some really good ones this year, along with a couple of clunkers.

Without checking back to be sure, I think it's honest to say that the best of all the books I've read in 2013 is the one I'm reading now, the one I'll be tucked under the covers with tonight when the horns and fireworks signal the arrival of the new year. I'll pause in my reading to note the passage of time in real life, but my thoughts won't stray far from the time travel events that take place in Stephen King's 11/22/63. When it comes to writing sentences designed to lure readers into suspending their disbelief and buying into a story, nobody does it better than King. This book is so much fun! 

Here are the books that have carried me through the 2013 holiday season:

Last of the Summer Wine: Home Comfort

by Peggy Poe Stern

Finding Out
by Sheryn MacMunn

The Secret Sense of Wildflower
by Susan Gabriel

Whisper My Secret
by JB Rowley

Mother of Ten (Whisper My Secret)
by JB Rowley

Sycamore Row
by John Grisham

Wild
by Cheryl Strayed

Life on the Mississippi

by Mark Twain

Defending Jacob

by William Landay

11/22/63

by Stephen King

To read a description and/or reviews of any of these books,

click on its image above.

Wishing you happy reading in the coming year!

Maybe I Should Earmark Veterinary Funds

About 9:30 last night, at their request, we turned all the dogs out into the backyard. When they came back inside ten minutes later, Gimpy's right shoulder was covered in blood. It took only seconds to determine that the blood was coming from a deep cut on the tip of his ear. We don't know for sure what happened, but the most likely scenario is that Levi grabbed Gimpy's ear while they were playing chase--which they do almost every time they go outside.

Gimpy didn't seem to be in pain. In fact, he didn't seem too concerned at all. Levi, on the other hand, could see the blood and was quite interested in what I was doing to his brother. He hovered over us with his big head in the way until Kim physically removed him so we could get Gimpy into the bathroom. The two of us washed and treated the cut and held the ear compressed in a towel while we washed all the blood off his fur. Just when we would think we had the bleeding stopped, it would start up again all of a sudden, over and over. If this had happened in the daytime, I would have worked on the cut awhile longer to see if we could avoid having to go get it stitched, but it was late. I finally decided to bite the expensive bullet and get the cut checked out by a vet. 

Kim and I quickly got dressed (I threw clothes on over my pajamas), and Kim drove into Baton Rouge to the nearest emergency veterinarian while I sat in the backseat with Gimpy and held a clean white towel to his ear. By the time we got to the animal hospital, where there was enough light to check the cut again, the bleeding had stopped. In fact, there wasn't a single drop of blood on that towel. Gimpy must have stopped bleeding during the four or five minutes we were rushing around getting ready to leave the house. Isn't that typical? We briefly considered turning around and heading back home, but what the heck. We were already there; might as well let them have a look so we could be sure. 

The veterinarian who checked Gimpy's ear was careful not to touch the wound. She told us dogs' ears are notorious for bleeding extensively. "Once you get the bleeding stopped," she said, "don't do anything to it. Don't touch it. Don't even look at it. Wait at least a couple of weeks, and then you can start working on washing the scab out of it." She did give (well, sell) us antibiotics for him: two big capsules, twice a day, for two weeks, so at least we don't have to worry about infection.

Gimpy seemed to consider the whole experience an adventure. First he enjoyed the exclusive attention of the two humans in the household. Later, he was the only dog at the animal hospital and wagged his tail happily while he explored every inch of the lobby, sniffing all the big plants and the various bags of specialty foods on their tall shelves, and made friendly overtures to the "other Goldendoodle" he could see, the one reflected in the glass doors of the entrance.

For the next couple of weeks we'll have to make sure to let Gimpy and Levi outside separately. I learned the hard way not to get between them when they're chasing one another, so we can't allow them to even start that game until Gimpy's ear is healed. They also chew each other's ears sometimes when they wrestle in the house, but I can put a quick end to wrestling without getting knocked down, so I will. 

Sure wish they knew some less rowdy games.

Gimpy

Unbridled Silliness

Photo by Michelle G.

Her name is Olivia. She's two years old and has eyelashes for days. For Christmas she got a microphone, complete with a red-and-white plastic stand. Someone turned up the volume for her, and she happily entertained us, swaying and grinning as she sang the old standards: "The ABC Song," "Old MacDonald Had a Farm," and a snippet or two of "The Little Drummer Boy." As the day wore on she needed a nap, but she was too happy and too busy. She'd crawl up on someone's lap for a moment, snuggle her head into a shoulder, then hop off and start to play again. Her favorite toy (her version of a security blanket) is "Monkey B," a hemmed square of brown plush fabric attached at its center to a brown plush monkey head. At one point she climbed up on the sofa next to me, placed Monkey B carefully on top of my head, called me "Grammyhead," and cackled with joy. Olivia has a big laugh for such a little girl. I loved it. I love her.

Photo by Kalyn H.

His name is Owen. He's three and-a-half years old with blond hair, blue eyes and a huge imagination. He took Olivia's mic stand apart, assembled two pieces of it into an L-shape and called it a gun. (It doesn't matter if we don't give toy guns to children; boys can and will make pretend weapons out of anything.) He quickly shot a couple of us dead, then, possibly remembering previous discussions, reconsidered and announced, "No, this gun doesn't make people dead; it only makes them sleep." His mother warned him to be careful with the tubular-plastic assemblage he was waving around, so he looked each of us directly in the eye as he aimed it at us and said sweetly, "It only shoots marshmallows." Then he pulled the imaginary trigger and made a soft "pow" noise. We all fell over anyway, of course, which delighted him enough to up the ante: "Now they're fire marshmallows!" he shouted. Like Olivia, Owen was happy but tired--and wired. He laughed and laughed, talked a blue streak, changed the mic stand/gun into a one-segment "freeze gun" and froze his Nana, my daughter, into a stiff human replica of all sorts of things, one after the other. He aimed it at me and declared me to be a "chicken eyeball," getting such a kick out of his own good joke that he didn't even notice I had no idea how to portray such a thing. I loved it. I love him.

I am quite willing to be a Grammyhead, a chicken eyeball, or anything else it takes to make those little ones laugh out loud. So were the rest of the adults at our Christmas gathering. I loved it. I love them all.

Visits with Santa

Every new Christmas evokes memories of all the ones we've celebrated before. Over the past week I've dug out some kids-with-Santa photos, so today, for the sake of nostalgia, I'd like to invite you to walk back through time with me. 

Unless you were alive and old enough to experience 1971, 

you'd never dream that the daughters of that year's mini-skirted moms

begged for ankle-length dresses like these that my beautiful girls

 wore when they visited Santa in Miami, Florida.

This earlier photo of Kim on Santa's knee was taken in Orange, Texas.

This dress was short, a bright red plaid that she wore with red tights.

By the length of Kim's hair and the fact that there's no matching

picture of Kelli, I'm guessing this was December of 1964. Kelli would've

been only nine months old then. If she'd been even a year older, I'm sure

I'd have propped her on Santa's lap one way or another.

Stepping back still further in time, here's my sweet sister, Judy, with Santa.

(I must note here that this Springfield, Missouri

Santa looked much more realistic than the Texas and Florida Santas

of my daughters' days. Except for his deep tan. Could that have been

windburn, do you think, from all those long sleigh rides?)

This must have been no later than 1950, because the next picture

shows me with the same Santa, and by the Christmas of 1951

I no longer believed in him. 

Of course, it could have been 1951, and I could have agreed to sit on Santa's lap

only to help keep the secret safe for Judy. I feel certain Mother would have asked me to do something like that, and it might explain the goofy expression on my face.

Or, if it was 1950, as I first guessed, maybe my eyes were lifted up because

I was concentrating on remembering every single thing on my Christmas list. 

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Whatever.

Actually, now that I think about it, that expression seems kind of familiar.

I believe I've seen it on someone else's face. Fairly recently, I'm pretty sure.

Hm. Let me think...

...

...

...

Still thinking...

...

...

...

Googling images...

...

...

...

Oh, here it is! I remember now.

Merry Christmas, y'all!

May the Grinch stay away from 

your house all season long.

I'm Always Excited About Christmas Once It Gets Here

It's been twelve days since my last post -- twelve days of mental (and some physical) preoccupation with Christmas shopping. Every year I swear I will never again wait so late to get it all done, and every year I end up right here at the last minute with the shopping unfinished and no idea what to buy or where to find it.

There's no excuse for this. There are reasons, but reasons and excuses are two different things.

The number-one problem is that I lack confidence in my gift ideas and can shoot them down faster than I can come up with them. My gift list isn't a long one, but the people on it are important in my life. Selecting presents for people I hold in such high esteem involves too many days of head scratching and cyber browsing on the front end of the process, narrowing the time allotted for boots on the ground (or rubber-soled shoes, to be more precise) at the mall, reducing the number of shipping days available for online purchases.

Equally troublesome is deciding what goodies to take to the Christmas festivities. I don't have a specialty. Anything I make will be just one more option on a menu that has all the taste bases covered already, so I've been scouring websites and cookbooks for that one recipe that will be unique and will appeal to the most people. Never mind the great-grandchild with the nut allergy; he can eat something else if he has to. Never mind the half dozen folks who don't normally eat carbs; they'll (we'll) gladly suspend that abstinence on an important holiday. I'm looking for a recipe that is delicious and also fairly easy--just in case it turns out to be so good that it gets elevated to specialty status.

Anyway, here I sit, four days before Christmas, ready for it in spirit but not completely ready in any tangible way. This is the point where--every year--I become a little bit frantic and have to fight the urge to crawl into bed, cover my head, and wait till the whole thing passes.

**********

About those carbs I mentioned earlier: I cut them out of my diet a little over three years ago and saw almost immediate health benefits. I hadn't felt so good in years. Somehow, this past summer, I started getting careless, eating a couple of cookies here, a few crackers there, and cake on special occasions. It seemed harmless, but it led to a recent spate of "oh-what-the-hell" indulgences that I'm paying for physically--especially in the stiffness of my joints. I'm experiencing leg pains reminiscent of those that put me on a walker for a while a few years ago, and still I'm eating malted milk balls, spicy pumpkin pecan ice cream, and sweet-potato chips, promising myself I'll be "good" again after the first of the year.

When I get up after sitting for a while, my knees are too stiff to stand up straight, so I can't walk until I've stretched them out for a minute. I used to not know that sugar was responsible for all that inflammation in my body. Now I do know, but I'm planning to poison myself for a week or so longer before I begin to correct the situation.

How stupid is that?

**********

In my last post I wrote about getting a new dryer. It was delivered and set up sixteen days ago, and is doing a fine job so far. If I could change anything about it, I'd like for the signal at the end of the drying cycle to be louder, and I'd like for the store's computer system to be upgraded.

Almost every day, sometimes twice a day, I get an automated call from Sears, apologizing for the fact that my dryer delivery has been delayed and requesting that I call a certain phone number to reschedule. I've called that number. Three times. Each time I had to hold for several minutes to make contact with a (barely English-speaking) human, who asked an endless list of scripted questions and then requested that I hold again "for about four minutes" so they could "update the system." I can't imagine why they can't update the system without me, so I've chosen to hang up instead of holding for the second time. Maybe that's why my calls haven't done any good yet.

I've also tried to notify them online that the dryer is here. The choices on the customer service menu lead me to a place where I can reschedule delivery, but not to a place where I can report that I already have it.

Shaking my head.

**********

Also shaking my head about the weather. As I write this, It's 77° F. outside with high humidity and brisk winds, and it's supposed to get quite stormy before the day is over. I think I'll stop writing, change into shorts and a T-shirt, and treat my dog boys to a short game of fetch before the rain sets in.

Then I'll get back to thinking about Christmas some more.

I Have Met Santa. His Name Was Tim.

When I called to schedule a dryer repairman, the girl who answered the phone told me that the charge for a diagnostic call would be $69 plus tax. If I decided to proceed with the repairs, that fee would be waived in favor of actual repair costs.

Two repairmen showed up at the appointed hour, both friendly guys, and the one who seemed to be in charge took a look at my dryer and said, "This is one of the best dryers ever made." I thought so, too. It had worked beautifully for sixteen years. Then he turned the dryer on, listened for about ten seconds, and said, "This is not gonna be good news: it's the motor." I wasn't too surprised. The same day the dryer had started overheating and cutting itself off, it had also begun making a screeching noise, the distinct sound of metal on metal.

The repairman continued, "I can pull this out and take it apart if you want me to, but I already know it's the motor. Replacing the motor will cost about $400, not counting any other bad parts we might find when we're in there. We'd be glad to have your business, but I don't know if it makes sense to repair it, especially right now while all the holiday sales are on."

I agreed with him. "That's what I've been trying to decide," I said. "Now that I know what it would cost to repair it, it makes more sense to buy a new one."

"Look," he said, "I'm gonna give you a break. I'm only gonna charge you $29 for this call."

"I appreciate that," I told him, "but the girl already told me what the charge would be, and I chose to take that gamble."

He said, "Well, I have the authority to make decisions about charges, and I'm gonna charge you $29." He then spent another fifteen or twenty minutes talking to Kim and me about which brands of dryers hold up the best, which ones to avoid, what features add value and which gadgets people don't actually use all that much. By that time Kim was on the internet looking at sale prices on dryers. He walked over to stand by her shoulder and point out the best of the bunch on her screen at that time.

By the time the two men left, wishing us a merry Christmas, I felt much better equipped to make a good purchasing decision than I'd felt before their arrival. Kim and I both got online, narrowed our searches to the "good" brands, and compared notes on our findings.  Within an hour after the repairmen left, we'd placed an order for a new dryer with features similar to the one I was replacing. Between a holiday sale and a "cyber discount," I got it for 39 percent off, and it was delivered the next morning.

So, yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. Sometimes he doesn't have a big, snowy beard, and sometimes he wears a mechanic's uniform and drives a white repair van, but if he comes to your house, you'll know it's him.

A Year of Broken Things

There are only 24 days left in December, three-and-a-half weeks until the year ends and we get to wipe the slate clean, right? I hope the only thing that breaks between now and the stroke of midnight that signifies the beginning of 2014 is the spell that seems to have been cast over my household in 2013.

I've spent a huge chunk of my meager savings this year on things that have broken down and needed to be repaired or replaced. In February I told you about our broken sewer line. In July we had to replace the roof. Also in July my cell phone lost its texting capabilities. In mid-November the microwave oven met its demise, and days later I had to ante up for some car repairs. Earlier this week the dryer broke down. I ended up having to replace it. Actually, the story of the repairmen who came out to look at the dryer is a rather nice one, and I'll write about in a day or two when I have more time.

In the meantime, it's Saturday, and I'd like to dedicate this week's Saturday Song Selection to my 40-year-old house (with special emphasis on its wiring, plumbing and climate-control systems); to my appliances (large and small); to all the electronic things I managed to live without just fine before I got them and learned to love them; and to my eight-year-old automobile that I've only driven 42,000 miles and expect to drive for the rest of my life. May your parts be strong and your lives be long.

"When you try your best but you don't succeed,

When you get what you want but not what you need.

When you feel so tired but you can't sleep,

Stuck in reverse,

"And the tears come streaming down your face,

When you lose something you can't replace,

When you love someone but it goes to waste,

Could it be worse?

"Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones,

And I will try to fix you." *

* The song is "Fix You" by Coldplay.

Thanks to TheNewCitizen for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.

Okay, Where Were We?

Here's what's been going on since my last post:

I've had a birthday. The good news is that both my daughters shared it with me. Their company was delightful and our lunch was delicious. The bad news is that I ate way too much cake. It's also a bit of a bummer that I'll never see seventy again.

*****

I went to the ophthalmologist for an appointment that was two years overdue. He said my vision is better now than it was the last time I was there, then he said I need to get new glasses every year at my age. Like I'm going to go shell out several hundred bucks just because I've turned a few pages of the calendar. I guess not. I'll go get new glasses when the ones I have now don't do the job anymore.

*****

We celebrated Thanksgiving at my younger daughter's house. The food was wonderful, as was the visit with the family, even though some of my favorite people were absent this year. I missed them, but we had fun anyway. Isn't it amazing how much entertainment one two-year-old girl can provide?

*****

As Kim and I prepared to leave Kelli's house on Thanksgiving night, Kelli noticed that one of my tires was low. Turns out all of them were low. I tried to remember when I last checked the tire pressure. Hmm. I bought these tires either right before or right after I retired. That was in the summer of 2009. Is it possible that I haven't...? Nah, surely not. Anyway, Kim aired them up for me, and I bought new valve stem caps to replace the ones that have mysteriously gone missing in the last four years, so I'm good to go again.

***** 

Still on the subject of my car, I've driven it 190 miles since it failed inspection last month. That's 40 miles farther than the inspection mechanic said I'd need to go for the sensors to record all the data necessary to give his equipment an accurate reading. I now know how to test whether or not the sensors are in the "ready" state, and they're not yet. Guess I'll go for another drive tomorrow.

*****

Or maybe I won't. Tomorrow is when a repairman is scheduled to come out and fix my dryer that has suddenly started overheating and turning itself off mid-cycle. There's good airflow through the vent, which eliminates the only potential problem I could have corrected without professional help. The dryer's old, but it looks great and has worked fine up until now. I hope it won't be too expensive to fix. With all the holiday sales right now, I'll kick myself all over the place if the repair cost approaches the sale price of a new one.

*****

In the past week we've had three days when the temperature fell into the mid-20s, followed by three days in which people have been walking around in their shirt sleeves. Frankly, the three days of cold weather were more than enough for me, but the dogs seemed to love it. Click the photos to enlarge them and see how much they enjoyed the frosty mornings:

All of them except Lucy, that is.