Delaying Gratification

I have been meditating on the concept of “delayed gratification” lately and how it might affect one’s ability to “live in the moment.”

A missed phone call and my response caused me to look more closely at these two seemingly unrelated challenges.

      Thursday evening I like to watch two television programs: Gray’s Anatomy and Scandal. I had placed my cell phone and glasses on my bedside table, had gone to the living room to enjoy them, then gone to bed.  Friday morning when I picked up my phone, it blinked, telling me I had a message.  I checked to see who it was from and saw that Mustafa had called. Immediately, the urge to call him hit me, although it was early in the morning and he is not an early riser. That was “live in the moment,” which was beaten down by “delayed gratification.” If I wait until after school I will be more settled and have more time to chat. That’s exactly what I did and it was well worth the wait.

      For some reason I couldn’t get the two ideas to go away, especially after the phone call.  As I cleaned up the kitchen, I began to think of how I have put off “living my life” by waiting for certain conditions to be met: when I go to college…..when I graduate…..when I get married…..when the baby comes……when my husband gets out of the Marines……when we get the loan for the house…..when I get the divorce….when I get through college at age 40….when I get a permanent job…..when I buy the house….when I get tenure….and now, when I retire.

      Somehow, this lesson of “delaying gratification” was really taught well. I remember as a teenager, wanting to do things and wondering when, if ever, I would be “old enough” or just basically “allowed.”  I happened to have parents who really PARENTED. I am not complaining. I had a great life; perhaps more sheltered than was necessary, but I would NEVER have crossed my parents. I remember a particular incident when I was crazy over a boy in high school. He was three years older than I was and already out of school. I could not ever imagine myself with anyone else for the rest of my life.  My Mom had other ideas and forbid me to see him.  I SO wanted to go behind her back and still date him and I tried it a couple of times, but I felt so horrible, I had to quit. I often wonder what would have happened if I had “lived in the moment” and done what my heart told me was right?

      I remember dating my husband the months before he was sent to Vietnam.  I was in Nursing School in Harrisburg and he came through on a train on his way to Philadelphia where he was to ship out.  We spent the night together in a hotel in a single bed and never had sex, just because we had both decided to “save ourselves” for our wedding night.  I think if we had “lived in the moment” that weekend, it would have saved us both a marriage and divorce…but then we would not have our beautiful children….

      I do remember another time I decided to “live in the moment” and love unconditionally the man I was living with while I went back to school after my divorce. The only problem was that he was “living in the moment” too, but with several others and I got a STD out of it!

      How do certain people learn to “live in the moment?” Is it something they are taught by parents who know the basic need to quiet oneself and go within? Is it a cultural thing? Is it in our primal memories? I NEVER got the lesson!  All I got was “delay your gratification” and now that I have been on my own, I tend to do whatever appeals to me, but without any regard to the consequences: take financial risks; eat unhealthy foods; ignore my need for order; put off being creative; work 12 hours a day….

      I am worried that I may have made my children “delay gratification.” My son is very solid, grounded, takes NO risks; my daughter….Heaven help her…I think she is just like me. I may have done them a disservice.

I want them to live in the present…and enjoy all that life has to offer…good and bad….

      Me??? I need a guru to sit me down, help me find who I am before there is no time left!

      

A Show Stopper

A Show Stopper

Well, I have put myself out there in the “dating” world and added my profile to at least two internet dating sites for senior singles. I also have a profile on a left-wing “green” site that has a singles-seeking option. I have met two interesting men on the green site. One who is originally from Bangladesh, but is a US citizen and lives in the DC area; and another who is a Jewish transplant to NC from NYC.

I only recently met singles from the other sites. One man is ten years younger, lives near Charlotte, and restores windows in historic houses.  We met and he is going to do some work for me on my windows in exchange for some antique casement windows I recently had replaced.  The other gentleman lives nearby, is a 69-year-old widower whose wife of 39 years died only six months ago.

The widower and I e-chatted on the dating site and then exchanged phone numbers. On the dating site, you have a “user name” and so, when we spoke on the phone, “Sam” asked me my name and I told him.  Then he emailed me specifics for the dinner date, but he called me “Amanda” which is NOT my name, but over the phone, you could possibly hear it that way. I kindly corrected him and then suggested that I call him “Sam” rather than his given name since I had a psychic reading about a year ago and she told me I was going to meet “Sam” who would be the love of my life.  This became our little joke and we began referring to each other as Amanda and Sam.

The plans for dinner were that we go ‘dutch’ because so many men on the site whine about having to pay for dinner and getting nothing in return OR of not being satisfied if they do not meet up with a swimsuit model. Sam reluctantly agreed. We decided to meet in the parking lot of the restaurant at 7PM. He said he would be driving a Corvet.

When I called Sam to let him know I was running late, he was having problems finding the restaurant, so I told him to meet me in the Hobby Lobby parking lot.  He agreed.  I could see the brand new white Corvet as I pulled into the lot and I sped right up to it and pretended I was going to crash into it.   Sam laughed, rolled down his window and I pointed to the restaurant right across the little side street. The Thai Lotus. It is under new management and it is absolutely WONDERFUL!!!!!

We parked our cars and got out.  Sam was at least six feet tall.  He had white hair and gray/blue eyes.  He was “fluffy” but not “fat.”  (like me)….so I felt quite relaxed. What I noticed right off was his manners.  He opened the door to the restaurant, held out my chair for me to sit, waited for me to order first, and tried to keep the conversation on me. 

As the evening wore on, I think we both became quite relaxed with each other.  We had wine, a Reisling which I suggested, and he liked it. He asked if I liked his shirt and I said I did.  Then he told me he had gone shopping that afternoon for something to wear.  He also volunteered that this evening was the first time he ever took off his wedding ring.  I noticed the indentation on his finger. Knowing that he was married for over 30 years and that he had been the caregiver to his wife in her last days really made me feel such respect and admiration for him and I told him so. 

He also found himself talking about his wife and apologized to me.  I told him there was no need to apologize. He must need to speak of her to keep the memories alive and begin to heal. He seemed like a very sweet man. I was not feeling any fireworks, but I decided I would really like to see him again and develop a friendship and at least share some music together, since he said he really loves to sing.

We found plenty to talk about and we even shared a dessert tray together.  When the check came, he would NOT let me share it, but insisted on paying for the evening. It made the independent side of me bristle a bit, but the feminine side was smiling.

When we left, he asked if I would like to ride in the Corvet.  I was excited to go for a little spin.  I had never been in a Corvet before.  He opened my door and got me settled, then he went over to his side and started to get in….and it was no small feat, cramming a six-foot teddy bear into a little Corvet.  We had a lovely ride up 127 North to the marina where we turned around and saw the most beautiful sunset display I have ever seen!  It was a gift for sure.

We headed back to the parking lot and said our goodbyes. As I drove home, he drove beside me and at a stop light, he rolled down his window and said he missed me already.  Now, that made me feel nice!

Well, that was Sunday.  It is now Wednesday and I have not heard from him.  I am not “needy” but I really thought he would email or call by now and I got worried, so I sent a short email to ask if he was okay.  His reply was: “I didn’t notice on your profile that you were not a Christian and that is a show-stopper for me.”

Now, I would have been prepared for “I just don’t think we have anything in common” but to refuse friendship because I am not a Christian really hurts.  I do not partake in human sacrifice. I do not worship the devil. I just cannot limit my spirituality to the Christian tenet that unless you believe that Jesus Christ died for your sins and unless and you confess Him as your Lord and Savior, you are going to Hell….along with all of the other people who believe differently.

Now, I used to be a Christian and a very devout one. And if you told me back then that I would ever NOT be a Christian, I would have thought you were a heretic. I am not sure how I got to where I am, but I have read and studied all of the “holy” texts, including the Bible. I want to know everything there is to know about faith and spirituality. I have come to love the teachings of Buddah; of the Hindu faith; the beautiful poetry of the Koran and its teachings of peace and equality; the earth-based narratives of the Native American Indians; and the pure teachings of Jesus Christ.  I have also read how, when any of these beautiful spiritual teachings become corrupted by fundamental interpretation, holy wars ensue and innocents are slaughtered in the name of one of the many “Gods.”

Now, if Sam and I had really made a connection and were going to become serious about each other, then I would understand, I guess. It just pains me that I am being rejected as a friend because I  choose to follow a different spiritual path. I am a good person. I love my neighbors. I love the earth, and I do my best to keep her clean and green. I pray and practice mindfulness and offer thanksgiving for all the gifts, worldly, spiritual, and earthly that I have been blessed with. I do not smoke. I do not drink to excess. I do not engage in lewdness or any deviant sexual behavior. I just cannot limit my spirituality to a single dogma that excludes and celebrates separate-ness.

Missing You, Mom

My mother died last March 31. It amazes me that I am only two months away from the anniversary of her passing. I personally have not moved beyond the last hours I spent holding her, stroking her, and telling her that she was beautiful and that I loved her. I don’t feel like we had any unfinished business to revisit; no anger issues; no regrets.

We were not “physically” close since 1992 when I moved to North Carolina and left Pennsylvania to find a teaching job. I had been married for eighteen years, had divorced, then decided to go back to college and finish a degree in Nursing, but earned a degree in Music Education instead. Upon graduation, with student loans to pay back, I took the first available teaching position which was in North Carolina, but that is another story.

Mom was always present in my adult life, though not at first, when I married Barry and we moved to Norfolk VA while he was in the Marines. She was not there for the birth of my first child in the Portsmouth Naval Hospital, but she and my mother-in-law came down for a visit as soon as I came home from the hospital. Upon discharge, we moved back to PA to be close to family.

Jill, our second child, was born in PA and all three families lived in the little home town where I and my husband grew up. My parents later moved to Altoona, about 80 miles away, yet we still managed to stay in touch. They were only two hours away.

After eighteen years of marriage, I left Barry and both John and Jill stayed with him in “the big house” while I lived in a tiny log cabin miles from anywhere in Sinnemahoning and commuted ninety miles one way to attend Mansfield University. I would think nothing of visiting my parents on a weekend. My father was helping me financially the first year until I figured out how to apply for college loans.

I remember my Mom being “sick” a lot. I often felt like she was a hypochondriac. None of her ailments seemed connected. Once I got a job and moved to North Carolina, I only saw my parents over Christmas break, Easter break and through the summer months. They would make trips to North Carolina too. As they got older, I worried about them making such a long trip, but Dad always cut the trip in half and they stayed over night in Virginia.  

I can’t really remember for sure when Mom quit driving all together.  I think it was sometime after she had an accident while Jill was visiting with one of her friends. Jill must have been a teenager. Mom went through a red light in an intersection close to her house. No one was hurt but it really shook her up and she didn’t drive much at all after that.

On top of her heart problems, Mom was diagnosed with Adult Onset Diabetes which progressed until she was taking regular injections of insulin.  Dad was her “care-taker.” Mom did little at all to help herself.  She was taking on average, twenty or more pills twice a day and Dad had to put them all out and make sure she took them. I used to get so upset with her.  She was told to exercise. They had a treadmill and other equipment set up in their basement. Dad would use the treadmill regularly, but Mom did nothing on a regular basis.  This went on for years. She had bypass surgery and almost died afterward due to some complication that made her body swell up and put her in a coma, but she survived.  The heart problems and the diabetes continued to get worse. This last year found her often out of breath and unable to keep her sugar at an acceptable level.

All this time, Dad was continuing to try and take care of her. It was beginning to take a toll on him.  He was NEVER a complainer, but often when we called or visited, he would go on and on about how Mom was not trying to do anything at all and he had to care for her, including bathing, dressing, cooking, cleaning, and medications. She was also making more trips to the hospital.  She would fall out of bed; she would be non-responsive and not wake up in the mornings. The final straw was the bugs.

She insisted that bugs were crawling on her and she would swat at them and ask if we could see them.  There was nothing there. There were no bites on her skin, yet she was digging into her flesh, making huge, raw open sores. She was admitted to the emergency room and then referred to a psychiatric hospital for an evaluation.

She was also “shrinking.” The mother that I used to have to look up to, since I am the shortest member of the family, was now shorter and more frail that I had ever seen her.

From the psychiatric hospital, she moved to a Nursing Home. I was not there, but my sister was when she cried and pleaded with my father to take her home. Kathy said it was heartbreaking. I am so glad I did not see that, but what I was to see would be just as bad.

I had not been home since December when I visited for Christmas and though Mom was weak, she was at home, able to get around and lucent. It was March when she went into the Nursing Home and so I made a trip to check things out. It is an eight-hour drive and I got in late, about 10PM.  Dad and I went to bed. It was about 5AM when the phone rang.  It was the Nursing Home.  Mom had fallen out of bed and had a huge cut on her head and was in the emergency room.  Dad got dressed and went to the hospital and I got up and dressed and followed about an hour later.

When I arrived at the hospital, they led me to a cubicle in the emergency room where Dad was sitting, drinking a cup of coffee.  Mom was on a gurney, totally out, a huge gash on her right forehead with about eight fresh stitches, a black eye, and the right side of her face starting to bruise up. I remember working in Nursing Homes and we had bed rails and safety jackets for patients who were restless.  Apparently it is against the law to use restraints on the elderly now, so Mom was able to attempt to get up, was so unsteady that she fell forward onto the oxygen equipment between the two beds in her room. They were getting ready to take her back to the Nursing Home in the ambulance, so Dad and I followed. I got lost…..arrived as they were having difficulties getting Mom back into bed.  She was in a hospital gown, her hair sticking out everywhere, with wild eyes searching my face, her face now half blackened with the bruise and the protruding stitches over her right eye. She was screaming and trying to get out of the wheelchair, her tiny arms, bruised from IV’s straining to lift her weight, her tiny legs, skin rough as leather from the diabetes, crossed in front, unable to support her weight, tangled in the leg rests.

I have worked in Nursing Homes with such patients and knew what to do, but could not wrap my mind around the truth that this confused, bruised, belligerent woman was my mother!  I knelt in front of her and spoke gently to her and she recognized my voice and settled down.  I combed her hair as best I could, wrapped her in her shawl and told her she looked beautiful and asked if we could take a ride around the hallways so she could show me the place while the nurse got her bed ready. She seemed agreeable, but as we started out, her right leg kept falling between the crack in the leg rests.  I finally grabbed a pillow and as I was trying to lift her legs to lie it against the leg rests so her feet would not fall through, she screamed at me, “Quit that, Wanda!”  I asked if I had been too rough and she said, “Yesh.”  Her teeth were not in her mouth. My Mother never went anywhere without her teeth. I looked around and found them on her bedside stand, rinsed them off and popped them into her mouth, got a little blanket for her lap, and we took off.  Dad was exhausted and said he was heading home.

Mom was leaning forward in the chair, her hands firmly pushing down on the arm rests, her feet pushing down into the foot rests, trying to stand.  I had to keep reassuring her and making conversation, much as you would to calm a frightened child. As we passed the Nurses’ Station, the nurse asked me if I thought I could get her to eat some yogurt. Apparently she’d had nothing to eat since the day before. I took the yogurt and we headed down the hall to the atrium, where there was a TV and other patients eating lunch.  I opened the yogurt and started feeding her and she ate it ravenously. I went to the desk and got another one and she managed to eat that one too. I didn’t know it then, but this would be the last food my Mom would eat.

We went back to her room and the nurses put her into bed. She began to be agitated and could not get comfortable with the bed up, the bed down, and she kept trying to crawl out, so they gave her something to calm her down. I stayed until I was sure she was resting comfortably, stroking her rough, dry, bruised skin, putting lotion on to soothe her arms, legs, and feet as well. Before I left, I laid my head next to her on her pillow and told her I loved her and I would be back in the morning and gently kissed her forehead, careful to avoid the swollen wound of stitches.

I got into my car and just sat there in the darkness. I felt such overwhelming sorrow, it is difficult to describe. I could not cry, though I wanted to curl into a ball and sob. I so needed someone to just hold me. I was frightened. My knowledge of nursing told me what was happening, but the “child” inside of me could not believe what was immanent.  I drove home. Dad and I hardly spoke. He just read his newspaper and watched the news. I said I was tired and went to bed. I was amazed at how soundly I slept.

The next day, I went to the Nursing Home early and Dad said he would come a little later. I think he was so glad to have some relief from hospital and Nursing Home duty! He had been handling this all on his own for so long. Mom was barely responsive when I got there. She was unable to eat any breakfast. I was afraid to feed her the solid food, but managed to get some juice and tea in through a straw by inserting the straw into the liquid and then placing my finger over the top like a siphon, and then putting the end of the straw into Mom’s mouth and gently taking my finger off to let the liquids dribble in, but I was still afraid she would aspirate.  

The Nursing Staff was diligent about changing Mom’s position to prevent bed sores. They gave her excellent care. Dad came in at about 10AM and we both stayed till after lunch and went home.  I planned to come back later in the afternoon and stay till dinner time. I was going to try and convince Dad to eat Chinese. There was a Chinese restaurant with a buffet right near the Nursing Home.  When I got back that afternoon, the Nurses said Mom had a really nice chat with the Lutheran Chaplain. It was hard for me to believe it.  She was nearly comatose, but the pastor came back in and told me everything they had talked about. I found it amazing! She had practically told him her whole life story. She never stirred the whole time I was there.  I stroked her arms and face, told her she was beautiful and that I loved her. I left around 6PM and got some Chinese food.  Dad actually tried it and liked some of it!

The next day, Dad went in early because I wanted to start supper in the crockpot and go and buy a CD player.  I had brought along a really nice, relaxing CD called “Heartland” and felt that it would be calming for Mom to listen to music rather than her roommate’s TV and the noise of a Nursing Home. I had spoken again with Bruce Burkness, my old friend and pastor from back home and he said that he thought Mom didn’t have much time left. She was not eating and they were not giving her IV’s.

I got there at about lunch time and set up the CD player and got the music to play.  It seemed to calm Mom.  Her breathing had become labored. Dad left. I settled in for the afternoon.  I had brought some knitting and a book to read, but mostly I felt compelled to sit next to Mom and put my head next to hers and rub her arms, legs, back, whatever, just to be near her.  I am no longer a Christian, but Mom and Dad had lately become more “religious” so I found a tiny New Testament in the bedside drawer and decided to read to Mom. I said, “Mom, I know you like to hear the Bible, so I am just going to open this one and read a little to comfort you.” I opened it to a page and started reading. It was the place in Matthew where they are talking about divorce. Now, I am divorced, my Mom was divorced, and my Mom is possibly dying….before I knew I had said anything at all, I had commented rather loudly, “Holy crap! How depressing!” and I swear I saw a smile cross my Mom’s lips. It was at this point my sister called from Cleveland to ask about Mom’s condition. She and JD were planning to come Friday after work.  I told her Mom was still the same and I thought she would still be here by Friday.

I stayed until 4:30 and then went home to get some supper for Dad.  We had Crockpot Beef Stew and home made biscuits. Dad said he would clean up the dishes and I said I wanted to go back over to see Mom, so I went on and left the mess to him. When I got there, Mom’s breathing had radically changed. Each inspiration was labored and each expiration made her lips make “raspberries” and there was some thick mucus draining out of the sides of her mouth. I put her bed up a little higher and got her to lie without drooping to one side and washed off her mouth and applied some Vaseline to her lips.  I decided to feel her legs and feet.  I remember that death comes on from the extremities and if her systems were shutting down, her extremities would be cold, but she was all warm and toasty, even her toes, although they were all crooked and stiff, I assumed from the diabetes. I decided to call Kathy and couldn’t get her, but left a message for her to call me.

At this point, I don’t know why I did it, but I crawled into bed beside Mom and we “spooned” with me on the outside of the covers. I just held her gently and told her what a wonderful Mom she had been and that I loved her so much and wanted her to stay with me forever, but I knew she had to move on.  I knew she was afraid of death and I told her that I thought it was going to be scary for just a second until you left this plane and reached out for the next one, but I told her she would not be alone.  I was here on this side and there would be others to reach out to her from the other side and I mentioned who I thought she might see….Gram Billotte, Fluffy, our old cat, her brother, her friends Lil and Grant.  I told her I would be okay, but I wasn’t sure about Kathy, my sister. She is really close to Mom. I don’t think she could have watched Mom go like this. I think it was my previous experience in Home Health and Hospice that got me through it.

I got up from the bed and resumed my spot on the chair and was rubbing Mom’s arms again. All of a sudden, Mom sat upright in bed, looked right at me and then fell back onto her pillow and there was no more labored breathing. As I was about to check her brachial pulse, I saw a huge “thump” in her chest where I assumed her heart was. Then she was totally still. I stifled a huge sob and reached for the Nurses call button and saw Dad just coming in the door to the room.  “She’s gone,” I managed between sobs.  He came and put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.  Then he leaned over Mom and gave her a kiss and said “Bye Mom.” with tears streaming down his face. 

The Nurses came and took Dad away to sign some papers and meet with the Funeral Director.  I stayed with Mom as the Nurses gently bathed her and put on a clean nightgown and diaper.  Then they got the body bag. I had to stay. I could not leave my Mom, so I watched as they put her tiny body into the bag and zipped it up and then transferred her to the Funeral Director’s cart. My sister called and I had to tell her Mom was gone.  She was shocked because I had just told her earlier that I thought Mom would still be here on Friday.

The loss of a parent is a significant event. I never “pictured” what would happen if I lost my Mom. I never even considered the possibility, even as I sat at her beside.

I have not moved on. I am still in that room. Am I still in denial?  I am more “spiritual” than “religious” and I thought I would see Mom somewhere….in a beautiful butterfly or hummingbird…..in a dream…somewhere…I really thought she would manifest.  I have had several “readings” and so has my daughter Jill and we have been told she is around us, one of our guardians, but I do not “feel” it. I cannot find her.  I miss her so much sometimes.  I have not had a heart-wrenching cry. I do cry at the strangest times; just a little bit; but my heart feels like it is crying. You know how there is a little warm spot in your heart just before the tears fall?

In the midst of all of this sorrow, I met a wonderful person who was able to hold and comfort me. I wish I could have “bottled” that comfort. I am hoping that by writing and sharing this I can heal and move on.

THE CARPOOL

                                              

The Carpool

I was a stay-at-home Mom until my children were in school. When I heard that GTE Sylvania was hiring back in my old hometown of Emporium, I immediately applied for work to help out with the bills.

We only had two vehicles at the time: a red Renault Alliance and a yellow Chevy Luv pick-up truck.  Both were great on gas, but I was already paying my neighbor for child care before and after school, so I decided to look into carpooling. I put a notice on the bulletin board near the punch clock and got a reply. Three men in my neighborhood were already carpooling and said they would be glad to have me join them. That way, each of us would only have to drive one week per month.

Now, I was in my 30’s and these men were WELL into their 50’s. I am not sure how they felt about my driving, but each of them had their “quirks.” They always made me ride shotgun.

Fiorantino, the Italian man always smoked and drank coffee. He felt it was necessary to talk to me the whole 40-mile trip. His breath made my stomach churn so I soon learned to dowse myself with some strong perfume on those days!

Bob was the most “normal” of the three.  We both seemed to sense this and would connect visually through the rear-view mirror. The first time I rode with Bob, Thomas snored loudly from the back seat.  Then I noticed that he also snored when Fiorantio drove.  When he snored as I drove, I began to wonder if he ALWAYS snored.  I was about to find out.

It was a snowy morning when Thomas picked me up.  Bob and Fiorantino were already settled into the back seat, Bob leaning toward his window as Fiorantino was speaking to him.  Bob and I connected eyes and tried not to laugh.

We started out from Ridgway onto the long 2-lane highway that connected to St. Marys, about 15 miles away. The road was deserted at 5AM and it was still dark. The roadway was completely covered in snow and the only way to gauge where to drive was by guessing where the center of the roadway was and stay to the right. I looked up and noticed that Thomas’ eyes were closed.  I scanned the roadway ahead.  We seemed to be on our side, so I wasn’t too concerned until I saw something in the middle of our side…something lying on the road…something like a dead deer. 

As we approached, I saw that I was correct….a dead deer, probably frozen stiff, lay in our path.  I quickly looked in the mirror to see what Bob was thinking.  His eyebrows were furrowed and he looked at me in anticipation, as if to say, “See?  I told you he ALWAYS snored and slept, even when he drove.”

We hit the deer dead on going at about 45MPH in a VW station wagon.  We were airborne for what seemed forever after the initial impact, then landed the way an unseasoned pilot might drop a DC-10 onto the airport runway on his maiden flight. The “landing” startled Thomas and his eyes flew open and he asked, “What the hell was THAT???

“Oh, a dead deer.” I mumbled, tightening my seatbelt while peeking into the back seat where Bob tried so hard to stifle a laugh, he had tears in his eyes, or else he was scared to tears.

Thomas didn’t snore, nor did he close his eyes for the rest of the trip. I managed to carpool for the first month and a half, but decided to drive myself just as it was Thomas’ turn…..

From Trash to Treasure

One reason I bought my home back in 1999was the “forest” bordering my back yard. For some reason, my property includes three city lots, all of them woods.

The interior of the house needs work and the yard needs work, but I find myself obsessed with the woodlands. Perhaps it’s because before moving to Hickory’s Kenworth neighborhood, I had lived in the mountains in rural Pennsylvania. There, if you take a step off your front porch, you can get right onto some cross-country skis. I can’t remember ever living inside city limits.

The obsession with my Hickory forest started one spring day as I was raking leaves from my yard into the woods. My rake uncovered something glass. I dug the glass out of the rich loamy leaf mold: a soda bottle, one of the oldies we used to turn in for a deposit.

As I retrieved it, I noticed several others in the same area; some with shades of light green, brown, or clear glass; some whole; others with their sharp shards poking up like menacing little swords…Brownie, Pepsi, Coke, Orange Crush, and Royal Crown.

They circled an ancient oak tree as if they were placed there by fairies to protect their domain. Alas, my lovely “forest” had been nothing more than a garbage dump in its previous life!

Worrying that my two precious cats might hurt their delicate paws on such deadly refuse, I began to gather every bottle or piece of glass I could find. I rinsed out the whole ones and put everything into the recycle bin. I thought of taking some of the older ones to an antique dealer, but felt I would probably be given next to nothing for them.

That was the first spring. You know how you dig a garden and dispose of what you think to be all of the rocks? The following spring, others seemed to push up through the earth bigger and more plentiful. Each spring I was prospecting for more glass bottles.

About this time, I decided to make a special woodland retreat in my forest, so I began each winter to cut out all the little plants that creep and crawl everywhere in the South. I intended to reintroduce native woodland plants, so I chose another huge majestic oak and began to clear the area around it.

In a huge hole behind this oak, another tree had overturned during 1989’s Hurricane Hugo, leaving a crater, so I filled it with the brush I had been cutting out. I decided to rake this area. That’s when I hit the mother lode!

Bottles of every shape, size and color appeared before my eyes, whole and in shards again.

Moaning and groaning, I was on my way to get the recycle bin when it hit me. This area was so shaded, it would take years to get the woodland plants established, so why not clean these bottles and make a bottle garden? My daughter had collected bottles over the years and had suspended them from tree limbs and bushes in her yard in Tahoe.

As the circle around the oak began to take shape, I trimmed all the vegetation in a perimeter of four to five feet, leaving branches that would fit into the neck of each bottle.

Not only does it look intriguing, but the bottles are placed close enough together so when the wind blows, they actually clink, sounding like nymphs and fairies chattering their appreciation.

Yes, I know there are weeds in my front flower bed and winter pansies to be planted, but my bottles are catching the sunlight and gleaming and tinkling as winter turns to spring.

Like A Good Neighbor.....

We got Zeb when he was eight months old. He is a huge dog with a Irish Setter body and Black Lab coloring and a Lab face. Being a cat person, I was unsure how to train a dog.  I knew what I wanted the dog to do: heel, stay close to us, not require a leash, and never run off. A tall order for a time when The Dog Whisperer didn't exist yet, nor did the World-Wide-Web to search for solutions. Our training program consisted of allowing Zeb to be free in our huge acre of yard space, watch him carefully and verbally "encourage" him to stay within our perimeter. This usually lasted for at least half an hour. At that point, some strange smell, sound, or sight would lure him into a full sprint to explore whatever had caught his attention. My training strategy was to follow him until I could get close enough to grab his collar and beat him with his leash all the way back home.  I know, it's really horrible, and it didn't work, but I was doing it for his own good.  Our neighbor was threatening to shoot him on sight if he saw him in the woods chasing a deer.  Now, Zeb would never CATCH a deer, but he would chase ANYTHING that ran.

When we took Zeb for a walk, we usually had him on leash.  We lived out in the country.  We had one neighbor with a barn and several cows and calves. The rest of the neighbors had only dogs and cats. One clear crisp autumn afternoon, when Barry was at work and the kids were at school and the neighborhood was unusually quiet and empty, I decided to take Zeb on an off-leash walk. 

As we started down the driveway, Zeb followed me slowly as if to say, "Hey.  Where's the leash?  Are you sure you want me to come with you?" Then by the time I was at the bottom of the driveway, Zeb was suddenly ahead of me, sprinting down the road.

Our neighbor was in his fenced-in barnyard, feeding hay to his cows and calves.  It was a farm fence: 4 x 4 white posts about five feet high with two 1 x 6 white boards between.  Zeb easily ducked under the bottom board and startled the cows and calves.  The claves ran toward the road, ducked under the fence with Zeb at their heels.  The calves had trouble on the slick asphalt pavement and were slipping and sliding and Zeb was enjoying the chase!  Bob, the farmer, and I were screaming:  him to scare Zeb away and me to get control of him.  Somehow Zeb chased the calves back into the barnyard, the calves litterally doing a belly crawl back under the fence. Bob swung his rake at Zeb and he ran off ahead of me down the road.

I apologized profusely and sprinted down the road looking for Zeb.  I could see him about fifty yards ahead.  He would stop just long enough to make sure I was coming, then he would take off running and exploring again.  This went on for about an hour and I was getting worried because I had not seen Zeb lately.  Suddenly I heard howling like a pack of wolves and every hair on my head tingled with the eery sound.  I started to run, following the sound.  I was sure Zeb was being attacked by a pack of wolves or wild dogs!  As I rounded a bend in the road, I could see Zeb.  He seemed to be tethered beside a huge log.  It was him making all of that noise!  As I came closer, I saw it:  a huge trap on his front leg.  I had never seen a trap and had no idea how to release it.  I was able to get the trap loose from the log, but no matter how hard I grasped the edges, I could not remove it from Zeb's foot.  I tried to get him to walk slowly, but he yelped in pain with every step.  I knew we were at least two or three miles from the house.  I figured I would have to carry Zeb home.  I tried to pick him up.  He weighed at least sixty pounds.  I could manage to carry him about ten feet, then I had to put him down and the act of picking him up and setting him back down was as painful to him as having him walk.  I was sure his leg was broken and was terrified because I didn't know how to get him home safely.  I saw a patch of ferns with fallen leaves that made a soft safe bed.  I layed Zeb down and told him to "Stay!"  He lay still until I was out of sight, then he howled and limped after me.  I finally just sat down on the side of the road with his head in my lap and sobbed.

There had been no traffic on our back road since we started walking, but now I saw a truck coming up the road from the direction of our house.  I was so hysterical, I didn't even recognize the driver, but I flagged him down.  It was my next-door neighbor, the very same one who said he would shoot Zeb if he ever saw him running in the woods. George was out checking his trap lines. He took one look at the trap on Zeb's leg and sprang it with no trouble at all.  I expected Zeb's foot to fall off, but the crazy dog limped for a few steps, then took off running for home.  I was still trembling so George said he would drive me home.  By the time we got there, Zeb was in the driveway waiting. 

Both Zeb and I smelled funny and George said it was fox urine.  Great!  I took Zeb inside and we both took a shower in the basement.

Zeb is no longer with us.  And I am STILL not a dog person, but, dumb as he was, I loved that dog. If we were indoors at night and heard cats fighting, we could tell Zeb to go get Buckskin, our cat, who usually got the worst end of a cat fight. We had a dozen chickens that we let roam once in awhile.  When they started to leave our yard, we could tell Zeb to "Go get the chickens."  He would go round them up and herd them into the chicken yard. He even helped us dig the fence post holes for the chicken coop.  We would throw a rock into the hole and say "Zeb!  Get the chipmuink" and he would dig like crazy! He was never mean to any of us, even the cats, who taunted him mercilessly. He had a huge heart....but a tiny brain.

School’s Out Tradition

       In a week, school will be out and I will make appointments for my two cats for their spring/summer check-ups.  This is a tradition that has continued for me since my children were in elementary school.  At the time, we lived in rural Pennsylvania and our vet was 30 miles away in another little hamlet.  We had two sibling cats, Calico and Buckskin, both about ten years old;  and Zeb, a huge Lab-Setter Mix who was about five years old. John was in 7^th grade and Jill was in 3^rd.  We would start out in the morning at about 10AM and make a day of it, the kids, the animals, and myself in our brown Plymouth Volare station wagon. John would stay in the back behind the seats with Zeb while Jill would keep the cats cozy in the back seat.  Our plan was to stop in St. Mary’s at McDonald’s for lunch after the vet ordeal.  This was a real treat because we didn’t have a McDonald’s in Emporium where we lived. Oh…one more detail…..Zeb had been given the left-over BBQ spare ribs from the night before.

          As we drove through St. Mary’s on the way to the vet, Zeb had his head out the window and people on the streets were pointing and staring because he is such a huge dog.  I was listening to NPR, not really paying attention to what was happening in the car, when I heard Jill scream, “EW!!!  Zeb farted!”  Sure enough, I could smell it!  Then I heard it….another dog fart, but this one sounded WET!!!  Jill screamed as the slimy dog poop exploded from Zeb’s behind and spattered onto her face, onto both cats, on the back of the seat, and down into the crack. We were about 10 minutes from the vet.  I stepped on the gas to hurry us along.  We had nothing to clean up the mess except a nearly empty box of Kleenex.

          When we arrived at the vets we were told we were early and would have to wait 20 minutes.  I asked if they could lend us some paper towels to clean up the car. As I was checking the animals in, the assistant asked me if I had remembered to bring a stool sample.  I replied, “No, but I can certainly scrape some off the seat in the car!”

          We washed ourselves off as well as we could.  I just remember that we were so covered in cat and dog hair and it was hot and I felt so filthy!  We packed the animals back into the car and headed home.  I decided to stop at McDonald’s anyway because the kids really deserved a treat!  John was concerned about leaving the animals in the car, so I parked in the shade and rolled down the windows a bit.  We enjoyed our lunch and I kept teasing John that I saw Zeb, Calico, or Buckskin running down the road. 

When we got to the car, I looked inside and exclaimed, “Oh no!  Not again!” but John thought I was teasing because I had tried to trick him inside McDonald’s.  Then he peeked inside.  Zeb had pooped again and he had walked in it and it was all over the front and back seat and even smeared onto the steeringwheel!  The cats were huddled together in the back end looking so disgusted at Zeb. 

We went back into McDonald’s and got some wet paper towels to clean up as much as we could.  It was a LONG smelly trip home!  We felt relieved when we could open the doors in our driveway and let the animals out.  We then tried to clean the car….again.

          Now, you would think this was the end of the story…but it isn’t.  That happened in May.  In July, we were packing the car for the trip to the beach.  My husband was trying to get the back seat belts to work properly, so he reached way down into the crack between the seats…..EEEEEWWWWWW!  Dry, crusty dog poop!