GracePlays & GraceWorks

After watching the 54th Grammy Show, I was struck by how powerful music is. Whitney Houston is gone physically which is a crying shame but she will live on in her music. I confess to envying that legacy. Bruce Springsteen’s opening song was a blast from the past. I found myself catching the lyrics and wanting to hear more which surprised me. Watching the Beach Boys sing as “mature” men was heart warming and heart wrenching all at the same time. While I read criticism that they were made to share the stage with a light weight band, I was struck by the generosity of such a great band sharing the stage with young singers. I thought it was a nice example of mentoring. I don’t think I can add anything new to what’s all ready been said about Adele. The word awesome comes to mind. There were performances that did not suit my taste in music which I muted. However, I did listen to Paul McCartney. When I consider the difference between his current style, more akin to Frank Sinatra than the Beatles, I am thoughtful of the evolution of a life. It seems fitting. So fitting that I actually ended up buying his album Kisses on the Bottom. I love the title. I love words that have multiple meanings. As I contemplate this subject of music, I began to search out the songs from my childhood. Growing up one of 12 children was a unique experience. One of my most cherished memories is when we’d all go for rides in the car and mom and dad would sing in the front seat. The Yellow Rose of Texas, You Are My Sunshine, There’s a Long, Long, Trail A-Winding, By the Light of the Silvery Moon--these songs take me back to those days effortlessly. I can see dad’s hands on the steering wheel snapping his fingers to the beat, singing the harmony version as mom provided the tune and the rest of us tried to join in. I also remember them putting 8 track tapes of Floyd Cramer in the player to keep them awake on long rides home from visiting our grandparents. I’m guessing my younger siblings will have different songs playing the same part in their memory banks. Dad is gone now but those songs conjure up the image and the essence of him in a way that nothing else can. They are the good memories I wish to preserve while I let go of those that are more painful. I also have cherished memories of my mother playing piano on the upright in our dining room. Moonlight Sonata by Ludwig Beethoven, Ode to a Wild Rose by Edward McDowell, which was her mother’s favorite melody and Beautiful Dreamer by Stephen Foster. I learned something as I am writing this piece. All these years, I’ve thought that these three songs were parts of a symphony by Beethoven! I was surprised to learn that they were written by different composers. I guess, I thought, since they were adjacent to each other in her sheet music, they must somehow be connected. Geez, I clearly was a young and naïve kid! It shows you how the childish things you carry as “true”--those things you remain faithful to as years go by can be just plain inaccurate. If I hadn’t gotten going on this subject, I’d still be under the assumption that those three songs parts of a symphony by Beethoven!!! Lordy! Lordy! Lordy! Of my twelve siblings, four girls are the oldest. My grandfather, Papa Baggot, used to sing each one of the four of us a special tune when he was with us. My sister, Betsy’s was Sweet Betsy From Pike; mine was KKK-Katy, Mary’s was Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary and Eileen’s was Good Night, Irene. (It’s close!) Again, hearing those melodies brings memories of my grandfather back to me. The music from Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music are also etched into my psyche. This was the fare that entertained and informed my adolescent years. It was and is an incredible experience to witness my own children enjoying the same musical repertoire I grew up with and now my grandchildren are doing the same. The musical thread weaving its way down through the generations. It’s a mighty force of memory and connection. They are creating their own threads, of course. That’s as it should be. But it feels wonderful to have these binding threads holding us together. For me, music can transcend and/or create boundaries. For example, it creates a boundary or a division when I hear Heavy Metal or Hard Rock or some of the current electronic music which doesn’t appeal to me in any way. While there may be some great lyrics and wonderful sentiments intended by the musicians, the method of delivery bars me from engaging in the conversation. I’m not willing or able to listen. At the same time, there are songs which seem to move beyond the divisions and conflict that exists among members of society. I have my own personal favorites that fit into this category. I’m guessing everyone does. I’d love to hear what others have on their list.

I thought I’d done a good job of keeping records but this one has me stumped. 

In June, Tom announced his adoption of Cindy, the dog he rescued after hearing she’d been abandoned for three weeks by her recently homeless owner. Her past life, as we’ve learned was a chronicle of unsavory circumstances including obvious physical and emotional abuse, twice being hit by a car (one in which her owner backed over her) and an incident with a bear trap set by a disgruntled neighbor who didn’t like her digging in his garden.

When Tom found out about her circumstances during a community meeting, we arrived to check on her. Cindy was sitting quietly, even regally on an old piece of plywood next to a gutted ramshackle log cabin.  She was chained to a clothesline running along the adjacent creek with a dilapidated structure put together with wood scraps serving as her “doghouse”.

Tom planned to document his time with Cindy for the Beacon, his company newsletter, but as it turned out, her arrival has not been the pleasant experience he anticipated. Instead, it has come with a hefty price tag not only financially but emotionally. When he looked at me and announced there was no way he could make Cindy’s “still ongoing” story entertaining, I offered to give it a try for him. He is living it in the first person. I however, am able to view it from the third person perspective.

Cindy is one of the sweetest, most respectful, and obedient dogs we have ever had. Tom fondly refers to her as E.T. because that’s who she reminds him of when she looks out at him with her bottomless brown eyes. We think she is a Labrador, boxer mix with a bit of Great Dane (due to her huge front paws).

We’ve never experienced a dog who heels as well as she does! (Keep in mind, we are not skilled trainers!) That is, until she catches the scent of something ! Like a bolt of lightening, she hits the woods with a speed that is shocking considering her normal sedate pace! The first time this happened, we are out in the woods near our home when she rockets off down a very steep embankment into a dense thicket of underbrush. Immediately, Tom heads in after her. I go in the opposite direction calling her. I circle back to where she disappeared and there she is, waiting for me. Meanwhile, Tom is traversing steep slopes and thorny bushes trying to find her. He can’t hear me call to him and comes out of the trees scratched and bleeding with a frantic look on his face only to discover the two of us waiting patiently for him to return. He was not amused.

Unfortunately Cindy’s story has also been somewhat of a nightmare. In the three months that we’ve had her, she has been to two local Vets at least 10 times, including two overnight stays with the University of Georgia Veterinary Small Animal School in Athens, Georgia. (She probably has a library named after her by now on the UGA campus…)

After she’d been with us for a couple of weeks, our 7^th grandchild, Veronica was born. As is the custom, I was staying with our daughter and her family through the birth and first few days at home. At that same time, Tom was diligently on the hunt for raw pumpkin, as he’d been told by the Vet that it would help jump start Cindy’s digestive system and prevent the horrible wretching and vomiting attacks that were happening every few days. Unfortunately, pumpkins are a “seasonal” entity, and there was absolutely none to be found anywhere in our local area. Tom ended up driving 5 hours in one day just to get pumpkin from a Whole Foods store in Atlanta. While he was there, he stopped in to see his new granddaughter with Cindy in tow on a special bed he had rigged up in his Tahoe. My daughter, understandably, was a bit apprehensive about having a new dog to introduce to her brand new infant. But, as it turned out, Cindy behaved impeccably around the baby (probably because she had puppies herself) and all was well. Tom in the meantime had his case of pumpkin, which, by the way, is still sitting in our pantry as it turns out, it didn’t work and actually made Cindy worse. Cindy is now on a designer diet of duck and potato as she cannot tolerate any other food including every prescription diet ever made.

Keep in mind that Cindy was chained to a line outside with only a makeshift doghouse to protect her from the elements. We assumed she was one of those junkyard dogs who could handle anything. Imagine how we felt the first time it thundered and Cindy jumped a foot in the air. She was obviously terrified and cowered in the nearest corner or ran frantically from window to window. We were there to reassure her but can only imagine what she went through when she was alone outside by herself.

She is deeply attached to Tom as you would expect and has been sleeping with him and our other two rescue dogs Tad & Gallagher. When he leaves, she presses her face to the window and watches his car drive away. She cries for awhile and then finds a place to sit where she patiently awaits for his return.

In true Marley fashion, her loving demeanor is not without its challenges. The first time we put her in a crate, we came home to find her outside of it! There is no way to explain how she managed to extricate herself as the door was still looked and the widest gap we could find was only 5 or 6 inches wide. The next time we attempted leaving her alone, we allowed her to be loose in the guest room. We arrived home to find the door blocked from the inside with torn up carpeting and the window blinds in shreds! That was the last time Tom and I have been out together other than the one visit to Highlands NC to have lunch (at a dog friendly restaurant with Cindy). Trouble is, she got carsick from the winding roads and spent the next couple of days with one of her “spells”. Her episodes are very difficult to watch because she wretches, licks her lips repeatedly, swallows in huge gulps of air and try’s to eat everything in sight including …dried flower arrangements, grass, blankets, clothing…you get the picture. It is hideous. She requires constant vigilant attention to prevent her harming herself or causing damage. Definitely NOT what I signed on for! I’m sure you can imagine the “adult conversations” that have taken place between Tom and I during this time. I’ve been through infancy with our own daughters and I can assure you, it’s not something I relish repeating !

Tom in his typical “I’ve got to fix it” fashion has researched every possible diagnosis, read every medical textbook on small animal gastroenterology and had every possible test known to man and dogs run to figure out what is causing her malaise. After exhausting nearly every test, he has determined that it is a psychological condition. Tom’s even tried a device that releases the scent of a nursing female dog to see if it has a calming effect. Thankfully, these episodes have tapered off although as I write this, I’m asking myself if I should even say this out loud. We’ve gone through so many periods where it looked like we had found the answer only to have it happen again with absolutely no cause that we could determine. We are hoping that time and continuity will eventually stop them for good.

As long as I’ve known Tom, he’s been involved in rescue missions with animals. His wildlife rescue work in Florida included many different creatures—a baby owl, a turtle caught in an unfinished swimming pool (that took 3 hours to rescue), a poisoned anhinga, a huge black vulture with a broken wing from running into a power line, a starving pelican who had swallowed a fish hook on Deerfield Pier and the infamous raccoon (who was supposed to be a baby, but ended up being full grown) from Club Boca’s Nightclub kitchen. He’s also rescued numerous dogs usually at the extreme risk of having me pack my bags and move to my mother’s. (If you knew my mother, you might understand why that hasn’t happened. Just kidding, mom.)

The dogs he has rescued include Simon “the demon” Jack Russell who spent ten years irritating me; Annie the pathetic emaciated stray mother of countless puppies who had gravel in her stomach when he found her lying in the middle of the road after being tossed from a car in front of Newport Center. She joined THREE other dogs already living with us at the time! Luna, the cat, seriously injured from being hung from a chain link fence who lived at the vet’s for a year waiting for someone to adopt her and take care of the injuries that had never healed. Tad, who was put out of a car in the woods near our home, and now Cindy.

As soon as I heard Cindy’s story, I knew it was inevitable that Tom would end up being the one to step up and take responsibility for her. It’s who he is. He considers it his life’s mission.

The saga of Cindy continues although, as I write this, I am able to announce that we’ve been spell free for more than a week. His brother, Jim, is coming up to stay with the animals while we go out to Vegas for our daughter’s wedding 10/10/10. We’re keeping our fingers crossed that all will go smoothly while we’re away.

On a recent trip to Florida, my daughter and I took a trip to the beach. The beach is not a new experience for me. We lived there for over a decade and I became well acquainted with it. This time was different.

What was it about the beach that moved me so? I believe it had to do with the beauty of the surf…the calming affect of the ebb and flow of the waves and the timelessness of the tides. It put my aging into a bit of perspective.

Aging is not for sissies. I am finding that to be truer and truer as I "grow". Time speeds up in an astonishing fashion. Joints creak and groan in threatening tones. The litany in my head telling me to think young gets drowned out by the whispers everywhere chanting that there is no way to avoid what's happening.

"I will not go quietly into the good night." That famous quote takes on an intimate meaning making contact somewhere deep down inside my psyche.

Yet, much of me is going quietly into the good night. When the panic sets in, I reach for serenity and allow myself to stroll rather than stride; to breathe rather than pant; to relish what is rather than lament what is not. It's an ongoing action because the panic comes often.

It reminds me of what I have not accomplished, it taunts me with all my failures, it goads me with its ghoulish desire to focus on what I'm not rather than rejoice in who I am. It's mean. Just plain mean.

And the wrinkles? Talk about a gang of bullies! They show up everywhere making fun of me. They tweet to the world of my aging. And I know they talk about me behind my back. They send notes to each other and whisper and point at me from the mirror. Wretched wrinkles.

"I could banish you," I say. "You're lucky I let you live. A couple injections of Botox and you'd be gone! "

"But we'd be back!", I hear them chortle. Wretched wrinkles.

Somewhere, some time ago, I read something about cycles and seeing things from a longer focal point; that even human life at some point matches the ebb and flow of the seas and the seasons. I believe that is what this recent trip to the beach was about. It told me that the end of this life which I'm hurtling toward is nothing more than a swan dive into a beautiful cosmic sea which will continue to ebb and flow until the end of time and I will become a part of that splendid symphony.

There is a mountain pass nearby where the road was obviously cut through the rock.  At this time of year, the ice creates an ethereal beauty that I have yet to capture.  As I’ve found through my experience with the camera, it’s nearly impossible to convey the real thing when photographing something or someone.  But I still make the attempt.