UMA Bangor

I am currently a student at UMA Bangor and am writing this to inform the public of some practices by faculty and administration that I feel warrant disclosure. Potential students should be aware of what they are signing up for before they choose to enroll at this school.

Here are a few things you can expect as a student at UMA Bangor. Expect to have no idea where you stand in at least half of your classes. I have been attending UMA for two semesters, taking a total of 8 classes. By three weeks post-midterm, I had not received any graded work in 50% of my classes, even though we were turning in work. I asked about this practice and was told by an instructor, “I don't think it's right to grade students on their opinion.” This begs the question; what do you grade them on?

If you do happen to receive graded work in a timely fashion, be wary of who is actually grading your work. I am currently taking a Literary Criticism class. This is an online class that was to be taught by an instructor that I had heard very good things about. In fact, it was the high esteem in which she was held that compelled me to sign up for this class in the first place. As it turns out, this class is being taught by a faculty assistant (similar to a teaching assistant, although TA's are usually grad students). This is a person who is a fellow student. She does not have a degree and does not have teaching credentials. When I asked about this, I was told by the teacher that she was “really good” at this class. She also stated that she was “really busy this semester”. Apparently she is so busy that she doesn't have time to teach her classes. So written work is being graded by a peer. I inquired of another  teacher, whose opinion I value, what he thought of this and he believes this is unethical and possibly academic malpractice. I agree with him.  This is not the only class where I have an instructor who doesn't seem particularly interested in teaching their classes.

In another class that provided no graded work prior to 3 weeks post-midterm, we were required to do a midterm project. This could be anything. Anything. Interpretative dance, art projects, power point presentations, you name it. A week after the assignment was given, we were told that if we presented our project to the class, we would receive extra credit. Unfortunately, no parameters were given for these presentations. Because of this, we spent the remainder of the semester listening to presentations. What this amounts to is receiving no academic instruction for the entire second half of the semester. We paid for an entire class, but received only half of one.

In addition to the classes mentioned above, I am still trying to resolve an issue with an East Asian philosophy class that I took last semester. I've been trying to resolve this for 6 months. This instructor was pushing his personal faith. Each class was started with 5 minutes of meditation, complete with gongs. Had he presented the meditation and gong as an example or demonstration one time, this would have reasonable. I expressed my objection to this behavior stating that this is not academic instruction. I was promptly blown off. I then asked one of the many deans to please explain the difference between this man performing meditation at the beginning of every class (with gongs), and that of a professor teaching religious studies starting every class with the lord's prayer. The dean said it was a question of interpretation. It seems to me that if there is a question of interpretation, that is a problem in and of itself. After all, this is a public, tax dollar supported school. In addition to his praying in class, he also owns a hermitage, which is a non profit (read: tax exempt) federally recognized 501(c)3 corporation (the web address is www.meetingbrook.org) which is also recognized by the State of Maine as a tax exempt Religious House of Prayer. Maybe it's just me, but this seems like a conflict of interest that flies in the face of academic instruction. In a publicly funded institution, religion should be left at the door.

I have pursued these issues with the next-up-the-line dean. I met with her 13 days ago and, as of the time of this writing, I have not received a response from her. With a graduation rate of 17% (www.fafsa.org) and 77% of students paying for this questionable education with Pell Grant money (read-tax dollars (read-your money)), and student loans (also government funded), one might expect an administration to be working hard to ensure that students are getting an education that will actually benefit them, and to be responsive to students who inform them of problems within their system. So far, this has not been the case. What happens to the other 83% of these students? They get grant money, they get loans, and they do not complete a degree. So they end up in worse condition than when they started. They have debt that will follow them for the rest of their lives, with no education that will help them obtain jobs where they can become financially stable.

Sadly, this experience is not unique. Eastern Maine Community College has an equally unresponsive administration. Perhaps unresponsive is not the right word. It is more an act of willful ignoring of problems, refusing to answer questions and complaints, and knowing that students have no recourse because students are typically broke, putting them in a position of having no access to outside recourse. Students from this school also experience the same issues with debt due to not completing their course of study and, more importantly, being dismissed from a program of study. I know of many people who have been dismissed from programs at EMCC. Many of them were dismissed for what seem to be arbitrary reasons that had nothing to do with academics (given the highly competitive nature of admission into the nursing program, how did they fail to graduate 1/3 of their 2012 class?). Once again, former students are left with more debt and no access to careers that will allow them to repay it.

But back to UMA Bangor. So why did I choose to attend this school? Two reasons. The first is price. This school is considerably less expensive than other schools within the University of Maine System. The second reason is that they accepted all of my credits that I earned at EMCC. The transfer credit policies vary from school to school in the U of M System. So I could have gone to UMO, paid a lot more money, and had the pleasure of retaking many of the classes I had already taken at Eastern Maine Community College, from which I graduated with honors in 2012.

This is a cautionary tale. Be careful in your deliberations when choosing a school. Do your best to make sure the school you attend is giving you what you paid for. I know that the experiences I related here are not unique. If enough students join together, maybe things will change for the better. And if you are at the community college, with plans of attending UMO, do your legwork before you get to the end of your stint at EMCC and find out that your credits aren't nearly as transferable as you thought they were. The Transfer College billing that EMCC is currently pushing is profoundly misleading. But that is a topic for another missive.

The World According to Google

For the past month or so, I've seriously been considering purchasing a camper. I should state clearly that I am not a camper. I do not particularly enjoy camping. Too many bugs and raccoons. That being said, the thought of a camper sounds appealing to me on several fronts. For starters, I am tired of carrying around a lifetime worth of stuff. I am currently forming a plan for my great escape and the first part to executing this plan is to get rid of pretty much everything I own. I have come to the realization that antiques are highly over rated. And collectables. In retrospect, I have no idea how I ended up with so many collectables. And what exactly are collectables? As far as I can tell, they are objects of varying size that, at one point in time I thought were cute, pretty, whimsical, unique, or might-be-valuable-one-day. I live alone in a four bedroom house that is FILLED with stuff. I must stop the madness!

Once I am able to rid myself of all of my things, I will get rid of the house. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen, two mud rooms, utility room, 3 season porch and a garage(with two storage rooms) is more space than any one person needs. Even with the dogs and cats taking up their fair share of square footage, I cannot justify having all this space – filled with all this stuff. So I will sell the house. I have come to the conclusion that home ownership is highly overrated. I look back on my years as a renter with fondness. If something broke – call the owner.

The other thing that I find appealing about owning a camper is the fact that it is portable. I like the idea of being able to hitch my house to the back of my suburban and drive off to parts unknown. Winters in Florida, summers in Maine; sounds like a plan to me. So I have been surfing Craig's List in search of a camper. After surfing for a week or so, it dawned on me that I really don't know anything about campers. For instance, how much does a camper weigh? Can I tow it with my suburban? Does size matter (it does)? So the first thing I did was to google the specs of my truck to find out how much camper I could pull. This turned out to be good news. The max tow weight for my truck is 6000 pounds. From what I've seen, most campers up to 32 feet fall well below this limit. So far so good.

Then I started to notice more detail in the ads referencing anti-sway hitches and gas powered refrigerators. The gas powered refrigerator had me baffled. So off to google. It turns out that gas powered means powered by propane. I'm still not completely clear on this, but the idea sounds good. Some of the motorhomes that I looked at didn't have this option. I considered motorhomes only briefly. The suburban can tow a camper, but a motorhome can't tow a suburban, so that idea was scrapped. So anyway, a gas powered refrigerator cools with heat, using ammonia as a coolant. That's all I know. The article went on (and on) about how this this works, but I figured I had all I really needed to know, so I moved on to the anti-sway hitch.

Apparently there is an anti sway hitch and there is an anti sway control system. I have read a little about these and have come to the conclusion that the sway control system is preferred, particularly when used in conjunction with the anti sway hitch. So the upshot is that the hitch is on the truck and the system is on the camper. I know from personal experience that not swaying is important. One winter, when I was 12, I traveled with my family by car to Pensacola. We were towing a 28 foot sailboat behind us. Well, as anyone who has traveled with kids will attest, road trips get very long with kids in the car – particularly kids who fight a lot (like my sister and I did). Long story short; two kids fighting in back seat, father gets frustrated (after telling them to knock it off for the past 800 miles), turns around to (hopefully) smack them both. Sadly (for him) he misses, but he was distracted long enough to swerve a little. Apparently a little swerve can turn into a big swerve when you are towing things behind you. Fortunately, Dad got it under control and we continued on our way. My sister and I, never missing a chance to annoy, immediately started berating poor old dad. “Geeze, are you trying to kill us?” “If you hadn't tried to smack us, that wouldn't have happened.” So I'm pretty well sold on the importance of having the anti sway hitch and sway control system.

So far, my research has gotten me to a point where I know how much I can tow, I can keep my food cold, and I can hopefully keep from rolling the whole works over. This is a start, but far from enough to make any sort of intelligent purchase. So back to google.

In addition to googling for camper info, I am also googling for a source to sell off all of my antiques and collectibles. It occurs to me as I write this, if I didn't have access to google, how long would it take me to find this information? Would I ever find all that I need, or would I have to go out into the world and actually talk to people who know about theses things? Egad! I would never get out of here.

In His Father's Shadow

I am a fan of pretty much any fiction written about the period between 1935 and 1960, with particular emphasis on the period of WWII. But not just any fiction. It has to be historically accurate fiction. There's nothing like reading a book about WWII that has been well researched. A book that weaves accurate historical facts and people into a well written, engaging story.

One writer who has accomplished this feat is W.E.B. Griffin. Not only does he write historically accurate fiction, he also writes in series. I remember the first Griffin book I read. It was the first book of a series about the Marine Corps. It started in the late 1930's, when the marines were still in China, patrolling the Yangtze river. It continued through the beginning of WWII, building a rich case of characters, some fictional, some real. This series followed the lives of its character through the war and into, what appeared to the American public, a more peaceful time.

The beauty of book series is that I can really get to know the characters. I can live a big chunk of their lives with them, although this makes it even harder when I reach the end because I feel like I have lost good friends. Friends that have gone on to live more adventures, fight more battles, and love other people, leaving me behind, here in the present. Finishing a really good W.E.B. Series usually leaves me in a pretty good funk for a day or two.

I started reading his books about 20 years ago. He is a prolific writer, and I have yet to complete all of his books. He wrote several series about the military including the Army, Special Ops and Black Ops, a couple of series about civilian law enforcement and a couple of non fiction books. Of all the series, the military books are my favorites. He is an old soldier, retired military, and his firsthand knowledge of that society comes shining through in his writing.

This has been my history with this author, up until about 2006, when he started writing books with his son. Given the fact that WEB Griffin is now 83 years old, I can understand why he wanted to shed some of his burden onto someone else. I'm sure he is very proud that he has a son who is willing to work so closely with him in an effort to continue his long history of excellent story telling. Unfortunately, his son is no WEB Griffin. It is sad to say that the books I have read that were co-authored by both WEB III and WEB IV do not hold a candle to WEB III's earlier, solo works. I find it particularly disjointing when his son begins writing with him in the middle of a series.

But once I have bought in for 5 or 6 books, there is no way I can not finish the series. There is still plenty of WEB III on these pages, though perhaps not as much as I would like. I have to admit that I am probably being a bit harsh on the younger WEB, but I can't help it. Sadly, he is simply not his father. Perhaps if I had been introduced to him separately, reading works written only by him I would have a different opinion. Perhaps he is a fine writer in his own right. But if he is to continue in his father's footsteps, he has a long row to hoe. I suspect he may be painfully aware of this.

The Book of all Books

If I were stranded on a deserted island, and could have only one book, the choice would be an easy one for me. I would pick my unabridged dictionary. Why, you ask? Well, there are many reasons. For starters, an unabridged dictionary (UD) is so much more than just a dictionary. The UD that I have is filled with so much more than just words.

The first section of my UD is an introduction. It gives the reader an outline of the history of the English language, a guide to pronunciation, a key to pronunciation and a list of abbreviations used within the dictionary. I find this information interesting as well as useful.

After the intro comes the meat of the dictionary – the words! I have been known to read my dictionary just for fun. I like finding obscure words and using them with people I don't like. This allows me to feel superior while, hopefully, making the recipient feel inadequate and slightly stupid. This can be a fun filled activity for any rainy afternoon.

As I write this, my dictionary is sitting on the sofa next to me. The urge to open the dictionary and pick a random word is more than I can take. The winner today is bantling: 1. A young child; a brat. 2. a foundling; a bastard. 3. figuratively, an immature product, as of an author or artist. Funny how random frequently doesn't seem random. Ah, but I digress.

After the “words” section of my UD (all 2129 pages) comes the supplements. The true beauty of an UD are the supplements. My particular UD has 19 supplements, plus a full color world atlas. Granted, seeing that my UD is from 1979, many of the countries shown on these maps no longer exist, but they are useful for history projects (or to just peruse for the fun of it – another activity that I find immensely enjoyable). Many of the supplements are dictionaries in and of themselves. Two of my favorites are A Dictionary of Noted Names in Fiction, Mythology, Legend ( I have gotten a lot of mileage out of this section when it comes to naming pets), and A Dictionary of Foreign Words and Phrases (I have gotten a lot of mileage out of this section by using information found here in letters to people I don't like).

Other supplements include Abbreviations Commonly Used in Writing and Printing, Special Signs and Symbols, Forms of Address and Practical Business Mathematics. While I find the first three to be interesting and useful, the last can be used to build a fire to attract nearby ships and airplanes (I'm still on that island).

Other parts of the supplements section include The Declaration of Independence, The Constitution of the United States, all the Presidents, Vice-Presidents and Cabinet Members of the United States, A History of Canada (who cares), Air Distances between Principal U.S. Cities, Principal Geographic Features of the World and Commercial and Financial Terms (this last one is obviously more fodder for the rescue fire).

As you can see, my UD is packed full of useful information which can provide hours and hours of engaging diversion. But the real reason I would pick this as my one and only book on that deserted island is this; every book ever written is contained in its pages. The idea that every book I've ever read and loved is there, in my UD, hidden within its 2129 pages, is something that fills me with the wonder of possibility. I can't think of a better way to while away the days, weeks, months, or years that I might have to fill if I really were stranded on that elusive island.

As I wrap up this missive, my eyes travel once again to my companion sitting on the sofa next to me. What the hell – just one more word (this is one of my favorite games (you probably already guessed that)). The last word for the day is...queachy, 1. shaking; moving, yielding or trembling under the feet, as moist or boggy ground. 2. thick; bushy.

UMA (unbelievably mediocre academics)

Don't go to UMA.  I am currently living this particular nightmare and feel compelled to warn others of the substandard education they will receive at this school.

Here are a few things that you can expect as a student at this school.  Expect to have absolutely no idea where you stand in most of your classes. I have been at UMA for two semesters, taking a total of 8 classes.  By three weeks post-midterm, I had not received any graded work in half of my classes, even though we were turning in assignments.  When I asked about this, the typical instructor response was something along the lines of  “I don't grade students for their opinions.”  I'm still not exactly sure what that means.  If you don't want to grade students on their opinions – don't ask them for their opinions.  Seems pretty simple to me, but what do I know? 

If you do happen to have a class where you get graded work returned in some sort of timely fashion, be wary of who may actually be grading your work.  I am currently taking a literature criticism class.  This is an online class being taught by an instructor that I had heard very good things about prior to signing up.  In fact, it was the high esteem in which she was held that inspired me to take this class.  As it turns out, she has a teaching assistant teaching this class.  I am not necessarily opposed to TA's teaching classes.  In this case, however, I have a huge problem with it.  The TA for this class is a work study student.  She is not a graduate student; in fact, she doesn't even have her bachelors degree.  This would technically make her a peer.  I asked the instructor about this and expressed that I was not particularly happy with this arrangement.  Her response was that this student was “Really good at this – she did really well in the class.”  She also stated that she was “Really busy this semester” because she is working on her book.  Apparently she's too busy to teach her classes.  I'm currently beginning a slug-fest with administration over this one.  I'll keep you readers posted as to the result, if any.

Why do I say “if any?” Because administration is unresponsive.  Administration seems to subscribe to the “Ignore it and it will go away” philosophy of management.  I suspect that with most students, this probably works for them.  I suspect that this school is not unique in this respect.

I am still waiting to resolve an issue with an East Asian philosophy class that I took last semester.  I've been trying to resolve this for 5 months. This particular instructor is a religious fanatic who was pushing his personal flavor of faith.  Each class was started with 5 minutes of meditation, complete with gongs and bells.  I expressed my objection to this behavior and was promptly blown off.  I then asked the dean to please explain the difference between this man performing meditation (with gongs and bells), and that of a professor teaching religious studies starting class with the lord's prayer.   The dean said it was a question of interpretation.  Again, I'm not entirely sure what that means.  It seems to me that if there is a question of interpretation, that is a problem in and of itself.  After all, this is a public, tax dollar supported school.  In addition to his praying in class, he also owns his very own Ashram, which is a non profit (read: tax exempt)501(c)3 corporation.  Maybe it's just me, but that seems like a conflict of interest that flies in the face of academic instruction.  But what do I know?

These are just a couple of examples of life at UMA.  I could go on to tell about how UMA Augusta treats UMA Bangor like a red-headed stepchild, or how I tutor students who cannot write a complete, cohesive sentence.  I could speak to the inordinate percentage of students who are methadone dosed, recovering addicts earning degrees in social services or the disjointed, typo strewn, syllabus presented to a class by Dr. so-and-so, but I'm sure that would border on the tedious.

So why did I choose to attend this misguided school?  Simple.  Their price, and they took all of my credits that I earned at EMCC, unlike UMO.  The transfer college billing that EMCC is currently pushing is profoundly misleading.  But this is a topic for another missive.

What's the Rush?

What's the Rush?

Squirrels

I am a procrastinator extraordinaire. If the deadline is 5:00pm, I will have it completed and turned in by 4:49pm. This is the system that works for me. It is not necessarily a good system, nor is it an encouraged system, but it is the one I use. I have tried to do assignments early, but it never seems to work out very well for me. For example, I get an assignment that is due in four weeks, at midnight. So in week two, I sit and start my assignment. I write a bunch of really bad stuff, delete most of it, start over, delete, edit, try a different approach...it goes nowhere. So I close the file and forget about it. That is what happens when I try to do my assignments early. Here is what actually happens. Fast forward – two days before the due date. I review the assignment (because I'm not completely clear on it anymore) and I think about it. That's right, I just think. I mull it around in my head here and there. I find drive time to be particularly productive for mulling. 

When I wake up on the due date, I have a brief moment of panic. “Geeze, I really should start that thing. If I do it this morning, I'll be off the hook for the rest of the day.” This is immediately followed by two cups of coffee and countless hands of solitaire. And thinking. And mulling. Then walk the dogs. Then a cigarette. A shower. Maybe I should do some dishes (another procrastination issue). If I actually manage to do some dishes (and maybe throw in a load of laundry), I'm sort of tired. The cure for that? Why a nap, of course!

I live for nap time, as do my dogs. I get my smelly old quilt, and stretch out on the couch. Henry has to reposition at the foot so I can get comfortable. He circles, finds a spot and settles his head on my feet. Then it's Sophie's turn. She climbs up on the sofa, very gingerly so as to avoid stepping on my stomach (which I greatly appreciate because a good 80 lb. shot to the stomach is enough to warrant a trip to the bathroom, which means we have to start the ritual all over) So up she comes. She nestles in between me and the back of the sofa, finally resting her head in the crook of my neck. Last, but not least (at least in my eyes – Henry and Sophie would disagree) Emmett approaches the couch. He stops and sits, looking hopefully at me that he will be included. I give him the go ahead, and he hops up and finds a small gap between Henry, Sophie, the back of the couch and my legs. He circles once, Henry glaring at him, and quickly finds a spot. Then we all shift and wiggle a little bit and settle in for the duration. As I close my eyes and drift off to the sounds of reality TV, I think to myself, “What am I going to write about?” It's only 3pm, I have plenty of time. How long could it take? Certainly not 9 hours. Ahh...deep breath.

Eventually my bladder protests loudly against my napping brain, and I am forced to get up. Wow – it's 6pm! Damn, I must have been really tired from doing those dishes! And I better put those clothes in the dryer, before they start to smell funny, and I have to rewash them. But first, the bathroom. “Hey, what about us?” my dogs say in unison. So, a quick walk for the pups; everyone pees and comes back into the house. Then to the laundry. I go to put my clothes into the dryer and, damn it, there are clothes in there. Okay, I guess I should fold those clothes, instead of just piling them on top of the dryer (that pile is already pretty high). So I fold, and as I fold I start to sort. “Hmm...haven't worn that in at least a year – probably don't need it anymore.” So off I go to get a bag for my rejects. I will take them to the church (some day) and donate them. 

Clothes finally folded and sorted, new load in the dryer, I move off into the kitchen. Yep, pretty hungry. What to have? Pizza sounds like a great idea, but it can be expensive. So a quick look through the coupon book. Nothing that great, and I really don't need to spend the money, so back to the fridge. Then the freezer. Then back to the fridge. I have tomatoes. Pasta is always good. So I boil water, dice tomatoes and get to cooking. I turn out a nice fresh tomato and garlic cream sauce served over spaghetti. I sit down to eat and am met with the “Hey, what about us” look from the dogs. Back to the kitchen, fill the food bowls, fill the water bowl, and go back to the couch to dine. The bird has heard me filling the dogs' dishes and starts in with his own little parrot version of “Hey, what about me?” So I fill his dish with seeds, and change his water. Finally, everyone is content for the moment. I really should get on that paper. The clock is ticking. I'll start as soon as I'm done eating.

It's now 9 pm. 3 hours and counting to my deadline. Start typing. Type, type, type. Shitty. Delete. Type some more. Not half bad. Type a little more, delete some, readjust. Okay, here we go! Off and running. All the disjointed thoughts of the past two weeks come forth, suddenly finding a relationship with the other heretofore disjointed thoughts floating in my brain. Before I know it, I've got a good 1000 words on the page and it's not even 10 pm! Great! Time to wrap it up. I finish, save and prepare to send it off into the ether. I cannot connect to the internet. Shit. This happens now and then because I rely on my neighbors who have unsecured modems. No luck tonight. Argh. Really not in the mood for this – it's cold outside and I don't want to be cold. I'm cozy and warm, sitting on the couch with Henry and Emmett, Sophie at my feet. Damn it. No other option if I am to meet my deadline. Okay. Shut down the computer, pack up my cord and grab my purse and keys.

I'm ready to head up to Tim Horton's, where the coffee is fresh and the internet is free. “Hey, what about us?” No, you dogs need to stay here. “But we really don't like it when you go out this late and leave us at home.” I know. I'll be back before you know it. “Well, okay, but can you at least let us out to pee before you go?” Yeah, sure, but make it quick. So we leash up, go out, pee, and come back in. Okay, now I'm off to Tim Horton's. It's 11 pm.

As I enter I spy a young woman, who is a friend of my daughter, behind the counter. She's one of my favorites as far as my daughter's friends go. So we chat a little. She tells me about school and dorm life at UMO. She asks about Claris (my daughter), so I fill her in on her current escapades. I order a decaf (because I feel guilty for really only wanting to use them for their free internet) and a doughnut. Chocolate with coconut – perfect. I get my coffee and doughnut and find a table with an outlet. I plug in and boot up. I agree to Tom Horton's terms of agreement (which I have never, and will never, read) and sign in to my email. I write a quick note to my instructor and attach my file. Off it goes. Finally, I am done! It is 11:45. I finish my coffee and head home.

I greet the dogs, smoke one last cigarette, and head upstairs to get ready for bed. The cats greet me at the top of the stairs singing a demanding chorus of “Where's our dinner”, so I fill their bowls, give them a pet and head to the bedroom. I settle in, surrounded by the dogs (and a cat or two) and, as I close my eyes I think to myself “I wonder what's due tomorrow?”

Facebook

A couple of weeks ago, I got a Facebook friend request from a long lost high school buddy.  Lisa and I met my freshman year in high school and remained friends, albeit from a distance, until I was 28.  Lisa married at 18 and a year later, she had a daughter.  Then she moved her family to Mississippi.  When I was 16, I drove down to see her, and babysat so that she and her husband, Gary, could have a night out.  I was Sally's first visitor babysitter.  It was quite an honor.  A couple of years later, Lisa had twins; Meredith and Miranda.  When I was 18, I moved to Florida.  On my way down, I took a detour through Mississippi to visit again and to meet the twins.  This was the last time I saw Lisa.  We talked periodically after that visit and tried to keep up with each other.  At 28, I had my son, Max.  I remember talking to Lisa after his birth and comparing notes on how to deal with babies, etc.  Then we lost touch – until a couple of weeks ago.

When I saw the friend request from Lisa, I had a flood of memories wash over me.  Practicing shot put and discus on the track team. The birthday party she threw for all of us late April/early May babies during my freshman year of high school.  Driving to Mississippi by myself at 17, after lying to my parents by telling them that I was driving down with another friend.  Stealing a keg from a frat house at Wash U.

She sent a message with her phone number and a brief summary of what she is up to these days. 

So I called.  We spent 4 hours on the phone.  We talked about everything.  We told each other about the trials and tribulations of raising kids.  We talked about where we had lived and what we had done over the past 20 years.  We shared memories and the demise of past dreams.  We talked about our health, which made us both laugh because we never would have had that conversation during our earlier years.  Talking to Lisa changed my perspective on some of the things going on in my life.  She has remained kind.  Even though life has thrown her some curve balls, she has not lost her humanity.  My conversation with her reminded me that I used to be a nicer person. 

She was actually interested in my life.  And I found that I was actually interested in hers.  Three days later, I called her again and we spent another 4 hours on the phone.  Four hours seems to be our magic number for two reasons.  The first is, that's how long the battery lasts in her phone.  The second is, that's about the limit of her energy.  She has not been well.  She is suffering from a congenital spinal problem which has drastically impacted her life.  She cannot work.  She cannot lift things.  She is very incapacitated.  She is mostly at home, with her dog, Loki, who is her constant companion. It makes me feel bad that I didn't know about this until now.  It makes me feel like I've been a pretty lousy friend. 

I wonder how things might have been different if we had stayed in touch over these past two decades.  Would I have had an easier time raising my kids with Lisa in my life?  After all, she had done a great job with her girls.  Would she have been my champion and sounding board?  Would I have been those things to her?  Had we stayed in touch, I suspect that she would have kept me nicer, simply by example.  I imagine conversations we might have had.  I imagine us helping each other with quality advice and, barring that, a sympathetic ear.  I imagine meeting up now and again, and our kids knowing each other in their youth.  I am sorry that we have all missed out on these things.

But I cannot dwell on the “what if's”.  Doing so keeps me in the past and in the land of regret – neither place I want to be.  So I am grateful that Lisa sent me a friend request.  I am grateful to have her back in my life, and I am grateful that we will have the opportunity to pick up where we left off. 

And, as painful as it is for me to admit, I am grateful to Facebook.

Spiraling

As we walked up to the museum, we noticed armed snipers on the roof. It was a little disturbing, seeing that we had spent the morning at the Smithsonian and didn't see anything like that there. We entered the museum and were ushered through metal detectors as our purses were passed through an X-ray machine. Even our tour of the White House didn't include metal detectors and X-ray machines. But this was a place where Jews gathered, which always seems to demand extra vigilance.

We were then separated into groups and given identification cards. We were instructed to read the first page of our identification card, but to not turn the page until we reached the bottom of the 4^th floor of the museum. We were all a little confused, but we complied. I read my identification card.

Name: Zigmond Adler

           Date of Birth: July 18, 1936

           Place of Birth: Liege, Belgium

           Zigmond's parents were Czechoslovakian Jews who

           had emigrated to Belgium. His mother, Rivka, was a

           shirtmaker. She had come to Belgium as a young woman

           to find a steady job, following her older brother, Jermie,

           who had moved his family to Liege several years earlier. In

           Liege, Rivka met and married Otto Adler, a businessman.

          The couple looked forward to starting a family.

We were then herded through a dimly lit area where we lined up to get into elevators that would take us to the top of the building. The elevator car was very dim and was built to the dimensions of a railroad car. There were many of us led into the car. We had to shuffle and squeeze together to make room for what seemed the endless crowd of people who were to ride with us. When everyone was squeezed in, the doors shut. The closing of the doors was loud: The crowd was silent. Then the elevator rose up.

We rode to the top of the museum. The top of the spiral. Through the first level of the spiral we view the artifacts of the beginning of the Nazi's rise to power. Jews still have some semblance of their normal lives, but as we continue down the slope of the spiral to the third level, the lives of the Jews are changing for the worse. I turn the page of my identification card.

           1933-1939: Zigmond was born to the Adlers in 1936, but

           his mother died one year later. His father remarried, but the

           marriage didn't last. Zigmond's father then married a third

           time, and soon Zigmond had a new half-sister and a stable

           family life. As a boy, Zigmond oftern visited his Uncle Jermie's

           family, who lived just a few blocks away

We witness atrocities presented to us in black and white photos in clean, well presented frames. We see images of pure suffering. “Are any of these people our relatives?” my Jewish friend and I wonder. We mutter a prayer even though, if asked, we would both claim to be atheists. We read about the Jewish underground and about families trying to get out before it gets worse. We know these stories. We were raised with these stories. We continue to spiral down. We follow the instructions printed in our identification cards. I turn the page.

           1940-1944: Zigmond was 3 when the Germans occupied Belgium.

           Two years later, the Germans deported his father for forced labor.

           After that, Zigmond's step-mother felt Liege, giving Zigmond to

           Uncle Jermie and Aunt Chaje. When the Nazis began to round up

           Jews in Liege, some of Uncle Jermie's Catholic friends helped them

           get false papers that hid their Jewish identity and rented them a house

           in a nearby village. Two years later, early one Sunday morning, the

           Gestapo came to the house. They suspected Jews were living there.

We come to a round room. It is very tall, reaching to the top of the building. It is brick. It is a chimney. The walls of the chimney are filled with photographs of people who didn't survive. Again, “Are any of these people our people?” The reality – they are all our people. Past the gates, the piles of suitcases, marked with family names. We know some of these names. We have relatives with these names. Past the piles of shoes. Past the hair. I cannot take anymore. I flee. I can flee. Through the brightly lit hall with television screens which hold the images of survivors who tell their stories. Through the gift shop.

Freedom.

I sit on the ground, leaning against a large concrete pillar that supports this spiral. I wait for my friends. People come out. They blink in the sunlight. They laugh. They make dinner plans. They head to the Smithsonian to see Archie's chair. I am awed.

           Zigmond, his aunt and two cousins were sent to the Mechelen

           internment camp, and then to Auschwitz, where 7 year old Zigmond

           was gassed on May 21, 1944

George

     George was a rotund man of average height, was in his 60's and wore glasses. He also wore a pharmacists smock. He owned a small pharmacy named Cytron's, that was near my grade school. But to all of us kids in the neighborhood, he was far more than just a pharmacist.

     When I was a kid, I spent my after-school hours – back at school. All of us neighborhood kids would go home, ditch our stuff, and head back to the playground to play kickball or highlights, but not before going to Cytron's to get an afternoon snack. Ours was a small city neighborhood that looked like it had been frozen in the 1940's. Cytron's was no exception. The pharmacy was dimly lit and had old, creaky wood floors. George stood in his raised room to the left of the cash register, filling prescriptions and keeping an eye on all the kids who came in to buy candy. He always looked up when a kid came to the counter to pay, and always said hello and called us by name.

      After getting our daily candy fix, we would usually go back to the playground to start our games. Most days we did go back to the playground, but some days, when it was too hot or rainy, we would hang out a Cytron's. If we were lucky, George would find something for us to do. Sometimes we would take the trash out, or sweep the floor. Other times we would sort out the returned soda bottles and stack them up in the back room. To reward our efforts, George would pay us! At 10 years old, getting paid was probably the coolest thing ever! He would give us a dollar, which we would immediately spend on more candy.

      On nice days we would go to the playground or the seminary and play games. Our usual M.O. was to organize our teams, start our game, and play until the seminary bells told us it was 5:30, at which point we would all head home for dinner. But this was not the way all our days went. Occasionally, someone would get hurt. Skinned knees and getting the wind knocked out of us were pretty common occurrences. Our homes were anywhere from 2 to 8 blocks away, but Cytron's was a ½ block from school, and across the street from the seminary. So we would go to George. When one of us would walk in with an injury, George would take us into his inner sanctum, the raised room. He would tell us to sit on the stool in the corner of his room, would look at our injury, ask us what happened, clean our wounds, bandage us, and send us on our way, feeling healed and complete. When we would get home that night and our mothers, noticing the bandaged knee, asked what happened, we would reply with “It's okay, George fixed it.” Sometimes one of us would come to George with a more serious injury. One kid got a concussion, another broke an arm, and I cut the cornea of my left eye. When these sorts of injuries occurred, George still followed the same routine of taking us into the inner sanctum and assessing our wounds, but instead of bandaging us up and sending us on our way, he would call our parents.

      I went back to visit my old neighborhood many years ago. The area has been re-gentrified – and Cytron's is gone. In its place is an antique store. The grade school is still a ½ block away, with its expansive black-topped playground, and the seminary is still there with its bell tower tolling the dinner hour. But the kids are at home. They don't gather at the playground anymore; they eat their snacks at home and they've never had the chance to earn a dollar from George. They cannot leave home without their cell phones and their helicopters know their every move.

      When I was a kid, I took George for granted. It never occurred to me how lucky I was to have this man, who voluntarily watched over us, as a staple of my childhood. Now, through older eyes, I realize what a significant role this man played in the life of our neighborhood. George was a constant of my childhood. He was the go-to guy. There is a theory floating around out there these days that it takes a village to raise a child: George was our village.

Dad

My mother was not a very nice woman. As she got older, she got meaner. Toward the end of her life, she was bed-bound (her choice), and my father did his best to take care of her. She was abusive to him.

She had been in the hospital for a few days, and was scheduled to be released the following day. That night, my dad called me in St. Louis, where I was living at the time.

He called to say goodbye.

I flew to Maine the next day.

I became my mother's guardian.

Next week, my father is leaving for Florida.

Post-Divorce

     I am one of the 50% of people who have failed at marriage. This is not surprising, given the odds. With such a high rate of marriage failure in this country, I don't think anyone should be surprised if they end up in a divorce court. Let's face it, with 50/50 odds, marriage is a serious crap shoot. But what happens after that final decree is issued?

      I find this question to be far more interesting than why marriages fail. Why did my marriage fail? Who cares! The fact is that it did. So there I was, 31 years old, two kids aged 2 and 3 ½. I think it only fair to mention that I initiated the divorce. Because I was the one who wanted out, I felt it was unfair to demand anything from my former husband other that child support and health insurance for the kids. I was interested in keeping things as simple as possible. I had no desire to punish my former husband, or to drag things out for years to come. I just wanted out.

      So we finally got our decree and began to build new lives. We had the standard visitation agreement; Wednesday nights and every other weekend, alternate holidays, depending on the year. I chose not to follow this. Don (my former husband) wanted to see the kids more than that. So I let him. If he wanted to take the kids camping on a weekend that wasn't his, I let him. If he wanted to take the kids on vacation over Christmas, I let him. This approach paid huge dividends. By year 5 post marriage, we were able to travel together. We took family vacations, even though we were not a traditional family. In fact, traveling together was something we did exceptionally well. We couldn't live together, but a trip to Hawaii? No problem!

      A few years after our divorce, Don moved out of state with his job. He was worried about how that would affect his time with the kids. I told him not to worry; we'll just make a different plan. So that's what we did. He had the kids at Christmas and over the summer, as well as an occasional spring break. Sometimes he would come down to Florida for a few days and visit the kids there. He stayed at the house, our son sharing his room with him. We did not need to go back to court to figure this out. Neither of us felt the need to have some outside person document our decisions.

      As time went by, I decided to move back to St. Louis, which is my hometown. The thought of a long-distance move with two kids, a dog, 3 cats, 2 ferrets and a turtle filled me with dread. I called Don and told him about my plans. He was glad to hear this because this would put him closer to the kids, and there was a direct flight between St. Louis and Memphis, where he was living. He asked when I was planning to do this and offered to come down and help. Fantastic! I needed all the help I could get! He flew to Florida, helped us pack and load the truck and then drove us to our new home. Because the truck carrying our things was going to take a week to arrive, we decided to stop at Universal Studios on the way up and spend a couple of days at the park. Then we drove to Memphis, where we spent a couple of days at Don's house. Finally, we got word that the truck was due in St. Louis the next day, so we loaded up and drove the last leg of our trip to our new house. 

      This has been the theme of our post marriage life. We have now been divorced almost 3 times longer than we were married. We have managed to raise our kids with a minimal amount of drama. We have never felt the need to go back to court. We have never felt the need to put our kids in the middle. We have never felt the need to make each other pay and suffer for our marriage. I have never understood why some people feel the need to make their divorce the cornerstone of their lives by perpetuating the drama by taking each other to court, or refusing to let one or the other see the kids, etc. The way I figure it, they must have liked the person at some point. Why spend time and energy on something so pointless? I get exhausted just thinking about it.

Bosun

(This post is not for an assignment.  The bluff in this story is located in southern Missouri, on my friend's farm.  I spent a huge amount of time there as a kid and teen.  I got word last night that the farmhouse burned to the ground yesterday.)

Hiking up the bluff, Billy carrying my burden, me following with the tools. It was a cloudy day, fitting my sorrowful mood. Up the path, climb through the barbed wire fence, being careful of slippery autumn leaves. It wasn't a long hike, but it was steep. We find a spot that looks good. The soil doesn't seem to be too rocky, and the view of the bluff field across the river is one that most would appreciate for an eternity. We lay our burdens down on the damp ground. We pause and take in the view. Yes, this is the spot.

Bosun was a Golden Retriever. My dad brought him home from the pound when I was 9. I remember how excited I was to have a new dog! I really wanted him to be MY dog, but he had other ideas about that! There is an old cartoon that features a little girl who wants to hug-and-squeeze-and-keep-it-for-ever and animal that crosses her path, much to the annoyance of the animals in her sights. This was me. Bosun and I did not get off to a great start.

Billy picks up a shovel and starts to dig. The soil is rockier than we thought. I pick up the pick and try to work the rocks loose. Progress is very slow. How deep does the hole need to be? Neither of us know the answer. So we dig, we pick. We stop to rest and smoke a cigarette. We talk about not much of anything. The sky is steely gray with thunderheads forming over the bluff field. Rain. More rain. Not yet, but soon.

I am 12. Bosun is sitting at the top of the stairs, I am sitting a step down from him. I pick up his left paw; “Port”. I pick up his right paw; “Starboard”. I spend an hour or so repeating this exercise with him. It was the first trick I ever taught to a dog. I was very impressed with myself. Bosun was tolerant.

Back to the job at hand. We hit the roots of the oak trees that tower around us. Use the ax. Dig some more. Pick out more rocks. The hole is growing, but still not deep enough. We try to hurry, so we don't get stuck climbing down the bluff in the rain.

16 years old. Mom and Dad left for Greece. I drop them at the airport. I go to the vet and get Bosun. He is still sore from his surgery. It's heartbreaking to see him in such sad shape. We go to McDonald's. I buy him cheeseburgers. I try to make him comfortable. 4 days later, I wake up to Bosun throwing up. It is a huge puddle. It is bloody.

The hole looks deep enough. We take Bosun from the trash bags that the vet has enshrouded him in. Billy places him in his final bed. We cover him with dirt. It begins to drizzle. We cover the grave with rocks. The rain coming down a little harder. We make a marker out of sticks and place it on top. The heavens openly weep. We gather our tools, stop to look through the sheets of rain at the rolling hills of the bluff field one last time, and head back down the hill.

Against the Current

             

            We were anchored in a small bay about 30 yards offshore of a small island in the British Virgin Islands.  It seemed like a short swim to the island, where there were plenty of young people on the windward side playing in the surf.  The boat was anchored in about 10 feet of Caribbean blue water, with a plethora of plant life growing on the bottom that housed many varieties of fish.  I decided I would snorkel to the shore, so I could enjoy the view of the ecosystem below.  I could have taken the tender, but being 15, and a competent swimmer, I opted to go it alone.  I jumped off the stern of the boat, adjusted my mask and snorkel, and, face down to the view, I set off for shore. 

            Gliding across the surface, I was able to watch the small world below me going about its daily business.  Maybe the small fish and crabs thought I was a transient shark or dolphin, just passing by and not interested in such a small snack.  They did not startle and dart away as they do when scuba diving.  That's why I like snorkeling; no bubbles, no noise, non-invasive.  I am an observer, not an intruder.  I swam in a slow, steady pace to shore. 

            Once onshore, I went to the windward side of the island, where there were other boat rat kids.  Boat rat kids make fast friends with each other because we are all so happy to be away from the 35 feet of family closeness that is our vacation home.  We swam and body surfed for most of the afternoon.  As the afternoon wore on, our numbers started to diminish as kids returned to their floating homes.  So it was time to head back.

            I walked back to the leeward side of the island, retrieved my gear, and waded into the water.  Setting off from shore, I was once again transported into another world.  A quiet, graceful world, filled with thousands of colorful fish, crabs, grasses and corals.  The only sound was my breath, moving in and out of my snorkel in a quiet whisper.  I swam on for a little while, totally absorbed in the world passing below me.  Maybe I should pop my head up and see how much progress I have made.   I was a little tired, after my swim in and surf play, and I was hungry:  Getting back to the boat had a sudden appeal.  I lifted my head and – Uh Oh – I had drifted with the current.  I was farther from the boat than when I had left shore.  I was also equidistant from the shore as I was from the boat; about 40 yards.  Well okay – don't panic.  So I changed direction and started toward the boat.  Slow and steady wins the race.  The whisper of my breath in the snorkel was a little louder.  The kick of my fins was a little stronger.  Head up, check again.  Not much progress.  I was getting tired, the current was getting stronger, and I had to work harder.  So work harder I did!  Kick for a few minutes, head up and check.  Progress was slow.  The subsurface world that so entranced me earlier, now took on a more sinister feel.  What if the sharks, that I envisioned myself as earlier, actually decided to show up for dinner after all? 

            Swim a little faster.  Good plan!  I lifted my head and looked longingly at the boat.  It was stern-to me and I could see my mother sitting in the cockpit, completely unaware of the doom that was befalling her youngest child.  I stopped and tread water for a moment.  Maybe she would turn her head and see me.  Certainly she would see that a little parental assistance was in order.  I waved.  I waved again -and again.  Come on mom, turn your head!  Finally, she turned my direction.  The powers of positive thinking – it must have been my psychic need that got her to turn her head.  I could see her strain to see against the setting sun that was behind me.  She finally saw me waving like a lunatic.  Surely she would get in the tender and come to retrieve me!  Sadly, this story does not end with such a warm and fuzzy reunion of mother and daughter.  She waved back.

            Sheesh.

Swimming with Fish

     While on vacation in the Abaco Islands, my ex-husband and I had to make a run into town for some fishing gear. While Don picked out weights and lures for our son, I was standing at the glass topped counter. Looking down I noticed a detailed color chart of the island chain under the glass. Upon closer examination, I noticed what looked to be the perfect cove. What made it perfect is that it had something for everyone in our group. We were traveling with 4 adults, 1 senior citizen and 5 kids aged 18 mos to 10 yrs. The cove was a deep U shape, with a gentle slope from the soft, white sand beach into the aquamarine waters of the shallows: Perfect for the 18 mo. old and the senior. The soft, sandy bottom gave way to a grassy bottom teeming with fish and, if you snorkeled down a bit, conch. Perfect for the 10 year old fishing fanatic. On the northern shore of the cove was a beautiful coral reef. Great snorkeling and spear fishing for those old enough to be trusted with weapons. Perfection!

      So we went back to the house, gathered everyone up, loaded the boat and took off. When we reached the cove, it was even better than we imagined. We spent the whole day there swimming, snorkeling, fishing. We had a lovely lunch and napped on the beach. It was ideal. As the afternoon wore on, we decided it was time to weigh anchor. As we were gathering up all the people and gear, I noticed a large Stingray swimming in toward the boat. Then another, and another, and another, and another. Five Stingrays with wingspans of about 4 feet. Beautiful! They were gliding through the water, circling the boat. Don and I had been watching a few minutes when he commented that it looked like someone had been feeding them. They behaved like cats waiting for the food bowl to be filled. Looking at them again through this new perspective, I had to agree. So what are good parents supposed to do? Apparently they grab their kids, give them snorkeling gear and encourage them to get in the water with the wildlife!

      So, that's what we did. They were very large and black, and moved with deft ability. As soon as we were in the water, they swam right toward us, only to gently glide by us, watching us with their big, Labrador Retriever eyes. At first, it was very intimidating, but as they glided by with their barbed tails calmly turning them back toward us, we became more at ease. I swiped some squid that my son was using as bait and fed one of them. If you haven't seen a ray in real life, their mouths are on the bottom. So to feed it, I snorkeled down to the bottom, held the squid up, and the ray swam over my head to get the squid. He knocked it from my hand and it fluttered to the sandy bottom, where the ray swam to retrieve it. It reminded me of a vacuum, gliding over a carpet, picking up a tuft of dog hair.

      This went on for about a half hour, when I lifted my head from the water to see where everyone was. As I stood to take a quick head count of kids, I noticed something in the water just outside the entrance to the cove. I watched for a minute trying to figure out what it was. I thought it might have been a pod of dolphins, heading into the cove to hunt for dinner. Wow, that would be great! Dolphins and Stingrays. That would be one hell of a day! Upon closer observation, I realized they were definitely not dolphins – they were sharks; black tip reef sharks, which are pretty aggressive. Yikes! As adventurous as I may be in some circumstances, I draw the line at sharks. “Hey kids, sharks! GET BACK IN THE BOAT” I said with a total lack of calmness in my voice.

      Sharks?! Okay! Time to go! We got everyone back on the boat in record time and weighed anchor. As we passed out of the mouth of the cove, the sharks were passing in. I guess it's true, timing really is everything!

Henry's Tale

            This is Henry.  He's my dog.  He's the BEST DOG EVER.  He's been my buddy for a long time now.  I had been looking for a dog, after losing my Golden Retriever a year or so before.  I visited the pound and the Humane Society, but all they had were little yapper dogs.  Definitely not my bag.  So I went to this weird little rescue near my house.  The rescue was house in an old, one story conch house that was in desperate need of a coat of paint.  It was run by a woman who, I guess, just really loved dogs.  If she couldn't find them a home, she kept them forever.  She had a farm with lots of room, so I guess it was a pretty good deal for the dogs, 

            So anyway, I went to her rescue to see what kinds of dogs she had.  Surprise, surprise...many, many little yappers.  I was really disappointed.  So I went outside and, as I was heading to my car, I noticed this old man sitting in a camp chair under a big Banyan tree.  He had this great looking dog with him.  A real dog.  So I walked over and asked if he was up for adoption.  Turns out he was.  So I bent down to pet him.  He sniffed me a little from his spot on the ground, in the shade of the Banyan.  I didn't rank a kiss, but he did roll over and request some tummy rubbing.  I obliged.  I asked if I could take him for a walk, and the old man said “sure”.  Off we went.  He was happy to come along, even though we weren't going anywhere.  That was it for me.  I took him back to the old man and asked what I needed to do to adopt him.  By the way, his name was Onyx – what a stupid name.  Anyway, I went inside to tell the woman that I wanted to adopt Onyx.  She said I couldn't. ???  What?  Why not?  She said I would have to foster him for a week before I would be allowed to adopt him.  Well, okay.  But why?  Turns out he was a problem child (like I wasn't sold already).  He had been returned 3 times, which is pretty amazing seeing that he was only 11 month old.  The first two times were due to wives not wanting a big, unruly puppy knocking over their little kids (clearly no sense of humor).  The third time he was returned because he was aggressive.  Funny, he didn't seem aggressive to me.  So I asked her what she meant by “aggressive”.  She handed me a sheet of paper on which the previous owner had written his excuse for the dog's return, along with comments by the rescue staff.  

            So here's what happened:  They brought Onyx home, spent a little time with him, then left him in the house while they (Mom, Dad and 3 kids) went out in the backyard to swim in the pool.  They had sliding glass doors that led out to the pool, where Onyx paced and barked at them while they swam.  The poor dog lost his mind.  He is a Bouvier Des Flandres, which is a herding dog.  They are very protective of their flock (kids) and they really aren't big fans of water.  Hence the reason the dog lost his mind.  He then proceeded to eat the sofa. When the man came back into the house and saw the sofa, he beat the dog.  The dog growled at him.  So that was that – they brought him back to the rescue, saying that he was aggressive.  What an asshole.  I was actually glad to hear he growled at the guy.  That's my king of dog! 

            So I took him home for the week.  I bought a kennel for him for when I wasn't at home.  It took Henry (he desperately deserved a new, better, name) 2 days to figure out that when I picked up my keys, that I was getting ready to leave, and also getting ready to put him in the kennel.  On the 3^rd day, I picked up my keys, and Henry went into the kennel on his own.  He turned around and watched to see if I was going to come and shut the door.  I did shut the door, but that was the last time.  I left him out the next day, and, I am happy to report, he did not eat the sofa (or anything else).

            Over the years, Henry has had his moments.  Because of the abuse he experienced, he has never been trusting of men.  He will warm up to them, but it takes him a little time to do so.  I was a single Mom with 2 kids, 7 and 8 years old; a big dog that barked and growled at strange men totally worked for me.  There were a couple of men that he never warmed up to, even when they were making a sincere effort to befriend him.  I should have listened to the dog and never dated those guys.  However, when I walk him down to the riverfront park at night here in Old Town, and an old drunk guy from the VFW Hall walks up to him to pet him, he thinks that's just fine.  Go figure.  He was great with my kids, when they were little.  He enjoyed herding them.  This was a favorite game for all involved.  They would run, Henry would chase them and nip at their heels.  When this wasn't enough to stop the kids, Henry would tackle them.  For some reason, my kids thought this was a great game.  I know I enjoyed watching it.  He never did get past the water thing.  When the kids were small, I would take them and the other neighborhood kids over to the park in the afternoon to swim off of the boat ramps.  Henry would bark the entire time.  He would occasionally go in the water and attempt to pull them out.  This didn't work out very well for him, but he tried. 

            Through the years, he has eaten some shoes, pooped in the house now and again, and has gotten into the garbage more times than I can count.  He has barked at the mailman every day of his life, and occasionally he has chased the cats (our cats – the same ones he naps with). But Henry has also always been the house referee.  He takes his role of herd tender very seriously.  He has always made sure that the cats didn't eat the birds, or the rats, or the hamsters, or the squirrel, or the ferrets.  He took care of the kids when they were small.  No one was allowed to approach them unless Henry gave it the okay.  He was also very adept at breaking up the kids when they fought with each other.  He accomplished this by barking (a lot) and, if that didn't do it, he would physically stand between them while continuing to bark.  After a couple of minutes of nonstop barking, the kids would get annoyed with him, which seemed to cause them to forget what they were fighting about in the first place.  What a smart dog.

            The kids are grown now and no longer live at home.  It's just me and Henry.  Well, not quite.  We also have a Newfoundland (Sophie) and a Standard Schnauzer (Emmett), along with a couple of cats (Little and Victor) and a Sun Conure (Zeke).  But Henry is still top dog.  He is getting old now, which fills me with sorrow.  He's getting a little arthritic.  Some days he can't quite make it up into my Suburban, and I have to give him a little assistance. Some days he can't quite make it up on the couch, so I lift him.  He is full of lumps which are fatty deposits.  It's another sign of old age.  His fur is no longer black.  He is gray and faded.  When I get up in the morning, he no longer leaps out of bed with me, like he used to.  He now opts to sleep in, coming downstairs about a half hour later.  Winters are getting to be hard on him.  He walks very carefully, so he doesn't slip on the ice. And if it's really cold, he won't go outside without his sweater.  He's an 80 lb. dog and he looks silly in a sweater, but he likes it, so what the hell?  He's 12 ½ now.  I know our time is limited.  I am sobbing at the thought of no longer having Henry in my life.  Some days, when he is having a hard time moving well, I simply sit and cry because it hurts me so much to see him growing old.  When this happens, he comes and comforts me. I wonder if he knows why I am sad?  Does he feel old?  Does he understand the passing of time?  I hope not.  In looking back over my life, my relationship with Henry is the most successful I've ever had.  Sometimes I feel guilty because I know I could have been better to him.  When we were all younger, I took him for granted.  He was always there; he was constant.  I knew I could count on him.  His limitless capacity for love and compassion never ceases to astound me.  It awes me that he loves me.  I'm not sure I deserve it.  He is the best person I know.

Lost in the Woods

When I was a kid, I had the privilege of attending summer camp in the Missouri Ozarks. From the ages of 8 to 16, I went to camp every summer for a month. As the years progressed, the activities that we were allowed to participate in became more advanced, because we actually learned things at camp, and built on our skills from year to year. Camp Zoe was primarily a horseback riding camp, but we had many other activities including canoeing, riflery, archery, art and crafts, and nature crafts. What exactly is “Nature Crafts”? Nature crafts consisted of learning about plants and animals, nature hikes, spelunking, catching crawdads (and cooking and eating them), and orienteering.

When I went to camp during my 13^th year, I had a new nature crafts counselor. He was a long haired hippie freak. His name was Chris and he gave us 13 year olds far more credit than we deserved in regard to our nature crafts skill set. He came up with lots of new activities for us and, unfortunately, assumed we had the skills to pull it off. One such activity was orienteering. He gave us a quick lesson on how to use a compass, figure out a heading, and theoretically, find our way out of the woods. Great! We can do that! No problem!

So one evening, after dinner, he gathered us up and drove us off into the woods. He reviewed the map with us, showed us where we were, and the compass heading we needed to follow to get back to the road, where he would be waiting for us. It was around 6:00 in the evening and the sun was still up. We had about 2.5 hours of daylight left to find our way back. Great! We can do that! No problem! So off we went in groups of 4, leaving 15 minutes apart from each other. Alone in the woods – at last, no grownups, no rules, captains of our destiny.

We walked with purpose from the dry dirt road into the scruffy weeds that bordered the forest. I thought to myself, “shorts were probably a bad choice”, but continued on, undaunted. Approaching the edge of the forest, the trees, towering over our heads, were a beautiful, deep emerald green. The forest was filled with sounds; birds, mosquitoes and squirrels. The forest floor was littered with pine needles and twigs and, as we walked under the canopy, they seemed to absorb the sound of our footsteps. As we entered the forest, the light changed – dramatically. The deep emerald green was suddenly painted with a gray wash that dimmed our view. It felt a little eerie. The four of us exchanged glances of mild concern, giggled a little (as only 13 year old girls can do) and continued onward.

At first, the going was pretty easy. Just a pleasant walk in the woods. But then the terrain started to get a little more challenging. The scruffy weeds became more dense with lots of ferns and saplings and the occasional fallen tree, and the ground became more hilly. The increasing density of the floor growth changed the quality of the sounds in the forest. It felt muffled. Even our own voices seemed to be dampened by the green moisture surrounding us. The birds seemed farther away and the squirrels seemed to have disappeared. However, the mosquitoes remained our constant companions. What was lacking in birdsong and the chitter of squirrels was replaced by “other sounds”. To four 13 year old girls, this could have been anything! We did our best to ignore these sounds, and failing that, to make jokes about them (OMG it's a turtle!). This worked for the first hour and a half. At least we thought is was an hour and a half; no one had a watch.

As we continued on our way, we diligently checked our compass and felt confident that we were going the right direction. We certainly hoped so, seeing that the sun was beginning to set, casting an even deeper grayness throughout the forest, as well as over our sense of humor. Our continued trudging brought us to the edge of a very small, very deep valley. It was breathtaking in its isolation. Deep, deep green, no sounds at all and an overwhelming aroma of rich dirt; this was the real forest. Checking our heading once again, we headed down the slope to the bottom of the valley, where we ran straight into an enormous dead-fall. It was truly impressive in its magnitude. There must have been a hundred dead trees all piled up together in various stages of decay. There was moss growing on some of them; ferns and mushrooms growing out of others. A couple of them still had green leaves suspended from their branches. In retrospect, I am grateful that I had no idea who Stephen King was at the time, as this would have quite possibly been my undoing! It was huge; there was no way around it. Up and over was our only option. The trees at the bottom of the pile had the most moss, ferns and mushrooms growing on them, which made them slippery. We all had our moments of stepping down on a log, only to have our feet disappear into its rotted interior. But we forged onward. We were really beginning to feel the stress of our current situation: Four girls wandering the woods with diminishing daylight, a map, a compass, and no flashlight. Hmm...maybe we need to pick up our pace a little bit. So we did our best to conquer the dead-fall as quickly as we could. As hard as we tried to reach the other side of the dead-fall in a short amount of time, we were not very successful. By the time we alighted on the other side, the remaining daylight was ebbing quickly.

As we ascended the other side of the valley wall, the light seemed to stabilize, as did our mood. We once again consulted our map. Surely we should be near the road by now. We searched through the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of dirt ribbon, but saw nothing but dimming greenness, rapidly descending to only shades of gray. The stabilized light, along with our stabilized mood, were short lived. Fear. Plain and simple. Our only saving grace at this point was that I was on the road to juvenile delinquency and had a Bic lighter in my pocket. We consulted the map and the compass, trying to see something far enough in the distance to set our bearing on. We were doing this every 10 minutes now because we could only see a 25 feet ahead of us. A funny thing happens in the forest when the light leaves. The sounds arrive. Thinking of turtles, squirrels and other benign forest dwellers quickly evolved into bears and bobcats, both of which are plentiful in the Missouri woods. We managed to keep some of our wits about us and pressed on. Where was the f***ing road? Our fear increased with every new sound and shadow that stalked us that night. It felt like hours had passed since the final light left our green canopied cave. It dawned on us that we now really understood that safety in numbers thing. In light of this new found understanding, we linked arms and continued, the monsters surely at our heels. To make ourselves feel better, and to drown out the sounds of the encroaching monsters, we started singing. I don't know who started it, but we all fell solidly into the Wizard of Oz mantra of “Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My.” We were banishing the monsters back to their dark lair. What resourceful little children we were! Our singing served an additional purpose. Our counselor heard us! It took us a while to hear his panicked screaming over our song, but finally we did. We were, finally, a mere 10 yards from the road!

There seems to be a universal belief that long haired hippie freaks are uber calm individuals. If the vein throbbing in Chris' forehead that night was any indication, I believe this to be untrue. In retrospect, this was a man who had clearly experienced one of the worst nights in his life. He was not calm. He was not cool. He was not collected. We didn't understand why he was so upset. In a fashion that only the young and immortal can muster, we looked at him with confusion on our faces and said “What?”

 

 The next year when we all showed up for our month of fun, Chris was not there. Neither was the after dinner orienteering activity.