Be still, my heart!

I heard you call this morning
And I remember how your red epaulets
Quiver with each chorus.
You’re back!

Intrepid and weightless,
Eyes on the night
You’re like adult children returning from school.
Is this home or are you coming from home?

Overhead your wings push out a formation
Then land on dollops of ice and water--
The yin and yan of many lakes’
Spreading girth.

Remembering, I laugh out loud
And welcome the healing
In your clever industry
And your lusty song.

When thou seest an eagle,

thou seest a portion of genius;

lift up thy head!

William Blake

'Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really.'

Dave always wanted a Husky dog, having been conceived in Alaska himself. His chance came fifteen years ago this month when during spring break Erica convinced me that it wouldn't be 'that bad' to make a visit to the animal shelter in Chicago Heights. As usual with Erica I hoped she would give up and move on to the next idea that popped into her head; however, this time she was relentless in her opinion that we needed to replace Patches our beagle who had been hit by a car earlier in the month. That fateful day I choked back tears as we strolled past the kennels and came face to face with a skinny, black and white adolescent Siberian Husky who had been found dragging a leash near the Ford plant. The rest is history. On the way home with us, she sat, freshly bathed and trimmed, between Audrey and Erica in the back seat. Seconds later she laid her head on Erica's leg and sighed, a long deep sigh that she made on many occasions in the future. From that day on she followed me from room to room, wherever I was, always present and living just that moment. . .with me. Winter was her favorite time of year and summer her least. The first time I saw her eat snow I knew we were kindred spirits because I eat snow too.

This week while I was visiting Audrey and Erica in D.C. for spring break, Pashka's health took a turn for the worst. Already nearing 17 years, blind, deaf, fairly incontinent and wracked with arthritis in her spine, she finally had to be carried outside, set down and picked up again to be taken back into the house. Throughout all of this advancement into dog antiquity she maintained her sweet spirit, became super vigilant of other dogs approaching her apartment, loved being scratched behind her ears or given a belly rub which always resulted in her sticking her tongue out to kiss the hand that touched her. I said my goodbye's to her the night before I left for the airport--reminding her that she had been a truly faithful friend and companion and that I loved her with all my heart. While I was away, Dave reluctantly took her to the vet on Wednesday and stayed with her until he knew she was off and running. This was the dog who was never allowed off a leash because huskies have to run. I am pretty sure she is pulling a sled somewhere in deep, powdery snow, ears back, slitty eyed and smiling. She died on the last day of winter.

I miss her terribly and hope I will eventually stop looking for her around the house. Dogs leave so little behind in material possessions--their collar, leash, bed and a couple of dishes. I can't believe she is gone.

The first photo above is the last I took of her, a week or so ago, when she followed me into the living room and found a lovely spot of sun to dream in.

Finally. . . Friday Flowers

New spring daffodils--Audrey's birth flower, barely pushing out of the thawing ground in Pocatello, Idaho on March 7, 1979, was born a Wednesday's child. Two weeks overdue she seemed reluctant to come out into the big world. I can't really say where the time in between went--except what a mother remembers--dolls, ballet, art, cello, Strawberry Shortcake, body surfing, boys, broken bones, and bike accidents. . . all adding up to a delightfully droll, generous, sensitive, tough young woman who can laugh at bloody movies and dissect Foucault or Burroughs just as easily. She and her Maine Coon cat, Squirrel, live in Chicago.

'H' for ABC Wednesday

Ever since I could remember anything, flowers have been like dear friends to me, comforters, inspirers, powers to uplift and to cheer. Celia Thaxter

Hollyhocks in Chicago gardens and paintings by Childe Hassam of poet Celia Thaxter's Maine garden.

See more 'h' photos here at Mrs Nesbitt's place.

In a perfect world

My mother’s side of the family was small in number. She only had two brothers, no sisters. Besides her, only one brother married and had two children. I was an only child until I was eleven. My boy cousin was born only one year after me. When I was four years old my uncle brought his family to visit my grandmother in whose home I was living at the time. I had heard the name Randy often growing up and have only childish spotty memories of that visit. Then as quickly as the visit was over, the mention of his name caused my grandma to turn her face away.
New ghostly words floated around our house, like iron lung, polio, and the March of Dimes. Following his visit, my three-year-old cousin was one of the polio statistics in the 1950’s. Too young to understand the implications, I was fascinated by a snapshot of Randy ‘asleep’ in a casket, his young life ending hardly before it began. I thought grandma was saying ‘basket.’
Like the many experiences of 1950’s children, we accepted the answers given to our parents about civil defense, nuclear testing, busing, missiles, and vaccinations. I remember that my parents were tentative in giving permission for me to have the Salk ‘dead virus’ vaccination in elementary school. When Sabin’s ‘live virus’ oral vaccine in a sugar cube was recommended in the early 1960’s, again we absorbed our parents’ uneasiness, stood in line and munched on the sweetness of safety. Too young to fathom the global cooperation and exploitation of large world populations needed to refine the vaccination, it is very apparent now that we American children were used as experimental test animals as much as monkeys, Russian or African children. Setting out for perfection the researchers found a suitable way to stop poliomyelitis in its tracks before I left elementary school.

However, whenever I meet someone named Randy, first I wince, then I smile, and finally. . .wish.

'experimental' writing for Sunday Scribblings. . .see more here.

True Blue

A faithful friend is a strong defense; And he that hath found him hath found a treasure.

Louisa May Alcott

While I was in la-la-land the last weeks, my pal, the other Marianne, a generous, wonderful soul, sent me a care package to end all care packages. Even though she herself was down with the crud all the way in Oklahoma, she found time to knit me this wonderful "Thorpe Hat" in the most beautiful shade of robin's egg, blue green blue, my very favorite color. It is soft, warm mohair & wool and fits my head perfectly (that in itself is a feat). In the package were things that I especially enjoy: more sock yarn for me to knit, chocolate, a vintage Pyrex 'hot dish' for my collection, blackberry-sage tea, and a antique postcard of these guys having way too much fun in their straw hats! Did I mention the chocolate?

So, a friend in need is a friend indeed and virtual friends can be some of the nicest in the world. I'm lucky to have found mine.

Oh, Aunty Em!

Factoid: The earth is, in fact, flat. I know because what seems like an eternity ago, I walked to edge, looked over and fell off. It has taken nigh on to three weeks to leave the alien regions and return to home, sweet, home.

O.K., so I got sick, again. . .stomach flu and the real flu (get a flu shot, for cryin' out loud!), sinus infection, ear infection, broken front tooth, and spectacular fall on black ice. I couldn't knit or read: too much 'movement'--or drive as that resembled an out of body experience: too risky--too much soup, daytime television, and the four walls.

For me in particular being sick always starts the wolves of depression circling, licking their chops, howling and swiping at my fragile grasp of reality. In other words, I was feeling f#)+!@g hopeless. I promised myself if I ever recovered, the first place I would go is the botanical garden at Como Park which I was meaning to visit all the livelong winter. I went yesterday in the bright sunshine and I chronicled my time there so that I have proof that after some dark nights of the soul, there really is a 'new day' and that spring will surely come again. The Marjory McNeely Conservatory. . .started in 1892. I found out that it is one of the last remaining historic 'glasshouses' in the United States. Full of many gardens it has a fern room, sunken garden, bonsai gallery, orchid room and there's a wonderful tropical rainforest exhibit. Besides the lush, colorful, aromatic b.e.a.u.t.y, tucked in at every turn was a bench to sit and take in all the sensory delights.
So, I think I visited heaven yesterday.

On one of the benches, this is what I read:

Never lose a holy curiosity.
Albert Einstein

From the sublime to the ridiculous, since all I did for three weeks was sit vedy, vedy quietly, and watched television, here's my favorite commercial. Just thought you'd want to know that. . .