Arayo's Ride

Please, ENOUGH!

2012-02-26T16:43:00.000-08:00

Arayo poses with Oswego Buffalo and February Daffodils

She seems to be healing nicely, this sweet Arayo of mine. A month and a half after surgery, 70 staples are removed from her belly and the docs at Missouri University have taken her off the pills she has depended on for years to keep her from leaking. Now we see if the occluder attached to the base of her bladder free us from the drugs which have always worried me for their long term effects.

We make the 5 hour journey to Columbia and Arayo spends the day in the hospital as they test various amounts of fluids in the urethral occluder to try to find just the right amount of pressure to give her control of her urine without creating a blockage. At my cousin's that evening, Arayo shakes her head and urine splatters everywhere. We obviously have some bugs to work out.

Daily we visit the hospital. They put in a bit more saline and we watch to see if the dam will hold. When I'm comfortable we've hit the perfect balance, I plan to drive back to southern Kansas, only to awake to find Arayo will not get up. She can't get up. Her head seems frozen to the floor and it hurts to move. When she finally gets to her feet, she walks as though she has aged 50 years in the night. Her step is slow and I get the sense she doesn't want to let her feet touch the ground.

Have we overfilled the occluder and her entire belly is inflamed or something? We head back to the university for another appointment.

Arayo is a people slut We walk in the door and a handsome man sits between us and the reception desk. She suddenly doesn't feel so bad. She rushes to him, wiggles her tail and lays her big head in his lap. (Yes, this is the same dog who couldn't bend down to drink water 30 minutes ago.) She rushes to the reception desk where she jumps up on the counter and stands on her rear feet, supporting herself with one front paw.

Arayo had refused to pick a treat off the floor if one is dropped because it hurt too much to bend that far down. I demonstrate this to the vet by dropping a cookie at her feet. She immediately grabs it and looks at me for more. (Damn dog!) The vet palpates her belly and it is pronounced fine.

Five days ago I had mentioned to the vet that Arayo flinched when I grabbed the rear leg that the occluder port is attached to and asked them to check it. Perhaps the port has caused an infection or something. The news was not good. She has apparently torn the ligament in her knee and they suggest another major surgery and 8 weeks total confinement to put the knee back together.

But the front leg is the concern today. The vet pushes and pulls and pokes and prods. Arayo may have a bit of arthritis in the joints but nothing major. She hits the top of the shoulder and Arayo flinches. Given Arayo's age and breed, the vet wants to rule out bone cancer - which, if not spread, would require amputation of the leg.

2012 isn't stacking up to be our best year - my poor sweet Arayo.

Saturday I load the Subaru and prepare to make the long drive home. As I head Arayo to the car, she stops for a final pee. One can never be sure about her - she's a low squatter. The dripping seems to have totally stopped - but have we created a damn and when she's trying to go, she really isn't?

She takes position for her final pee and I swoop in, run a hand under her tail and am rewarded by the feel of a hearty stream of warm urine falling on my hand. Only a mother would stoop to such lows, but it does my heart good to know that at least THAT is functioning properly.

In the meantime we ask for prayers and good thoughts sent this way. I've had Arayo 7 1/2 wonderful years but I'm not ready for this ride to end.

The Dreaded Diet

2012-02-04T15:07:00.000-08:00

You exercise, girl!

I started a diet this week. I'm notorious for doing this. 360 days a year I plan to begin. "I'm starting a diet tomorrow," I'll proclaim, only to realize there is a perfectly good cheesecake in the fridge that I can't possibly toss, a frozen pizza that will call my name if I don't consume it, a fairly new half-gallon of milk that I don't want to waste…. So, when tomorrow comes, I have lots of reasons for putting it off a day or two. And, with the diet looming a few days ahead, I'll buy more cereal to use up the milk, and when the milk is gone I still have this cereal that isn't on the diet…….. You get the picture.

"Since I'm beginning a diet tomorrow and I'll not eat the foods I love again for at least a year, tonight I shall splurge and have a hamburger, eat at a buffet, drink a REAL Coke and not a crummy diet one," I reason. My waistline increases when I'm gearing up for a diet.

Sometimes I have to shame myself into doing what is best for me, so this week I decided I needed to become accountable to more than the dog in this venture. (Hey, she loves me no matter what.) So I REALLY stuck myself out there and began the community's "One Ton Weight-Loss Challenge". The local hospital agreed to sponsor it by giving us use of a meeting room and their scales once a week, and this past Wednesday 25 people showed up, weighed in, set goals and joined me on this venture.

Thursday, day one, went well - until about 4 pm when the hardware on the doors began to look appetizing. Its not that I was starving - I just LIKE TO EAT!

I'm determined to do this, though, and part of the plan is to drink lots of water and get into an exercise program. Now, it has long been speculated within my family that my plumbing is more a straight shot through my body, missing those parts that filter, absorb and eventually store fluids until a convenient time for depositing them elsewhere. Drinking 3 liters of water a day - - - well, lets say I AM getting lots of exercise and I'm certainly glad the house plumbing system is functioning.

Then, Thursday evening, when the couch cushions began looking like giant marshmallows which could be pretty tasty with a dousing of chocolate sauce, I headed off for a Zumba class. With 20 sets of shoulders shaking, wastes throbbing, and keesters gyrating in impossible combinations, I took solace in the back corner of the room. I'm not big into praying, but I did send out a heavenly memo or two that the next move wouldn't turn the entire group towards the back wall where I was standing looking like Pocahontas dropped down into central Manhattan. This boodie isn't working like that any more, I'm afraid - but the energy level was high and people were sweet so I will return.

Weigh-in will come again this week and I AM going to succeed this time. (I'd find a really fitting way to finish this - but the water is doing its thing to me again, and I've REALLY gotta run.......)

Life Is Too Short For White Walls

2012-01-18T20:19:00.000-08:00

Sarah Lytle's granddaughter's new PINK bedroom!

"Can you come help me paint," my friend asked? "My granddaughter is coming and I thought I'd have time to paint her bedroom walls, but I think I need help to get it done before she gets here."

Oh, yippee! I love to paint. I really LOVE to paint someone else's house, especially when I don't have to pick the color myself!

"What color," I asked? Not that it would make a difference as to whether I helped or not, but still, it somehow seemed important to visualize what I'd be doing.

"Pink!" she replied. "Wink Pink."

Now, this is a classy gal. Not the "typical" wife of a mid-west farmer or insurance salesman. Not that there is anything wrong with farmer's wives (or insurance salesmen's wives). I have a deep respect and admiration for them. But, I kinda visualize different colors when I think of a Kansas farmer's wife's walls vs a Santa Barbara California artist's walls. Pink can mean a lot of different things, after all. I look at a color pallet online and dream pink. "Secret Rendezvous", "Mediiterranean Spice", "Old Claret". Hum…… Where is Wink?

So, off I head to paint. Pink. I'm imagining a form of dusty rose. But when I arrive and open the can - even I could see, she wasn't kidding. This is PINK! In fact, I recognize this color. I just helped my cousin paint her 11 year old daughter's room what had to be the exact same shade of pink. Megan, (my cousin) was not as thrilled with the idea of having this much pink in her house. But her daughter REALLY wanted it and, as I pointed out, it wasn't as though she was cooperating in helping her obtain a tattoo or pierced nose. This was paint - which can change next week if the daughter tires of it.

Though, I had to admit that painting this pink made me realize what it must feel like to live inside a Bazooka Bubble Gum bubble. In contrast to my cousin, my friend, Sara, was embracing this Wink, pink as it was

So, I happily painted and then Sara came in and pulled the room together. Some Andy Warhol Marilyn Monroe's on one wall, a faux zebra-skin rug on the floor, a bright 60's-era peace poster, twinkle lights in the air and a 2' wide turquoise and lavender metal Christmas tree for holiday spirit. Oh, yes - and a phone that looked like a set of big red lips! It was a masterpiece. Made me want to run home and paint a room or two pink for myself - though I admit - I'd need her to come over to add the finishing touches.

After doing the remodel of my basement a few years ago, I was overcome with a need for color. And, standing in that room, surrounded by the brightest, wildest, bubble-gummiest pink you can imagine - I added yet another important thing add to my list of how to make life better:

"Embrace color! Life is just too short for White Walls!"

Arayo's New Lair

2012-01-10T11:09:00.000-08:00

Arayo recovers from surgery in her new lair

There are things we do for those we love. And, though I hate to admit it, sometimes we'll do more for the dog than one of our human family members.

Arayo was split nearly in half - some 70 staples form the zipper that keeps her organs from falling out. Healing will take time and while she doesn't seem to be in pain, she needs to hide in a dark private place. I caught her dragging herself under the bed last night. I don't know how she does that. She looks like the poster dog for joining the Army. "Be All You Can Be" and all that nonsense. With no more than an inch of space between her body and the top of the bed, she lays flat and uses her front legs to drag herself so she's hidden far from reach.

Once she is heeled I won't need to take her to the vet for the removal of the staples - I'll just let her drag herself under the bed and they'll all rip out. But for now, they need to remain in place. Terrified of what I'll find when I have extracted her from this hiding place, I lift the bed and encourage her out.

From the garage I dig out an old card table which fits between the bed and wall. A blanket covers it, producing a gold cottony den of sorts. I can't reach the dresser where my clothes are kept, but its the only good place for this nest - and - well, so what? If Arayo is happy, I don't really need to change clothes, anyway!

The entire affect is - well, ugly. If a spouse or child had suggested the need for setting up a rickety old card table and covering it with a blanket so they could crawl in it and mend, I'd explain that they could just GET OVER IT! Life is full of little inconveniences and the sooner they learn to be happy with what they have the better! Besides, I'm not working around a hideous eyesore just so they'll feel better! (Starting to pick up on why I didn't have kids? Why I'm not married?)

Start each birthday on your head

But, Arayo is Arayo and she gets what makes her feel good. Today I celebrate my birthday. It will be a quiet day spent with this dog I so adore. Perhaps, I'll write, maybe get the year started right by doing taxes. Who knows.

A friend sent me a magnet for my birthday. It has a B&W photo of 3 older women on it - one wearing a folded hat made of newspaper. It reads "You're on the right road if you're happy when you're lost." That's my new motto for this year - but the photo should have a photo of Arayo and me, driving down the road, wind in our hair.

Nice is Nice, But......

2012-01-08T11:36:00.000-08:00

It pays to be nice. I believe that, though, at times, like most everyone, I could do better. And, people who are just rude - I don't have the patience for them.

But last night I finished reading the Steve Jobs biography. No doubt how it was going to turn out, but it was interesting how I responded to reading about someone who was so notoriously ruthless in his dealing with people, and how I found myself appreciating him for that giant personality flaw!

He wasn't like Hitler, literally killing people for his personal goals and beliefs, and God knows what the world would be like if we had millions of Steve Jobs running around insulting people, telling them their ideas are crap. And it didn't just extend to computers. At one point, after his liver transplant, someone came into his hospital room and slipped a mask over his face before doing a procedure. They thought he was unconscious, but he ripped the mask off and said it was ugly and he refused to wear it. He made them bring 5 others in so he could select the best designed one to wear.

I've been using Apple products since purchasing my first computer in 1984. I have to admit that when my mom was talked into getting a PC "because it was cheaper" - the thing was nothing but a headache. Steve wanted his systems to work in perfect harmony - and for the most part they do. I just shake my head at friends who have PC's which are constantly in the shop with a virus, or something just not working…… "And HOW is that PC saving you money?" I want to ask? I can hear Jobs - "They are building crap!"

Jobs set a high standard and those who rose to his calling - while they complained about his rudeness - they were also proud that he got them to do more than they would have without his pushing.

I've often said our country needs a time of cleansing. We've become a country of whiners and it bothers me that the ethics have gone out of our day-to-day thinking. Too bad they can't just turn the country over to someone like Steve Jobs. Someone who would cut out the crap and focus on the programs and goals that are efficient and well designed. Instead we have a mishmash. As Steve would say "we have crap".

With winter upon us, its a good time to settle down with a good book. "Steve Jobs" is a fascinating and personal look at a genius who has changed our world.

Pain

2012-01-07T13:34:00.000-08:00

Arayo's side and belly were shaved for surgery

Like the squeak of a mouse, it is high and soft. In the darkness of the room, I lay on my mattress on the floor, trying to associate the noise with something familiar. Again, the sound - a little bit peep, a little whimper, a little whine.

I realize it is Arayo and reach to stroke her - moving my hand from the silky rich texture of her fur to the bald skin of her lower side and hip. The area my cousin calls "the turkey leg" because it looks so like the side of a freshly plucked Thanksgiving bird.

For the moment she calms, though when I roll over to go back to sleep, the whining continues. It is so unlike her - she is a Newfoundland, noted for being stoic through pain. "Oh, what the hell", I think, and reach for her medications. She had a pain pill 3 hours ago, but if she is complaining, I'll give her another one.

She's been split from breastbone to her privates. 62 staples hold her organs in place, another 5 secure a port which will be used later to inflate a band wrapped around the neck of her bladder. Continent only with the use of massive amounts of drugs, a band has been affixed to the neck of her bladder and will later be inflated - the goal to keep urine where it belongs until she elects to discharge it.

62 stitches hold Arayo together

But that is all for later. Now, we work through the slow healing process.

With another pill ingested, Arayo gradually calms and I sleep, only to wake again to find her whimpering yet anew. I don't think I can give her another pill so I wrap my arm around her and allow her to climb onto the mattress and curl next to my shoulder.

It is I who love her most, yet it is I who have caused this misery she now suffers. My job is to protect her, yet I've brought this into her life. Until I know she's fully healed and that this was the right decision, Arayo and I each suffer our own special agony.

The Waiting Room

2012-01-05T12:01:00.000-08:00

The wind in one's fur is glorious

We are bonded - this eclectic group of strangers. We huddle in cocoons of our own making. The quadriplegic in his wheelchair, senior citizen in her sporty black and gray plaid cap, housewife in jogging pants and tennis shoes, and the teen with the hog-sized ring hanging from the center of her nose. Together we bring the energy level of this room to a very heavy place.

We each hold a furry soul in our hearts who struggles through a life or death procedure beyond the doors - in an area we can't reach.

A flash of white comes from the inner sanctuary. In unison we look up, hoping it is "our" vet student with word that our pet is doing well. The lovely Asian woman smiles at the student, then turns away, flashing truth to her daughter - a sad and very worried expression.

Another student comes forth, holding back a wiry haired little guy with a bright yellow bandage surrounding his belly. A middle-aged couple lights up, jumps from their seat and calls the dog's name. For a moment the pall is lifted. Someone's pet will be fine.

From the outside comes a woman, 60's, anorexicly thin. Her face painstakingly designed by years of viewing the negative side of every situation. A furry Golden Retriever, face graying, peers after her, worried for her wellbeing. That one so decidedly sweet can worship at the heels of one so obviously crabby is proof that dogs are teachers - gifts from a higher source. Unlike most of us who can't bear to leave this place - she drops off her dog and leaves.

A blonde. so fat she requires the aide of a walker, waits - two Yorkies resting on the ample chest which forms a cushioned couch for their support. Piled together as though they are one, they rest their tiny heads on her shoulder as she nestles her florid face in their rough coat. They worry for their other pack member as one.

I wait, as I've waited for the past 6 hours when Arayo was taken from me. "My" student has just approached. "Are you ready for this," he asks? They are taking her in, surgery will begin in a few minutes. The surgery which will split her belly, remove organs, tacking some, adding support to others, is ready to begin.

Many from around the globe join me as I worry for my girl. "My sweet Arayo. I hope you feel the prayers and thoughts of love which are streaming your way. Please hold strong, be safe. I love you."

A Life Altering Decision

2012-01-03T07:56:00.000-08:00

Arayo with her razorback pup

She carries it in her mouth and fusses over its wellbeing. Upset when it is lost, she whines, begging to be let out to search for this new love. Green with spiny horns growing out of its elongated flat-fronted snout, it squeaks and carries on at the least bit of nudging.

Arayo is protective of her new charge, certain it is a her own. I shudder to think what the father looked like, to produce, with my beautiful girl, this bizarre child.

There is no accounting for those we cherish the most. I adore this dog. She is all I find good in the world. Sweet natured, accepting of what life lays at her paws. A wonderful companion, interested in exploring the world and meeting new people. The perfect ambassador, teaching humans astute enough to notice how to navigate the land-mines of human interactions.

She is my dearest friend, just as this green squeaky toy is her child. Arayo thinks she's had a baby and this razorback pig is her pup. It has pushed me towards making a decision I've danced away from for 7 very short years. It is time to spay before her body is too old, before infections can take hold which would easily kill her.

Arayo and I hit the road again today, traveling to central Missouri to the Veterinary Medical Teaching Hospital at Columbia. Our questions are many, the surgery not risk-free. We ask that you keep us in your thoughts and prayers - that she comes through this as she has most things in life - with ease - and that I don't totally go off the deep end as I worry through the process. Many of you have helped as I've fussed over making this decision. To each of you, I thank you for your patient input and knowledge. I couldn't do it without you!

The Special Moment

2012-01-01T11:25:00.000-08:00

The Proposal, with family looking on

The man needed an accomplice, so he approached one of us. Perhaps his mistake was not doing a background check on the group she was with but he needed to act quickly and quietly. He'd thought everything else through. The time, the location, the ring. All he needed was someone to record this - the biggest moment of his life.

But, he asked one of us to hold the camera and document this event. With the camera running, he led his special someone to a canopy created with hundreds of white lights. He peered into her face, then dropped to one knee and produced a small box containing the glittering symbol of a thousand dreams.

Our rag-tag group surrounded the couple as he asked her to spend the rest of her life with him, and the romantic moment was transformed to a sporting event. We cheered his actions, we clapped, then someone realized we didn't know her answer so we loudly called out, as though it was our right to know her response. We'd suddenly taken a vested interest in the outcome of this moment. She nodded, and responded yes, and as he stood and slipped the ring on her finger, we applauded, then asked to be invited to the wedding!

My uncle then pulled from his pocket the ultimate engagement gift. A round chocolate-covered brownie he had purloined at my aunt's memorial earlier in the day. He'd been bringing it out of his pocket for the past seven hours to gloat about possessing the once appealing treat, but this time, he unwrapped the decaying prize from its shredded paper napkin and offered it to the couple. With grace, they accepted it, although it was like the gutted squirrel that is offered to a human by the family cat.

Returning to the paths and twinkling lights of Garvan Gardens, the night seemed brighter, the cold less biting. Whoever you are, we wish you years and years of happiness. We were thrilled to spend such a special moment with you.

(Thank you to my niece Chisa Hughes for sharing the great photographs!)

The extended Hughes family

Honoring the Real Santa

2011-12-25T09:07:00.000-08:00

He's round with rosy cheeks and John Lennon glasses. A full white beard rests on his chest and the slippers on his feet cover a toe he injured somewhere along the way. Perhaps he stubbed it getting up for a cup of hot chocolate after falling asleep reading in front of a fire.

I don't believe in a lot, but I do believe in the spirit of Santa. I knew the real Santa. He looked nothing like the jolly elf you see in ads, shopping malls and movies. Santa was crusty. Kinda beat up. Instead of rosy cheeks, his skin was weathered and pocked from years working on a farm and in the coal fields. His smile was off-kilter, perhaps the effects of a stroke. He didn't smell the best. Kinda smelled like old flesh. He had one bad eye, and that one kinda oozed as time went on, but the good one twinkled from a goodness within.

His name was Henry Krantz. He's one of those jewels you rarely hear about because he and his kind are tucked away in nowhere. Henry was probably as poor as they come. Instead of a fancy red suit, he dressed in worn overalls. He lived in a simple house in the country and had a falling-down barn with an old horse in residence that was more beat up than Henry. Henry loved that horse, but Henry had a soft spot for those less fortunate.

Every week, Henry made the rounds of local businesses asking for donations and he'd collect a dollar or two, then he'd invest in a little sugary cheer. He'd pop into the hospital and nursing home and pass out candy. "I walk into a room and say 'you look like hell!'" he told me once. "People are there because they are sick, they don't want someone telling them they look good. Tell them they look as bad as they feel." Henry may have been the only visitor people had all week.

But, Henry's real calling was for the kids. All year long, Henry collected toys - old broken toys that we lucky kids had no further use for. Toy cars with broken doors, fire engines missing wheels, plush dogs missing ears and stuffing, and dolls who's heads had fallen off and were missing eyes.

And, after collecting these hundreds of toys, Henry sat in his workshop and made them new. He painted, fixed, stuffed. He inserted eyes and reattached limbs. He found a woman with a sewing machine who made sure that no doll went naked.

Then, every year on Christmas Eve, Henry donned a cheap red suit, boots and smelly white beard and made the drive to "The State Training Center", the area residence of so many mentally handicapped individuals. Many of them were forgotten during the holidays, and Henry made sure those kids knew that they were special in the heart of Santa.

Henry was the real deal…….. But the guy in the red suit? He sits on my mantle this time of year. A reminder of Henry and the real Santas of the world. One of my Mother's best friends, Charlene Westling, knew the pain of having a child severely affected with Downs Syndrome. Charlene was an angel. She became a doll maker, and for her special Santa doll she used the face of her father who was also a farmer, or some such thing.Though tall and lanky, there is no mistaking that her Santa has the face of her Dad, and probably embodies his spirit as well. There's real goodness in the man's face.

Charlene's Santa reminds me that, while I personally could do without this time of year, the true spirit of the season, the spirit of Henry Krantz, is something worth honoring.

I Hate This Time of Year

2011-12-20T16:17:00.000-08:00

The frog that looks like my Mom

It starts in July. The advertisements for things you can't live without. Oh, PLEEEEASE! By October the annoying carols are beating your ears senseless. It is like listening to the opening and closing of a rusty door for hours. When water-boarding doesn't work, terrorists probably resort to the constant onslaught of Christmas Carols to force prisoners to rat out their mothers.

If other people want to spend days putting up tinsel that will only murder their vacuums, or killing trees to park in their living rooms so they can watch them slowly wither and die, that is fine. It just isn't for me. We stopped allowing my Mom to put up a tree when we were in junior high. She had to decorate a small live one. My poor Mom.

But, then, I've never seen much of anything in the way that the mainstream human population sees things. I used to irritate my family, pushing them to volunteer to cook at a shelter on Christmas Day rather than the usual big family meal with presents and such. THAT suggestion wasn't entertained past the immediate response of "NO!"

And, I hate to admit it, but when my Mom died, the first things to go were the 8' Christmas wreath (which now hangs outside an area church that appreciates it), the plastic holiday 'greens' and the red table cloth. Long ago, she used to put a red light bulb in the street light in front of our house, though. She probably stopped it when someone mentioned that people traveling through town thought we ran a brothel. I'd consider returning to that tradition, just for fun…….

Arayo at Mom's tree

Not being a hunter, I have a personal aversion to camo clothing (I understand you can now get wedding dresses and baby wear in camouflage - in case you want to take your 3 month old or your new bride out to kill something for that truly special occasion). In the same category, I don't get the holiday sweaters. They aren't awful, but I just don't see the point in owning a sweater covered with Christmas lights, packages or wildlife with big red noses.

But, today I decorated for Christmas. I found this frog - lovely thing with big red lips, wearing a bra and a tutu. It looked like my Mom. So I bought it . Off I went to the park and tied it to the tree which the city put up in Mom's honor. Right now the tree is a baby and looks like Charlie Brown's Christmas tree, and you'd have to be walking right next to it to notice the frog, but since the frog reminded me so much of Mom, and since she DID like Christmas, it all seemed fitting. A friend went along with me and attached an 8 or 9" gold ball to the tree as well. THAT will get some attention. Twiggy tree, with one extravagant big gold ball and, if you look closely, this kinda slutty looking frog. I love it!

I considered decorating the tree at the park that was planted in my Dad's honor, but I'm trying to figure out how to string batteries and antennas together into a radio-guy kinda statement. Maybe next year

I figure you can be a Scrooge to a point - then one needs their own quirky way to celebrate. Still, I'll be glad to see an end to this season.

How About the Over Employment Rate?

2011-12-17T10:06:00.000-08:00

It seemed Orwellian. Unsmiling women, similar age, shape, demeanor. Pushing papers about identical gray desks in a huge room full of identical gray desks. Through the big windows that opened into this space, I felt like I was watching a scene from "1984".

I am here to pay taxes. I stand at the window and look at the three women nearest me who are so fascinated with their paper-moving that they have yet to look up or acknowledge my presence. The unhappiness emitting from these woman is oppressive.

Finally, a woman stands and approaches the counter. I hand her my papers and check, made out for the entire amount due. Then she utters the only words of this entire transaction; "Are you paying for the entire year or half?"

Perhaps she can't read? I bite my tongue to keep from asking "does the total on the check equal half or all the payment?"

I tell her the obvious.

She processes the payment, hands me a receipt and, without cracking a smile, turns and goes back to the safety of her gray desk, resuming the unhappy paper-pushing demeanor.

It really is like something out of a sci-fi movie. Robot-humans doing their jobs. Part of me is sad for them - content to lead such an existence. Most of me is enraged. I just paid this woman's salary for the month and she can't smile, act engaged and say "thank you?"

In a country where the official unemployment rate is 8.6%, and I'd guess that the unofficial rate, including people who are underemployed, is more like two to three times that, THESE WOMEN HAVE JOBS?

This encounter followed a conversation with a doctor's office that went like this:

Me - "Did you get the CD I sent with the CAT scan?"

Overpaid Person (OP) - "No, we didn't get it."

Me - "Really? It should be there."

OP - "Well, it isn't."

Me - "I sent it a week ago and it was just going 35 miles, I can't believe it didn't make it.

OP - "No, it isn't here. Maybe it is in the back and they didn't give it to me."

Me - "sigh….."

LATER - OP - "It is here. It is the same."

Me - "The same? So you found the CD, the doctor looked at it and said it hasn't change? When someone called after receiving the report I was told it was better."

OP - "No, it hasn't changed."

Me - "But, after 3 weeks of antibiotics, when I saw the CAT scan, it looked better than before, and the report said it was better."

OP - "This is what the doctors said. 'The infection is clearing,' so nothing has changed."

Me - "You are telling me it is the same and you are telling me it is better. Which is it?"

OP - "I'll let you talk to someone in the back."

Person Earning Her Salary - "The doctor looked at the CAT scan and the infection is much better than before. You don't need to do anything else unless you begin to have problems down the road."

Sigh………. I hung up the phone, not relieved that the sinus infection was better, but amazed that ding-dongs are still holding down jobs. With the current unemployment rate, this physician could probably get someone with a PhD in communications to answer the phone for him. Someone who can charm the public, or at least give a sensible response to a question. But, no, he's still got Ding Dong dealing with his public.

Maybe its just me, but I tend to think you should treat people with respect and that people dealing with the public should have some common sense and a slice of personality. I'm running into too many people (ouch - mostly women) who seem so miserable or inept, I think the kindest thing would be to relieve them of their current jobs and hire someone who is happy to be working with the public.

Life is short. Too short to either work in a job that makes you miserable or to have someone working for you that is unhappy or a ding-a-ling. And, with so many people actively looking for work I'm amazed with the people actually draw a paycheck!

Ghosts a Little Too Close to Home

2011-10-31T20:09:00.000-07:00

Arayo visits family graves looking for ghosts

The conversation was genial, as discussions are when people are going about their early morning rituals. Not an early riser, I fought through cobwebs which had crept in during the night, surrounding my brain, and blanketing my eyes and ears. I slowly noted that it was morning, and listened to my parents quietly visiting in the hall as they began their day.

Then I realized……… My parents haven't begun a day together in nearly 10 years! They are both dead!

I remained calm and somehow realized I still had options, as we always do in life. I could throw off my covers and chase the voices from the house, or I could lay still, allowing myself to drift back to a more innocent time, when my only concerns were getting to class (a block away) by the 8:30 bell, and dreading that my mom might serve peas again for lunch.

"Just relax and enjoy this," I thought, as the voices continued their low exchange.

Emotionally I laid back into the moment, when suddenly, the second big observation reached my awareness. My dead parents are visiting today - and it is Halloween!

And with that, they ceased to exist.

It is Halloween - the first one since both my parents have been gone. Dad believed in an afterlife. After all - the Bible promises you heaven and all that implies. For Dad, that would be a blissful eternity of amazingly dull ham radio conversations, probably logging hours talking with the big guy himself……. "GOD1 this is W0NLQ. The skies are nice and bright today over here - - again. How's it looking, from where you are? W0NLQ over….."

Mom, on the other hand, figured you're dead, you're dead. "Besides," she would say, "Bob and I had an agreement. If he died first he was going to report back if there is an afterlife, and he hasn't told me a thing!"

Bob & Janet Carpenter markers

"Mom, you know Dad didn't talk to anyone except on his radio - and you removed the antennas and sold the radio before he was buried. He's probably been reporting back, but talking to some guy named Gus in Toledo!""

Afterlife, ghosts, things that go bump in the night. I want to believe in them. Well, frankly, I do believe, but some people you EXPECT to stick around a while and resort to some playful - or mean spirited hauntings. I would hope that I should do a bit of that when my days on earth or over……. (I've got a few politicians I'd like to visit for a while…….) But, Bob and Janet Carpenter? Naw - they aren't really the type……

But after this morning, I'm beginning to wonder.

R.I.P. Steve Jobs

2011-10-06T11:41:00.000-07:00

Apple Computer's Home Page, October 5 & 6, 2011

I'm not a hero worshiper. I was disgusted with all the crying when Elvis died. ("Oh, get over it….." I'd think when women walked around work in tears.) I grew up on the Beatles, but John Lennon's death was just a blip on my radar. I felt sad with the loss of Mother Teresa, but at 87, she'd led a good life and was probably ready for a rest.

Though prepared for it, I was hit pretty hard to open my e-mail yesterday to the subject "Steve Jobs Dead!"

Of course, I didn't know the man, but he profoundly impacted my life with his inventions, with his company and through who he was. He chose the path less taken, yet based his actions on a deep belief system.

Had I had the opportunity to work with this man, I would have lasted about a week. I don't do well with people who tromp on the feelings of others - no matter how basically right their convictions may be. Steve was known as a tyrant to work for, someone you probably didn't want to get caught in an elevator with at the office. But, for those stronger than I, they loved working for this man with such foresight and sense of purpose.

Jobs followed his own vision - not those of someone else. In his simple Levi Jeans, tennis shoes and black turtleneck he introduced product after product to the world that has profoundly changed our lives. Not one to have all the techie gadgets (though I am seriously married to my Mac Computers), I watched as he introduced the iPad and my head started spinning! "This is REALLY going to change things in the world," I thought, as I picked up the phone to buy more stock. Yes, Steve, I do believe!

Steve Jobs was our generation's icon for successful nonconformism. As blogger Om Malik wrote, "Today, we are living in a world that’s about taking short-term decisions: CEOs who pray at the altar of the devil called quarterly earnings, companies that react to rivals, politicians who are only worried about the coming election cycle and leaders who are in for the near-term gain.

“And then there are Steve and Apple: a leader and a company not afraid to take the long view, patiently building the way to the future envisioned for the company. Not afraid to invent the future and to be wrong." http://gigaom.com/2011/08/24/steve-jobs-the-sound-of-silence/

While he revolutionized our world, the soul of the man was what really drew me to him. A Buddhist, a vegetarian, a man of principle, he yanked Apple's membership in the National Chamber of Commerce over their opposition of regulating greenhouse gas emissions. Bully, Steve!

In a 2005 commencement speech at Stanford, Steve talked about his life, his dance with cancer and encouraged students to keep their deaths clearly in focus. "No one wants to die," he said. "Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there." But he talks about facing the mirror every day and asking himself if this was his last day on earth, if what he was doing was making him happy. If the answer was "No" too many days in a row, he changed things.

"Your time is limited," he told the Standford audience, "so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma, which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice."

I'm glad I grew up in Steve Jobs' time and I morn his loss. I encourage people to take a few minutes to watch his Stanford address at http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/2011/1006/Steve-Jobs-s-2005-Stanford-commencement-address and I add my thoughts to those of so many others. Godspeed, Steve. Thank you.

My Aunt Marian: A Well Lived Life

2011-10-02T11:15:00.000-07:00

Marian Hughes Shuff, PhD, Educator, Artist, beloved Aunt

The world lost another of its most priceless souls yesterday. My aunt Marian passed away peacefully, ending an amazing 93 year life.

In a time when small town Kansan women didn't divorce, Marian did, and she did it with style - or at least that was how it appeared in the eyes of a very naive niece. With two young children to think of, she had the strength to pull them from a less than positive relationship and raise them in a supportive, loving environment. Already armed with a degree in education, Marian earned her masters, then her PhD, and split her time between nurturing her children, and training and encouraging college students in how to be the best teachers they could possibly be. I always thought those students were some of the luckiest on earth to have had her influence to take into the classroom.

Upon retiring, she and her new husband, Bob, moved to Arkansas where she began her second career as an artist - taking classes in various art technics for the next 18 years and specializing in etchings, screen prints and wood and lino cuts. While our homes filled with the work she shared, it wasn't until her daughter published a one-of-a-kind book of her work that the depth of her talent really struck home. She was amazing, and she was doing art shows even at 90 years of age!

As another cousin noted, we always felt loved by our parents, but we looked on in awe as Marian seemed to absolutely adore her children. She nurtured all of us, though, as she was genuinely interested in our lives, our dreams. All my life I've heard the call of a different drummer - never quite fitting in - and Marian, who I adored, let me know in glorious terms that it was not only okay, but a very good thing. "We're just alike!" she'd assure me, and it was always the greatest of compliments to me.

A stanch Democrat, Marian would tell of walking down the street with a friend and, in as loud a voice as possible state - "…..and the reason I'm voting for Bill Clinton (or Barack Obama, or...) is…….." She has been claiming for years that she couldn't die until "after the next election!"

One of my fondest memories of Marian was when my father was dying. She'd driven the 6 hour trip from Arkansas to Kansas to support her little sister, my Mom. The day my Father passed away, I'd gone into the Intensive Care Unit to tell him we were leaving for the night. He shook his head "no". To be clear, I asked if he was saying he wanted us to stay, and got a nod. I went back to the ICU waiting room to tell Mom and Marian that Dad wanted us to stay. At 84, Marian didn't bat an eye. She pulled three of the most horrid uncomfortable chairs together, formed a recliner out of them and said "then, we're spending the night right here!"

With a slowly failing heart, Marian slowed down a bit the past couple years, but that didn't stop her involvement in life. She kept up with friends and family, and started a blog, "Life In Our Nineties!" Now, how cool is that?

Art by Marian Shuff, Port au Gard, 1987, intaglio

Knowing the end was near, her two children, her only grandchild and I descended on the small apartment she shared with her husband in Hot Springs, Arkansas two weeks ago. We spent long hours laying on or sitting beside her bed, holding hands, and sharing stories. "What are we going to talk about now?" she's ask. Or "what would you want to do more than anything else if money was not an option?" We had a wonderful week, centered on what she loved best - good conversation with people she loved. We all felt lucky to have had the time - time to cherish, to remember, to say goodbye.

It would easy to say her loss is great - but her loss reminds me that life really is eternal. Whether you believe in an afterlife or not - the world is touched by people like my aunt, Marian. She lives on in her friends, in her art, in her family, in the students she encouraged and those encouraged by them. She lives on in my heart - as I was one of the really lucky ones to have known and loved her.

It is a shame to waste a life. At 93 years of age, Marian didn't waste a day of hers.

Please visit Marian's art website. You can link to her blog, "Life In Our Nineties" from "the Artist" page. http://anniestromquist.com/marian/

Of Grandeur and Neglect

2011-09-25T16:13:00.000-07:00

The Carpenter House, 2011

The stately old home is tired; fragile after years of neglect and abuse. Once, one of the most beautiful structures in the state, she droops and sags more with each passing month.

Originally a show-place, the home whispers of a glorious past. Within her spacious rooms the ghosts of long-ago parties move across polished parquet floors. Genteel men in dark suits escort women wearing flowing long dresses who's hems gently dust the ground. Above the grand staircase, light filters through an enormous, exquisite stained glass window which features a delicate woman enjoying an exotic garden setting somewhere far from this small Kansas town.

Stately porches grace two sides of the home, wrapping around in gentle sweeps, offering shelter as one waits to capture an elusive breeze on a hot Kansas evening. From the second floor, balconies reach out toward views of the lawns below.

A century ago, the home's gardens were known throughout the country for they featured species rarely found in the States. The owner spared no expense - importing his precious peonies and irises from Holland and Japan, paying as much as $150 per bulb, (plus shipping and import taxes) - a shocking sum even 100 years later.

Today, the expansive lawns sport a few willful plants which summon the strength to push through the weeds, refusing to surrender to the neglect which encourages their demise.

The Carpenter House, Early 1900's

I pass the house often, recalling it in a happier time. Built a century ago by members of my family, The Carpenter House slowly falls victim to her very spender, for her stateliness, her grandeur, have been, in part, her undoing. She's dying, not from being unloved, but from being held too closely by the wrong people.

Sold in the middle part of the 1930's to a local physician, it was inherited by his daughter who hadn't the will to sell, nor the funds to maintain her from where she lived 150 miles away. Unoccupied, the home began her steady decline. Paint peeled from her walls, the porches began to sag. Beautiful balusters fell off one by one and weeds took over where priceless gardens once stood.

Through neglect, she became known as "the big haunted house". Kids looking to scare themselves, or show they were brave, broke in to take their own private tours under cover of night.

Today, the home only hints of her early magnificence. An old utility truck is parked at her side, as though to catch pieces as they fall from her. A tractor sits along the other side. Again, she rests in the hands of one who, through lack of interest, funds or energy, has failed to reconstruct her to her former beautify. And yet, he can't quite seem to part with her and entrust her to one with the dedication to restore her to her original splendor.

Human nature is a funny thing. The Carpenter House - its beauty, its demise - hurts my soul. I pray for her saving, but fear that, within a few years, she will be beyond all help. Seeing her is painful, but I keep driving by - perhaps in hopes of finding her back in her original state, with men in dark suits and women in long dresses, strolling the grounds, stopping occasionally to partake of the delicious fragrance of a graceful purple iris.

9/11 Once Again

2011-09-11T12:20:00.000-07:00

As the country observes the anniversary of the horrors that took place 10 years ago, I considered joining the many who listened to the radio or watched the tv coverage of memorial events. A quick 10 minutes of listening to Presidents, past and present, expound on those who murdered, those who died and those who continue to sacrifice to make sure this will never happen again - and I was finished. It was time to reflect in my own manner.

I vividly recall where I was the day the Twin Towers came down. It was early morning and I happened to get up and turn on the tv to watch the day's news. What I saw was the coverage of the events back east. The towers were still standing but it was obvious that what was taking place was an attack on this country. "Where will they strike next?" the country wondered, as reports continued to leak about planes striking the Pentagon, a field in Pennsylvania and rumors of more were bantered around.

Personally, this would be the day I knew that my 9 year marriage was over. I had been struggling to keep a relationship alive with a man who was fundamentally unhappy. As I sat with him and watched people jumping from windows and the towers eventually falling before our eyes, I realized that there was more broken than our marriage as he was totally unaffected to the day's horrors. If he could not hold compassion for the thousands of suffering people that day, then it was okay for me to stop trying to make this work. Major life events seem to do that to people. They re-evaluate. They work to draw family and friends to them or move to clean up what doesn't work in their lives.

So, today, rather than listen to Presidents tell me what I should think and feel about that September day so many years ago, I chose to look at old footage of the events. To watch interviews of people who's lives changed that day. To morn for the individuals lost, for their families and for the shift that took place in our country.

I contemplate the really amazing things that came out of 9/11. The individuals who came forward to offer shelter, food, clothing, friendship, and compassion to total strangers. I recall how the majority of the world reached out to America - how they joined with us in our pain. For those who saw the terrorists as heros, I ask "why?" and wonder what we as a nation may have done or are doing to produce such hate.

I contemplate the rights we Americans have lost in the past 10 years as our leaders scream messages of fear, and I morn for the wars we are now engaged in. For the innocent people and our youth who are dying for……. what?

There is no excuse for the events of 9/11 but as I watch the replaying of the towers falling, I realize that more than steel and the lives of 3,000 people were lost that day. With the crumbling of the towers and the crashing of the planes, the entire structure of America fell - or, perhaps was exposed - and we suffer our responses.

The Insanity That is Rodeo

2011-08-17T08:40:00.000-07:00

"Were they born mentally challenged or did the men's extreme psychological shortcomings take place as a result of this sport?" I wondered as I watched the cowboys prepare for, then suffer, abuse after abuse?

I'm not a big rodeo fan. Okay, I'll be honest - I'd never been to a rodeo before in my life - but I've always been drawn to cowboy images. You know the ones - whips, spurs, chaps, cute butts……. There's something seductive about the life of a cowboy; a man living and working so close to the land. A man in love with his horse, hanging with those cute cuddly looking cows all the time…….

So, I figured going to a rodeo was about as close as I was going to get to a cattle-drive on an open Montana range.

The local paper arranged a press pass so I could get behind the scenes, and I spent 3 hours watching men preparing for what was to come. They wrapped their arms in tape, they explained, to give their arms support and to keep their muscles from being ripped off their bones when they were on the horse. (Ouch!) They strapped on chaps, donned padded vests, and tied a donut-like device around their necks to try to avoid whiplash.

I could see this was going to get really ugly. A few of the men seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time in prayer, and one sad-looking young cowboy, glancing towards an angry bucking horse in a narrow metal pen, was getting a jump on the pain by digging into a prescription drug bottle.

And these guys were just riding ticked off ponies. The men taking rides on bulls (and these bulls had some real unaddressed childhood issues which was now coming out in major rage, I assure you) - were strapping metal cages to their heads!

So, this is the romance behind the rodeo cowboys….. behind the men who week after week crawl up on animals that take no delight in having 180 pounds of human on their backs in 110 degree temperatures. I can't say I blame the animals for being enraged and working like hell to toss the pests from their backs.

But I'd still love to see the IQ scores of the men before they took up this hobby and then again after they'd been doing it for a year.

Jail Time, Anyone?

2011-08-09T09:31:00.000-07:00

"Say," I commented to the group of women seated around the tables, "let's go picket! Maybe we could throw ourselves in front of some big equipment. Since the police department is just next door, I bet they'd come over and take us off to the pokey! Lori, would you deliver pie to the jail if we all got tossed in the clink?"

Lori was up for making a jail-house delivery for a good cause, but still the mostly gray haired ladies at the table nodded with a bit of - well, reluctance. I wasn't sure if the nods signified an agreement to my comments or if it was a way of signaling each other "Karyn seems to have lost it. Don't antagonize her….."

"We've got the local newspaper editor here - she could get us coverage," I continued. "We'd really get some attention if the entire Thursday Pie Day group went to jail for the cause." (Besides, I'm thinking, most of us are well into our retirement years or getting close. Grandmothers, great-grandmothers - women with a mission! It would play well to the media. I was liking this idea better all the time.)

The cause, of course, was the destruction of the little 100 year old brick building that was being torn down to benefit one of the churches in town. Seemed that most everyone had a lump in their throat over the sacrificing of this little building, but the dismantling continued piece by piece.

My friend, Pat, was psychologically, if not physically, trying to move from my side to the other end of the table. As the only Methodist in the group, it was her church that was gaining a breezeway over the murder of the small defenseless building. While I didn't blame her - she didn't even know about the issue until walking into our Thursday noon Pie Day gathering - she still felt a bit on the spot over my rantings and the concerns being expressed by others at the table. But, I knew she could shoulder it. She was, after all, an open Democrat in an extremely Republican state.

In the end, the women headed for home; my attempts at organizing a vigilante picketing group having met the same fate as the small building. It was just me playing to a conservative audience, and truth be told, we probably couldn't have stopped the destruction of the little building anyway.

Though, had I gone out and laid down in front of the trucks and sledgehammers and managed to get a night or two in jail - I did have a couple women offer to bring me a home cooked meal. If only they could have snuck in Arayo, too.

Watching My Hometown Die

2011-08-02T19:38:00.000-07:00

The little brick building is simple but has a special kind of character. Set on a corner at the edge of our downtown district, it has housed various small companies through the years. The smell of baking goodies has filtered through its cracks when it held bakeries. People insured their homes and families within its walls. Originally, it was the office for a lumber yard, and at one time, if memory serves, it may have been home to a phone company. Or maybe not. The walls hold tight some of the secrets of its past.

This town was once beautiful, with old brick buildings lining its main streets, and stately homes gracing her neighborhoods. It used to be a town that people were proud to call home.

But, slowly it has lost its charm. Sheet metal covers many of the downtown building facades, and when you start to look closely, you notice that the roofs of many of the stores have simply caved in from neglect. Business signs are tattered. If a town could speak, you would hear it whispering, "what happened? Why does no one care any more?"

"What is to become of this town?" I ask person after person in power and in the know. "In five more years, there will be no town left to preserve. What of the buildings that are falling in?"

"We'll probably wait a while, then knock 'em over," is the standard reply.

My heart skips a beat. While I haven't lived here for years, this is still home and every time I return to see a little bit more of it covered in metal or caving in - - every time I talk to someone who can't see beyond the end of a bulldozer, a piece of me dies.

We live in a throw-away society. I know that. Not being much of a consumer myself, I don't understand it, but I know that it is true. Everything Americans buy is made to quickly be outdated and no longer of use, or replaced by something bigger and better. So, the bulk of our society revolves around our need to consume, and consume some more.

But, when this town is gone, when its history is knocked over "just because it is easier than preserving it" - then what? People bemoan the fact that "things aren't like they used to be!" "No one wants to live in a small Kansas town anymore," people say. But, I have to ask, "What is the draw? A town is judged first by what people see when they drive into it. Who wants to stop and stay in a tin-can town? If what people see sends the message that no one cares anymore, then why would someone stop for a cup of coffee, a burger? Why would someone look at starting a business here, or buying a home for their family?"

My parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, all rest at the local cemetery. And, even there, what was once a charming place to rest for eternity is now marred by the erection of a metal building. The long history of Carpenters in this town ends with the passing of my mom, but for a while I thought I might take up the mantle, try to inject some life into the town. I think outside the box, perhaps I could make a contribution towards saving this place. But, these are foolish thoughts.

And today that spark died in me. As I photographed the charming little brick building in its last moments, a man saw me and asked how I was doing. I told him I was shocked and saddened because the little building was being destroyed. "Oh, that!" he chuckled, "we want the bricks for the church!" he said, and off he went - a happy look on his face. A piece of our history will be gone, but the church will have its new covered breezeway, or whatever…..

As I drive away from the senseless destruction of another piece of history, there is a catch in my throat. A tear slips down my face…………

Of Delight and Terror

2011-07-31T10:48:00.000-07:00

"Excuse me, ma'am. I'll have to ask you to keep out of this area. We've got explosives set up over here."

Oh, be still my heart! This has to be one of those phrases that just makes my heart skip a beat. Kind of like "A tornado was just spotted a mile away. Jump in my tank and let's go chase it!" Personally, I'm just living to hear someone whisper THOSE words to me.

For some people, its "Come on over - I just bought a cheesecake (or a puppy)." For others it might be "Hey, fella - I gotta hooker in the car and she is disease free!"

I wasn't looking for a charge when I approached the man at the park. I knew they were going to shoot fireworks off from the end of the bluff later in the evening, and I wanted to know how close I could get so I would have the best view for photographing them. I just had never considered the fact that they might be considered explosives.

Interesting the things that get some people all excited. Who'd a thought I'd go all gushy over tractors until I got to drive one? And this thing about storms….. I always wanted to ride out a hurricane until my mom and I were in hurricane Earl a few years ago in Texas. We slept right through it . Now that continues to be on my bucket list, with the stipulation that I stay wake through the thing! (And for those of you know know me - yes, I'm still terrified of freeways, tall bridges, setting foot on airplanes and snakes. There is no logic to one's list of thrills and terrors.)

So, last night, I took Arayo with me to a little campground that rests on the side of the Neosho river. As a child I recall seeing lots of water moccasins along this river, so you know I wanted to photograph the fireworks in the worst way! It was a straight shot over to the point where the "explosives" were set up so the view was sure to be spectacular. As we waited, Arayo and I sat under the stars and marveled at how there could be lightening flashes all around us and not a cloud in the sky. We relished the cool breezes playing on skin and fur. (It was still 90 degrees -- but after weeks of over 100, it felt cool at the time.)

As the fireworks display began, I put Arayo back in the car to protect her. I'd rather have held her, she is so terrified of loud noises any more, but I knew I couldn't photograph and hug her, too. At the end of the display, I opened the back of my Subaru to put tripod and cameras away, and noticed………. Nothing. No 100 pound black dog. I called to her. No movement or sound. I began to panic. I'd left the windows open about 8 inches each - was it possible she could have squeezed herself through one of them?

Finally, I found her. She'd moved to the front passenger seat and attempted to crawl under the car by way of the footwell. Poor Arayo. She does not understand why we have come to this place called Kansas. All spring it was thunderstorm after thunderstorm, and this July there have been 3 nights of fireworks. The world has simply gone mad.

Photos: A fireworks display marked the end of the 100th Annual Labette County fair.

(Note - For those of you who question why I took Arayo to watch the fireworks rather than leaving her home - it was a judgement call. The noise would be as loud at the house as at the park - I figured she would be alone much less time if I had her with me. Why did I put her in the car when the fireworks began? Outside the car she would have been tied to a picnic table - which she would have dragged through a corn field when the explosives began. The car is a place where she feels secure - like a big dog crate - and because I'd been running the air conditioner earlier, it was cooler in the car than out.)

The Disaster Tour

2011-07-28T11:58:00.000-07:00

"Here is where my classmate lived. She shot herself the night before our prom - but no one in our class believed it. There were always other theories, but suicide was the official story.

"On the left is a new bank. There was once a beautiful old two story building there that held a grocery store. One evening, just as the owner locked up and got in his car, the entire outer wall crumbled and fell. No one was killed, but that was the end of that building!"

Friends had called to say they were driving from Florida to Seattle and were planning to visit me in my home town in southeast Kansas. Now, anyone who has grown up on a small community knows that part of your heritage is knowing the ins and outs of what has gone before, and without realizing it - the tour my friends got was - well, perhaps, somewhat macabre.

"One day I was going to school and I heard a horrible sound on the highway a block away. I rushed over to the road and found friends there with shocked looks on their faces. They pointed to an 18-wheeler stopped half a block away and said 'our next door neighbor……. He came out of his house and jumped in front of that truck and it ran over him!' I walked to the truck and, sure enough, there were legs sticking out from under the tires. It happened right here, a block from my house!"

"When I was young, one night my mom came in it and woke me up. It was pouring down rain, but she insisted there was something I needed to see. She drove us the 3 blocks to downtown and, there was the town, all lit up! Lightening had struck one of the buildings and a third of a block in the downtown core was on fire. As firemen worked to control the blaze, half the town showed up in their pajamas to stand on the other side of the street to watch the town burn. I remember people praying the donut shop didn't catch on fire, and finally, the water stopped pumping. Someone had forgotten to turn the water on at the pump house to refill the water tower and they ran out of water. Fortunately, we only lost 3 buildings that night.

"That three story brown building was once the home of the largest mortgage company west of the Mississippi. I don't know what happened to the company, but the building has been kind of neglected in the past few years. Story goes that it sold at auction for $1,000 a few years ago. Someone put in a starting bid and when no-one bid against them, they found themselves owner of a prominent piece of main street. Rumor has it that they finally sold the building on eBay to someone from out of state for something like $8,000. Last year, the entire back of the building caved in. Now, it just sits there. Half rubble."

"Gee," said my friend. "This is a fascinating tour, I'm going to call it the Disaster Tour!"

Hum….. Sometimes you can know almost too much about a place.

Photo: The Deming Building sold for $1,000 to someone who bought it by "mistake". It later sold for $8,000 on the internet.

Reviewing the Ride

2011-07-08T21:14:00.000-07:00

Can it really have been a year ago that Arayo and I set out on this journey together? This trip to see the country and meet new people? What an amazing experience it has been - and I'm still feeling like The Ride continues.

It began as a need to break cycles. Sometimes when you are in a rut, you don't even realize how deeply entrenched you are. You exist, but that existence is meaningless. How often do we sense we need a change, but find reasons not to? The house payments need to be made, the dog likes her yard, the doctor is nearby and, while not sick, who knows when he'll be needed…… You know the drill - I think we've all had these conversations with ourselves from time to time.

Years ago I recall someone talking about making change. How we so often stick with the norm for fear of the unknown. He likened it to flying on a trapeze. If you are going to grab the next trapeze and move forward, you have to let go of the one you are on and TRUST that another one will come your way.

So, Arayo and I packed up our lives (mine more than hers since her's just involved a brush, some nail clippers, a toy and a few cans of food), and we headed east. We let fate guide us. Strangers e-mailed and invited us to visit. The heat directed us north to Newfoundland and Newfoundland captured my soul and kept a piece there.

After six months of travel, fate brought me to Kansas where I was blessed to spend what turned out to be my Mom's final two months of life with her and to be at her side when she took her last breath.

How much of life we would have missed had we found more reasons to stay home than to go.

So, while Arayo and I sit in my mother's home in the town I was raised in - our Ride continues. With temperatures near 100 nearly every day for the past 6 weeks and no break in sight, we probably won't be jumping back into the tent again soon - but our adventures will continue, so please don't leave us yet!

Thank you for coming along on the Ride with us. Thank you for your support. To all of you who offered us shelter from the heat, the cold, the rain - who shared with us a piece of your world and a bite at your table - you remain in our hearts. Thank you, thank you all. To open your homes to a stranger and her Newf, was itself a great risk. You enriched our lives - thank you.

Janet Carpenter Memorial Review

2011-07-02T09:19:00.000-07:00

Dark clouds threatened as my group drove to set up for my mother's memorial. As we reached the park entrance, the sight of multiple American flags flying from lamp posts greeted us and a lump raised to my throat. I knew they were flying to honor my mom - a woman who, in her quiet way, worked 60 years to better little pieces of this community. Her true passion was this park, sitting atop a bluff overlooking a river and the farmland below, where, today, we were going to pay final tribute to her life.

It was kind of a freaky idea - not something these traditional, conservative Kansan's were used to - but I wanted to hold off to say these public goodbyes to my mother. 4 months would give me time to plan something fitting and to get some distance from the pain of her loss. It also gave family and friends time to learn about her passing and to plan a trip home. Best of all, it gave the park time to rise from the dead of winter. For leaves to grace the trees and flowers to shine from their beds.

I planned the event for morning to beat the ghastly Kansas summer heat - the seating area dictated by the shade of trees. My crazy friend, Sondra Torchia, who does one-woman historical performances, mc'd the event and others joined to tell their stories of the woman I called Mom. Our family created the "Missing Janet Chorus" and sang one of Mom's favorite songs - made popular by the Muppets called "Something's Missing", and by the time the hour-long program was over, people were saying "when I die, I want a send-off just like Janet had!"

Because I've had people ask for some of the details of the event, I'm listing them below and later I'll add the stories I shared - more of the funny light-hearted stories about Mom that most people probably didn't know.

Today marks 4 months that Mom has been gone. It seems like yesterday and the hole in my life isn't getting smaller with time, but she died on her terms without pain and suffering. I have no regrets.

Janet Carpenter Memorial - June 22, 2011
Arrival music - Glenn Miller
Opening song - Gandhi/Buddha, by Cheryl Wheeler
Opening remarks - A Good Life, Sondra Torchia
Reading of Editorial - Heather Brown
Janet Gets a Chainsaw - Dan Turner
Something's Missing - The Missing Janet Family Chorus
Remembering My Mother - Karyn Carpenter
The Red Studebaker - Steve Christy
Janet Made you Feel Appreicated - Annie Stromquist (Janet's favorite niece)
Missing Janet - Megan Hughes (Janet's other favorite niece)
Closing Prayer - Pete Hughes
Closing Song - Over The Rainbow, by Isreal Kamakawiwo'ole
Photo presentation of Janet - to Hero, by Mariah Carey

A Great Spirit is at Work in Joplin

2011-05-30T15:18:00.000-07:00

Her contented smile contradicted the story which her face told the world; the tale of a recent encounter with a chimney, a dump truck, a tree or a stranger's boot. Not only was her face many shades of purple and black, she had lost everything or she would not be here - sleeping in a gymnasium, surrounded by strangers. My friend reached out to her. "You were really hurt. How are you?" No complaints, no words of suffering. The woman's "I'm fine" said more. "I'll get through this. I'm alive," was the unspoken message.

The man on the radio - the one who made his living talking - was nearly speechless. His family home had sustained tornado damage. He must have mentioned how his boots were constantly wet from working on his house in the rain, so a listener drove from out of town, visited the station and handed the announcer cash, asking him to buy himself a new pair of boots.

When he found his voice he replied, "so many people need this more than I. Let me find a place where this can do more good. Thank you, so much."

More times than not, it seems we've become a country of whiners. A people interested more in taking than giving. Individuals who will climb the backs of our closest friends to advance our own interests and monetary goals.

It seems that the slightest inconvenience is met with a roar. When a windstorm knocks down trees, sending people into the dark for a few days the letters fly to the papers and airwaves fill with voices of woe. "I pay my taxes! How dare I be inconvenienced my morning latte, my big screen tv, my internet!" In the old days, rather than wait for someone else, citizens pulled together and canvased the town with chainsaws so power crews could more easily get their work done. The old days seem to be slipping away.

After Hurricane Earl the radio broadcasted hours of whining. Even though they had a week or more to prepare, the demands of people were immediate and many. "The government should be getting us water and ice to keep the steaks we bought yesterday from going bad." (Wondering to myself why they didn't actually put up water and buy provisions that weren't perishable, my mind screams in reply "you can't fix stupid.")

But something about Joplin is different. The shelters seem to be underutilized, which means hundreds of people have opened their homes and are sharing what they have with victims.

Strangers have come to search in the rain, humidity, heat, and cold for the missing. They climb under the ruins of homes, slosh through waste-deep water, turn over boards and pieces of junk in hopes of not finding a body. They tell stories of strangers coming along, handing out bags of sandwiches and bottles of water. The outlook is more of "together we'll pull through this," rather than "why me?" or other complaints.

It seems that every other corner in Joplin is host to a cookout. "If you are hungry, please, stop and have a hot meal on us."

The word goes out "you have been so generous. Today we have all the blood, all the clothing we can use. But, please, remember us next week."

People appear to be patient with each other and when an impractical move is imposed - like trying to protect people from looting by enacting a pass system - the city quickly sees they can't effectively manage such a program and cancels it, admitting the idea had merit but wasn't practical. (Government actually seeing and then admitting an error? That alone is astonishing.)

The EF5 tornado which ripped its way through this small Missouri town failed to take with it the soul of Joplin. Instead, it opened the hearts of millions around the world. Hundreds have arrived and thousands more are making their way to this little known part of the country. And, with the help of millions who've given their money, their time, their prayers - the community will rebuild.

If only there was a way to bottle this spirit; to pull it out once a year. To inflict a booster shot to everyone in the world, we'd be a peaceful and much more powerful force in the universe.

Photos: Flag flies at half-mast at the Missouri Southern State University campus which has become the central location for volunteer opportunities, a Red Cross Shelter, and Humane Society local in Joplin. The clean up and rebuilding following the devastating EF5 tornado which ripped through Joplin a week ago will continue for months.

Out of the Ruins

2011-05-27T16:22:00.000-07:00

The man before me was like any other - middle-aged, graying hair, a little thick around the middle. There was a tiredness about him from a day of searching for what he prayed not to find - someone's loved one, buried under mounds of rubble or floating in a creek.

"I drove in from Montana. I just had to help. Figured I'd sleep in my car, but I'd sure appreciate a shower if you know of a place I can clean up."

He was not alone. Hundreds of people have arrived in Joplin, touched by the destruction that an EF5 tornado had brought to this town, and offering to play a small part in helping total strangers rebuild their lives.

A nurse called the day after the tornado struck and was told they no longer needed medical personnel. She drove down anyway and once in Joplin was asked to set up and run a small clinic in one of the shelters. When her patients were attended to, she was joined by her daughter from Texas and teamed with others who were spending long hours combing sections of the town in search of survivors.

"My father lost his home so I drove in from central Nebraska to help," a gentleman said. "I have 15 people joining me this weekend. What can we do?"

Arayo and I met a Newfoundland friend and spent the day in Joplin. I hoped to track down an old buddy I'd been unable to reach to insure his safety, then we planned to take the Newfs to offer a little dog therapy to victims and responders. Spotting the volunteer registration center, we asked how else we could help and were assigned to the front desk where we registered new volunteers, visited with search and rescue crews returning from the rubble, and directed others to showers and shelter.

As we heard story after story, I was truly touched by the outpouring of love and care which was expressed. I was amazed at the willingness of people to leave their lives behind and to drive into a disaster area to help others with whom they had no connection. The uncertainty of "Where will I eat? Where will I sleep? What will I be asked to endure?" paled as they focused on the bigger question, "How can I make a difference?"

The flood of compassion is astounding. Housewives, military men, bankers, fugitives, teachers, blue collar workers, families with children, teens with tattoos, bikers and clergy; all work side by side. The common need meets uncommon compassion. At the end of the day, the outer trappings are peeled away and each knows that where it matters, they are all the same. They've experienced the good in each other.

As the world's eyes and ears turn to the horrors and destruction wrought on Joplin last Sunday, we can choose to look at the atrocity or we can join together in a common goal of support and regrowth. Sometimes I just stand in awe of the good in our fellow man.

The Lure and the Tragedy of Tornados

2011-05-22T23:32:00.000-07:00

They say it is mostly gone, the devastation indescribable. Joplin. The "city" near us. Its shopping malls, theaters and restaurants lure people from the surrounding area. Its hospitals care for our most critically ill.

Tonight the photos show a city in bits and splinters. People walk among the ruins like zombies, in a state of shock. The backdrop - one of the major hospitals which took a direct hit.

The silence of my small town some 40 miles away is broken by ambulances and police vehicles which rush by my house to help in the rescue efforts.

Tornados……..

I suppose you have to be from the mid-west to understand, but there is a lure to the weather that creates these murderous phenomena.

This evening I got a call; "We're under a tornado warning. Take cover." I'm not one for watching tv or listening to the radio, so I depend on friends to let me know what is happening sometimes. I looked down the street. The skies above me were bright, but to the north it was black as night. People along the street were standing in their yards, looking towards the skies.

I grabbed Arayo and my camera and headed to the park which sits on a bluff overlooking the Neosho River and the farmlands beyond. The thought crossed my mind that the winds could blow down a tree or power line, trapping me alone, away from shelter.

But, the winds, the boiling black clouds and changing temperatures were luring me for a better look.

The scene on the bluff was a surprise. Cars jockeyed for a place to park, the elevated overlook was jammed. Parents, kids, dogs. Everyone's eyes were scanning the clouds, searching for the dip that signaled the beginning of a twister.

After a bit, the crowd began to clear. We Americans look for immediate gratification and watching the skies for hours was wearing thin. Three of us and a little white dog remained to watch the clouds which seemed angrier, and who's movement was making radical shifts.

As I returned home, the excitement seemed to have passed, though the radio announcer was interviewing the Joplin area Emergency Prepardness Director who was warning the people to take cover. A tornado had been sighted near there and was coming their way………

Usually, such warnings are fairly meaningless. "Conditions are right……. " "A funnel cloud was sighted……." "Go into a basement or interior room in your home….."

I've lived in the mid-west more than half my life and I've yet to see a tornado. My mother died at 86. Never saw a twister.

I love tornado season. There's a charge in the air, an energy and power that seduces you….. Until you live through one, that is.

Tonight Joplin lies in ruins. I worry for a nephew and friend who live there. I feel for all those dealing with loss, and worried for their loved ones. At least 30 are confirmed dead. The actual number may be much higher. Hundreds are homeless. Pleas are out for anyone with a medical background to respond……….

News Flash! Arayo in the News Again

2011-05-09T16:00:00.000-07:00

Like a game of ping-pong, the stories bounce. Arayo made the local newspaper two weeks ago for attending Pie Day and getting a cookie. So I blogged about her new fame, which was met with another notice by the Labette Avenue that we had blogged about them writing about this big event. Now, I'm writing to report that they reported that I reported that they reported that Arayo ate a cookie.

I can see that this really could continue until local readers respond by taking out their guns and stalking us down……

Mother's Day

2011-05-08T14:12:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day. My first in 56 years without, though I sit at mom's home, surrounded by her good energies and what is left of her things. This weekend was the culmination of 2 months of work as strangers, friends and family came to pick over her rummage sale items. Some showed up in search of a new trinket - not realizing what an amazing woman had previously owned the bobble, but many came with the goal of purchasing something they could remember her by. Mom would have liked that - knowing her things would bring joy, or simply remembrance, to people she cared about. Most of her cherished items were things given to her by others.

Mom's shelves and closets, though not bare, have lots more breathing room today. Many of the things that represent her personality, her interests, her life, are now part of another's home, though the more irreplaceable items still remain. Not diamonds, gold or priceless heirlooms - she had no interest in things of that nature. The things that remain are those many might mistake for junk. How could I place a price on the wooden woman with big red lips, bangle earrings and arms and legs made of pop bottle caps? Or the rock man head with the big red nose and tufts of white fuzzy hair? Some things are best kept in the family.

Mom - Happy Mother's Day. And thanks for a good life.

Photos - Bargain hunters at Mom's rummage sale didn't get the really good stuff!!

Arayo Makes The News

2011-05-02T14:48:00.000-07:00

It seemed like such an ordinary week, really. My days have become a long stream of endless tasks: cleaning out closets, sorting items to give away, sell or keep. When not doing that, I'm pawing through papers, letters, and financial documents - attempting to cull the important from just plain trash.

Thursday offers a slight break in the programming. Thursday noon, two things happen…… Pie Day - the weekly event held at a local bakery, Lori's Creative Cakes, where women gather for whatever pie the staff has baked for the day. I say women - men can come but it is rare to find one there. Their loss.

Now, Lori is known throughout the area for her beautifully decorated cakes and cookies. She has won numerous regional and even national cake decorating contests and many are on display in her shop. Most disturbing is a nearly life-sized boxer, laying on a rug. No matter where you sit in the room, that dog's eyes follow you - it is unnerving, considering he's frosting and pastry.

The real reason for Pie Day, though, is an official time for sharing news and intellectual conversation. For instance, I learned last week that Long John Silvers in the neighboring town went out of business a couple years ago, leaving the people of the county strapped for fried fish and, well, scraps. Crisps? Those little hunks of friend batter that fall off the fish and have no apparent use. Seems that if you ask nicely Long Johns will serve you up a passel of those fried thingies - give em to you for taking them off their hands. Now, THAT is news!

The other thing that happens on Thursday at about the same time as Pie Day is the delivery of the local paper. When I was growing up, my dad ran one of the two papers in town - The Democrat. That's a story for another day, but the paper can be another good source of small town information. In the old days, family members loved to come visit us because they always had their names listed in the paper. "Bob and Janet's nieces came for dinner on Sunday. After chicken and rice casserole they took a walk to the Riverside Park."

I'm not kidding. There was someone assigned to call the little old ladies in town to see who visited them during the past week and it all got served to the readers in black and white.

This week's paper was a keeper! Under the photos of smiling kids with their Easter candy (provided by the local hospital - which I find somehow sinister) is an article on a blue shaded background with big red letters proclaiming "NO MORE B-S IN OSWEGO CITY HALL!" Heck, I saw people buying this paper just for that article. Seems someone noticed a trend in local city government going back 44 years. Every mayor the city has had in that time has had a last name beginning with a B or an S and none of them were related. This year's running S got beat out by the running F, ending the tradition. However, if I know governments - there'll still be lots of, well, you know..... BS.

If that isn't big enough news - most of the back page is filled with an account of one family's trip to Texas to compete in a Warrior Dash. Seems people - some wearing capes and headgear decorated with horns and fur - compete in a 5 mile race where they climb over wrecked cars, crawl across nets and plod through 2' deep mud to reach the finish line. I admit, it sounded like a hoot. Imagine the crazy people you'd meet at a function like this! But I know for a fact that the mother of this family (who also participated in this dash), while a nice person, has at least one major screw loose. I was recently invited to spend a weekend with a group of - shall we say - WHACKOS - that she is involved with. They spend a day at an area lake turning over rocks looking for, (LOOKING FOR!!!!!) counting and cataloging SNAKES! Then they camp out on the same crawling, icky ground that night. (As you might imagine, my response wasn't "No" but "What? Are you out of your frigging mind?")

But, with all this exciting news, imagine my surprise to open the paper to see a familiar name. You see, Arayo made the paper because we walked to town for Pie Day last week. I tied her to a little bench in front of the shop and she sat alone, sadly gazing into the store at all the women happily telling lies and eating pie. The owner, Lori, took pity on her and gave her a peanut butter cookie - all this while Rena, the editor of the paper took note. So that was Arayo's break into the local news. She attended Pie Day where she was treated to a cookie! Can't get more exciting than that!

PHOTO: Arayo watches for cookies in front of the Oswego Newspaper Office, The Labette Avenue

A Love Story

2011-04-17T19:56:00.001-07:00

Arayo and I are celebrating today, for today is the most important day of the year. No country that I know of was formed on this day, and none in need was overthrown. No walls came down, none went up. Mother Teresa and Ghandi both entered this world on days that weren't today. And Hitler waited until April 30 to croak, so we aren't celebrating that, either.

For most people, April 17 is one of those ho-hum, nothing to shout about days. But then, the rest of the world hasn't been touched by the same bond, the same sweetness, that I have. The sweetness that is Arayo.

You see, I've lived the majority of my life with a 100 pound black mass of drooling, shedding dog at my side. Falling in love with the Newfoundland from a write-up in a dog book, I was totally suckered in by my first Newf sighting. At a community square in Oslo Norway, I spotted a man with this massive creature by his side and overcame a nearly debilitating shyness to approach him to confirm that this was, indeed, a Newfoundland in the flesh!

Where some girls dream of becoming Miss America, of marrying a Kennedy, being a doctor or finding a cure cancer - mine was to be owned by a Newfoundland.

Perhaps I should have aspired to greater things, but I'm happy as a pig in poop as long as I have my Newfoundland and she is happy and healthy.

My first Newfoundland was Tara. Probably the least of my girls in terms of pedigree, she lived until 14, was my sidekick when I worked the night shift as a DJ, rode the highways with me as I gave presentations through 4 mid-west states, and journeyed with me to the wild island of Sicily.

Eylah was my second - my Sicilian model. Where Tara was my friend, Eylah was my teacher. Reminding me on a daily basis that we have today and only today, so live it to its fullest. I lost her at 7 to cancer, then began my search for Arayo.

The search was long, but worth it. There was a special soul I was looking for in a puppy. Gentle, not shy. A dog with an innate ability to forge connections - to love the homeless man in the street, the little old lady with a walker and the child in a wheelchair. Arayo has been all that and more.

She's been a wonderful ambassador, fitting in wherever our journeys have taken us. Arayo was our sweet companion as my mother lived her final months - laying her big head on Mom's lap, being here for me to hug at the end of a long brave fight.

Arayo is my heart.

And, today - April 17, 2011, Arayo celebrates her seventh birthday. Seven years - it is so hard to believe! It seems like yesterday I was sitting in a barn watching her play as a 7 week old puppy. Arayo has been with me for some pretty major events, but still….. Seven years? Really?

Then, I look more closely at my girl. Try as I might, I can't ignore that her black muzzle is sprinkled with lots of white. Her deep brown eyes peer at me with love and understanding, but I see a milkiness within them that wasn't there a year or so ago.

2,555 days she has been on this earth. I know our days together are numbered, though I pray the Gods are kind and bless us with another 2,555. I promise to cherish each and every one that I'm given to share with her.

Today, I'm surrounded by so much that needs to be done, but the piles will be here tomorrow. The calls can wait to be made. Today, I'm taking Arayo to the park where she can sniff the playground equipment for messages that only she can read. We will drive to the dam, sit at the river's edge and watch the muddy water make its way towards the Gulf of Mexico.

Tonight we celebrate with ice cream and cake.

If you are fortunate enough to have a Newfoundland, or any dog in your life - I invite you to take time out of your busy schedule. Do something special for your friend today and marvel at how lucky you are to share your life with this soul. Tonight, join us in a virtual birthday party. Bring out the ice cream, serve up a big dish and end your day with with hugs and belly rubs. We are blessed.

Happy birthday, sweet Arayo.

A Reason to Drink

2011-03-30T09:11:00.000-07:00

Palermo, Sicily. Sicily - not Italy. The older Sicilians will tell you there is a difference. "We are SICILIANS! Not just Italians!" (My parents would tell you a similar line "we are KANSANS! Not just Americans……")

The wasbund and I were living in a poor area of Palermo, just a few blocks from the park which was the heart of prostitution in the city. My neighbors had taken us under their wings, like pets in need of coaching and direction, and it was a big thing that the parents of the Americans were coming to visit.

They arrived on an early morning flight and I drove them along the coast, past fields and the small outer villages that lead the way to this city of insanity. As I pulled up in front of the little apartment that had become my home, the neighbor I had adopted as my Sicilian Mom came out to greet my parents.

Tradition is important in Sicily, and we were formally invited into her cool dark home where she proceeded to brew a pot of strong black espresso. I showed my parents how to load the thimble of coffee with sugar and they politely choked it down.

After a short visit, we kissed our host goodbye and stepped back into the sunlight where we were greeted by the family that lived on the other side of me. The espresso came out again, and I waited until backs were turned and exchanged my empty cup for the ones my parents were trying to struggle through.

Making our way outside again, my friend Ina spotted us and waved us over. "Come inside," she insisted, and we climbed the stairs to her second floor apartment. "Cafe?" she asked, as she headed for her tiny kitchen. "Yes, thank you," I responded, though my parents had figured out the process by now and immediately said "No!"

"Mom, you REALLY want the coffee here," I tried to explain, but Ina was one step ahead of me. "Well, if you don't want coffee, I have something better," replied Ina, and I knew we were in for trouble, because if you don't drink Ina's coffee, she is going to produce some kind of liquor, even if it is just 9 in the morning.

Happily chattering away, Ina opened her cabinet, produced tiny glasses and a bottle of some horrible hooch. In my extremely fractured Italian, I'm trying to explain to her that my parents don't drink, and really, coffee would be much better.

Ina pours a bit for my mom, the honored guest, and places it in front of her and before I know what is happening, Mom's hand reaches out, grabs the glass and belts it down! As the liquid is still making its way down her throat, she smacks the glass back onto the table and loudly proclaims "YUUUUCK!"

The room stops. Ina is not expecting this response from her cherished offering, and I am stunned that my teetotaling mother has just belted down a glass of rot-gut!

As we left Ina's house a bit later, I asked Mom (who has previously never let a drop of alcohol pass her lips) what possessed her to slug that drink down. "Well," she replied, "I remember when your cousin was in Equador in the Peace Corps. When her parents came to visit they were served guinea pigs with the little feet still in place and they had to eat them.

"I figured I'd better drink that stuff in the interest of world peace."

..........somehow the neighbors still loved her, but her phone wasn't ringing off the hook for her inclusion in a lot of peace-keeping efforts.

Photo: Mom, before her "drinking days". Probably circa 1950

My Mom, The Artist

2011-03-10T15:55:00.000-08:00

My mother was an artist. You'll never see her work in a gallery or museum, but our home is full of her creations.

She went through periods - as all artists do. At one point it was decoupage, then the "Gold Spray-Paint" era. We'd come home from school and find gold spray-painted wreathes, vases and furniture. I had to hide my favorite dolls - I knew she was lusting to spray them - and we were just damn lucky not to wake up in the morning to find she's sprayed the family members during our sleep. Everything, to her, looked new, rich and wonderful with just a hit from the gold spray-paint can.

"Isn't it beautiful now," she'd exclaim? Some eras are best moved through and then left deeply buried.

The past 20 years or so, stained glass was Mom's passion. She started with simple pieces, and worked her way to intricate designs. When she didn't have a big project to work on, she set about making night lights for everyone she knew. But, Mom was never really about the details. There were a fair number of post-operative installation issues. I still have a beautiful blue bird night light that plugs directly into a wall power outlet. As it only plugs in one direction, the bird is a bit disorienting as he clings to the wall, hanging upside down like a bat.

Some of her more recent works are in her front window. There is the dog who looks a lot like a pit bull. I'd have some problems with this guy, but instead of a vicious killer-dog expression, he's got googly eyes glued on his face. You know the kind - the plastic white dots with black circles that spin around and around when you shake them. Spaced widely apart, he looks like he got into the spiked punch bowl and is stoned out of his mind - permanently stunned and confused. Frankly, exactly the way I like my pit bulls to look!

Then, there is the cat. A big fluffy yellow cat - it has seams across its face that give it a furrowed brow-scowl and green glass eyes that are really ticked off. If it weren't glass, it would jump from its window and claw your couch to shreds just for the fun of it.

Mom's most memorable piece was created during her felt period. Never one to go out and buy something when she could make it herself for less, I recall her painstaking work on a Nativity scene.

Felt figures stood beneath a felt star, taking shelter in a felt stable. Felt Mary and Joseph gazed lovingly upon a little felt manger, in which a felt baby Jesus rested. And, there he was, wrapped in felt swaddling clothes, Jesus was the center of attention. To finish off her creation, Mom cut out a felt round circle and glued it to the shoulders of the babe, then out came her blue pen and Jesus had eyes, a nose, a couple strands of blue ink hair and a goofy crooked grin.

The result was that Jesus looked like a bald 80 year old man who'd tied one on and was laying in that manger, watching the stable spin around him! I mentioned that something was amiss with Jesus, but Mom just smiled that smile of hers and walked off. For years, that felt nativity scene with its old-man drunken Jesus had a prominent place in our holiday home.

As I paw through closets and drawers, closing out Mom's estate, I'm watching for the Nativity Scene. Hopefully someone in the family with a sense of humor will cherish it.

Janet Hughes Carpenter, Age 86

2011-03-02T15:21:00.000-08:00

Mom passed peacefully in her home this morning at 11:15, Oswego, KS, time. Her absence leaves a big hole in the lives of her family, friends and the community.

Friends and family are invited to visit www.JanetCarpenter.blogspot.com for more information and to leave comments.

A Message From Beyond?

2011-02-28T18:32:00.000-08:00

I believe.

Not in a God, or an almighty being. I don't disbelieve, I just don't think there is an all-powerful director, or judge or giver or taker.

I believe in Magic and I believe in forces outside ourselves - though I'm not so sure we don't create the forces without knowing it.

Years ago I signed up for a class in which the instructor was to explain some of the wonders and questions of our universe. Aliens, the Bermuda Triangle, ghosts and such. It quickly became clear this man was a dud, hell bent on finding any reason to try to explain away every bit of intrigue in the universe. I stopped attending. What an old poop he was.

My second Newfoundland developed cancer. A tumor grew from the base of her nose and out her eye socket. She looked awful but she maintained her will to live. Shortly before she died, I took her to the coast for a few days after Christmas as the beach was where she was the most alive. She loved the water, the feel of the wind in her fur. Though she was slowing down, I tossed sticks several feet into the water for her and my good little water rescue girl would slowly wade out, grab the stick and return it to the safety of the shore.

One day we walked the downtown of a small coastal town, its tinsel and lights still displayed from the Christmas holiday. Eylah wasn't one to pick things up and carry them. Except for the sticks that she would rescue from their watery deaths, I never saw her carry an item around in our 7 1/2 years together.

But, as we walked down this street, she saw a yellow glitter-covered star which had apparently dropped from a Christmas display. Eylah bent down, picked it up and carried it through town. It was as though she was telling me that she knew she had a connection - that soon, she too would be a star. I lost my dear girl within 2 weeks of that day.

Yes, I believe that somehow we receive messages, if only we are aware. The messages may not be life altering but there is magic in them, nonetheless.

This week I am helping my mom die.

This morning, I opened the garage to find a storm had brought with it one simple scrap of what I first thought was trash. When I picked it up to throw it away, I realized it was something else entirely. The little scrap turned out to be a small plastic ghost which must have been blowing around the streets of town for months. I brought the ghost inside, wiped it off and keep it near my computer.

As I watch and care for my Mom through her last days here, I think someone has sent me a message that perhaps, we are not waiting alone.

The Thermometer

2011-02-27T18:26:00.000-08:00

Hospice came this week and brought a bunch of drugs to counter any anxiety or pain Mom may have in her last days. One thing she has been struggling with has been an erratic temperature, and suddenly i realize I need a thermometer if I'm to know when to give her something!

I go through all mom's drawers and find two ancient models and pop them both in my mouth simultaneously. One informs that I am dead - no temp at all. The other says I have a temp of about 102.

I figure I'd better run to the drugstore for something more reliable and I buy a new digital thermometer. When I get it back home and check, this thermometer says I have a temp of about 96, which is low even for me. So I pass it to my uncle who checks his and before I know it 4 of us have taken our temps with this thing. No one gets a reading of even 97. We agree we got a lemon and decide to return it.

Back at the little drug store, I explain that the thermometer is defective and that we know this because we are having a death watch and for fun we are sitting around taking our temperatures.

I notice that the people are looking at us like we are kinda odd.

The problem is that this is their last thermometer so I think "well, I'll just get those little sleeves that go over the end of a thermometer because, honestly I DO have a thermometer - it's just that it belongs to Arayo and the only times it has been used, the temps taken have been from the south side of a Newf!"

I mention to the little gal at the cash register that I'll just use my dog's thermometer because I know that I get the same readings that the vet does, and these sleeves will make it okay for human consumption.

She stutters, suggests that, because it is a COVER for the thermometer, doesn't mean that it is going to provide sterile protection from something I'd previously had up my dog's rear.

People sitting around waiting for their prescriptions are now starting to pay VERY close attention to this conversation. Someone in the store is obviously whacko!

My cousin is with me and I notice she has backed off a bit, but then comments loudly "I'm never going to have her for MY nurse!"

The lady to my left nearly falls off her chair laughing.

"Well, when you are terminal anyway, what damage can it do?" I proclaim, and pass over two bucks for the sleeves.

The pharmacist leaves his post at the rear of the store and runs over to the thermometer wall to double check there are no hidden thermometers. He knows my mom and likes her. He doesn't want her temperature being taken with a dog's butt thermometer.

The blond at the cash register looks as though she believes she will be hauled off to prison and charged with being an accomplice to this crime and she's trying really hard not to accept my cash.

The woman on the chair and her husband are both in stitches.

My cousin finally says she will loan me one of hers and bring it to town tomorrow, though as we walk to the car she suggests that if mom has a suspected temp tonight, I should just pop Arayo's thermometer in a plastic bag and have her suck on it anyway.

As we get in my Subaru, I realize we are parked next to a car with 4 small barking dogs in it. I'll bet it belongs to the woman who got such a kick out of the interaction inside.

Honestly, I suspect she's used her dog thermometer on her husband more than once - just never fessed up where it was last utilized!

Photo: Mom and Karyn - Karyn's the funny lookin' one....

Arayo, Watching Over Mom

2011-02-26T23:02:00.000-08:00

Mom isn't a real big Newfoundland fan. They are big, they eat a lot, they shed a lot and they are so EXPENSIVE! I knew that Mom would have to be really sick for me to come home to help her as only when she was really ill would she be okay with Arayo in her house.

In the past Mom has asked me to come home and invited Arayo. "You can bring the dog. He (she never could get it that Arayo is a she) can stay in the garage. You can stay out there with him too if you don't want him to be alone. It is a NICE garage! Zippy likes it."

"Mom, Zippy is a car. Besides it is December. We are not sleeping in your garage when it is 7 degrees outside."

"You can turn on the clothes drier. That will warm it up a little and we can bring out a space heater. It will be toasty."

"It will be 12 degrees instead of 7 and it is still a garage. You come visit me instead."

But, as the cancer advanced in her body, Mom stopped worrying quite so much about having 100 pounds of Newf in her home and once here, Arayo grew on her.

No longer did she worry that Arayo would rush by and knock her over, and more and more I found her petting Arayo's big black head. I've gone into her room to find out who Mom was talking to, only to find her carrying on a conversation with Arayo.

Mom was suckered in by Arayo's big sad eyes. With little or no appetite, Mom would ask for a sandwich, then be too weak to eat it. She loves that Arayo will spend hours watching her (and that sandwich), but that she maintains her polite upbringing and won't just grab it for herself.

After being in the hospital for several nights, we have brought my mother home and her doctor estimates that the time we have with her will be days, not weeks.

Tonight Arayo went missing. I searched the house and finally checked Mom's room where she's sleeping off a long day of visitors. There I found Arayo - laying on the floor - not sleeping, but watching over my Mother. Arayo has somehow figured out - if not all that is going on, at least that Mom needs extra care.

Guarding Mom seems to be Arayo's new job for a while.

One Week Left to Live

2011-02-25T19:55:00.000-08:00

Today, I brought my Mom home to die.

Five years ago she started saying things like "If you get a call that I'm dead, know I wanted it this way."

"Ah, Mom, is there something you aren't telling me?"

"Oh, no. I'm just saying……."

Mom's a firm believer in quality of life. If the quality isn't there, its time to check out. So her plan of dealing with the diagnosis of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia (CLL) was to ignore it until it got ahead of her and then die. If she could find a way to hurry the process along, then great, but she never quite figured that last piece out.

Two years after diagnosis, she passed out in public and was dragged (under great protest) to the hospital for stitches. Later, the docs who saw her blood levels tried to reach her, and when they couldn't they called the police to break into her home, expecting she was dead, or close to it. Turned out she was out having pizza with a friend, but she was forced to fess up about her health at that point.

Then the family got involved. It looked to me that the treatment for CLL wasn't horribly debilitating so we had a little intervention, with family arriving in Kansas from Washington, California and Arkansas.

I pushed her towards a trial treatment in Houston, which was interesting, if unsuccessful. That ended after we became refugees - evicted into the streets from The MD Anderson Rotary House hotel during Hurricane Ike in September 2008. (But, the Gods were watching out for us as we found long lost family members who invited us to ride the storm out with them. Others were not so lucky.) Treatment transferred back to Kansas after that.

Arayo and I arrived in Oswego in late December and we've been helping her as her body has slowly lost its fight with this disease. Monday afternoon she was walking around, then 2 hours later couldn't stand or walk. Yesterday, her oncologist said we can expect maybe a week left with her.

So today I brought her back to the home she and my father built 60 years ago. The place she loves most in the world. Together we'll see the rest of this journey to its end.

Photo: Mom with her fuel efficient car, Mr. Zippy

Searching for Hurricane Katrina

2011-02-22T21:25:00.000-08:00

"Ground Zero". Arayo and I stand on the beautiful white sand beach and imagine this scene 5 years ago when Hurricane Katrina came to town, leaving death and destruction in her wake.

A beautiful beach-side community, pummeled by winds and waves so strong as to flatten homes and send anyone foolish enough to try riding out the storm to a very vicious death.

Do we know how to to have a good time on the road, or what?

Dubbed by USA Today as "The Town that Vanished", Waveland, MS, is no stranger to impressive storms. This coastal community spent a decade recovering from the damage that Hurricane Camille wrought on it in 1969. Then, when Katrina reared her head in 2005, bringing along a 33 foot storm surge, she made sure that this town, which sat in the center of her path, would feel her might.

Pre-Katrina Waveland was a quaint sea-side community of about 6,000 people but most of the roads leading through town take us past blocks and blocks of emptiness. A few lots sport "For Sale" signs and the homes that have rebuilt are elevated - no doubt fortified by impressive steal reinforcements.

Most of the remaining trees are enormous, with branches massive and strong. Though many bear scars of limbs decapitated in the 140 mph winds, they stand, a testament to the endurance of nature.

A water-front church sports a sign proudly advertising that no storm, no matter its power, can stop them from proclaiming their glory to God. I wonder how God takes this - rebuilding on this scene of destruction? "Come on, Big Boy - hit us again! We can take it!"

Time will tell how Waveland rebounds. If the lure of living near the beauty of the beach make people risk the might of yet another major hurricane or if many have said "uncle" and made a permanent move to less risky lands?

Photo: Arayo enjoys the ocean breeze - no doubt sniffing if another Hurricane is drawing near.

Gobblin' Up The Shoreline

2011-02-19T16:56:00.000-08:00

Big yellow machines chomp up the landscape and spit it back out. Other big yellow machines haul it off for processing by additional big yellow machines. The scene looks like something from a sci-fi movie.

My hosts have brought me to this beautiful Mississippi island - the white sand beaches, stunning beyond belief, are covered by deep tracks left by the equipment that mars the otherwise perfect setting.

Few people join us on this stretch of paradise. Most everyone is in town, watching the Christmas Parade. But kids, floats, horses and girls in colorful antebellum dresses can't compete with the roar of the scene being played out on the coastline.

I pad over to the gentleman, apparently positioned to keep gawkers from getting too near the thundering equipment. Today, his is not a high-stress gig.

"Oil spill clean-up?", I ask, sort of surprised that they have gotten to this so soon.

"Yup. All the sand has to be dug up, run through a processor to clean it, then replaced." He says they've been there several weeks and should be on the beach well into the new year.

After some chatting about our shared love of dogs, I rejoin my hosts and we photograph newfies on the beach. As we return to our cars, the clean up crew heads out - perhaps for a lunchtime picnic. Across the sand they go in vehicles - a parade of clean-up employees - a sani-can caboose attached to the back of one of the vehicles.

That is what I love about big equipment! You can move anything!

Photo: Arayo supervises the Oil Spill Clean-Up on a Mississippi Beach

Huntin' Gators

2011-02-15T14:42:00.000-08:00

Moss drips from the trees and the water is covered with a green slime that screams of danger. The live kind. The kind you have to be crazy not to be terrified of.

I am terrified, and on high-alert status.

I can hear the snakes discussing amongst themselves that we are on the way. Hissing, sharpening their fangs, and doing little snakie rolls, sit ups, back bends, and knots. Making sure they are flexed and primed so they can grab us when we draw near - then suck us into their green, slimy, watery abyss.

Miz Arayo has that prey drive, so I wrap the leash another time around my hand, keeping her near and watching her every move. If a squirrel dashed past us, she'd bolt after it and rush across the green algae, only to fall through, into the trap laid by the snakes and their evil counterparts, the gators!

A man passes and shows us on the map where he spotted an alligator earlier. While snakes terrify me, Mr. Gator is another thing all together. I'm fascinated by their big teeth, blinky raised eyes and strange crinkly bodies.

I'm reminded of a time years ago. Visiting friends in Louisiana, I headed off in search of an alligator preserve. As dusk was approaching, I found myself on a path, water on either side of me, camera in hand. I hadn't gone far when I stopped for an enormous alligator across my path. I did a little jig of happiness and began documenting this old guy. When I had enough of the "profile, mouth closed" shots, I began talking to him, encouraging him to give me a toothy grin.

He was anti-social, belligerent, refusing to budge. I considered a bit, then decided he could use some encouragement. Besides, a photo of an alligator with his mouth open would be fun! I picked up a rock and tossed it his way. It landed on his snout. He didn't even blink.

I tossed another rock, bigger this time. I got the same result. Nothing.

Realizing I was losing light and needed a tripod for much more shooting, I returned to my car for one. When I came back, probably with the intention of poking the gator with the tripod before mounting my camera on it, he was gone.

Not until returning to my friend's home did I learn that gators are fast and not necessarily known for their tolerance of dopey women who throw rocks at their heads. The gator I found must have been brain damaged - or assumed i was. It gave me a break and didn't eat me that evening. Somewhere in my files, I have slides of this big old gator's head with a dozen or so rocks on his nose. My future as a wildlife photographer left something to be desired - but I was probably lucky I was allowed to have a future at all!

Photos: The only gator in view was perched far into a slimy green lake - no doubt he was a decoy for others lurking nearby. Miz Arayo poses from a secure bench - unaware of the danger lurking below and beyond.

In the Shadow of a Giant Peanut

2011-02-11T17:04:00.000-08:00

We are looking for the peanut and find it on a side street in a dinky town in Georgia. The lady had said "Look for the big peanut with Jimmy's face on it!" And, there it was - on a corner of a parking lot in a residential area of Jimmy Carter's home town - a 13 foot tall goober with a big toothy grin.

The drive from South Carolina to Mississippi was uneventful, though long. As Arayo and I drove our normal backroads through America's south, I asked myself if there wasn't something I was missing? Surely this part of the country had something to offer as a side attraction.

The only thing of note that came to mind was that Jimmy Carter was from Georgia. But, what were the odds that we were anywhere near Plains? After all - we had already driven the majority of the way across the state.

But a visit to Jimmy's hometown was meant to be as we were 15 miles away and my route could easily take us through the home of our 39th President.

Now, I have to admit - when Jimmy was in office, I thought he was a dork. Though, hindsight proves that it was me who was really the idiot. I freely admit it. The more I know about the man, the more I respect him. In my opinion, Jimmy Carter may be the last president this country has had with the guts to lead with his conscience. Hell, he may be the last President who HAS a conscience. No wonder he didn't make it in Washington.

Jimmy Carter came from simple roots. His first restroom was an outdoor privy, water came from a hand-cranked well. As a kid, he ran barefoot through the muddy fields and began selling boiled peanuts at the age of 5. He learned about joblessness and hunger from the tramps that knocked on his door, asking for water, or a bit of food. Something his mother always gladly shared.

While President he begged Americans to pull together during the energy crisis, doing his part by throwing on a sweater and turning down the heat in the White House. He wasn't asking us to do what he wasn't prepared to do himself.

In July, 1979, he addressed the American public on television and warned Americans that too many of us were worshiping self-indulgence and consumption. "Human identity is no longer defined by what one does, but by what one owns," he said. He encouraged people to fill their lives with meaning and purpose.

You GO Jimmy!

Carter declared amnesty to Vietnam draft dodgers, encouraged energy conservation, installed solar panels on the White House and - curses of all curses - he boycotted the 1980 Summer Olympics in response to the 1979 Soviet's invasion of Afghanistan. Not a decision that earned him brownie points, but for a man leading with his conscience - it was, I believe - the right decision.

His time in the Presidency was too short. A man who takes the high road isn't going to have a good time of it when he's dealing with the bottom feeders of Washington.

But, out of office, now, 30 years, Carter has continued to work tirelessly for human rights. At 86 years of age, he is still an inspiration and living his life with purpose. He and Rosalynn, his wife of 65 years, continue to live in the home they built years ago in Plains - population 637. He teaches Sunday School at his local church, takes his turn at the church lawn maintenance, and still advises on the international scene.

Jimmy Carter - thank you for being a real stand-up guy!

Newfy's Mom - Saving The World's Primates

2011-02-05T08:02:00.000-08:00

Arayo and I are surrounded by rowdy calls of "whoop, whooooop, whooooop". The sign in front of me reads "Please close the door. Northie has a drinking problem."

We are not in a low-class bar but at the International Primate Protection League gibbon sanctuary in South Carolina. Northie, who likes drinking from the toilet, is a Newfoundland and the companion of the IPPL's founder and director, Shirley McGreal. His unconventional family includes over 30 gibbons and a handful of otters who have found refuge here.

Northie is lucky - he lives with one of those rare individuals who is not comfortable living in a world without doing her damnedest to make it a better place. In the early 70's Shirley saw the plight of primates that were being trafficked and decided to do all she could to stop it. That this calling has been dangerous and global in scope has not stopped her tireless work.

Shirley's leap into saving the world's primates began in the early 70's while picking up freight at an airport in Thailand. She was stunned to see crates of animals awaiting shipment out of the country and felt they were begging her for help. She dove into research, and two years later she began the International Primate Protection League.

Her investigations into illegal trafficking of primates have led her, at great risk, to go undercover into the compounds of animal smugglers. Her findings have exposed criminals, bringing them to justice and ultimately changing laws and banning the sales of endangered primates around the globe.

She has grown her small organization to 15,000 worldwide members who help carry out investigations of trafficking and abuse worldwide. IPPL assists grassroots wildlife groups in their efforts to promote concern for primates, and supports rescue centers overseas, in addition to maintaining the gibbon rescue center in South Carolina.

Recognized many times for her work, in 2008, Queen Elizabeth II bestowed upon Shirley the prestigious "Order of the British Empire", one of Britain's highest honors.

Many primates owe their lives to Shirley McGreal, and, we humans owe her our gratitude for her courage, passion and work towards a just cause. If there were more people like her, the world would, indeed, be a much much better place to live. Arayo and I are honored to have spent time with her.

Please visit her website and consider joining IPPL to help Northie's mom fight the good fight! http://www.ippl.org

PHOTOS - Northie lives with over 30 gibbons who have been rescued by his mom! Shirely McGreal knows which of the gibbons need a good back rub. Shirley and Northie at home at the IPPL headquarters in South Carolina.

Taking on the Confederates

2011-02-02T18:56:00.000-08:00

If asked to rate places I'd like to visit, battlefields would be right there at the bottom of the heap. Civil War battlefields, at the bottom of that list. I'm very anti-war. Not that I don't think there are times to stand up for ones rights, but it seems to me that there HAS to be another way to solve problems that don't involve killing each other.

But, our route took us through a little spot on the road where a quaint town opened onto beautiful rolling hillsides. Gettysburg. It stands on its own, as though it needn't be attached to a state - although, it resides in Pennsylvania, in case, like me, you would need to look it up.

"Oh, why not," I said to Arayo. "The least we can do is take a photo of you here with a cannon or something." (And, if she wanted to help water a monument to a dead confederate, then I wasn't going to argue with her.)

Gettysburg - where over 165,000 Americans duked it out, killing 8,000 and injuring 27,000 more. We should be so proud. I know this is part of our history, but pride in all this is just not something I can grasp.

As we make our way further south, the war keeps resurfacing. It is more important here, in the south. No longer is it the "Civil War". It is now "The Woaah of Nawthurn Aggression." (The WHAT!?)

I've been to Tiawan, to China, Africa and even lived in the craziest of all - Sicily - but the deep south of our country is more foreign to me than all these other places. For instance, there is the confederate flag. To me, flying the confederate flag is akin to continuing to fly the Nazi flag. It doesn't really symbolize all that is good and kind in the world. But, some folks down south still love their confederate roots. And, not just those backwoods uneducated, gun-totting, red-necks.

The State of South Carolina proudly flew the Confederate Flag on the State House dome until 2,000 when it was removed to its own flagpole on the House grounds. The NAACP has voted their approval of this fallacious flag flying by declaring an economic boycott of the state and they are joined in this by other civil rights groups. The National Collegiate Athletic Association has banned holding sporting events in the state because of this continued flag presence. But...... the state is apparently standing by their right to fly this symbol of stupidity. They even honor their fallen confederate soldiers each May by giving all state employees a paid holiday in their honor. sigh……

The South is beautiful - some of it REALLY stunning - and I'd like to explore more, but I don't think I'll be packing my bags and moving there anytime soon.

Precious Ghosts From My Past

2011-01-10T17:31:00.000-08:00

I took Arayo to the Chapel this week. As the bitter January winds blew, we walked the cherub-lined walkways towards the building that once drew crowds. Like visiting an ancient European Castle, the walls and beauty remain, but only the ghosts speak of the pageants, crowds, and glorious days of not so long ago.

The spirits remind me of my first visit to this hillside. There was only a simple home here then, and the shy woman I met flinched when I asked of rumors that a chapel was to be built. "You'll have to ask Sam about that," was all she would say.

Sam was her husband. Sam Butcher. The creator of the most collected figurines in the country: "Precious Moments." The Chapel - his tribute to God.

No one who has ever met me would imagine that, tucked in my past was a period where I ran around giving presentations on these sweet, religious cherubs. That I was once married under a bridge with a 20 foot concrete troll looking on is understandable. But gooey angels?

For 7 years I traveled the Midwest, my Newfoundland dog, Tara, by my side. Meeting with groups of "clubbies" - collectors who had anywhere from 10 to 1,000 of the figurines which proclaimed their messages of Jesus, love and glory to God. Though I think the collectors always knew I wasn't a Precious Moments girl down in my soul, I adored the "clubbies" for their genuineness and gentle spirits, and ended up with groupies who followed me from venue to venue.

As I walk toward the chapel, I recall its construction, its painting and the crowds of people who made their way to stare in wonder at the stories the paintings on the walls portray. I remember the conventions I organized, and of helping protect Sam, the shy soft-spoken artist, from the mobs who wanted to meet the man they so adored.

Today, the parking lots are nearly empty, and the tour guide says the masses have dwindled to a handful of people who visit each day. No longer are the roads jammed with tour busses, and Sam is probably free to walk around unconcerned with crowd control and body guards.

The Precious Moments Chapel is still beautiful and well worth a visit. It is a simple but talented man's tribute to God and in its own way, a tribute to those who collect or once collected. It is a gift from a wonderful man who had a vision that changed the face of a small hillside in Southwest Missouri.

Perhaps, if you are lucky, when you are there you can still hear the ghosts of a glorious time gone by.

Photos: My cousin, Megan, admires the inside of the Precious Moments Chapel. Arayo visits with Precious Moments Figures on the Chapel Grounds.

For more information on The Precious Moments Chapel in Carthage Missouri

A little song for the day

2011-01-10T16:40:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me. You lived to see another yeeeaar.... Happy Birthday to me!

Santa's "Protection" Newf

2011-01-01T09:32:00.000-08:00

Santa dropped by for a Newfie fix this week.

It was a beautiful day so I spent a few hours cleaning the dust of many miles of travel from my car. He approached quietly. I suppose he had a lot of practice from sneaking around people's homes at night - but I turned around and there was his bright red Chevy sedan parked in the driveway behind me. When he stepped from the car, there was no mistaking the big jolly lad. His funny red Santa hat was replaced for the off-season with a red and white "Oswego Indians" ball cap, and in place of his fur trimmed suit were a red t-shirt, red windbreaker, and red polyester pants held up by blue and white stripped suspenders. His face was hidden behind a beard and as a disguise - his little round spectacles were replaced by big nondescript glasses. Didn't work. I knew who he was.

He hadn't dropped by to see me, though. As always, when you own a Newf, you know that the people who stop really just want to see your dog.

"I used to have a Newfoundland," Santa proclaimed proudly as he bent over to scratch the belly that Arayo had immediately dropped to the ground to offer up. The story goes that some years ago a friend had a litter of Newfs. This one had a nose that was too short (breeders wanted long-nosed newts, you see) and the breeder offered to give this pup to Santa, who happily accepted. Santa had an office in these days, and figured he'd better take this a step at a time. He left the puppy at his office at night, and went home to the missus and said, "Don't you think we need a dog?" To which the answer, night after night, was always, "No!"

After a few weeks of this, he figured this was a no-go deal with the wife and offered him up to the police department, who's office was next to his. They thought he'd make a big scary police dog and snatched him up for their program. (Of course, that same night, Santa went home and Mrs Santa proclaimed "I think we need a dog, don't you?" but by then it was too late.)

Well, some time later, the police come back to Santa and say "want your dog back?" Turns out there are reasons that police departments all over the world don't have attack Newfs on their force. Seems they could train the dog to chase down a bad guy. Could even get him to knock the guy down and pin him to the ground. What they couldn't get through to the dog is that you do not lick the bad-guy's face while waiting for the back-up of your fellow officers.

Santa had his Newf back.

Then, Santa proceeds to tell me the rest of the story. One day this guy is driving down the street. He's in a hurry, driving too fast, and he sees this big black form in the middle of the road. He hits the brakes but can't miss hitting Santa's dog. The dog died protecting two kids who were in the street.

So, that's Santa's Newf Story. I'm glad Santa only visits children one night a year and does it with a very busy schedule. His story was charming but he needs to work on happier endings.

Happy 2011 to one and all. - - Karyn and Arayo

Richard LeMieux: A Christmas Story of Hope

2010-12-24T21:10:00.000-08:00

The man stood at the edge of the bridge, looking at the water far below. The traffic that passed ignored him - he was just another homeless person - invisible to most. Besides, people were celebrating Christmas, and the suffering of someone on the bridge was of little concern.

Richard LeMieux had lost everything during the past year. His business and home, his country club membership and his sailboats were gone. With his fall from financial success, his support system crumbled. He was an embarrassment to his family, and his ‘friends’ had long stopped returning his calls.

High atop that long cold bridge, Richard felt like a failure yet again. He desperately wanted to end his life, but he couldn’t even do that. For, in his van waited a small white dog named Willow, and he could not abandon her. So, Richard returned to his new life of surviving on the streets.

It has been eight years since he stood on that bridge. Years of pain, hardship, growth and miracles. “I was a 58 year old man with no place to go and no one could fix my problems for me,” said Richard. But, a few people did care, and slowly, the mending and the growth began.

“I got little bits of hope from a lot of people and I had to write about what I saw,” he said. So he wrote. He wrote about those who fed him at the Salvation Army, and the people at Kitsap Mental Health who listened and cared. He wrote about the odd assortment of friends he began making who were living on the streets. About kids living together in the woods and a mother raising her family in a storage unit.

He wrote about the dark times, and the unceasing love of his dog, who got him through so many cold and lonely nights. Without meaning to, Richard had a book - deeply personal and meaningful.

With the publication of “Breakfast At Sally’s” many have come to better understand the plight of the homeless, and three shelters have opened around the country, named after his little dog, Willow.

I was honored to meet with Richard last month, and I felt his story deeply. There was no sense of bitterness over what he had endured, and no arrogance over his accomplishments. The man I sat across from was warm, gracious and humbled by the events of the past few years.

Richard learned on a very personal level what has always bothered me about our society. That, for the most part, people are judged not by who they are, but by what they have. “I went from hanging out with rich people to hanging out with the homeless,” said Richard. “The homeless are the ones who have treated me with respect and accepted me for who I am.”

Richard no longer sleeps in his car, but he is still a regular at the Salvation Army where he has become a beacon of hope to others. “Now, I live to make a difference. For myself, I only want a place where I can be warm and dry and where I can write.” Richard is working on a children’s book, “Willow The Wonder Dog”, about how dogs give us unconditional love.

With so much to discuss, Richard and I talked for hours. As we prepared to leave our little coffee shop a man approached. Richard took his hand, looked deeply in his face and told the man how proud he was of his accomplishments and of the efforts he was making in his life. I had the sense that this was a man who was overcoming his own life challenges, and I could tell that Richard genuinely cared. He knew and practiced the truth - that each individual has the ability to be the voice of hope in another person’s life.

May the holidays not bring you bags of goodies, but peace, hope and an appreciation of each other and of each day’s miracles.

Photo: Richard LeMieux could be found writing his book, "Breakfast At Sally's", on a donated manual typewriter at local parks.

Please click here - take a moment and order a copy of this amazing book, "Breakfast At Sally's"!

Bob, The Seducing Cat

2010-12-15T19:15:00.000-08:00

His name is Bob. Covered with fuzzy blonde hair, his broken left ear - crunched over at an odd angle - gives him an air of jaunty personality. But he is a cat. Just a fluffy old stray that showed up one day and decided to stick around where the food was good.

He lives outside and for the most part, does what cats do. He hunts mice and drops their carcasses, and squirrel entrails at the front door - gifts to those who live inside.

Bob selected this house with care, for Bob is kinda kinky for a cat. Bob has a passion for those of the canine variety. He loves dogs. LOVES dogs. And, within this house reside Newfoundlands. Lots and lots of Newfoundlands. Somewhere close to a ton of Newfoundlands - some 17 in all. This is heaven for a perverted cat like Bob.

Today, Bob has another 100 pounds of Newfoundland arriving. Arayo is in town. Arayo - the one with the high prey drive. The one from who's jaws I've removed 2 cats. Fortunately for the cats - removed unharmed. I saw a bumper sticker recently that was made for Arayo. It read "I LIKE CAT'S TOO! WANT TO EXCHANGE RECIPES?" That's Arayo and cats........

We get out of our car and Bob comes running. He wants to meet the new dog. To rub against her. Weave between her legs. Jump up, place his paws on Arayo's face and nuzzle her nose. Bob seems like such a sweet cat, so I swallow and wait for what will come next.

Apparently he knows what he's doing. He's a pro, ole Bob is. Perhaps seducing all the other dogs he's met before were just preparing him for this moment - charming Arayo - - the cat eating Newf!

And, charm Arayo he did. Charmed Arayo's cranky, kinda "not so thrilled about cats" owner, too. We both took to Bob. But he still leaves those body parts at the front door………….

Murdering the Bitch in the Box

2010-12-05T08:24:00.000-08:00

She insisted I take her to New York City. Whether to see Broadway or the Statue of Liberty, I don't know.

I tend to believe she was evil to the core. That she knew a detour into our country's largest city would put me into traffic and bridge situations that would trigger a panic attack that could prove my demise.

So, I ignored her. But she kept up her nagging. "Turn here, right HERE!" she'd demand. She was some kind of high-maintenance nag - or more likely a clone to the townswoman in the Wizard of Oz who wanted Toto killed - the nasty Almira Gulch. Almira morphed into the Wicked Witch of the West, and see how that turned out! This chick was starting to really tick me off.

But, I had the steering wheel and she was the mere navigator. I ignored her. She continued her unrelenting annoying harping, then changed tactics, taking up passive aggression. In her role as copilot, she'd direct me to the wrong address late at night. Take me down long dirt driveways which, rather than ending at the home of a loving couple with Newfoundlands, presented a series of beat up trailers which were guarded by pit bulls. I could usually hear the strains of the theme song from Deliverance coming from within the depths of the compound.

I decided to kill the bitch. I'd had just enough of her and she was becoming a major liability.

She's gone now. I'll not hear any more from her. She's been replaced with Paolo. Paolo speaks Italian with a heavy accent. I don't understand much of what he says, but that is okay. He may be trying to send me off into major cities as well, but with his sexy voice and delivery, every time he tries to direct me off my plotted course, I imagine he is saying "Bella, why don't you turn off on this road? I know of a lovely little trattoria where we can stop for a bit of pasta and a nice glass of wine. Not there? Well, this road will take us to a little cafe with the finest cappuccino in the state."

"Oh, Bella - if you must follow your own directions, that is okay," Paolo will say. "I'll stick by you, no matter where you take us. I'm Italian and for Italians, it is about the journey and not the destination - unless the destination includes an excellent plate of pasta, wine and good friends."

Visiting The Dead

2010-12-01T19:14:00.000-08:00

We are joining the dead today. I draw Arayo near and we pass through the tall gates on which statues rest, eyes closed, mourning those who have left this world. Those we are about to encounter. Quietly, we make our way into this place where spanish moss drips from tree branches that reach across roads - like rotting skin which has lost its hold on long boney fingers.

As far as we can see, stones and statues mark the place where the dead lay. The bodies of Civil War soldiers and ashes of Holocaust victims share the grounds of the Bonaventure Cemetery in Savannah with politicians, authors, mothers and children. It was brought to international attention when a haunting photograph of one of its statues - a young girl holding two bowls - became the cover for the book "Midnight In The Garden of Good And Evil". The "Bird Girl" has been removed, but the photographer, Jack Leigh, died too young and today rests within these grounds.

Possibly one of the most haunted cemeteries in America, we watch for the pack of ghost dogs, said to roam this place - growling and barking their intimidation of the living. Perhaps they are guarding little Gracie Watson who died at the age of 6. Buried beneath a life-like statue, the little girl was so beloved that even into death, visitors bring her trinkets and leave them at her grave. If they are removed, the statue cries tears of blood.

But, it is not for these that we search. We have come to this place, for Arayo has a special connection to one who rests here. Officially named "Capriccio's Life's What U Make It", after a song written by lyricist and composer Johnny Mercer, we've come to visit the grave of the man responsible for her name.

Beneath a simple flat stone, Johnny Mercer rests, though a bench has been placed across from his grave. Inscribed with the names of some of his more famous songs, an etching of his profile adorns the top. A couple weeks ago Johnny would have celebrated his 101st birthday and someone marked the occasion by placing a red rose on his grave and stringing a tacky birthday banner on the bushes behind.

Is Johnny Mercer hanging around, waiting for visits from Newfoundlands who's names contain his song titles? Perhaps. It is reported that someone visiting his grave once began softly singing some of Mercer's songs when a mist formed in a stream of sunlight near the grave. The mist disappeared as quickly as it came but those who witnessed it suspect he may drop around to visit from time to time. Or maybe its just some of "That Old Black Magic".

Newfies Terrorise Children at Hershey!

2010-11-29T05:50:00.000-08:00

They are so scary that tough police officers in Des Moines Washington hunt them down and shoot them with assault rifles. Newfies. The huge, black slime-producing creatures that so many of us are unfortunate enough to love. We own them for the macho scare factor, of course. Everyone KNOWS that if a Newf is around you should begin to shake and back up in terror. Lock the doors! Look for your guns!

Oh, wait - here comes a toddler. And another one. And here, a little old lady is hobbling over. They are all smiling from ear to ear, these unfortunate souls. They just don't understand how at risk they are - but they are coming over anyway. Right to the, not one, but TWO enormous black vicious Newfies at the end of our leashes.

We've made a trip to Hershey Pennsylvania. Had to do it. Someone says we are within an hour of a place known for chocolate and I'm all over that journey. So, we hopped in the car and drove to the town where lamps in the shape of kisses light the streets at night. Where you can stay in a spa and enjoy a Whipped Cocoa Bath, a Chocolate Sugar Scrub, a Cocoa Massage or a Chocolate Fondue Wrap. Or you can visit Hershey park and ride roller coasters designed to scare the chocolate out of you, enjoy musical productions and dance with Hershey kiss characters.

Today, the theme park is closed and the chocolate spa is out of my budget, so we take the little ride that explains the production of their chocolate, listen to some cows singing songs about milk and stroll around the gigantic store which sells everything that Hershey's makes.

Then, off to terrorize children. They are crawling all over this place. And today, they are mostily pre-school age so they'll really be afraid of our big black babies!

Arayo and her new friend, Duke, are not even out of the car when people begin to approach. Once in front of the entrance, we are never left alone and every 2 year old around is drawn to the Newfs. The only screams to be heard come from one little guy who is so excited about seeing the dogs that he periodically lets out a screech of delight after gently petting one, then dashing back off again - so proud of himself for having risked his life and lived to tell about it!

Though it has been three weeks ago that poor Rosie the Newfoundland was murdered by police in Des Moines, the horror is still with everyone who has ever loved a Newf and who knows the gentleness which they possess. The sweet nature that draws toddlers and grandmothers in for hugs.

Too bad hardened men and women are allowed to wear badges and carry guns. They could take a lesson from the toddlers in the world.

The Not-So-Good House Guest

2010-11-21T05:53:00.000-08:00

She ran into the home, flew down the hall, past the humans waiting to meet her. Making a quick right turn, she ran to the window and came to a stop - frozen in front of a small green bird who moments before was happily enjoying a stress-free life, swinging on its perch. Arayo didn't move a muscle as she watched the small creature who's only protection from becoming a Newfy hors d'oeuvre were the tiny wires surrounding it.

Arayo has a prey drive. If there is a list of creatures who are a serious threat to small furry and feathered things, Arayo's photo would be near the top.

Having offered to watch Aryao while I returned to the Seattle area to do some business, the Hudson family now had a new challenge on their hands. How to keep a killer newfy away from their two parakeets and three extremely tasty looking kitties. As Arayo lunged for the bird, family members grabbed the cage and secured it upstairs behind closed doors in a bedroom. For the next few days, any time Arayo went "missing", she could be located waiting in front of that door, willing it to open. When it finally did, we discovered Arayo, cage on floor, nose in cage, bird probably on the way to heart failure. A call to a neighbor sent the flying family pets to live elsewhere during my little hoodlum's visit.

Although, like all of us, I suppose, Arayo has her faults, something about her is just so magical. She stole my heart immediately and managed to worm her way into Donna's as well. She calls Arayo "the happiest dog I've ever met," and describes how "she'd wait until we started to stir before she'd leap on the bed, roll over and hog my pillow, legs in the air and that tail wagging, wanting her belly rubs."

I knew I'd left Arayo in a safe and happy place while I was gone, but was having slight twinges of concern as Donna's daily e-mails of how Arayo was doing showed more and more attachment to and appreciation for her antics. I half expected to arrive in Hartford and find myself at the airport with no ride home and the Hudson's phone numbers suddenly disconnected!

As has been the norm on this unusual road trip, we've found Newfoundland owners to be just amazing - their warmth and hospitality far beyond anything we'd have dreamed possible.

Thank you one and all.

Please, Don't Let This Happen Again

2010-11-17T19:58:00.000-08:00

Again, I post on the senseless murder of the Newfoundland dog, Rosie, in Des Moines, WA. This past Sunday, I joined a group of about 100 people who came to express sorrow and outrage at this awful event. We represented thousands of others from around the planet who were unable to be there in person, but who participated in spirit by lighting candles and continue to post online of the anger and tears that this atrocity has produced. People drove in from Oregon and Canada to attend the event, and local media were in attendance, including crews from two of the three major television stations.

It was felt that the best way to express our outrage was to do it in the gentle fashion of our dogs, with quiet dignity and respect - though most of us wanted to find the murdering police officers and show them the same compassion that they exhibited in hunting down, traumatizing and finally murdering this poor scared dog.

In studying this case it is evident this event is not isolated. That across the country, people are losing their beloved family pets to the hands of police officers who are sworn to serve and protect. How barging into a secured, fenced yard and shooting an animal that has been cowering far from you in blackberry bushes - - a dog who has been there for 20 minutes or so and has not moved a muscle it is so traumatized because of what you have done to it previously - is unconscionable.

That one of the officers involved could laugh, wipe his hands in a symbol of "job well done" and tell the owner of the home where this event took place that "this was the biggest one we've ever gotten!" shows a callousness and disrespect for life - both human and animal - that is truly frightening. That this individual continues to hold a job as a police officer and that he is allowed to carry a gun should strike fear into each and every American.

The Newfoundland Clubs of America, and of Seattle, the Humane Society and at least one, hopefully more, animal rights groups are watching this situation and continuing to apply pressure to the city of Des Moines. An on-line petition has been established with a goal of receiving over 4,000 signatures by this Thursday when they will be printed and hand delivered to the Des Moines city council. Everyone is encouraged to add their name to this document and to send e-mails to the city council, mayor and police of Des Moines demanding that the officers involved in this event be held responsible for this murder.

The Des Moines mayor attended Sunday's vigil and said that they have received over 1,000 e-mails from all over the world, so they know that this a case that has created a great deal of passion and upset. We need to keep the pressure on and I beg people to become involved. If this is allowed to pass without the officers receiving very severe repercussions, it opens the door for similar events to take place - and the next dog who is let out of its fence by a careless delivery person, or children who are intrigued by a big dog and want to play with it - could be yours.

As we drove home from Sunday's vigil, we spotted a dog who was dashing through 4 lanes of freeway traffic, dodging cars blowing down the road at 70 miles per hour. The dog was dragging his leash behind him. We will never know how this dog broke away from its owner and ended up in the freeway. We pulled our car over and tried to stop traffic and catch the dog, but it turned and ran away from us and managed to escape to an area we could not reach and which was hopefully a bit safer for it.

It was with a heavy heart that we drove off, leaving the dog to his own fate. We hope it ran back into the arms of his loving family, but there was absolutely no suggestion of calling 911 to send "professional" help to capture and make the dog safe. It seemed more humane to allow the dog to take its chances with freeway traffic than to subject it to the possibility of a police response and it being made a target for another Sunday shooting.

Please, take a moment and sign this petition today - http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/rosie-the-newfoundland-shot-by-police/

Write the city officials, including the major at ……… http://www.desmoineswa.gov/

Help us gain attention of national media of this event as this is a national problem, not a single isolated incident. How about 60 Minutes? http://www.cbsnews.com/htdocs/feedback/fb_news_form.shtml?tag=ftr

This is a blog post written by Brian Hodges, a lawyer and Newfoundland lover. He eloquently addresses the very dark side of this concern. This is a must read! http://plf.typepad.com/plf/2010/11/a-boy-and-a-dog-a-cautionary-tale.html

If you are associated with any organization, an all breed dog club, a Veterinarian association, animal groomers group - ANYTHING - please educate yourself about this horrible event and ask your organization to take an official stand. We can not condone this kind of action taking place in our country.

Vigil for a Gentle Giant

2010-11-17T19:50:00.001-08:00

Gray skies added gentle rain to the tears that fell from the members of the small procession. Pulling carts filled with flowers, Newfoundland and Saint Bernard dogs were led down the street in quiet observation of the murder that had only a week ago stunned the community.

Cars honked or pulled over in respect as the procession made its way to the simple home who's gates, today, were open. One by one, the quiet group filed into the large front yard and came to rest in line. Dogs, carts, flowers and stunned, saddened people…..

It was a week ago that police hunted down a gentle 115 pound Newfoundland Dog named Rosie. Those studying the events of the case, who read the police report and heard from the owner of the yard into which the dog fled, knew that this was nothing short of murder. People drove in from Canada, Oregon and Washington to pay their respects and to say to the city and the world that this should not be an event that is tolerated in this country.

One by one, the dogs pulled their carts to a fence where a small memorial of flowers had already begun. Roses, cards, balloons and posters were laid on this fence - which only a week ago had been Rosie's last hope for safety from her pursuers. The flowers, sent from all over the world, framed the deep back yard and the blackberry bushes where Rosie hid during her final minutes of terror.

Rosie's owners read a short statement, then walked along the group of dogs, stopping to kiss each large, gentle, canine head and hug those who had come to support them. As a final goodbye, they parted the gates to the back yard and walked to the place, far in the back which was marked with yellow roses. The place where Rosie tried to hide from the marksmen who took her life.

Unnecessary Murder of a Newfoundland Dog

2010-11-10T21:02:00.000-08:00

I was saddened this morning to learn of the murder of a Newfoundland Dog in Des Moines Washington. The dog apparently got out of the family's yard and wandered into traffic. Animal control was called, but it was the police who responded. They tasered the dog. It ran into someone's back yard and was followed by the police who shot it 4 times, killing it.

All reports, except for those of the officer who shot the dog, was that the dog was frightened, and not acting aggressively towards anyone.

I am sickened by this event. Do Newfoundlands "go bad" and become aggressive? Sure, but it is rare. These dogs are known as "The Gentle Giants" because they earned that title. Those of us who have Newfs know that their use as protectors is mostly in the minds of others who might see their size and decide not to chance an encounter. The biggest threat they offer of harming an intruder is that the intruder might trip over them.

While their energy levels are not as high as other dogs, they make great search and rescue dogs because of their love and devotion to the human race and throughout Italy, they are adored because they are known for their use as lifesavers on the beaches.

And, THIS is the dog that was murdered in Des Moines this weekend! A gentle Newfoundland

Needless to say, the Newfoundland world is up in arms about this tragic event. I encourage everyone to write the Des Moines Mayor and council and to help us keep pressure on the story by sending letters to the Seattle area media.

This could have happened to any of us. As hard as we try to keep our pets safe, there are times that they get loose. Police officers who look at killing people's pets as a sport should not be allowed to serve in that capacity and should not be allowed to own a gun.

Tonight, Arayo is with friends in Connecticut and I'm home in the Seattle area doing some business. I miss her anyway, but tonight - more so because of this sad story of Rosie.

Photo: Arayo rests on the beach at Acadia National Park in Maine

Break in the Ride

2010-11-04T06:55:00.000-07:00

Rain is falling in New England. We've spent several days with friends outside Hartford CT and drives in the country in search of the final fall colors have yielded many shades of brown. Trees are mostly skeletal, the ground around them littered with their leaves.

I fly home today - back to Seattle to do a few photo shoots. I feel I'm already there. The gray skies and rain here are too similar to home so that I feel I'm already there.

We are staying with a lovely family, and Miz Arayo has been stalking their two birds. The minute she stepped in the door, she spotted the blue and green feathered duo, ran to one of the cages and froze with her nose to the bars. The birds were immediately sequestered in one of the bedrooms and any time Arayo has been missing, she has been found laying in front of their room. This morning she broke through the bird's safety barrier and knocked one cage to the ground, dead set on a little blue parakeet breakfast. The birds are now staying with neighbors while Arayo stays with the family in my absence - their 3 teenagers, two Newfoundlands and 3 cats - who would also make a nice snack if she could just get hold of one.

Please send good thoughts this way. That Arayo behaves, doesn't catch a kitty, and doesn't succeed in one of her feisty attempts of dashing off the end of her leash. I will return in about 10 days and we head towards warmer parts of the country.

Photos: Prospect Harbor, Maine. Schoodic Penninsula of Acadia National Park

Boo! Or Reflections on the Season

2010-10-31T15:11:00.000-07:00

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Birthdays, July 4, Memorial days - Bah Humbug, one and all. But Halloween! Now that is a holiday I can sink my teeth into. I think it is the fact that people get creative for Halloween. Children become super heros or princesses for the day. Adults turn into vacuum cleaners, hot dogs, lamps or the villainous, underworld figure - Dick Cheney.

It was a coincidence but I got my first Newfoundland on Halloween. That would have been 28 years ago. I was living in Kansas at the time and had, years before, decided that I was going to have a Newfoundland. I owned a small house next to a doctor's office, and one day the local police came to my office to ask if I'd heard anything during the night. Seems doctor's offices are often the target of people breaking in looking for drugs and someone had broken in the night before.

That did it! Time for a "guard" dog. I went down to the local 7-11, bought a newspaper and saw an ad for Newfy puppies. One call and I had arranged to meet this family who lived in Western Kansas and were driving 6 pups to the eastern side of the state to sell them that weekend.

My father was a private pilot so he rented a small plane and flew me to a little Kansas town with a grass runway. We landed at the appointed time, and shortly thereafter, a station wagon pulled up and out poured 2 adults, 5 kids and 6 16 week old Newf puppies! We visited a bit, I handed them a check for $150, grabbed the closest puppy to me at the moment, and off we went.

The nightmare really started for that poor puppy then. Talk about Halloween! She was pulled away from the only life she had ever known, handed over to strangers, dumped into a cardboard box, and propelled into the sky. If that wasn't bad enough, the crazy lady who had just adopted her had her sit on her front porch with her that night and, rather than snuggling with fuzzy liter-mates, poor Tara was forced to gaze on monsters and ghosts, witches and mummies. She must have thought she'd been sent straight to hell! Thank goodness the ASPCA wasn't around that night! In spite of a somewhat frightening beginning, Tara and I shared 12 more Halloweens together.

Today, Arayo and I spent the day looking for goblins and New England Halloween trappings. People in this part of the world aren't too into decorating for the season, but the bite in the air is becoming more pronounced and the trees are becoming more skeletal each day. I suppose that is scary enough.

Photos: And, to celebrate the season, fall colors over a cemetery. (I expect goblins to be dancing under the tree tonight!) Arayo poses as a wicked witch - scary huh?

The Walls Do Speak

2010-10-25T07:08:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wonder what my homes have seen. During college, I lived in the upstairs apartment of a house that had been remodeled because the previous renter had died in a fire in what was to become my bedroom.

Another home was haunted. Lights that I'd never turned on would flip on in the middle of the night by themselves. Doors would open, things would move around. The woman I bought the home from believed me when I told her the stories. The house had been built for her mother (called Mongey by her grandchildren) who was a real character. She'd run off and joined the circus when she was younger and even as an old lady enjoyed things like palm reading.

I knew it was Mongey who was haunting the house. In fact, I had been renting the house but the horrid wallpaper with enormous floral patterns was making me nuts, so, in order to strip off the paper, I had to buy the home. I figured that Mongey was hanging around to see what I was doing and once the remodel was complete, she moved on. I kept the home as a rental for 20 years and no one complained of Mongey after the remodeling ended.

Chris Robb bought her 150 year old Isleboro Maine home some 30 years ago when she first visited the island. At the time she lived in the midwest, but fell for this darling farmhouse and had to have it. During the years, she has slowly made improvements - putting in a real kitchen and bathrooms, and removing linoleum which had been glued to the old parquet floors (their existence was a total surprise, though they were so ruined by the glue that they weren't restorable).

She saved for the day she could replace old wiring and plumbing. As often happens when walls are removed, "things" presented themselves that had been buried for years. For Chris, the house gifted her a story of its past in the form of a bundle of letters.

Still in their original envelopes and dated 1903 - 1911, the letters were written by a teenage girl to her boyfriend who was working at sea. They told of her life on the island, of working in a local laundry, of walking in winds so high that her skirts flew over her head. They hinted at possible scandalous events.

Did the boy hide the letters for safe keeping so they would not be found by his parents? Were they forgotten, or did they slip to a place that left them unretrievable? Some research revealed that the couple did eventually marry and the boy's grave located.

Chris isn't finished with this story, yet. She is playing with the idea of transcribing and publishing the letters.

If your walls could speak, what would they reveal?

Photos: Chris Robb's home on Isleboro Maine presented her stories from the grave. Her Newfoundland, 9 Volt, guards his front door.

Watching for John Travolta

2010-10-22T14:28:00.000-07:00

He's here somewhere, I'm just sure he is! John Travolta has a home on this tiny island and Arayo wants to see him. I could care less, but she's interested. Arayo has only seen one other movie star and that is my "home" island's own Russell Johnson. Better known as "The Professor" from the old sitcom Gilligan's Island, Russell may have been my first crush. He was handsome, intelligent, level-headed, and basically kept the small group of castaways alive during their stay on their small and usually deserted island. What's not for a 9 year old to love?

Well, Russell is now 85 and still clicking - though, at a much slower pace than he was 50 years ago. His step is slower, his back a bit bent. Frankly, he doesn't look like he feels too well, and most people who see him wouldn't realize it is him, but if you look closely you can tell.

So, while I've explained to Arayo the significance of the cute little old man in the Post Office or Grocery Store, she isn't really impressed. But, she would like to see John Travolta - though I'm not sure why. He's never appealed much to me. You wouldn't find him keeping a small group alive on a deserted island, but, when I was in Italy in the late 70's people would ask where I was from and when I'd respond "America", the Italians would smile broadly and respond "America is Good! John Travolta!"

Islands have their own quirks. Especially small islands with few full-time inhabitants. I ran up against the noted coldness to outsiders when purchasing groceries at the tiny store up the street. Three times I attempted to smile and say a pleasant "Hello, Have a Nice Day" to the stern woman at the cash register, but she was not going to be suckered into a response. Though, locals who entered the store received a "Hi Betty. How are you today?"

When driving, however, the situation is the opposite. Drivers in 9 out of 10 cars you pass will give "the wave". I don't notice a lot of smiles from the drivers, but as soon as they see you coming, the hand flips off the steering wheel into a definite wave. When I asked my host, Chris, about this, she said it was a big thing here. At one time, they even put a sign up as you drove off the ferry stating that they wave on Isleboro, but locals complained that visitors might think they HAD to wave and they didn't want that, so the sign was removed.

The island is an interesting place. Beautiful but not for everyone. There are no movie theaters, no dance halls, no public swimming pool and from fall to the beginning of summer, there are no restaurants. Just two teeny tiny grocery stores, a play ground and ball field for the kids, and a small library. Leaving the island for a night on the town isn't encouraged as the 27 - 28 car ferry makes its last sailing at 5 pm.

But where does John Travolta live? Big secret! Chris said she may have stumbled onto his property once. She was on a road which was obviously not taking her where she wanted to go, and as she drove along the lane looking for a place wide enough to turn around she was met by a guard who "suggested" she was in the wrong place and the appropriate action on her part was to head back the way she had come. She doesn't know for sure if that was the Travolta property or one belonging to someone else, but she suspected she'd stumbled onto his land.

So, while Arayo would love to see John Travolta, we aren't taking any unmarked side roads.

Photos: Fall a beautiful time to visit Isleboro Maine!

A Fall Drive

2010-10-21T06:24:00.000-07:00

The road stretches before us as we head towards Maine. Leaves, in dull shades of orange and gold, slowly release their grasp on branches and float softly to the ground. The colors are a slight disappointment, as the rains, the cold and wind have combined to tone the traditionally vivid Vermont countryside to an understated version of the season.

Into upper New Hampshire and across southern Maine, nature has stepped forward with more self assurance. The trees wear their colors in a fresh, bold pallet.

Arayo and I drive the winding side roads, accompanied by the music of Cheryl Wheeler, an absolutely amazing artist I've been introduced to. Her ballads of love, loss, Fall in New England, and funny tunes bemoaning cell phones and air travel are the perfect backdrop for our journey and I'm so thankful to have found her!

We head to the coast, and eventually to a small island that lays 20 minutes to the east of the mainland. Islesboro, with areas named Pripet and Dark Harbor, was originally called Pitaubegwimenahanuk by the Penobscot Indians. Some name changes are definitely an improvement.

Following the Civil War, the island was discovered by the wealthy who were looking for a cooler place to spend their summers and giant homes were built along the shoreline.

These "Single Family Summer Cottages" are in use a couple months of the year and have been owned by the likes of J.P. Morgan, Kirstie Alley and John Travolta.

Arayo and I plan to spend some time here watching for the rich and famous.

Watched in the Night

2010-10-19T12:12:00.000-07:00

They peer down on me. As the dim light of the exit sign, glowing in the darkened building like a red-eyed cyclops, marks my quiet movements, they watch. The crimson light reflected by hundreds of eyeglasses through which the walls glower.

Tonight finds us sleeping on the floor of the local optometrist's office and every direction I turn, the walls scrutinize, study and ogle.

Arayo has become far too attractive to my host's 180 pound male St. Bernard. An "intact" girl, we deal with this once every six months or so. As we are not typically around that many other dogs, her seasonal cycle doesn't alter our lifestyle - or those we encounter - but my host's home has become a bit too crowded for a Newfoundland who has suddenly become a brat and a flirt, and a pushy Saint who knows his size and strength.

So, we spend our days, visiting, traveling, enjoying the New England colors, and at night we settle down in this unusual setting.

But, it is another welcome departure from the norm. We take advantage of this opportunity and spend a while, trying on the latest styles. Is the round Harry Potter look for me, or the heavy black frame, suited for a librarian? The men's department has wire aviator glasses, a pair for the Microsoft geek and a small wire set reminding me of Ben Franklin. I settle on an oval pair in violet and orange. They are happy and different.

I contemplate my response, should the local police decide to pay a visit. With guns drawn, would they beat down the door and demand Arayo and I give ourselves up? "Put down those glasses and step outside!" they might demand. I decide that tonight would be a better night to sleep in proper pajamas rather than just my favorite old frayed t-shirt.

In case the glare of the faceless glasses are joined by the scowls of the local law.

Tears on Dog Mountain

2010-10-12T11:43:00.000-07:00

A teardrop slides down his face. A dignified man wearing a suit and tie, he holds a leash with a small brown and white mutt at the end. And he cries. On this beautiful hillside in Vermont, surrounded by fall colors, a small chapel and six other dogs of various sizes and breeds, the beauty and the serenity can't stop the tears.

The man wasn't created to depict such sadness. He is a statue, crafted and placed in this setting to highlight the bond we have with our four-legged friends. But, today, at the Chapel on Dog Mountain, the heavens have a different message for us. Today, as gentle rain falls, the man weeps. Most people passing by are unaware of the pain of this man, but for those who take the time and look deeper, we are reminded of the complexities and frailties that connect so many of us.

For, it was only nine months ago that the creator of Dog Mountain, the man who crafted the Chapel and the artwork, took his life.

Stephen Huneck's life was full of promise, of talent, of hardship and compassion. A solitary man for much of his life, he knew poverty and overcame unbelievable challenges. Following a fall that resulted in a coma and a subsequent condition in which he had to relearn everything from walking to writing, Stephen vowed to build a memorial where people could celebrate their connection with their dogs. Today, visitors from around the world visit the tiny building. They sit on pews which are supported by beautifully carved canine ushers. Light filters through stained glass windows, each depicting a dog and proclaiming the lessons they teach us; trust, friendship, love, joy, play, loyalty. And, covering the walls, are thousands of notes and photos of animals who have touched the lives of those who have visited.

But, Stephen didn't stop there. On his property he built a playground where people can enhance the bond with their current pets. There are trails for walking, ponds for swimming, an agility course to play on. Twice a year he, his wife and staff held Dog Parties, attended by hundreds of dogs and their owners.

With several books and a thriving business selling sculptures, wood cuts, furniture, shirts and cards, most featuring dogs, Stephen appeared to have overcome the challenges life had sent his way. But, Stephen also shouldered responsibility. He had staff and families depending on him. With the downturn in the economy, he was forced to look seriously at cutting staff in order to pay his own bills.

On January 7, the responsibilities became too difficult and he put a gun to his head.

Today, as the man in front of the chapel cries, visitors stop at a new remembrance wall and view notes and photos of Stephen Huneck. And ponder not only the bond we have with our animals, but the ever fragile connection we have with this life and with others who share this planet.

One of Stephen's woodcut prints depicts a labrador retriever. It is swimming in rough waters and tows a boat named "Friendship" in which three other labs ride. Stephen apparently felt his swim was too long, the waves and the currents too high. Somehow, the world missed the signs that this man of talent and compassion was in need of a lifeline.

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!

2010-10-09T08:45:00.000-07:00

The trim white-haired woman faces the 500 pound wild animal. With paws that could filet her with ease and jaws that could render her faceless, the woman gently puts half a peppermint between her teeth and bends towards the enormous creature. With equal tenderness, the black bear brings his face to hers and accepts the treat. "Now, go into your den," she demands, and the bear turns and goes inside his house.

Found 23 years ago roaming the roads, the young bear was brought to Ron and Gail Rogerson who own Oaklawn Farm Zoo in Aylesford Nova Scotia. "People were trying to run him down on their ATV's and had killed his sibling. It was obvious he wasn't going to survive on his own in the wild so we took him in," Gail said.

Another smaller bear was found after he was hit on the road. He was so weak that a woman was able to pick him up and carry him. He, too, was brought to the Rogerson's. It was touch and go with that one for quite a while, but he made it. But rather than welcome company, Smokey, the original bear, didn't appreciate the addition of another bear in his space. "He stayed at far end of pen and wouldn't come near him for days."

Once a bear is used to people it can't be released into the wild. It becomes trusting of humans and is an easy mark for bear hunters.

I visit with Gail as she leans over to hug one of their sleek massive jaguars when suddenly she is pounced on from the rear by the other cat. Huge paws wrap around her shoulders and the cat buries its big head in her neck. Gail staggers forward and catches herself on the fence, then laughs and shrugs off the feline. "You prankster," she scolds. "You got my clean shirt all dirty!"

"Always hold your ground with a cat," Gail explains. "I've had times when one panther will jump up to hug me from the front, another from the rear and I'm a panther sandwich, but if I don't fall to the ground, I'm okay." Instinct kicks in when someone goes to the ground and the cats will come in for the pounce.

"Face a wild cat, don't show fear and slowly move away from it. A scared cat is the most dangerous." She points to a big orange and white tiger and explains that of the 16 cats that they have, he is the most dangerous. Gail goes into its pen to clean and feed him but never trusts him. "You sense he is nervous. You can see it in his eyes."

The Rogersons have always had exotic animals. Fancy birds, goats and such. "We were letting school groups come out to see the animals," says Ron. "1,800 kids would tour through here, then the kids would come back out and bring their parents. We had to either stop allowing groups to come or open a zoo and start charging, so they applied for a license and opened as a licensed zoo in 1984.." They began phasing out the livestock and brought in tigers, monkeys and such.

Though the couple now has a staff of 20 to help with the zoo, feeding of the more dangerous animals still falls on Ron and Gail, who have established a trust of the animals they care for. Gail feeds and cleans up after the bears and cats while Ron handles the primates. "When Ron goes in to feed the gibbons, he wears a hat. I wear a helmet," Gail explains. Gibbons mate for life and are very jealous. Once, Gail went into the gibbon pen and approached the male. The female came up and with her strong arm slapped Gail across the face.

"We don't have gorillas, orangutans and chimps," says Ron. "Chimps are awful. They share a common ancestor with humans and are jerks. By the time a chimp is 12 it is like a psychotic person, plus you need special fencing and houses for them because they can get out of anything. You can't trust them."

Owning and running a zoo was never a plan for the Rogersons but with their knowledge of wild animals they have found their calling rehabilitating wounded animals who come to them and releasing them back to the wild when possible. Others remain with them and are cared for while introducing and teaching children of the area those creatures we share the planet with.

Photos: The zoo's most dangerous cat sits atop a platform and surveys his domain. Gail Rogerson interacts with one of the spotted leopards at the Oaklawn Farm Zoo in Aylesford Nova Scotia.

Trip On Medical Hold

2010-10-06T08:27:00.000-07:00

After housesitting for a friend and her Newfoundland Dog near Boston last week, we were ready to move on when Arayo lost the ability to stand, sit, twirl..... Walking was painful. Getting her down a long steep flight of stairs was a challenge. Her tail didn't have the same enthusiasm it typically has.

She saw a vet on Monday who seemed to have a need for a new swimming pool or convertible for his kids and offered up several thousand dollars worth of tests he could do. I suggested we start with the most likely and work our way down. Maybe fund a day at the spa for his wife......

Arayo was tested for Lymes and other tick diseases and that proved false. Damn! She was given an injection for pain and inflammation, as his next thought was arthritis of some sort. While there, they also treated her for a major hotspot that was on her back.

While the vet said there was no way that the hotspot and mobility issues were connected, others differ with him, given the size and placement of this injury. Right now she is resting peacefully and, when movement is called for, running up and down the stairs like her old self.

We move on to visit friends in New Hampshire, then to Vermont, and hope that we have seen the last of Arayo's pain. Please send good healing thoughts our way when you have a chance.

Arayo Brings A Special Smile in Newfoundland

2010-10-02T07:36:00.000-07:00

I pulled up beside it and drew Arayo from her place in the back of the car so she could stretch her legs while I pumped gas. A big man was standing by the door, a kind of sentry, keeping guard over the one inside.

I struggled to get the fuel pump to properly accept the pass code for my debit card, and a woman popped out of the station and began the exclamations and adoration I was so used to hearing from the Newfoundland people. "Oh, a Newfoundland Dog! Isn't he beautiful? He or she? Oh, she is so beautiful! You don't see many of these dogs around here!"

As she made over Arayo, I noticed she was directing her comments more towards the secured vehicle next to me. "Look! Let her see! Isn't it a beautiful Newfoundland Dog? Look over here!"

I peered into the back of the vehicle. The ambulance I thought was empty and just stopping for fuel was transporting a lovely young woman with long brown hair. From her stretcher against the far wall of the rolling mini hospital, she strained her head to turn around and look out the side door at Arayo and a smile stretched across her face, lighting the darkness of the foreboding facility.

Unable to enter the ambulance, I held Arayo where she could see her until they were ready to continue their journey. The smile never left her face.

After they departed, I finished pumping my gas and headed towards the highway again. Just as I was ready to pull into traffic, a siren screamed. We waited for the ambulance that rushed past us, headed back towards the city.

I'll never know if this was the same or a different ambulance, but we hope it wasn't our new friend. That she is home and well tonight and that more smiles await her than those of a chance encounter with a visiting Newfoundland dog at a gas station.

Photo: Arayo relaxes in the grass at my favorite spot in Newfoundland, near Elliston Newfoundland.

Can't Seem to Get Newfoundland Outta My Mind

2010-09-29T19:54:00.000-07:00

While I was able to leave the island of Newfoundland just before Hurricane Igor played havoc with much in the Province, I'm continuing with this and one other post about the island before moving on geographically with my blog. As you can see, my heart was captured by this beautiful section of the world.

Perhaps it is because I was raised in a small town that I am drawn to and most appreciate the slower pace of a rural community. In all my travels, I've found myself pulled towards the rural settings. More than cities, I think you can get an idea of what a place is like by stepping off the main roads and walking the streets of a small town.

Newfoundland communities are special. Many were built because their placement offered a cove - a protection for the fishing boats that supported the community's members. But, many of these communities are changing. With a decline in the fishing industry, the working numbers of the towns are dwindling as people leave for more populated areas to make a living. Some communities are seeing an influx in foreigners who have fallen in love with the beauty of the island, buy a home and often, live there only a few months of the year.

Some of the very isolated communities have been relocated. One such community, Grand Bruit (which means Great Noise, named for the sound of the waterfall in the center of the town), was moved this past year. Located on the southwest shore of Newfoundland, Grand Bruit is accessible only by boat and had a population of 30 people. With much sadness, the community members voted to take a buy-out from the government of $80,000 - $100,000 per family to move. For $1 a year, they can rent their home back from the government and return for visits, but they will have to get themselves there and there will be no services.

SO - other than the beauty of Newfoundland, and the lovely people. Why do I love Newfoundland?

First, you gotta love a place with the guts to be the only place, possibly in the world, to have its own time-zone. When it is Noon in Nova Scotia - Newfoundland is 12:30! Now THAT is a place after my own heart!

Then there are the names. Only peole with a sense of humor and a lot of self confidence would have towns or places with names like Cow Head, Farewell, Joe Bat's Arm or Tickle Cove.

Not being a romantic, I wasn't drawn to visit Heart's Desire, which is just up the road from Heart's Delight, but I went out of my way to stay at Dildo Provincial Park and was crushed when Blow Me Down closed before I could get there.

Some places speak to the ruggedness of the island: Shambles Cove, Savage Cove, Wreck House, and Deadman's Bay. Names like those would drive a PR man nuts! And, then, why compromise when you don't have to? There are two islands named Bell Island. One off the west coast, one near the east. I have no idea how they get the mail to the right place. Maybe postal codes were designed just for them.

My favorites? Well, Witless Bay is up there, as is Too Good Arm. Hares Ears Point is pretty cute, but if I could choose an address to get my mail sent to - I think I'd opt for a town with the name of Jerry's Nose. Now, how great is that!?

Photo: The small town of Trouty has been cut off from the rest of Newfoundland after Hurricane Igor destroyed roads and flooded homes last week. This photo, taken a week before, shows the peaceful community that it was.

Sleeping in a Public John

2010-09-24T09:18:00.000-07:00

I awoke to find myself curled up on the floor, lights shining in my eyes, the underside of a porcelain throne as my bedmate. I was sleeping in a public toilet. A crapper. A john.

It ran through my head that I could do something with this experience if I happened to be a country western song writer. But, where is the romance? I hadn't been sitting in a bar, drinking off the loss of some man who'd done me wrong. I hadn't even been in a bar drinking what is supposed to be a horrible Newfoundland Rum called Screech, kissing a very old cod. At least with that I'd have been dubbed an honorary Newfoundlander.

Do they write songs about 55 year old women who head off with a Newfoundland Dog in a Subaru to photograph and write? Better an old musician with a pick-up truck, a beat up guitar and a hound dog, I suspect. But then, you need to be in jail, not a campground.

So, has the the journey hit an all-time low when waking to the sight of a crapper in a public john?

Our life on the road was taking on a rhythm. Drive, photograph, camp, get wet, spend a day drying out, then start over again. You can increase the tent flooding experience by tossing in a 100 pound dog that likes to sleep on her back, leaning against the backside of the tent. Count on a pool of at least 4" of water in her corner following a few hours of that. Even without her help, I was waking up many mornings to a wet pillow and sleeping bag.

Arayo and I had spent the day driving my favorite piece of Newfoundland. A stretch of road along the southwest shore. The clouds were building and forecasters were predicting 3 or more days of rain. I looked at the forecast for Nova Scotia and decided that God was giving me a nudge to help me leave the island.

I called to book a ferry which a few hours ago had plenty of space available. Apparently God was speaking to a few others as well, and they were faster to pick up on the message. The ferry was booked. I'd have to do one more night in rainy Newfoundland.

By this time rain was beating down on the rock. I spoke with the guys at the Provincial Park and mentioned that half my campsite was already under water. " Perhaps I should move?" "We were just talking about you and thought it was time to move you," the ranger said, explaining that the dry creek behind my tent tended to fill quickly and the road in front of it could accumulate 6" or so of rain. He offered to throw on some rain gear and come help. I tossed on two extremely heavy jackets. Within 10 minutes we'd moved the tent but I was soaked to the bone.

"We may get 60mm of rain tonight," Ranger said. "Oh God….." I responded. (That's roughly 2 1/5 inches for we Americans. A lot of water but sounds even worse in millimeters.)

I was pondering to myself if I could get away with sneaking into the ladies bathroom and just hanging out there for the night. Apparently brilliant minds - or those in survival mode - tend to think alike.

"Why don't you do this. We've got a handicapped toilet. No one staying here is going to need it, so you take your sleeping bag in there, lock the door and no one will bother you." BLESS his heart! Fact is, other than one other couple in an rv, I was the only person in the campsite, period. Certainly the only one crazy enough to sleep in a tent in something like this.

So, while the lights continued to shine in our eyes, a rattling fan hummed and the rain beat down outside. Arayo and I were snug and dry. Though, in a slightly unorthodox sleeping locale at least it would make for a good story to tell.

Photos: After the rain, Arayo is forced to endure one more Newfoundland photo shoot at Cape Ray. And, summer cottages in Newfoundland are often simple but functional and dry. Someone built theirs out of an old bus and built a viewing deck off the back side!

Everyone Said You MUST Take This Drive......

2010-09-22T09:19:00.000-07:00

You HAVE to drive the Irish Coast. It is beautiful. See the Irish Coast.

To drive the loop known as the Irish Coast would take 3 hours, maybe a bit more. So they said. So, with about 3 1/2 hours until darkness, Arayo and I headed towards the coastal drive, named for the people who initially settled it.

A series of small islands scattered just off shore at the beginning of the drive caused me to turn the car around and return for a few photos, then we quickly continued our southern journey. I noticed that towns were becoming further and further apart. I glanced a concerned eye at my gas gauge, another at my map. The landscape was beginning to remind me more of Western Kansas with every mile we drove. Flat. Nearly empty.

The sun was getting lower in the sky and I'd not yet reached what appeared to be the halfway point. The dwellings I passed resembled double outhouses more than homes. No cars were parked near them.

Ahead, another construction zone? I passed the scene and realized that the dozen or so vehicles parked along the roadside were all various forms of police cars, one ominously proclaiming "Homicide Unit". Shortly off the road in a field I spotted bright yellow tape, marking a crime scene.

I tried to recall the community that had been mentioned in the news all day. Two campers had come upon a body. I attempted to pick up a radio station, but I'd lost all reception about an hour ago.

The southern tip of the loop was getting close and I looked again at my map, concerned because the "Low Gas" light had been blinking at me for miles. "Honey, I'll feed you as soon as I can," I assured my little Subaru. I hoped she could hold out.

Trepassey City Limits. It was the sign I'd been watching for, but nothing gave me hope of finding fuel. At the far edge of the community, a small auto repair shop had a single pump in its front drive. Relieved, I filled my little car, then went inside to pay.

"How long is the drive from here to Harbour Grace?" I asked the young attendant. "Gungka ummmm" he testily replied without looking up. "Okay. Well, may I use the restroom?" "Uuumkpa." I took that as a yes. I was desperate.

I considered the crime scene playing out nearby, shut my mouth, took care of business. Would hate to think the individual or individuals in the field had asked too many questions at the one local gas station. As I opened the door to the restroom, I noticed several drops of blood on the floor. Fresh blood, not yet dried to a dark red. Another young man is wiping blood off his hands as I quickened my step, hopped in the car and promised Arayo she could have a bathroom break up the road a bit.

The remainder of the loop may have been lovely. I can't say. It was lonely. I was anxious. Why didn't I think to clean the salt spray off my windshield at the station of gas and smiles? Before I met the owner. The setting sun bouncing off of windshield was blinding me.

And I needed to see. With darkness upon us, we were driving at the worst possible time in Newfoundland. Don't worry about murderers of the human kind. Darkness is when the moose come out to prowl the roads. "Never drive after dark," was the local mantra. "You hit a moose with your car and the moose wins."

I drive on through the night. Through the end of the Irish Loop. Threats from the outside of flying moose and unknown murderers. From inside of the car, Arayo places her head on my shoulder and begins the breathing pattern that I know signifies she is car sick and ready to explode.

Everyone should drive the Irish Coast.

Photos: Arayo enjoys the islands nestled near the shore at the beginning of the Irish Coast. Much of the coast is lonely.

The Company of the Winds

2010-09-19T17:14:00.000-07:00

The Newfoundland wind is a constant companion. It is brutal, fierce and speaks in uncommon voices.

Alone, Arayo and I walk through a small fishing village. A few houses, a small dock, and a handful of vessels. Graves marked by white tombstones, sharing their eternity, are huddled in a plot together. The wind pushes around the hills, plays off the structures and talks to us in low, painful moans. It hums, like voices from a chorus of the dead. I look around for someone, but know it comes from the wind.

Strong and merciless, this wind. A drive up the Northern Peninsula is an exhausting battle against it. My trusty little Subaru struggles to hold her claim to her side of the road, and I find us blown towards oncoming traffic when I temporarily lose my battle to hold her in place.

I pity and am in awe of those who choose to drive an 18-wheeler here. I pass the remains of a truck that lost its battle with the wind and was blown off the road. Each time I see a big rig headed my direction I duck as I await the blow that will send it falling onto my car.

Along the western coast of the rock, nature has found its own ways of dealing with the wind. Trees resist the urge to grow tall. It is safer to huddle near the ground in groupings so dense that a squirrel would have trouble penetrating further than a few feet into the forest. Those trees that dare reach for the sky live permanently bent from the effort to grow tall.

I long to spend a night in Blow Me Down Provincial Park, but they close early for the season. I wonder why? The man on the radio says that wind has again closed the road around Wreck House. Arayo and I slow the car and take frequent stops to walk along the beach, feeling alive surrounded by the fierceness of nature rushing around us. The endless wind which has claimed and shaped this island of Newfoundland.

Photo: Arayo enjoys the feel of the wind through her fur on the Newfoundland shore.

At The Edge of the World

2010-09-17T11:59:00.000-07:00

I have found the edge of the world. The wind is fierce here. And cold. I check that Arayo's collar is secure. Shorten the amount of play in her leash. Draw her closer. A strong blast of wind, a startling incident causing her to lunge, and our following moments would be a free-fall through the clouds. A landing on rock and water far below.

The edge of the world calls me. Insists I move closer to the edge. It is like flying. I hate flying. Except now, with feet on solid ground.

A piece of the edge of the world escaped. Years ago. Its rocks and crevices, a sanctuary for birds to raise their young. Lucky birds.

Hundreds of puffins, those cuddly black and white birds with giant, triangular orange bills, return each year to this piece of the end of the world. Lay eggs. Raise babies. Leave for a winter less harsh.

Today, as I peer at the cracked off piece of the edge, only Arayo and the seagulls keep me company. The puffins have gone.

I listen to the wind calling me forward again. Maybe another peak. Off the edge. It is so beautiful here that I don't want to leave.

Like the puffins, I know I'll return to this place. Where the world ends.

Photos: Arayo, at the edge of the world - Elliston, Newfoundland.

MOOSE Madness!

2010-09-16T12:19:00.000-07:00

Few creatures moved about, and those who did were shielded by darkness of night. When clouds crossed the sky, the full moon that peeked out revealed the movements of little more than slugs seeking shelter under tent tarps. Sounds of gentle snores were muted by the down of sleeping bags which campers burrowed deeply into against the cold of the night.

Suddenly, the night was filled with blood curtailing screams. I sat up, fully awake, and I restrained Arayo who was trying to break through the tent walls.

"A moose is out here!" yelled my travel companion. "I hear it!"

Not sure there was anything I could do to help against the ravages of a 1,200 to 1,500 pound moose that was probably pretty ticked off that a frantic woman had interrupted his early morning stroll through the campground, I opted to stay within my tent. Besides, on the outside chance that he was looking for a bed-time snack of a middle-aged woman, why give him two choices when one was already in the road at his mercy?

Actually, I wasn't concerned about a moose for myself or for her, but thought that the challenge of a 100 pound Newfoundland dog might turn the moose from ambivalent to challenged.

I offered her my helpful input instead of my physical presence. "RUN!"

"But I have to pee!" she replied.

"Well, forget the outhouse - just go next to your tent!"

I'm sure the other campers were thrilled with this 5 am exchange.

Moose are a big concern in Newfoundland, but, like my longing to see a Kansas tornado with the power to relocate entire cities to another state, I also want to come face to face with one of these giant beasts……. Preferably, my face will be sitting in my car at the side of a road.

Brought to Newfoundland from New Brunswick in 1904, probably as a practical joke on future generations, the 4 original gigantic animals have gone forth and multiplied to over 150,000. Signs along the road announce the number of moose involved in auto accidents both this and last year and big news on the radio this week concerns one Newfoundlander who is starting a movement to have the entire Trans Canada highway fenced to keep Moose off of it. He has written a protest song against moose and has developed a slogan: DAMM (Drivers Against Moose Madness) that he is going to print on bumper stickers and encourage everyone to post on their cars.

Perhaps with enough protest against these 4 legged terrorists, the moose will just hang their antlers in shame and go away.

Photos: So far, I've only seen one moose and she was more interested in snacking than attacking. A road-sign warns drivers that they will not win if it comes to an altercation between vehicle and moose.

9/11 in Gander: Through The Eyes of One Who Was There

2010-09-14T14:56:00.000-07:00

It was a normal day in Kindergarten. Tammy Mills was working with her students when she began hearing planes overhead. Lots of planes. She was used to the sound of an occasional airline as her school sits on the flight path for the Gander Airport. But, this was constant.

A mother showed up to pull her student out of class and whispered to her about an attack. Another mother arrived. At the lunch break, Tammy turned on the tv and watched the coverage, the horrible reruns of plans crashing into the Twin Towers and the towers crumbling.

When she returned to school, the principal called her aside. "We have people coming. Thousands of people have been brought to Gander. If they turn the school into a shelter, will you help?"

That evening they prepared every classroom and at about midnight they began to arrive. Hundreds of tired, scared people had been kept on the tarmac for hours until word was given to release them and to process them into Canada.

The school bus drivers were on strike but returned to volunteer their time driving people to the school and other shelters set up in town and around the area. They called Walmart for help. Pillows and blankets were needed for 7,000 people. The Walmart manager went to the store, opened it and told them to take anything they needed. Other stores did the same.

Citizens from the community opened their closets. They brought more blankets and pillows so that everyone would have one. A local dentist called and volunteers picked up cases of tooth brushes and toothpaste.

Once skies across the Atlantic were closed, the air traffic controllers showed up at the school and began preparing food in a tiny teachers' break room. There was no school cafeteria.

As passengers began arriving, they were given a room to call home, then taken to the school's tiny audio/visual room where they were shown the coverage of what had caused their flights to be diverted. Seeing what they had been shielded from until this point, the shock really set in.

A man came to the school office where supplies were kept and asked for a toothbrush. He was given one for himself and his wife, then he broke down crying. "It will be okay," Tammy assured the man. "No, you don't understand. I am on my honeymoon but my wife became ill so we decided to take an earlier flight out of New York City. Had we finished the week as we'd planned, we would have been on a tour of the Twin Towers when the planes hit."

As she was walking down a hall in the school a couple days later, she overheard a woman crying. Stopping to ask if she could help, the elderly couple explained that the wife was on blood pressure medicine and was only carrying a small amount with her. The rest was in the hold of the airplane and they were not allowed access. Tammy called the father of a student who was an MD. He immediately arrived and made sure the woman had enough medication to carry her through her time on the ground.

Locals opened their homes to the passengers. They gave them the keys to their car, directions to their homes and told them to go take a shower, a nap and help themselves to whatever was in the house to eat.

Thousands of stories of kindness filled the days while the passengers were in town. And the passengers joined together in a bond of friendship and support. The CEO of Hugo Boss was on a flight and found himself buying underwear at Walmart. Hugo Boss underwear was sent to him from St. John's, 3 1/2 hours away, but he refused to return to St. John's where he'd have a more comfortable stay. Except for wearing Walmart underwear, he was in this with his fellow passengers to the end.

As flights were given the green light to take off, Tammy and the other staff who were volunteering at the school around the clock got word that one flight was to leave in the middle of the night and they needed to find its passengers. Rather than wake some 2,000 people with a 2 am announcement over the intercom, they began making the rounds of rooms to sort out the passengers needed.

Tammy went to a room where she knew one gentleman was sleeping and gently knocked on the door. A huge man answered with a look of shock on his face - the man she was looking for. She took him to the assembly area, realizing he was terrified of something. As no one could communicate with him to assure him this was a good thing, that he was going home, they summoned an elderly woman of about 90 who spoke his language. Through several translators she explained to him that he was going home. He broke down sobbing. She explained that he could not get on the plane. He could not return to his point of departure. If he did, he would be killed.

Nine years later, Tammy admits that the events of 9/11, despite the horror of the day, remain a source of pride and joy to her. She and others were able to have an enormous impact on thousands of people who needed it. But. nine years later, the big man haunts her. She never found out if he had to return or what had become of him.

Photos: Many of the children at Tammy's school weren't born September 11, 2001. The crew members of one of the Lufthansa flights made a big thank you card for the students which is posted at the school and a memorial mural graces the walls in another location.

Remembering 9/11 in Gander Newfoundland

2010-09-11T07:28:00.000-07:00

As many in the world reflect on the horrible events of September 11, 2001, it is fitting that I should find myself in Gander Newfoundland this 9th Anniversary of the tragedy. For, perhaps some of the most moving accounts of the events following the hours of that day center around the town of Gander.

At one time the Gander airport was the largest in the world, as its location was crucial for refueling flights and staging those headed to Europe during the war. It continued to play a key role in travel until airlines with extended flying ranges were built and the need for a refueling point ceased for most flights.

With 200 aircraft over the Atlantic when the World Trade Center was hit, pilots were directed to land all aircraft immediately and to, as much as possible, avoid landing in large cities. So, the small town of Gander, with a population of 10,000, found itself with 39 aircraft and 7,000 frightened souls on its runways.

The people of Gander responded quickly and with open hearts. They set up shelters in schools, churches and any other place they could. They cooked for them, opened their homes so people could have a bed and allowed strangers to come to their homes for showers and a cup of coffee. They gave them clothing, loaned them vehicles, and sat and held the hands of those who had loved ones who might have been killed.

Several years ago I read a truly fabulous book about this event. Written by Jim Defede it is called "The Day The World Came To Town: 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland". Unfortunately, it is one that my home library no longer has. A pity as it is well written, fascinating, and a real feel-good book. Worth picking up on Amazon or someplace!

As I continue my journey, finding myself so often in the company of and in the care of strangers - it is good to remember that, while the events of 9/11 are horrific, the positive is the way the world opened its arms and showed that we are, in many ways, all related.