Winded . . .

It has been a rather strange day, from start to finish.  Early this morning, my kids and I awoke to a tornado warning that required us to cram into our pantry with the two dogs, an array of canned goods, and miscellaneous items I spent most of the night collecting and cramming into shelves.  Items including, but certainly not limited to, personal records, water, duct tape, batteries, scissors, letters from my brother, the laptop, an external hard drive of digital photos, and clothing we might need on the other side of things.  For the next twenty minutes, fear and acceptance took their turns with us.  We prayed.  Noted when the power went out.  Heard the sudden roar which seemed to inhabit the space around us and held our breath when just as suddenly all sound eerily ceased.  My children growled at me for taking pictures of us huddled tightly together under the cold light of the Magna-Lite flashlight.  My son cursed the squeaky fish toy which the pup chewed to appease himself.  Panda, comfortable next to her human pack and ignorant in her half-deaf state, fell into a gently snoring slumber.   The warning ended with a completely uprooted weeping willow in the front yard and a sea of sizable elm branches in the back yard.  All persons and pets safely accounted for.

SETTING THE SCENE



Seven years ago I spent a backbreaking day digging and picking through chunks of clay and rock to plant that lovely willow in the southeast corner of our front lawn; this spring it was the prettiest testament to natural beauty on our entire property.  Just glorious!  Hank the Wonder Pup loved to run up under it and sit; Fabio the Princely Cat enjoyed climbing up and down it's length.  I'd always envisioned my own weeping willow dancing in the wind, whipping to and fro in stronger gusts, but, alas, it whipped a bit too fro this time.  And the hundred-year-plus lady of an elm behind our house is the entire reason I felt compelled to tell my husband about the place: she was able to calm my country-loving heart enough to entertain the possibilities of living in such a suburban neighborhood as ours.  Each year, I've joked that if SHE GOES, I GO.  Her spreading canopy has provided shade for the neighbors behind us (2/3 of her bulk actually resides on their legal property, hence the stately grand dame truly belongs to them, but she fully stands within our fence line where I love her like a beloved great auntie), a high rise apartment complex for the myriad bird species which roost therein, and an oasis for the flowers and hydrangea bushes in the southwest corner of our back yard.  Unfortunately, though her great trunk is intact, roughly half of her enormous branches now rest heavily across my once lovely white arbor, our patio with its furniture and grill, the damaged roof-line all along the back side of our home, and much of the lawn.  Clean-up will be a vigorous adventure.



WEEPING FOR MY WILLOW



Now, to bring you up to speed, let me remind you of the terrible tornado event which hit Murfreesboro on Good Friday of 2009, which wounded our neighborhood and decimated homes all around us, ending in the death of a mother and infant in once heartbreaking instance.  That left its mark on all of us.  The entire city.  But it also grew us.  Further shaped our character.  Encouraged a deeper generosity.  Perhaps even reminded us of the constant reality checks that are beyond our power to control.  And then last year at the same time as this year's weather event -- for today has been a wearily eventful -- the great flooding in Nashville and surrounding towns had its way with us.  People are still recovering from these natural disasters, and yet here we go . . . again!  Ironically, one of the main stories in the local newspaper this morning was a piece on the poor husband and father who survived the two aforementioned deaths: his back was broken when he was thrown like a rag doll after trying to huddle over his family to shield them from the approaching tornado.  He has recently remarried and recounts his harrowing tragedy, the unimaginable loss, and his remarkable recovery.




THE ELM FROM BEHIND AND A BLOCK OVER



The other irony concerns my husband of 22 years.  He missed the tornado of 2009.  And he missed this tornado, or wind system, or whatever the talking heads deem it to be, too.  Only this year, he landed himself at a work-related seminar in Birmingham, Alabama.  Alabama was bashed and bruised, beyond recognition in some places, by an enormous mile-wide wedge tornado which hit Tuscaloosa with all of the uncontrolled fury of a maddened nest of hornets, before heading on to the heart of the town in which my husband was holed up in a hotel.  25 people died in Alabama as a result of this massive storm system.  That makes my trees look like mere play things.  And though I mourn their loss because of my affection for their shape, sway, and size, I'd much rather suffer their absence than that of the children in the pantry with me or the handsome guy hiding out in a staircase 3 1/2 hours from me.

There were other tornado warnings which sent us scurrying back into the pantry.  The dogs were always there ahead of us, canine ESP, perhaps.  I almost wish I could leave the pantry floor empty because my old Panda Girl likes to sleep in there; in fact, that's where she is tonight.  My daughter, Sarah, and I, took a quick half-hour trip to Woodbury to deliver my mom's pain medication and had the pleasure of hanging out in the central hallway with the venerable elder ladies of Holiday House through not one, but TWO, tornado warnings.  When the next lull in the spring shower activity opened up, we hopped in the truck and headed back home to the 'Boro where our yard instantly reminded us that everything we thought had happened on that day had actually happened.

SARAH, GRANDMA SHARON, AND

A WALKER FOR OWNER AND POOCH



THE BEAUTY OF MENACING SKIES

Somewhere in there, an overwhelming urge to be clean, both in person and in home, struck me.  I wasn't about to touch that mess outside before the rains ceased and sunshine permeated the dark corners.  We all pitched in to wash dishes, make beds, put away laundry, do a minor reorganize of the pantry . . . and I washed my greasy hat hair and performed a bird bath on my more pungent parts.  Might as well look and smell decent for the next go-round.  If a funnel-shaped cloud saw fit to carry it all away, at least there was that one last look at the way the homestead was.  And if no mighty whoosh came in those laborious minutes spent hunkered down with Cream of Chicken Soup and black beans, then we were slightly ahead of the game.
It's night now.  A quick trip outside for a potty run with Hank earlier revealed skies where the most disturbing sound was an airplane flying overhead against an almost cloudless ebony backdrop.  Tree- and bull-frogs sang their distinctive refrains.  And there were even stars to behold!  Earlier, in a moment almost as strange to me as the those of the morning, we found ourselves watching a "Repo Game Show" on the one television we left plugged-in while under a continued tornado watch (which ends in roughly 25 minutes at midnight).  A real car repossession man surprises delinquent non-paying owners, practically whips them into a violent frenzy with his spiel, before revealing to them that he has the power to pay off their automobile if they answer 3 out of 5 questions correctly.  You've guessed the reciprocal by now, I'm sure: if they DON'T answer those 3 questions, the car/truck/motorcycle goes bye-bye.  Though I couldn't tear my eyes away, it was all kind of funky in a mildly disturbing way.  Thank goodness it ended and my weary children passed out.

Tomorrow, school and work are back on the schedule.  My hubby is done with suffering through violent weather without his family; he's heading back home after a good night's sleep.  And I will bury my trees as I uncover my property and reveal what lies beneath.  I'll also flit from room to room in our house, plugging in all of those electrical cords I yanked from the wall so as to avoid possible electrical surges cooking our Mac, musical equipment, televisions, video games, small appliances, and the like.  My mother-in-law arrives at 11PM from Colorado.  One of her favorite activities at our home is to wake up and head for the rocking chair on the back porch, where she sits and listens to the birds and admires the elm tree and everything under it's survey.  Won't SHE be in for a rude awakening!  Chainsaw, anyone?  ANY . . . one . . . ???

THIS DOVE WAS LIVING IN THE VINE COVERING THE ARBOR

I'm grateful for my life and the lives of my family and pets. I'm grateful for breakfast with my neighbor and her boys after our drive through town trying to find an establishment with electricity; her oldest son vomited his pancake breakfast all over the booth, excited and recovering from a bug. Now, THAT'S memorable. I'm grateful for my eldest daughter's boyfriend, John, who thought to look for tarp and roofing nails to cover the bowling-ball sized hole and spots with missing shingles brought into being by aggressive branches. Thanks for Zachary for assisting in the mending job.

 May I put in a request for an UNeventful day now?






DOWNED TRAFFIC LIGHT



Goosed by Guilt!

In the spirit of Earth Day, I have to come clean about a sin against nature in which I played accomplice to the murder of a Canada goose.  The incident still rankles this moderate tree-hugger.  Anyone who knows much about me, or has seen a random selection of my photos, understands I'm a bit of a bird lover.  Birds are absolutely delightful, lovely and eyeballable creatures.  I feed them and provide fresh drinking water for them for Pete's sake!  So, it doesn't make sense to me that when a young fowl-hunting friend of mine asked during a recent phone call if I was in the mood for a goose because a pair just happened to be wandering his property, my immediate thoughts concerned myself and NOT the mated-for-life pair of handsome geese.

Woodpecker outside my mom's window.

Male cardinal on my arbor.

Female cardinal gathering nesting supplies.

A wandering baby robin on my neighbor's porch.

Granted, the total off-the-cuff suggestion caught me off guard.  Nowhere in the purpose of our call was there a natural opening for a field-to-table killing.  His simple logic dictated that since my car would soon be headed in his direction to pick something else up, he could shoot and dress the bird and have it ready for me.  No worries.  Somehow, the random stars had swiftly lined up within a few short minutes!  All in a short late afternoon's work.  I toyed with the idea, what with Easter drawing near, and me with my holiday food desires left perpetually unsatisfied each year where visions of duck, goose and lamb dance in my hungry head.  The palates around me find traditional meats more to their liking.  They feel no need to branch out into more delectable, less common main course fare.

A lucky live pair in the local soccer field.

"Well-l, that turkey breast you gave me last time was so lean that I roasted it into inedible toughness.  How would I do any better this time?"  The eager teen sportsman assured me that practice would make perfect, "I have my license.  Don't worry."  In the end, I relented, though reluctantly.  Let me remind you that at that decision point, I was still inhaling stale tour bus air on the the final leg of our recent five-day Florida vacation.  Almost 9 hours had elapsed.  I was tired and wired.  Not firing 100% on all mental cylinders!  My eagerness to be reunited with Hank the Wonder Pup had top billing in what gray matter remained aware enough to function at all.  And he doesn't qualify as wild game.

Always blame it on the bus!

But let me tell you that THE VERY MOMENT our decidedly non-Earth friendly Yukon (not my choice) rounded the curve of my personal bird slayer's driveway only to be met with a desperately honking lone goose wandering aimlessly across the hilly meadow spreading out before me, doubtless crying for his missing mate, the mistress of his heart who was at that very moment headless, gutted and plucked, resting on a plain white collapsible table on the driveway just up yonder, awaiting my freezer back in suburbia, I felt the sharp sting of my thoughtlessness.  

Goosed!

What in the bloody heck had I been thinking?!!  Surely a 41 year-old woman knows better than a 'smart but yet on the young side of his 20's' man the selfish folly of executing such a majestic bird simply because it would be nice to practice roasting it!  I mean, what was I gonna do?  Have him knock off a goose once a week or once a month until I got it just right and figured out the best sides to accompany it?  What about the leftovers I'd most certainly discard when the first one, or two or six, turned out dry and unpalatable?  And then there's the matter of all those feathered spouses flying dejectedly from one pond or meadow to another in a constant state of mourning?!  Would my insurance cover their grief counseling?  Imagine the co-pays!  Oh, and let's not forget the wee thing about an actual hunting SEASON for a species.  It turned out that it wasn't even the time for shooting Canada geese on Tennessee soil!  Great!  Now I'd also broken the law.  (When the youth's parents learned of his illicit kill, they had a nice talk with him about propriety and such.)  Cuff me, game warden!

My quandary now is how I'm ever going to be able to look that frozen carcass in the, er, face, and actually consume it with a bit of gravy and green beans.  But to NOT eat her, after the inexcusable fate to which I subjected her, would be reproachful.  Wasteful.  Terrible.  My punishment, it seems, for this lapse in judgement, will be harsh.  And I deserve it.  And the irony is that she'll actually be GOOD for me . . . as nourishing in death as she was in life.  Forgive me, gorgeous winged lady, for my transgression.  I pray your loving male finds a new mate with your blessing.  

P.S.  I'm sorry my pup made chew toys out of your feathers.  Three of them, very well formed I might add, made their way back to my house for a scrap album.  You'll not soon be forgotten.

Wasting Vacation Time on My Blog

Wake up in Tennessee.  Fall asleep in Florida.  That's how the Valdez Bunch is rollin' this month, courtesy of my hard-working husband and well-deserved recognition from his company.  In fact, the Water Color Resort here on Santa Rosa Beach has become a mini-vacation paradise for several families from EmDeon: men and women on select teams who labored above and beyond the call of duty during the demanding process of transferring hardware and data from the old building to the new hub over the past year.  It couldn't have happened to a nicer, and exhausted, group of folks.

We had the option of either paying for our own gas in the guzzling Yukon and arriving uneventfully in a timely manner, OR riding in a comfy tour bus, waiting 40 minutes past the 'enforced' departure time for a tardy traveler, enjoying naps and free food along with a dad who wasn't navigating, finding ourselves on an unexpected detour when one of the bus drivers took a wrong exit, suffering through not just ONE but TWO showings of "Beverly Hills Chihuahua," witnessing a horrible horse-trailer accident where the emergency personnel were busy trying to lift out a dead horse, and pulling into the resort two hours late and listening to the woman who created half of the LATE situation complain that we were late while we stood in a long winding registration line as smiling hostesses offered up lovely rare tuna and crab cake appetizers.  Monty, we choose what's behind curtain B!  So much more story-worthy . . .

THE EAGER-TO-VACATION VALDEZ WOMEN

PASSING CARS UP HIGH

BUS RIDERS

MY BOY IN A GRINNING MOMENT

NOTHING SAYS RELAXED LIKE THE CLASSIC YAWN,
HERE CHARMINGLY MODELED BY ASHLEY

SLUMBERING SARAH -- SLEEP IS HER CRAFT

Though I began missing my wonder pup, Hank, Hankerdoodle, or as Ashley calls him -- Love Bug, the moment his dog sitter whisked him away to a canine paradise of wide open grassy fields on the outer edge of town, I knew he would be in more than capable hands in my absence.

HOW COULD I NOT MISS THIS MUG?

SAYING FAREWELL FOR THE WEEK TO MY BABY BOY!

NO, HE DOESN'T HAVE A LINGERIE FETISH,
YOUNG MICHAEL IS DELIVERING LEMON CURD
AND HOMEMADE SCONES FROM ME TO HIS MOTHER.

MICHAEL CLARK, PUPPY WHISPERER

I DO BELIEVE THE MY WILLOW TREE HAS WAITED FOR YEARS
TO SHADE YOUNG HANK THE WONDER PUP!

But my train of thought is wrecked . . . my first morning in Florida is up and at 'em . . . the chit'luns are finally awake.  And they're begging their mama to head for the beach.  The hubby is out early, swinging metal and wood clubs at little white balls with his co-workers; the boy already had himself a bike ride with the boss' sons; I've exercised my mildly OCD ways with a flurry of activity about the condo: organized the luggage, created a recycling station in the kitchen, and opened the balcony doors to usher in the cool sea air.  An extended wandering walk of discovery awaits me on the other end of a shower and granola with flax meal.  My eating on this trip has thus far been greatly influenced by my PMS state; based on the Pringles, pizza, popcorn, Raisinets, grapes, 1 1/2 sandwiches, cheese crackers, jelly beans, seafood hors d'oeuvres, raspberry scones, and lemon-lavender biscotti of yesterday, I'd say those unexplained lost pounds of this past month, whereby all my clothing falls loosely at my hips, may soon find their way back to me!

ZACHARY LIVING IT UP, ALREADY

A BLOGGER'S VIEW

MY CUTE EARLY AM GOLFER

MY FABULOUS NEW BEACH HAT, WITH TAG!

And with that, I bid you adieu.  The air is rife with fun and frivolity yet to be had.

Hank

So, a funny thing happened to me on my afternoon walk today.  I ventured out to beat the storm and stretch my housebound legs . . . and returned with a new family member.

I'm here in Woodbury, still helping my mom on the post-operative side of her back surgery.  This is a small community.  Your feet can get you anywhere in a matter of minutes . . . especially if you're a daily quick-trotter like me.  My right turn onto Main Street took me past that antique store into whose windows I peeked yesterday.  Today it was OPEN; it pulled me in with the hopes of possibly finding a bookshelf or cake stand.  And I just about tripped over a plump white and yellow puppy chained to the door of the establishment.  Of course, like anyone with eyes to register cuteness and any affection for animals at all, I bent down and gave him a good rubbing over, cooing over how handsome a fellow he was, before moving on through the store to admire its contents.  A simple framed needlepoint of woodland mushrooms caught my eye.  The colors, it's unique nature, a warmth it exuded, beckoned and asked if I might want to buy it and take it home to mount on my study wall.    I wasn't sure, so I moved on to the shelves and tables laden with dishes to see what else might call my name.

MAGIC MUSHROOMS 

Somewhere between a creamer and sugar bowl composed of that iridescent orange Carnival glass and a display of assorted China teacup sets, the two women who'd entered the store behind me (one of them had asked if I wouldn't mind scooting out of the aisle, where I was bent over the pup, so she could squeeze by -- she was polite and I WAS in the way) approached the older woman in charge of the place to ask if she had any matching strings of lights.  They obviously knew her, addressing her as Jenny, which is also the first name of the store, 'Jenny Rose.'  "No," she didn't think there was anything like that in her inventory.

"Well, that's too bad," the younger woman stated before asking, "Did you get yourself a new dog?"  At this, she settled hesitated a moment before explaining the origin of the friendly canine youth resting beneath her antique rocker, "Well, I did but he's not really mine.  I'm trying to find a home for him.  A couple of weeks ago, a lady came in here and asked if I would hold the little guy while she ran to her car to get someone out.  I said I would and played with him while she was gone.  I waited.  And she never came back!"  My curious eavesdropping ears took all of this in, thinking it would make a great piece for the blog.  I mean, what a dirty trick to pull on someone . . . both the pup AND the proprietress.  Rotten.

JENNY ROSE

By the time I returned to the front of the store, glancing longingly once again at the fabulous threaded fungi, Mister Puppy thought it his duty to beg for one last belly scratch.  I obliged.  For the next fifteen minutes.  Talking to him.  And to Jenny.  And the two lady customers.  "Are you gonna be his new mommy?" they asked.  "Oh, goodness no, my husband would shoot that down in a second.  And I've got too much going on.  Though . . . he is awfully cute . . . those eyes . . . all that white fur . . . handsome . . . so loving . . . just tugs at the heartstrings."  Eventually, I tore myself away from my newfound friends, both human and canine, and headed off with earbuds connected to the iPhone, pumping a podcast into my ears.  Only, I wasn't listening.  An 18-wheeler loaded down with raw timber made the turn next to me, and I shot a picture of yet another highway death cause to share with one of my Earth Divas.  (Inside joke.)  But my attention didn't remain fixed for long.  The strong urge to call my husband and explain this strange feeling within wouldn't leave.  What in the heck was I about to do?  

'DEATH BY HIGHWAY' OPTION

"Mim?"  I echoed into the phone, straining to be heard against the increasing winds.  "I think I just fell in love!  With a dog.  And that hasn't happened since my childhood when I owned Bonnet.  You remember how I've talked about Bonnet?  My first dog?  How much she meant to me?  Our connection?  I mean, what is wrong with me?  He's so handsome and cute and . . . a boy . . . I don't go for male dogs . . . and there's just something about him.  His nose is a swirl of brown and blonde pigment.  Brown  I can't get his face out of my mind.  Let me send you a picture.  NO, two pictures, or three.  You'll see.  You will love him, too.  He has a story.  Let me tell you his story."  All of this tumbled out in an exuberant rush of excitement mingled with puzzlement over what was happening here.  What WAS happening here?  Was I about to add another thing which needed attention and care and energy to my laundry list of TO-DO's?  Yet one more being to love and tend as if there was an infinite amount of love and energy springing from an endless fountain within me!  Hadn't I agreed with my spouse when he said we shouldn't usher in a replacement for our elderly dog when she passed away.  Too much work and time and trouble?  And what about that book-turned-movie with Jennifer Aniston about a lab pup who went rogue right outta the gate after initially beguiling his owner with false pacifist charm?  My husband, this guy who has loved me for 22 years, laughed with me, at me, and wondered aloud only one thing, "Did you recently take your Happy Pill or something?"  This is his appreciative term for the anti-depressant I added to my daily routine about a month and a half ago.  Giggling, I replied, "Nope!  That was last night.  This is all-l-l me."

I did an about-face back to Main Street to retrieve my little girl heart.  The owner was not surprised to see me at all.  We chatted for a good twenty minutes, with my husband texting questions in between concerning shots and fleas and trucking down to Woodbury after the inclement weather passed.  Jenny Rose hailed from Woodbury but moved to Oak Ridge, Tennessee after marrying her husband, whose surname was Rose.  (Initially I thought Rose might be her middle name.)  They both worked at the famed nuclear facility where the atomic bombs which were later dropped over Japan in World War II were developed, exposing themselves to uranium and the accompanying radiation to their detriment: cancer, two types for her, blood and intestinal, and one type for him.  After their kids grew up and left the nest, Jenny and her husband packed it all in and headed back to Woodbury for retirement and their dream of opening an antique shop.  Sadly, a major stroke interrupted their journey, and a life flight to a major city did little more than keep him alive for two more weeks.  Now, she runs their business alone, often sitting in her rocker outside the big windows which display the timeless contents within to passing pedestrians and drivers alike.  Fortunately, friends and relatives yet populate the area, so she's not quite as alone as one might think.

One intense thunderstorm and tornado warning later, after gathering with the residents of the Holiday House in the lobby with up-to-the-minute news of the ever-changing weather blaring from the television, my sweet man pulled into town and picked me up to hurry downtown in the hopes that Jenny had not closed shop.  Though the doors were pulled shut, the open sign was facing us, and through those full windows I caught a glimpse of Jenny wrapped in a knitted blanket . . . but no sign of the pup on the end of that chain.  I steeled myself to hear that one of the many customers who had dropped in and promised to 'come back later' to get the friendly ball of fur had made good on their word.  But then he darted out from under a table, scurrying across the old rug between us, and slammed into my legs.  "He hoped you'd come back and you did!  I'm not worried about him at all now.  I do believe he's gonna have himself a good home and lots of love.  Cute little fellow," Jenny was smiling, pleased to see me, happy to have done her duty where her unexpected charge was concerned.  She had two aged chihuahuas at home, but they wouldn't take well to a full-sized dog in their domain.  "And you know what, I'll take that picture, too.  Will a check be all right?"  and I signed with a flourish, handed the check over to her, picked up the pup, and brought him to the interim owner who'd shown him love over the past two weeks for their good-byes.  She pressed her cheek to his muzzle, wishing him well, whispering that she'd miss him.  I let her know I'd drop in from time to time to update her; I would send pictures, and treat him like the precious thing that he was.

It's after midnight now.  Hank, as we decided to call him, is hopefully sleeping in his crate on the floor next to the couch where my truly understanding, if somewhat in shock, husband is also hopefully sleeping.  There's been accidents involving excrement and urine.  My daughter rushed to Petsmart for food and toys; I want to be the one to choose his dishes, collar and leash.  In my absence, the family had rallied around it's newest son.  Soon, I'll be the one on the couch, and in the yard at dawn, with the little blond-haired brown-eyed Valdez pup.  Me and my little girl heart -- that young girl full of wonder at everything and idealistic to a fault, the one I like to remember best -- are ready to raise this roly-poly baby into a trained but fun-loving girl's best friend.  Here . . . we . . . go-o . . .