Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
The thread that pulls my fabric back
It was a year ago today, by the date, that I heard the news, that I stood in the room, sat on the bed, listened to the Doctor in the white coat, trying to escape his words and his misting eyes by focusing on the emptiness of the starched white cotton he wore, but hearing his voice all the same. I held my friend tight as she heard the news about the love of her life. There's nothing else we can do. That's what we heard, that's what we were told. And that news? It's the worse you can hear. It's when your doctor tells you that you can no longer try conventional or alternative medicine, there are no more trials for which you are a candidate, can no longer delay making end-of-life plans, can no longer hope for a different outcome.
Pray.
The doctors told us that day that she might live for two weeks. I couldn't walk, couldn't sleep or eat, but she, she marched on, and lived much more beyond that. That's who she was. She's no longer here and it's not because she lost the battle that Ovarian Cancer raged against her. Oh no, she did not lose the fight. What she did was choose.
Yes I understand that every life must end
As we sit alone, I know someday we must go
She chose faith and grace. She chose to take her remaining days and make them her own. She chose to live until her life left her. I still don't know, can't imagine even though I witnessed, the grace and strength she lived, she gave. I am still in awe and still learning from what I experienced.
I miss her, so very much. I miss the hope, the fight, and even the resignation. I miss the quiet moments, scrambling a single egg for her, reading to her, and the shopping moments in search of the right apple juice or finding something perfect for her to wear at Thanksgiving dinner. I miss rubbing her legs and running my fingers through her soft hair. I miss her rolling her eyes when I would ask her if she was doing okay.
I miss her needing me and I miss my giving to her.
I miss all the years before we ever knew.
I miss the warm November day when her hospice bed arrived and we decided to leave the mattress outside for the afternoon, and she placed her frail body on the soft bedding and absorbed the sun behind her Chanel sunglasses, and smiled her smile as we sat beside her delighting in her presence in the unseasonal warmth.
I wonder everyday as I look upon your face
Everything you gave
And nothing you would take
I miss the chilly December walks we would take her on, dressed in her mink coat and mittens, in her wheelchair, along the neighborhood streets we would slowly and peacefully go. I miss the way that coat hung on her shoulders, those gloves hugged her fingers, that lipsticked smile so very much her own peaking through the wraps.
Stay with me
Let’s just breathe
A year ago, I wrote the words below. I wrote them in my reaction to the news, in my reaction to what my best friend had just heard about the love of her life. I had no idea what was ahead but I understood that there would be a finishing line, one we couldn't wrestle or control, one we couldn't change, but one I knew in which we would stand together and do every single thing we could possibly do to make it peaceful for her.
And we did.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
October 6, 2009
There are times when nothing in you arsenal prepares you, times when your experiences, your lessons, your favorite sentence in your favorite book, your beating heart, your grieving heart, your epiphanies learned from your private moments, your incessantly pulsing blood, your empty but soul-searching time spent in nothingness while driving from here to there, your fist raised in the air, your favorite photograph or most delicate ornament on the Christmas tree; none of it can prepare you for what you hear when you hear the words. When the immediacy of knowledge spikes your brain and shreds your soul, strangles your breath and steals your hopes. There are no experiences you've painted your name on, nor any that have branded their name on you, none at all that will step up and console you. None that will say to you, it will be okay.
It won't be okay. Life will go on, but it won't be okay. And this? Knowing this? This will be the secret and most regrettable voice in your mind, in your heart. It will be the day you never forget and the words you will forever despise, the words that will always take you down, because this was the moment you will forever trace your weary fingers backwards to discover over and over again to be the beginning of the end.
All I can offer you right now right here is this song I heard while taking the long way home tonight.
Just Breathe
- Pearl Jam
Yes I understand that every life must end
As we sit alone, I know someday we must go
I’m a lucky man to count on both hands
The ones I love
Some folks just have one
Others they got none
Stay with me
Let’s just breathe
Practiced are my sins
Never gonna let me win
Under everything, just another human being
Yeah, I don’t wanna hurt, there’s so much in this world
To make me bleed
Stay with me
You’re all I see
Did I say that I need you?
Did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn’t, now I’m a fool you see
No one knows this more than me
As I come clean
I wonder everyday as I look upon your face
Everything you gave
And nothing you would take
Nothing you would take
Everything you gave
Did I say that I need you?
Oh, did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn’t now I’m a fool you see
No one know this more than me
As I come clean
Nothing you would take
Everything you gave
Hold me till I die
Meet you on the other side
Pray.
The doctors told us that day that she might live for two weeks. I couldn't walk, couldn't sleep or eat, but she, she marched on, and lived much more beyond that. That's who she was. She's no longer here and it's not because she lost the battle that Ovarian Cancer raged against her. Oh no, she did not lose the fight. What she did was choose.
Yes I understand that every life must end
As we sit alone, I know someday we must go
She chose faith and grace. She chose to take her remaining days and make them her own. She chose to live until her life left her. I still don't know, can't imagine even though I witnessed, the grace and strength she lived, she gave. I am still in awe and still learning from what I experienced.
I miss her, so very much. I miss the hope, the fight, and even the resignation. I miss the quiet moments, scrambling a single egg for her, reading to her, and the shopping moments in search of the right apple juice or finding something perfect for her to wear at Thanksgiving dinner. I miss rubbing her legs and running my fingers through her soft hair. I miss her rolling her eyes when I would ask her if she was doing okay.
I miss her needing me and I miss my giving to her.
I miss all the years before we ever knew.
I miss the warm November day when her hospice bed arrived and we decided to leave the mattress outside for the afternoon, and she placed her frail body on the soft bedding and absorbed the sun behind her Chanel sunglasses, and smiled her smile as we sat beside her delighting in her presence in the unseasonal warmth.
I wonder everyday as I look upon your face
Everything you gave
And nothing you would take
I miss the chilly December walks we would take her on, dressed in her mink coat and mittens, in her wheelchair, along the neighborhood streets we would slowly and peacefully go. I miss the way that coat hung on her shoulders, those gloves hugged her fingers, that lipsticked smile so very much her own peaking through the wraps.
Stay with me
Let’s just breathe
A year ago, I wrote the words below. I wrote them in my reaction to the news, in my reaction to what my best friend had just heard about the love of her life. I had no idea what was ahead but I understood that there would be a finishing line, one we couldn't wrestle or control, one we couldn't change, but one I knew in which we would stand together and do every single thing we could possibly do to make it peaceful for her.
And we did.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
October 6, 2009
There are times when nothing in you arsenal prepares you, times when your experiences, your lessons, your favorite sentence in your favorite book, your beating heart, your grieving heart, your epiphanies learned from your private moments, your incessantly pulsing blood, your empty but soul-searching time spent in nothingness while driving from here to there, your fist raised in the air, your favorite photograph or most delicate ornament on the Christmas tree; none of it can prepare you for what you hear when you hear the words. When the immediacy of knowledge spikes your brain and shreds your soul, strangles your breath and steals your hopes. There are no experiences you've painted your name on, nor any that have branded their name on you, none at all that will step up and console you. None that will say to you, it will be okay.
It won't be okay. Life will go on, but it won't be okay. And this? Knowing this? This will be the secret and most regrettable voice in your mind, in your heart. It will be the day you never forget and the words you will forever despise, the words that will always take you down, because this was the moment you will forever trace your weary fingers backwards to discover over and over again to be the beginning of the end.
All I can offer you right now right here is this song I heard while taking the long way home tonight.
Just Breathe
- Pearl Jam
Yes I understand that every life must end
As we sit alone, I know someday we must go
I’m a lucky man to count on both hands
The ones I love
Some folks just have one
Others they got none
Stay with me
Let’s just breathe
Practiced are my sins
Never gonna let me win
Under everything, just another human being
Yeah, I don’t wanna hurt, there’s so much in this world
To make me bleed
Stay with me
You’re all I see
Did I say that I need you?
Did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn’t, now I’m a fool you see
No one knows this more than me
As I come clean
I wonder everyday as I look upon your face
Everything you gave
And nothing you would take
Nothing you would take
Everything you gave
Did I say that I need you?
Oh, did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn’t now I’m a fool you see
No one know this more than me
As I come clean
Nothing you would take
Everything you gave
Hold me till I die
Meet you on the other side
Smallest room in the house
When I bought my new house, I was delighted with the interior colors as they were, with two exceptions. One was the guest room that was used as a nursery, with adorable lions and monkeys painted on the walls. I didn't need that scenario, so I opted for a creamy yellow that matched the bed linens I had for that room.
The other exception was the powder room. It was lime green and for the life of me, when the rest of the interior colors are natural, muted tones, I cannot figure out why the little room was painted lime green. This room is tiny, about four and a half feet by four feet. The lime green was overwhelming.
I decided that gray would be a good color for the room. The trouble I discovered is that gray has undertones of blue and green in it, depending on the lighting and the shade of gray. The gray I selected, when painted over the lime green, became a nauseating gray-green combination. Not a pretty color, trust me.
Then I decided to go with a neutral, albeit boring, beige. I mean, how exciting was I expecting my little powder room to be? Once the walls were painted, however, the little room looked and felt like being inside a drawer. The beige walls made it that much smaller and confining. It simply would not work.
I had no idea what to do at this point, so I went to the paint store and selected four colors simply because I liked them, two blues and two gray-browns. I purchased the samples and painted swatches on three of the four walls, observing what the light did to them. The earthiness of the brownish gray was appealing but the dark tones I had selected absorbed the light, again making me feel claustrophobic.
Oh boy, that was not a step in the right direction. Now my little powder room had a boring base of beige and three walls with four big swatches of equally unacceptable color choices.
Then I hit the design magazines and I noticed a little something: broad horizontal stripes make small places appear larger. Broad stripes? Could I do something so bold? With the right colors, I thought, yes I can.
So again, I set off to the paint store. I opted for two colors from Sherwin Williams' collection of whites, not a single one of which I would consider white, by the way. Specifically, I chose their Downy and Modest White (which is the darker of the two).
At this point, my painter, bless his heart, was looking at my little powder room and no doubt thinking, Of course she wants stripes. I also think that he was wondering how much of his life was going to be spent in this little room. He had his doubts as to my idea, which he voiced, but I insisted. And he painted the walls with the lighter color. Then he painted them again. And, yes, then again. Ultimately, it took four coats because I had painted such big swatches of the darker colors, and they kept showing through until, finally, the fourth coat of paint.
I think I should mention here that my painter's bank account was lving my indecision.
After several days to be sure the walls were dry, the painter set about taping the walls for the darker color stripes. What I saw was 12-inch stripes, with the leftover being at the ground level. What he saw was the enormous challenge of making the stripes perfectly straight. At one point, there were three of us in that little room, each holding a level above penciled lines, and then taping along those lines. Cozy? You bet!
When all was said and done, I was deliriously happy. My painter expressed his surprise at how nice the results were, and I beamed with renewed confidence.
Then I ran off to Pottery Barn and bought two floating shelves. I had the idea that I wanted to present the pencil sketches and pen and ink drawings, and the like, that I've collected from various travel locations, all (thankfully) similarly framed although at no other time had I placed in single grouping.
The room is so small that I cannot take a full-on photo of it, and these photos look as if I've hung the shelves way too high, but these give you a good enough idea.
Tell me please, what do you think?
The other exception was the powder room. It was lime green and for the life of me, when the rest of the interior colors are natural, muted tones, I cannot figure out why the little room was painted lime green. This room is tiny, about four and a half feet by four feet. The lime green was overwhelming.
I decided that gray would be a good color for the room. The trouble I discovered is that gray has undertones of blue and green in it, depending on the lighting and the shade of gray. The gray I selected, when painted over the lime green, became a nauseating gray-green combination. Not a pretty color, trust me.
Then I decided to go with a neutral, albeit boring, beige. I mean, how exciting was I expecting my little powder room to be? Once the walls were painted, however, the little room looked and felt like being inside a drawer. The beige walls made it that much smaller and confining. It simply would not work.
I had no idea what to do at this point, so I went to the paint store and selected four colors simply because I liked them, two blues and two gray-browns. I purchased the samples and painted swatches on three of the four walls, observing what the light did to them. The earthiness of the brownish gray was appealing but the dark tones I had selected absorbed the light, again making me feel claustrophobic.
Oh boy, that was not a step in the right direction. Now my little powder room had a boring base of beige and three walls with four big swatches of equally unacceptable color choices.
Then I hit the design magazines and I noticed a little something: broad horizontal stripes make small places appear larger. Broad stripes? Could I do something so bold? With the right colors, I thought, yes I can.
So again, I set off to the paint store. I opted for two colors from Sherwin Williams' collection of whites, not a single one of which I would consider white, by the way. Specifically, I chose their Downy and Modest White (which is the darker of the two).
At this point, my painter, bless his heart, was looking at my little powder room and no doubt thinking, Of course she wants stripes. I also think that he was wondering how much of his life was going to be spent in this little room. He had his doubts as to my idea, which he voiced, but I insisted. And he painted the walls with the lighter color. Then he painted them again. And, yes, then again. Ultimately, it took four coats because I had painted such big swatches of the darker colors, and they kept showing through until, finally, the fourth coat of paint.
I think I should mention here that my painter's bank account was lving my indecision.
After several days to be sure the walls were dry, the painter set about taping the walls for the darker color stripes. What I saw was 12-inch stripes, with the leftover being at the ground level. What he saw was the enormous challenge of making the stripes perfectly straight. At one point, there were three of us in that little room, each holding a level above penciled lines, and then taping along those lines. Cozy? You bet!
When all was said and done, I was deliriously happy. My painter expressed his surprise at how nice the results were, and I beamed with renewed confidence.
Then I ran off to Pottery Barn and bought two floating shelves. I had the idea that I wanted to present the pencil sketches and pen and ink drawings, and the like, that I've collected from various travel locations, all (thankfully) similarly framed although at no other time had I placed in single grouping.
The room is so small that I cannot take a full-on photo of it, and these photos look as if I've hung the shelves way too high, but these give you a good enough idea.
Tell me please, what do you think?
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
I'm sure that I'm the only one who cares
Last Saturday as I drove to the cabin, I listened to Casey Kasem's American Top 40 from the week of September 27, 1975. I recalled most of the songs and happily sang along and reached to the radio to raise the volume a time or two. The journey back in time was perfect accompaniment as I drove along the familiar country roads.
I used to listen to Casey Kasem's American Top 40 with such excitement, back in the day. I loved to guess the Top 10, and especially the top five. My eyes would tear up with the Long Distance Dedications, and I enjoyed learning about the history of certain songs, hearing clips from the originals, or learning chart and artist trivia.
I liked how he signed off each show with the same motto, Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars. That was a good message for a young girl to hear and be reminded to do each week.
As I listened the the countdown, I was surprised by how in the mid 70's, the music was so varied from one song to another, from 60's-styled teenage death songs to pure pop to glam rock. The top four songs for the week of September 27, 1975 have nothing in common except for the fact that they were songs, and sung by men.
4. David Geddes, Run Joey Run
3. Glenn Campbell, Rhinestone Cowboy
2. David Bowie, Fame
1. John Denver, I'm Sorry
That's an odd lot right there. It speaks of a country in turmoil, a country without focus, a country reeling from Watergate, of not knowing what to or how to separate from the 60s, of an attempted assassination on then President Ford, and it speaks to the wholesomeness of our dreams, of holding on yet wanting to make right. Lastly, it speaks to the at the time every-growing British invasion.
So, yeah, a little drive to the cabin and I'm recalling a decade from my childhood. Musically, that decade was a doozie.
I used to listen to Casey Kasem's American Top 40 with such excitement, back in the day. I loved to guess the Top 10, and especially the top five. My eyes would tear up with the Long Distance Dedications, and I enjoyed learning about the history of certain songs, hearing clips from the originals, or learning chart and artist trivia.
I liked how he signed off each show with the same motto, Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars. That was a good message for a young girl to hear and be reminded to do each week.
As I listened the the countdown, I was surprised by how in the mid 70's, the music was so varied from one song to another, from 60's-styled teenage death songs to pure pop to glam rock. The top four songs for the week of September 27, 1975 have nothing in common except for the fact that they were songs, and sung by men.
4. David Geddes, Run Joey Run
3. Glenn Campbell, Rhinestone Cowboy
2. David Bowie, Fame
1. John Denver, I'm Sorry
That's an odd lot right there. It speaks of a country in turmoil, a country without focus, a country reeling from Watergate, of not knowing what to or how to separate from the 60s, of an attempted assassination on then President Ford, and it speaks to the wholesomeness of our dreams, of holding on yet wanting to make right. Lastly, it speaks to the at the time every-growing British invasion.
So, yeah, a little drive to the cabin and I'm recalling a decade from my childhood. Musically, that decade was a doozie.
Monday, October 04, 2010
An overdue welcome
Hello October! What took you so long to get here? I know I know, the excruciatingly hot and sloth-like months of June and July wouldn't drag their behinds at a reasonable pace, and then Septemeber couldn't make up her mind whether she wanted to stay or go, but look at you, here you are. I couldn't be happier to welcome you back.
I cherish how you remind me each year that it's the simple things in life that are the best, the little things that are big. Just this past weekend at the cabin, I walked Cheyenne in the early morning hours of your sunrise. There was a chill in the air and I wrapped my arms around myself, closed me eyes and took a slow and deep breath. How wonderful your air felt in my lungs, your breeze on my cheeks. I smiled as I recalled that soon I will hear the unforgettable cries of the snow geese on their way to warmer places, I'll see long check marks in the sky and I'll recall my father with such tenderness. I smiled at the ever so slight browning of the leaves of the trees at the edge of the woods.
When you bring on the first full month on Autumn, I thrill at the changes I begin to observe in nature. I delight in the browns and golds, the orange and reds, how each of nature's colors seems to become deeper in itself. Like the colors, you always seem to bring me deeper in myself as well. It's because your cool air allows me to spend more time out of doors, among the sounds of the wind in the trees, my bare feet in the grass, out amongst the busy squirrels and twittering birds, to hear sounds that are not made by man. It is also because I habitually slow down in October, take more time to align myself with what gives me a sense of peace and grounding. I take the long road home, wind myself through new streets on my morning walk, sit on the porch and watch the day's light give way to night.
I heard an old song over the weekend, and the lyrics, Talk to God and listen to the casual reply. October, you are those lyrics to me. You are God's casual reply. You give me a reminder to pause, to stand on the edge of the woods, be still for a moment, and simply take a deep breath.
Welcome back my friend, welcome back.
I cherish how you remind me each year that it's the simple things in life that are the best, the little things that are big. Just this past weekend at the cabin, I walked Cheyenne in the early morning hours of your sunrise. There was a chill in the air and I wrapped my arms around myself, closed me eyes and took a slow and deep breath. How wonderful your air felt in my lungs, your breeze on my cheeks. I smiled as I recalled that soon I will hear the unforgettable cries of the snow geese on their way to warmer places, I'll see long check marks in the sky and I'll recall my father with such tenderness. I smiled at the ever so slight browning of the leaves of the trees at the edge of the woods.
When you bring on the first full month on Autumn, I thrill at the changes I begin to observe in nature. I delight in the browns and golds, the orange and reds, how each of nature's colors seems to become deeper in itself. Like the colors, you always seem to bring me deeper in myself as well. It's because your cool air allows me to spend more time out of doors, among the sounds of the wind in the trees, my bare feet in the grass, out amongst the busy squirrels and twittering birds, to hear sounds that are not made by man. It is also because I habitually slow down in October, take more time to align myself with what gives me a sense of peace and grounding. I take the long road home, wind myself through new streets on my morning walk, sit on the porch and watch the day's light give way to night.
I heard an old song over the weekend, and the lyrics, Talk to God and listen to the casual reply. October, you are those lyrics to me. You are God's casual reply. You give me a reminder to pause, to stand on the edge of the woods, be still for a moment, and simply take a deep breath.
Welcome back my friend, welcome back.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
A tale of one bone. And three tails.
A couple weeks ago, two friends came over for dinner and brought Cheyenne a rawhide bone. She toyed with it a bit but was otherwise uninterested. I don't buy Cheyenne rawhide treats because she'll gnaw on them a bit here and there, and on occasion toss one in the air at me to signal that she would like my attention, but that's about it. Unless, of course, there is another dog in the house, at which she morphs into a monster with all of her toys and previously ignored rawhide treats or discarded bones. Such was the case on Sunday when I had some friends over to watch the unfortunate performance of the Texans.
One friend brought her dog, Piedmont. Cheyenne and Piedmont get along very well, except of course when it comes to Cheyenne sharing anything at all. When Piedmont arrived, the two dogs ran around the house together for a bit, and then Piedmont spotted the rawhide, but Cheyenne quickly took it from him. My girl, of course, settled down with her posession. Not to chew on it, mind you, but to hide it.
Needless to say, Piedmont was not at all happy to be rawhide-less.
When Cheyenne realized there was chips and queso on the coffee table, the rawhide was immediately forgotten. Piedmont took advantage of the opportunity.
After the dismal loss to the team I cannot stand from a city north of Houston that I will not name, my guests went on about their days and Cheyenne eagerly snatched the rawhide as soon as Piedmont was out the door. Again, not to eat it, just to have it.
That might have been it, at least until the next time Piedmont came over and the cycle repeated itself. Except this morning I was awoken a little after 7:00 when Lowes arrived to deliver and install my new washer and dryer. I opened the front door and gate for them and Cheyenne ran out past me do her morning business. With one eye on her and while talking to the delivery men, a man rode his bike up to me, pointed to a yellow lab and asked if the dog was mine because she had been in the street and he was concerned. I thanked him for his concern, explained that I knew the dog, Bailey, and that she was my neighbor's dog. Cheyenne and Bailey had discovered each other by this point and were a brown and white blur as they ran around the yards and alley in playful chase. The delivery men were waiting for me to show them where the washroom is and the guy on the bike is waiting to make sure I take care of Bailey, and the dogs are butt-tucking and circling and not at all listening to me call them.
Did I mention that I am still in my pajamas at this point?
I asked the delivery men to wait one second while I grabbed Bailey's collar and led her back to her house. Her owner was nowhere to be seen, but his garage door was open enough for Bailey to get inside. Thankfully, in she went. Not thankfully, Cheyenne followed.
This is only two houses from mine, so I figure the dogs are fine for the moment and I walk back to the delivery men and bring them inside the house to show them where the washroom is. When I return outside to get Cheyenne, she's right there in the livingroom. Good girl, I tell her, and then I walk to the neighbor's to see if Bailey is still on the loose. The garage door is still open a bit but since I don't see Bailey anywhere, I figure that she's inside, and I walk back to my house as the delivery men are bringing in the dryer through the front door. Relieved that the circus is over, I go into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee, which is when I discover Bailey under the kitchen table chewing on the rawhide bone, and Cheyenne with her sad sack eyes standing over her.
Bailey stands, rawhide in her mouth, looks at me, looks at Cheyenne, and runs past the delivery men with the dryer on the rollers and straight up my stairs into my bedroom. Of course, Cheyenne follows and of course I follow as well. Not to be cornered, Bailey shoots back down the stairs and out the front door. Again, Cheyenne and I follow. Bailey runs straight to her house and under her garage door. I grab Cheyenne, peek under the door and see that the door to the house from the garage is open, so Bailey has gone inside and is no longer my problem. Cheyenne may or may not have seen it that way but when I asked her if she wanted a treaty, she happily trotted along side me back to our house.
I can only wonder what my neighbor thought when Bailey ran into his house with a rawhide in her mouth. And I hope that the treaty made Cheyenne forget about the rawhide that she really never cared about in the first place.
One friend brought her dog, Piedmont. Cheyenne and Piedmont get along very well, except of course when it comes to Cheyenne sharing anything at all. When Piedmont arrived, the two dogs ran around the house together for a bit, and then Piedmont spotted the rawhide, but Cheyenne quickly took it from him. My girl, of course, settled down with her posession. Not to chew on it, mind you, but to hide it.
Needless to say, Piedmont was not at all happy to be rawhide-less.
When Cheyenne realized there was chips and queso on the coffee table, the rawhide was immediately forgotten. Piedmont took advantage of the opportunity.
After the dismal loss to the team I cannot stand from a city north of Houston that I will not name, my guests went on about their days and Cheyenne eagerly snatched the rawhide as soon as Piedmont was out the door. Again, not to eat it, just to have it.
That might have been it, at least until the next time Piedmont came over and the cycle repeated itself. Except this morning I was awoken a little after 7:00 when Lowes arrived to deliver and install my new washer and dryer. I opened the front door and gate for them and Cheyenne ran out past me do her morning business. With one eye on her and while talking to the delivery men, a man rode his bike up to me, pointed to a yellow lab and asked if the dog was mine because she had been in the street and he was concerned. I thanked him for his concern, explained that I knew the dog, Bailey, and that she was my neighbor's dog. Cheyenne and Bailey had discovered each other by this point and were a brown and white blur as they ran around the yards and alley in playful chase. The delivery men were waiting for me to show them where the washroom is and the guy on the bike is waiting to make sure I take care of Bailey, and the dogs are butt-tucking and circling and not at all listening to me call them.
Did I mention that I am still in my pajamas at this point?
I asked the delivery men to wait one second while I grabbed Bailey's collar and led her back to her house. Her owner was nowhere to be seen, but his garage door was open enough for Bailey to get inside. Thankfully, in she went. Not thankfully, Cheyenne followed.
This is only two houses from mine, so I figure the dogs are fine for the moment and I walk back to the delivery men and bring them inside the house to show them where the washroom is. When I return outside to get Cheyenne, she's right there in the livingroom. Good girl, I tell her, and then I walk to the neighbor's to see if Bailey is still on the loose. The garage door is still open a bit but since I don't see Bailey anywhere, I figure that she's inside, and I walk back to my house as the delivery men are bringing in the dryer through the front door. Relieved that the circus is over, I go into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee, which is when I discover Bailey under the kitchen table chewing on the rawhide bone, and Cheyenne with her sad sack eyes standing over her.
Bailey stands, rawhide in her mouth, looks at me, looks at Cheyenne, and runs past the delivery men with the dryer on the rollers and straight up my stairs into my bedroom. Of course, Cheyenne follows and of course I follow as well. Not to be cornered, Bailey shoots back down the stairs and out the front door. Again, Cheyenne and I follow. Bailey runs straight to her house and under her garage door. I grab Cheyenne, peek under the door and see that the door to the house from the garage is open, so Bailey has gone inside and is no longer my problem. Cheyenne may or may not have seen it that way but when I asked her if she wanted a treaty, she happily trotted along side me back to our house.
I can only wonder what my neighbor thought when Bailey ran into his house with a rawhide in her mouth. And I hope that the treaty made Cheyenne forget about the rawhide that she really never cared about in the first place.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Raising the roof
Yesterday I went to a six year old's birthday party. It was early evening, and at the celebration were a small group of six adults, and four boys between the ages of six months and six years. I do not remember the last time I was around four boys between the ages of six months and six years, but WOW. If we could bottle up just one hour of their combined energy, I have no doubt that we could power the entire state of Texas for at least six months. Of the 20 photos I shot, not a single one is completely in focus. It's impossible, these kids move too quickly and their direction of movement is completely unpredictable.
The above photo is the most in-focus that I have and let's face it, he's six months old. But just as I snapped the photo, he whipped his head around to explode a huge grin of love and happiness at his Mum. When I look at this picture of him, I want to give him an award for World's Most Yummy Cheeks. Seriously, that face!
The birthday boy tried very hard to be patient while the party ate pizza and birthday cake. He wanted to jump into that pile of presents because afterall, they were all for him! When the moment came, he was a blur of unwrapping activity, gushing with delight and appreciation, jumping up to give hugs and thank yous, then jumping back into the pile of gifts to open the next one. It's refreshing to witness such young and unfiltered excitement.
This is the second birthday party I have been to at this house in the past five days, and the third in the past two weeks. Each has been different and each has provided me with a moment of gazing around the room or the back yard and smiling because these people and their guests? I like them. A lot. They are my people, my friends, and I have thoroughly enjoyed the celebrations this month.
Happy birthday, my September friends!
The above photo is the most in-focus that I have and let's face it, he's six months old. But just as I snapped the photo, he whipped his head around to explode a huge grin of love and happiness at his Mum. When I look at this picture of him, I want to give him an award for World's Most Yummy Cheeks. Seriously, that face!
The birthday boy tried very hard to be patient while the party ate pizza and birthday cake. He wanted to jump into that pile of presents because afterall, they were all for him! When the moment came, he was a blur of unwrapping activity, gushing with delight and appreciation, jumping up to give hugs and thank yous, then jumping back into the pile of gifts to open the next one. It's refreshing to witness such young and unfiltered excitement.
This is the second birthday party I have been to at this house in the past five days, and the third in the past two weeks. Each has been different and each has provided me with a moment of gazing around the room or the back yard and smiling because these people and their guests? I like them. A lot. They are my people, my friends, and I have thoroughly enjoyed the celebrations this month.
Happy birthday, my September friends!
Monday, September 20, 2010
The recipe
In response to last week's post, I present to you the recipe:
Chicken and Artichoke Casserole
1 3-lb. Frying chicken, cut into pieces
1 tsp Salt
1/4 tsp Pepper
1/2 Paprika
3 Tbsp Butter
1 10-1/2 oz. can Condensed cream of chicken soup
1 Tbsp Chicken stock base
3 Tbsp Dry sherry wine
1 Tbsp Fresh lemon juice
1 9-oz. can Artichoke hearts (Note: Double this. You won't be sorry)
1 4-oz. can Sliced mushrooms
Chicken and Artichoke Casserole
1 3-lb. Frying chicken, cut into pieces
1 tsp Salt
1/4 tsp Pepper
1/2 Paprika
3 Tbsp Butter
1 10-1/2 oz. can Condensed cream of chicken soup
1 Tbsp Chicken stock base
3 Tbsp Dry sherry wine
1 Tbsp Fresh lemon juice
1 9-oz. can Artichoke hearts (Note: Double this. You won't be sorry)
1 4-oz. can Sliced mushrooms
- Sprinkle chicken with salt, pepper and paprika.
- Melt butter in the casserole and roll chicken pieces in it.
- Bake in hot oven (400°) until light brown, about 15 minutes.
- Combine chicken soup, chicken stock base, sherry, lemon juice and tarragon and heat just to boiling.
- Arrange artichoke hearts between and among the chicken pieces, and spoon over drained mushrooms.
- Pour hot soup/stock/sherry sauce all over the chicken, artichokes and mushrooms.
- Cover and bake at (350°) for 45 minutes, or until chicken is tender.
- Do a little dance, because what you are about to eat is so very yummy. Your tastebuds are going to be very happy with you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)