Puppycat’s Last Ride

If you’ve been reading this humble little blog (both of you), you’ll know about my puppycat, Hope. Check-up after check-up, our little ball of soft fur and love was pronounced to have the health of a dog half her age.  She filled our lives and our home when there were no little ones, or big ones for that matter, to keep us occupied.  The boys had grown and had lives of their own.  Babies were just beginning to fill the next generation.  We got her as a puppy, just shy of eight weeks, and the first thing she did was try to die on us.  Gastroenteritis in a little one so young and so tiny can be fatal.  So, the first week with Hope was filled with animal hospital care.  She got better, of course. Otherwise, what would be the point of this posting.

Weekends were special for her because we were both home.  She had to greet us in the morning with snuggles and tail wags and belly rubs.  First one, then the other.  She grew especially attached to Gini and quickly became her little white shadow. And she loved loved loved to go for rides.  We would sometimes take a drive just so she could go.  She always rode in her soft crate, was never confortable having free reign in the car.  When she was youger she would jump right in and get in her crate.

Her last annual appointment was typical.  At the age of 12 she had the health of a 7 year old.  Then January came, and we noticed she was having trouble eating and some other things.  We had her tested for Cushings disease, and were thankful when the results came back negative.  The doctor had mentioned some dental issues so once we got the test results back we scheduled her for a tooth extraction.  She was eating on one side of her mouth.  We dropped her off as always and went home to wait for the call to come get her.  That call came sooner than expected.  After they put her under and opened her mouth to begin, the doc noticed some tumors on her tongue.  Not good.  She biopsied some and sent it out for testing.  We picked up our puppycat and proceeded to worry.  The tests came back positive for carcinoma.....  inoperable....    she had about three months.  We were not ready; not even close.  We proceeded to care for Hope, making her food from scratch, wiping the drool from her face and mouth, watching her move slower and slower.  She could no longer get her tongue out of her mouth, so doggy kisses were over. She  began to get sick from the mucosal buildup, about once a day in the last few weeks.  Still, she had more happy moments than bad....  until she didn’t.

For the past month or so, she all but demanded to ride when Gini took me to work.  She just put her head down and headed out the door with us.  No more jumping in the van, though.  She waited patiently for me to pick her up and put her in the crate, then she’d settle down and enjoy her ride.

This past Saturday, June 29th, She woke up not interested in food.  She got up with me and laid close by, looking at me with a haunted look.  Her breathing was labored.  I was going to go to the van to get something, and she padded with me to head out the door.  So we went out and walked around the yard.  Gini joined us, and we watched as our beloved puppycat rolled around on the grass scratching her back.  But she couldn’t for long.  She had to get up and try to get sick to get the junk out of her mouth and lungs. She was in pain.  Enough that when I went into the house to get something, Gini was moved to tears watching her.  Hope was weak.  She was in so much pain.  And she just didn’t have any interest in moving around.  The haunted look was deeper.  There had a new tumor on the side of her neck.  A hard lump.  The cancer had spread.  It was too much.  She did not walk to the van this time.  I had to carry her.  When I put her in the crate, she whined from discomfort, but lay down and was quiet for the ride to the vet.  I hate this part.  The part you know is coming.  I’m going to skip the details.

They brought her out to us in a very nice little box coffin with her name on it.  I carried our little puppycat, our Hope, now 13 and never to get older, out to the van.  I put her in her crate, and we drove home.  Her last ride.

An angel sits watch over her next to the step out front.  We’re still experiencing firsts without her, and coming home has lost some of it’s joy.  No happy little bundle coming to greet us with a wagging butt and a scamper between us.  No morning kisses.  No expectant look for treats before I head to work. No Hope. 

I think the hardest part is going to bed.  She's not waiting for me on the back of the couch to pick her sleepy puppy self up and carry her to the bed.  She's not curling up next to me, or between my legs.  She's not digging an imaginary hole to sleep in.  I don't hear her breathing or feel her little heartbeat against my back.  My throat is tight, my eyes are filled, and my heart is breaking again. 

I miss my puppycat. 

The Eye

In the Storm I stand, on shifting sand,
While heaven's light steadily loses the battle
with the tempest raging, surrounding, resounding,
uncaging from its binds.
Chaos whips my skin from all directions
in the form of dejection, disappointment,
rejections and pain.  It finds
a crack in the armor that's formed,
so diminutive as to exist in abstract.
This is what the demeanor attracts, that appears not affected
by the day after day after day of challenge,
of push, of stress, of blame, of lies intended to shame.
Those outside behind a wall, stare in awe, unaware of the flaw,
as emotion seeps through the fissure forming,
yet I stand non-conforming to the buffets of fear, of doubt, of strain.
The pain acts as mortar to fill the gap, and strengthen that
which is holding me firm
In the storm I stand, no shield, no spear, for the battle is not waged
against the winds and debris and lightening and rain.
I don't hold the storm in disdain.  It is my companion, my shaper, my whetstone.
I welcome its coming, for knowing nothing else I let it surround me, go through me,
around me.
I lean in when I must, bending forward with each gust,
holding ground that is at once mine and not.  What I've got
is the knowledge that the Storm will not last.  It hasn't before, not in any past.
It simply rages until its energy is spent.
This event is my life, and I'm honed and strengthened,
ready to offer to any who would love and trust,
this simple fact that I must be the one who,
on the shifting sand,
in the Storm I stand.
It is Life.
It is Destiny.
It is Me.

cd - 102716  10:34 p.m

Contemplation on the Step

If I've learned anything from my maternal Grandmother, the value of the step is quite possibly the strongest lesson.  I should explain.

I would go to her house (she lived next door, which meant a soybean field away), and find her just sitting on her step.  That's it, just sitting.  When I asked her what she was doing, she said, "Just enjoying the outdoors".  For many of us "enjoying the outdoors" means actively doing something: swimming, hiking, playing sportsball, fishing (ok, you don't do much action fishing, but you get my drift).  For her, it meant just being with nature.  Listening to the sounds of the breeze through the trees, feeling the sun on her face, smelling the flowers growing and the turned soil.  Enjoying.

I'm 56 now, and through the years I've come to understand what she truly meant.  I have a step, and from time to time, why I need to clear the mechanism, I just go out there and sit.  I don't think about anything...  I just sit and experience the effect of everything around me on all of my senses.  Now, I prefer to do this at night, particularly when the moon is bright and the sky is clear.  My touchstones are the moon and stars (since I can't actually be at the point of the Cape at night...thanks, Government), and I know if I just sit and allow my senses to be filled with the night sounds, sights, smells, touch of air on my skin, I will be cleansed.  The only rule is to empty my mind, and not think. I can feel the rhythms of the earth and hear the songs of the sky if I sit there long enough.

I won't tell you I come away with the answers to all my questions and concerns and worries.  But what does happen is I come away with a clean slate, where I can write my own solutions, or realize the worries are trivial and don't serve any purpose other than to upset my world.  I don't really have a "religion", although I've been down that road.  I can, however, claim spirituality...  and I never feel closer to my spiritual self than when I'm out there on my step...  just enjoying the outdoors.

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The Passing of The Leader of the Band

I was ten when I met him.  But let's get there in a moment.

I was born here, but from the time I was around two all the way through my ninth year, I lived about 70 or so miles away.  At the age of seven (I think) I was introduced to a piano, basically because my asthmatic self couldn't always join in recess or play sports... at least not on a regular basis.  So, a funny thing happened on the way to filling the time...  I fell in love with music.  A couple years after that I was eligible to join the school band and wanted to play the sax.  My mother played when she was young, you see, and still had the instrument.  It was a win-win.  However, my teeth were in a sad transitional state, and the music director at that school suggested I not play a wind instrument until that resolved.  Dad played the drums, drumsticks were relatively inexpensive, so drums it was.

In the summer of 1970 we moved back "home"...   back here. In the Fall, I was ten years old, the new kid in school, and I wanted to play the sax now.  That's when I met him.  He taught the younger kids basic instrumentation, and I learned the sax under his tutelage along with a few other kids my age.  At the same time, I met this kid my age and, as ten-year-olds will, we became friends...  best friends.   And, the man was his Dad.  Over the course of the next eight years of my life, I spent a lot of time in their home.  Sleep-overs in the younger years, visiting in the "got my license and a car" years.  Bill and I were pretty much inseparable, and I had the opportunity to get to know his parents as a result.  Mr. and Mrs Bame.  Never "Dave and Norma" for that wouldn't suit at all.  I have a hard time even at this age forming their first names in my mouth without feeling disrespectful.  I watched Mr. Bame build kites out of sticks and newspaper, saw him reading books in his favorite chair, had the privilege of hearing him laugh from time to time, and yes, witnessed him being Dad to my best friend and his siblings.

When I reached high school, I finally had Mr. Bame as our band director.  I learned to love playing the sax and thought I was passably fair, and really couldn't wait to have him lead.  He did so for one year before he retired.  Everyone was sad, some upset.  But I knew I'd continue to see him from time to time when I came over and spent time with my friend, picked him up so we could go cruisin' with the rest of our generation (circles...  lots of circles).  I watched him create, and even helped build a few, the most beautiful wind chimes you will ever hear, made from metal electrical conduit and fishing line.  Each length cut precisely to emit the exact note, and placed so that no two chimes would be struck by the clapper that weren't perfectly harmonized.  It was a means for additional income...    It was art.

Bill and I attended college together, at least for a couple of years, as roommates.  He was best man at my wedding at St. Peter's.  I attended his wedding in a Baltimore Synagogue.  I saw less and less of Mr. Bame as Bill and I left our homes and started families.  I confess guilt over not at least going to visit from time to time.  I can claim "life" but that's really no excuse.  Bill's brother Paul moved away first, and farthest at the time.  His sister Carol (my "other" little sister) is still here.  I think without her I would have no contact with Mr. and Mrs. Bame, even indirectly.

Mr. Bame has passed.  And while it was expected, when I got the news by throat tightened...  much as it has now while I write this.  There's a tear in the corner of my eye.  A significant part of my childhood is gone.  The Leader of the Band has laid down his baton and will direct no more.  And I believe the world is a sadder place for it.

Thank you, Mr. Bame.  Thank you for taking the time to set me on a path.  Thank you for producing my best friend, his brilliant brother, and his sister whom I've come to love as my own.  Thank you for leading all of us, generations, class after class of music makers, music lovers.  Thank you.

A lunar tale

Silent, she stands, hiding in plain sight 

Reflecting into night 

The light of day, filtered with Solitude, 

Tempered by time and disappointment.

"It's fine", but it's not. 

The battles fought take toll on her heart 

Till she shelters close 

Not morose, but safe with her faith 

So misunderstood.  All will be good 

With time, you'll see.

The walls will grow strong against all but the song

That haunts and fills all the holes in her soul. What now?

Vocal, he reclines, pulling into his mind 

Unaware of the world

Revolving about while he shouts

Without sound; for he's found the counter 

To his voice, no choice. 

His soul reaches out far into the night 

The flight is long yet close at hand,

For silent she stands, walls tight against the night save for the passage that allows his song to invade, connections made.

All the while far above, the messenger, with love watches over the distance as though a blink,

As they sink into ancient embrace, her silently standing, him vocally reclined. 

Hush.  Allow.   Be.

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Rumors of Spring

A deep blue field of crisp vast sky, textured with the bump of an alabaster half-moon.
The sway of skeletal branches, accentuated with the green of newborn growth.
The touch of Winter's last cold breath tempered by a warm kiss of the strengthening sun of Spring.
Scattered birdsong, punctuated with moments of silence as the full choir has not yet arrived to join in.
Gentle stirrings from deep within of life awakening, new possibilities, promises of opportunities whispering in the soul.

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Through a Wood Winding

Finding your way through a dark wood winding, Moon-silver reminding your steps that the path unseen is clear and serene to the mind once open and free.

Reflecting at times on choices bisecting, fleeting thoughts injecting full color,

While monochrome trees sway gently in breeze that surrounds and guides what you see.

Keeping your memories from happily seeping, while eyes trickle weeping,

Betraying your heart as the foliage parts while you're finding your way through a dark wood winding, Moon-silver reminding that all love is binding, and open, and free. 

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Irony

When once I was young
as fast as I ran
the years went by at a crawl.
There was time for play,
Adventure and fun.
Life was delicious, fresh, and raw.

So now as I age
my steps are measured,
methodical; I take my time as I think.
But, as much as I stall it,
as slow as I go,
the damn years fly by in a blink.

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Connections

In solitary thought and contemplation deep,
on the front steps sat I while above the moon did keep
its vigil o'er the town in dream filled peace asleep.
Epiphany escapes me once more.

Though photos passed and history's appeal,
connections made I with earlier generations' deal
to offer ancestral secrets with ache to reveal.
This road's been traveled before.

By routes of memories thick with fog and clear,
confusions have I, no revelations appear
to set to right why I'm sitting here.
It's right on the edge of allure.

On the breeze of night, a slight scent rides along,
familiar am I with the aromatic song
which triggers the calm and erases the wrong.
Epiphany once more...
On this road from before...
Salt air's sweet allure...
Contentment arrives from the shore.

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On the Edge of Sleep

Riding the tide of nightfall chill,
cresting the wave of dream-light
I find my mind in fantasy's will
somewhere between twilight and fancy's flight.

The parade of choices taken and discarded
pass me by, and I reach for those I choose to weave
into the fabric of dream.
Where will I go,
who will I be out there
somewhere between twilight and fancy's flight?

Meet me there on the cusp of Angel wings and heat.
Run with me through fields of brown wheat
until our feet lift from earth with arms spread wide
out there,
somewhere,
between twilight and fancy's flight.

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Introspection of "fair"

I'm a fixer.  Now, by this I don't mean to profess any handyman skills.  While I may occasionally play at home improvement, it's usually limited to spraying cabinet door hinges with WD-40, or tinkering with a piece of electronics that I don't expect to ever work again.  I'm an ok shade-tree mechanic but only by necessity, and even then I have to be extremely motivated.  No, I'm talking about fixing things that go wrong.  When I see someone I love or a good friend in trouble I'm compelled to fixing whatever situation is causing the hurt, the pain, the difficulty.  I've always been this way.  So, when situations arise that I can do absolutely nothing about I'm lost...  at least temporarily. For me, there's not much worse than a feeling of absolute helplessness.  There's always a solution....  there has to be.

Throughout my adult life, I've had to face these things I can't control.  Learning that fairness doesn't truly exist was, and is, a difficult and perpetual lesson.  There are just some situations that are completely beyond any one's control.  I've experienced it personally, and in the lives of others.  I suppose we all have.  

So how to deal with it.  Probably the most prevalent advice I get is to trust that everything happens for a reason.  I understand that idea, I do.  And I get that for some this reasoning serves to motivate and encourage.  For me, it doesn't do the trick.  I have to reach that place where I come to just accept that this is the way things are.  Nothing can change it.  So, take steps to move forward and around if necessary, and put it behind me.  No grand epiphanies, maybe some lessons learned but seldom so.  

So "fair" does not exist.  I don't believe it ever has.  Life moves forward, and we are usually trapped somewhere between plan and react.  And try as I might, I can't fix everything.  It's not always about me (seldom is, actually), and all I can do is move forward or around, educate others in hopes they are better prepared, and support those in need that I cannot fix.  It sucks.  But it's the best I've got.  

Night Wind Winding

Silent whispers of night wind winding
through branches bare, once full with flair
and color, to break against shelter walls and add
white noise against a backdrop of sleep silent.

Mind turning events of now, and then, and yet to be
to meld and mix and blend and fix
until something resembling thought and conclusion
comes crashing through to epiphany.

Rain intensifies the whispers of night
crescendo distracting the thoughts impacting
the choices made in seconds of fancy and logic
consumed by reality and truth and perspective.

My selves of now, and then, and yet to be
discuss and dream and think and seem
to be enjoined in conversation, but truly it's not....
It's whispers of night wind winding through branches bare
and it's there
that we care
for the dreams of another heart beating
while white noise sings against the backdrop
of sleep,
silent,
and sweet.

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A Breath, A Whisper, A Dream

A Breath
Taken sharply at first site of love, bringing warmth to a winter's day,
chasing all rational thought and filling heart with unfamiliar joy.
Exhaled slowly to calm anger and shock, slowing blood rising swiftly,
cleansing thought of rash action and haste.
Escaping softly on a crisp, grey autumn morning,
mixing with tears graveside, betraying the presence of fresh grief.

A Whisper
Against an ear, sheltered with palm, sharing secrets of best friends,
confidence forged forever and a day from children at play.
Leaning close, barely audible, standing side-by-side
while "paying attention", breaking monotony and boredom deep.
Professing deepest love in the closest of moment,
spicing passion, forming promise of commitment stronger than any ring on finger.

A Dream
Dancing loosely, just out of reach in the dawn of day,
teasing conscious mind with tickles of fancy not yet known.
Vivid and clear, sensation rich, colors vibrant
fooling the mind and heart with reality unreal.
Known and promising, straddling the fence of fantasy,
nudging aside inhibitions, urging on the taking of chance.

Such is the life of woman and man, the trifecta of origin
of all we are.
A Breath.... A Whisper.... A Dream.

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Requiem of Insomnia

Standing with sword of shadow and light, 

invisible warriors ready to fight 

the evils of inaction and lethargy this night 

that productive thought may proceed.  

Mind weary and worn must forge ahead,  

heedless of calls to rest and bed 

lest the beasts of failure and regret be fed 

the manna of want and need.  

Then softly, a song from deep within  

of comfort, calm and peace does begin 

to sooth the heart and salve the sin 

of drive and push so deep.  

Take time to hear, to hum along 

with eye closed and body swaying; this is not wrong.  

Your heart has need of this restful song. 

So sing...and dream...sleep.  

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Upon Further Thought

In the dark of night as the scent of light
flees Earth in search of day,
The heart's content in reflections sent
within the soul's display.

Where will I go within the flow
of time, reason and space?
How will I rise with tomorrow's sighs?
With wonder, with love, with grace?

Each night resets a day well met
with lessons learned or no.
How long the test at your behest
is not for you to know.

So find your path bereft of wrath.
Waste not the gifts.  Come play
in the the dark of night as the scent of light
flees Earth in search of day.

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My Christmas Gift

I'm staring at my Christmas Tree, my world is sound asleep,
all snug and warm and prayed the Lord their little souls to keep.
The colors change for my special eyes, now yellow, now green, now blue.
I sit quite still and realize there's still so much to do.

There are gifts to wrap and calls to make, must keep moving to ensure
important things are not missed (who should be keeping score?).
But I sit here staring at my Christmas Tree, it draws me close to see
the important things are found inside the hearts of family.

Family of blood, of friendship, of choice; family of bonds secure.
Family with whom I break my fast, family I can't ignore.
Those of you I only know through airwaves, electrons, light.
Those of you I'd stand beside, to love, to lift, to right.

While I stare at my Christmas Tree, with my world all sound asleep,
all snug and warm and prayed the Lord their little souls to keep,
I wish for you, my family, my friends, a Peace that never ends.
Merry Christmas with all my heart, and thank you... once again.

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Remembrance

There's a whisper on night's wind
moving through ages,
of acts performed on stages far from here.
The actors play parts
with hearts of conviction affecting ultimate interdiction
so we may rest easy, secure without fear.
The courage they command,
they demand of themselves
belies dangers surrounding their call.
For the theaters they play
are the grays of battle,
devoid of guarantees without fall.
Remember them now, remember them tomorrow,
remember them all days of the year.
Remember their sacrifice on distant stages of life,
so we may rest easy, secure, without fear.

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Being Human

Finding everything and nothing

in the sigh that punctuates day's end,

summarizing events, thoughts, fears, hopes

in one simple breath.  

This is being human.

Seeing the order in the chaos of the world

as it spins steadily on axis yet out of control

around you.  At once disgusted and accepting 

of the atrocities, insanity, inanity uncontrolled.

This is being human.

Marveling the innocence of the mind 

of a child, and smiling as you vaguely recall

in the wisps of memory you possess. and with it

gathering hope....  feeling love.

This is being human.

Shedding the noise, resetting the soul,

finding the music within that drives,

letting it sing and knowing happiness 

is yours to choose, yours to lose, and you light the fuse

to watch it burn bright, and chase away the night,

moving forward to begin again the daily fight. 

This is being human.

And so I breathe...   

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When Memories Fail

On the edge of awareness a memory teases.
It does as it pleases
and dances away to leave you standing, just for the nonce. 
Slowly you turn while the questions that burned
extinguish before you come 'round full once.
Confusion to wonder in three blinks till you blunder
upon another memory that dances and prances just out reach.
A loving heart comes along with a familiar song
to lead you back to once known surrounds,
and listens, attentive, as you thrice regale an oft told tale, 
while at the edge of awareness a memory teases
and does as it pleases, 
then dances away once more
through the door
Of nevermore.

 cd 081213

The Firefly

In the black and white of twilight as night
erodes the light of day, I sat
and scratched the head of my cream-colored cat.
A tiny shadow floats before me, its existence fleeting until
it glows...  a firefly...
and my world changes to wheat and rye.

Forty-odd years roll away, an earlier day,
my sister and I chasing small bugs of lightening
in slow motion, jars open, wonder wide, minds inviting.
All sounds are distant, ethereal, unreal, as the moments
stretch to magical sighs, our eyes
adjusting to shadow and shade, new mysteries made.

Adults in chairs, up there, unaware the game has changed
to hide-and-seek, to oxen-free
glowing jars forgotten on wooden step, with promise kept
of freedom at close of night's great joys,
when we retire to toys inside.

Parents have called, claimed right to night
as shadows fade to darkness black
we slide ourselves back
to harsh light indoors, hard floors to tread
and ready ourselves to rest and bed.

My cat content, my free moments spent,
my mind returns to the churns
of now....   and I rise to slide inside
where whisper of air replaces the fair breeze
of night.  I sit now and write.  

Know yourself, reader sublime, catcher of rhyme,
don't let slip the joys of past, of childhood blast,
of times simple, at once old and new.
These are the moments that refresh you,
reset you, and let you know that you are indeed
alive.

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