One of A Kind

It has been one year.

I've missed him each of the past 365 days.

Today I owe him a tribute.

Finally.

But it's still so hard.

Shoeless Joe.

Best. Dog. Ever.

He was just a pup when Jack fell in love with him. 

It happened at summer camp in Massachusetts. 
 One of those summer romances, you might say.

These two buddies returned to camp 5 more summers

and he worked hard to keep the waterfront clean.

He took his job seriously.
Watch out geese, beavers and muskrats!

Shoeless loved those beach days

and was always glad to find water of any kind.

It was quite the shock to discover the Gulf's

salty water was very different from the lake.

But it still had birds to chase so all was well.

Texas summers were much hotter, too.

A quick learner, he found ways to beat that heat.

We had fun teaching him tricks. 

He balanced biscuits on his nose, gave high-fives, rolled over--all the usual dog tricks. 

But he and Jack were quite the comedy team.

He'd sit at attention, silent, while Jack asked the questions:

"So, Shoeless Joe, how was your day?"

Shoeless:  "Ruff!"

Jack:  "And how does sandpaper feel?"

Shoeless: "Ruff!"

There were more questions, but you get the idea.
They put on an amusing show, let me tell you.

This funny video downloaded in a strange way,

but it shows Shoeless going out to get the paper from the driveway each morning.

If Jack happened to still be in bed, I'd tell Shoeless

to take the paper to him and he'd dash into the bedroom, leap on Jack's chest and drop the paper right there.

He lived to please us.

No fluffy little doggie sweater for this boy!

God gave him a warm, thick coat.

His black curls were soft and silky.

When our rare winter days hit central Texas

he was happy to roll in the snow. 

I don't think he would have minded

 many more winter days like this one.

Shoeless Joe had no need of leashes or fences.

He kept his eyes out for us on walks through trails and woods.  He could go for miles and miles, leaping and running.  The question, "Wanna go?" had him on his feet and ready before the words were out.

His quiet, patient ways were precious to have around.

We hardly ever heard him bark but his dear eyes communicated so much to us.

Even the times he was left alone,
he wouldn't get into mischief by seeing what was in those pretty packages, jumping on the furniture or checking out the kitchen garbage.
I don't think getting into trouble was in his nature.

He was the child of our empty nest years
yet when a grandbaby showed up, not a hint of jealousy or irritation came from our gentle boy. 

One of our daughters described Shoeless as

"made of love".

And he was as sweet and good as he was a beautiful boy.

He gave us his very best.

All the time.

He showed us what true, unconditional love really is.

A friend shared that he was a "one of a kind" dog.
He left us way too soon and the hole in our hearts was so large that it still hasn't healed,
even a year later.
He was our sweet boy.
Our Shoeless Joe.
4/5/2003-12/11/2012

Happy Happy Birthday Birthday

Today is a meaningful day for me.

Two special birthdays fall on this day.

34 years apart, each event occurred on a bitter cold night.

Full moon reflecting off the snow.

Christmas carols playing on the radio.

Uncomfortable rides to the hospitals, each bump on the icy roads keenly felt.

Anticipation.

Fear of the unknown.

Prayers whispered.

The days' hours were long-- yet timeless.

My firstborn, my son, was born on this day, late into the night.

So was my granddaughter Abigail, also late into the night.

And when the stork finally arrived, I was there!

Thinking about it all, I was cognitively MORE there for little Abigail's

arrival than for my son's.

(Mercifully, I might add.)

 Each one the most precious Christmas gift under the tree.

At only 7 1/2 pounds, our tiny Jonathan changed our lives forever.

We were now parents.  PARENTS!

Our focus changed for all time.

 New babies, with their amazing smells,

sounds,

goodness,

potentials--

bundled into tiny packages that amaze us.

And offer us the promise of life continuing beyond us.

And prove they are resilient human beings, however wee.

Especially these firstborns, surviving our fumbling attempts at

caring for them.

 Abigail, you turn 3 today!

Your excitement over this day has been building for weeks!

I am thankful for a computer that lets me see you and talk to you,

banishing the 4,000 mile barrier.

There will be many, many pictures of you on your dear Mama's blog today.
(www.klynstraoccurrences.blogspot.com)

Jonathan, I won't be posting pictures of you, my big boy.
(I hear that sigh of relief!!)

But each of you are wonderful gifts from God to me,

to a Mother and Grandma.
This is your "Once a year day!"

Happy birthday.  Happy birthday.

Dishwashers vs. Memories

Thanksgiving is coming.

Tomorrow.

And I am so thankful.

Family will be gathering here in our little house.

Our trip to the airport in Austin will be one of much excitement and anticipation.

Four generations together once again.

Jack and I filled our grocery cart last night.

He, in a thoughtful gesture, held up a plastic wrapped package of sturdy disposable plates.

"This would make it much easier for you," he suggested.

I kindly refused the offer.

"Let's just get some more detergent for the dishwasher,"

I replied, much to his puzzlement.

You see, my dear family crowded around our table is a most special and infrequent event.  And, in my mother's heart, it is all about celebration and memories--both reaching way back and actively moving onward.

These memories involve dishes that I ate off when I was a child.  Our small family of 6 sat at my grandmother's NYC 5th floor apartment where my father had grown up.

The table was small and full and traditional foods were served up with love and effort.

The Macy's parade marched on the small black and white TV

(hard to imagine today, isn't it??) and my mouth watered from the delicious fragrances in the kitchen.

It seemed like time stood still and that turkey would NEVER turn golden 
as my hunger grew.

Looking back, I can't imagine how a turkey even FIT in that small, apartment-sized oven.  But, it did.

And dinner was devoured--on these same china plates.

My mashed potatoes and turnips will be served in the same covered casserole, though the cups have such fine cracks that coffee can no longer be poured into them.  And there are only 5 plates left.  Not bad since theses dishes are over 100 years old.  They most certainly won't see the inside of a dishwasher but will lovingly be washed and dried.

As I stir the pumpkin pie filling, more recent memories are also being stirred.

 Back in the 1970's, my friends and I decorated our country houses (is that the correct terms for second hand and shared furnishings?) with corn husk dolls.

These old girls have weathered the years better than I.

This ceramic turkey held fresh flowers when he arrived at our house, presented by one of my patients from the cancer center and her husband who came to share dinner with us.

Although sadly she did not survive another month after their visit,  I smile to recall her life, our friendship and their presence at our table.

These stuffed little pilgrims and the lady Indian were bought at our small town local pharmacy/gift shop/convenience store.  
(This is where we called the pharmacist by his first name and he had been known to open his doors in the middle of the night if the need arose.)

The "boy" Indian wasn't available when I bought them that day, so she continues to stand alone.  My children and I played with them, enacting the first Plymouth Thanksgiving.  The figures show signs of wear from those days but that just makes them more dear.

These little pilgrims were intended to be candles but I could never burn them up!  The wax coating has chipped and they aren't particularly pretty anymore.  But they, along with the wax turkey candle, were given to my wee ones by my mother and dad for one of the early Thanksgivings.

We had packed up the little ones and Jack drove 7 hours through the night since children sleep more than fuss when the long car trip is made in the dark.

I recall the thrill of arriving at the Long Island house,

decorated and ready for us.  My dear mother was often in the kitchen, making great magic happen.  These little candles were placed on the laden table, one sitting at each child's plate.

That is why convenience and disposable plates are not really part of my idea of Thanksgiving.  And when my son teases me about the battered pilgrim candles (and he will)--"Why do you keep all this junk?",

I will just smile and not bother to argue or defend.

When I finally take off my apron and sit down at the table with a sigh of relief, I will look at each person, eyes bright in the candlelight, tummies grumbling, and know we are making new memories.

And I will be thankful.

Take a Breath. Now Another.

I have a favorite resting place.

Hidden within the small copse of trees

just behind the house.

Tucked in the shade of the cedar elms, this spot lets me swing comfortably, even on the hottest of days.

I feel rather invisible to the world around me as I pull up my limbs and mold myself into the woven cords.

Suspended in a womb of sorts.

My mind grows still here.

My breathing slows.

And deepens.

I often begin reading a book,

but soon set it aside and begin to focus on my surroundings.  

I let my eyes wander upward...

                                      and outward. 

Noting the shadow and sunlight patterns

with an absent-minded, dreamy focus.

The gentle breeze cools me and then entertains me

 as it plays among these old chimes.

In the hush of this place, my closest neighbors make not a sound as they draw near.

I watch them through the framework of the cords that suspend my woven chair onto the tree limb.

It is as if they don't even see me curled in this swinging chair.

Or it doesn't matter.  

They wander around so close that I could almost touch their softness. 

Underneath me grows this unobtrusive plant with the most unremarkable blue flowers.  Not much.

Yet, as its name "Butterfly Mist" describes,

it is covered with the prettiest orange butterflies

this time of year.  They flutter from bloom to bloom.

Lovely and silent.

 So much of my life involves multi-tasking and

list making.  I get satisfaction as I check off my lengthy to-do lists.  Audio books let me enjoy "reading" without the sitting still.  I usually have music playing throughout the house.  
This life is my choice.

And yet...

the moments I spend hiding in my tree swing

are so--

Healing.  Restful.  Peaceful.  Quiet.  Soothing.

Even necessary.

As a matter of fact, I think I'll turn off this computer and head out to the trees for a little while before evening comes.

I wish you could join me.

The Umpire's Wife

I know what you are thinking--

today is Halloween and this is a costume

of a scary man.

Sorry.  No.

This is my husband.

He may be scary and mean to some--

like the boys standing with a bat at home plate.

But this isn't a Halloween costume.

You see, I married an umpire.

He wasn't always an umpire.

He was a coach for quite a while.

That was nice.  I knew the players on the team and cheered them on. 

I sat alone, however, as I really didn't care to 

hear the backseat coaches (parents)

 murmur their criticisms.

But then he became an umpire.

The least loved person on the baseball diamond.

No matter which decision he makes,

half the people playing or watching the game disagree.

And are unhappy.

 He shared that he likes me to come to his games.

Probably because he wants someone on his side.

So I go.  Sometimes.

Once again I try to sit alone.  Out of earshot.

I don't know the teams.

I don't know the players.

I don't know anyone but the umpire.

I watch him and this is the view I get.

 Or this one.

He enjoys his time on the field and I like seeing that.

And I've never heard anyone call out, "Kill the umpire!"

Not even close.  They are nice crowds, for the most part.

But there are subtle ways that civilized people 

can get their point across.

This sign pointed to a row of parking.

All the umps were there, talking and strapping on equipment.

 

Then I noticed another sign, posted on the fence

exactly where the umpires were told to park.

Maybe not quite so subtle.
"Strike three!  Yer OUT!"

Said umpire just read this blog and requested that I include a little poem he learned somewhere.
It helps define the tough skin needed to do this job:

An umpire is a lonely man.
His calls are known by every fan.
No one calls him Henry or Sam,
They simply call him names.

A Deer Autumn Story

My grown children tease me about my National Geographic photos and videos.  The countless numbers of them featuring birds fluttering at a feeder;
chipmunks skittering between openings in the stone wall;
the stark shadow of the bare oak branches reflected 
on the snow by a midnight December full moon.
I love them.  They mock them.

This post is another such wildlife story.
But my photo journalistic tendencies are edited, G-rated national Geographics--the good, 
not the bad or ugly.
No creature hunts down and eats the weaker.
No baby gets separated from its mother and wanders in the Sahara until its demise.  No sir.  Not mine.
Mine are sugar-coated.
You can say, "Awwwwwwwww" now.

********************

Summer has passed.

Once again the subtle signs outside declare its passing.

Without a sound.

Not only in the first leaves beginning their turn to yellow

or the tall grasses shades of purple...

but colors and lifestyles of our quiet co-inhabitors.

I like to call them my back yard neighbors.

The predictability of their life cycles speaks peace

among a world often chaotic.

Just a few months ago

one of our mama deer looked like this.

Lovely, don't you think?
Note the roundness to her belly.

I wonder, did she suspect that change was coming?

Because one late spring day she showed up to show off.

Her sweet new baby could hardly walk.

Perhaps it was his very first day in our world.

At the same time another mama had twins.

We watched them all grow.

Weeks passed, the sun grew stronger,

the days grew longer and hotter,

and these young, tottering fawns grew bigger,

and faster, and bolder.

But ALWAYS stayed close to mama.

How does she teach them what to eat,

how to run, 

 be alert to danger from camouflaged snakes,

hungry coyotes, stabbing cactus?

Cars?  People?   

Without words or time outs, they learn.

This may sound silly to you, but I ponder these things.

As summer days slid into official autumn

I noticed that the "babies" no longer wore their distinctive spots.

I wonder why they are born with spots splattering their backs and sides?

Do you know?

 Now, as November whispers for me to turn the page on the kitchen calendar,

these youngsters look so much like their mothers that I can barely distinguish them.

They have all grown a shade darker brown and the youngsters are larger.

But not quite AS big.

They don't walk the slow, dignified, watchful way their mama does either.  Rather they sometimes jump and dash around just for the fun of being a child.

Meanwhile, Mama is being courted by our proud, large and heavily antlered bucks.
They remain elusive until just this time.
Every year.

 

These youngsters still stay close to mama.

They have all winter to learn from her,

be cared for by her.

But later next spring, much to their surprise, they will be forced to go it alone

as a new wobbly, spotted fawn (or two) takes their place at her side.

I've watched this happen, how they linger nearby,

following their mama from a distance,

not sure how to behave.

Then somehow she lets them know they have grown up.

And they pull away and fit into a new subgroup of yearlings. I call them the "teenagers".

I appreciate our quiet neighbors.

Even when they eat the roses.