Left Turn

Which way do I go?  


I happened across this sign during a glorious morning hike with my neighbor last Friday.  There was an immediate kinship with the figurative message of these bold arrows.  That it would become an image in my blog was a no-brainer.  Telling me I can go this way or that.  Assuring me that I'm not lost.  That backtracking is an option but so is this new direction in which I've yet to explore.  The answer for me is obvious: looking back over the terrain I've managed to traverse, winding trails, steep hills - both up and down - knobby roots and stubby stumps, brush and bush and branch, dense growth punctuated by open rock beds awash in mossy sunlit cover, I'm ready to push forward, look forward, MOVE ever onward.  I'm eager to see what's off to the left and ahead of me.

So here I am.  Standing at that crossroads with this blog smack-dab in the center of the cross hairs.  Unable to discern just where this fits into my earnest desires to further my writing.  Posting photos and pairing them with vignettes from my life provides me with joy and a certain purpose in the doing.  But it, along with Facebook and e-mail and a few highly enjoyable iPhone app games, siphon away minutes and hours which could possibly be useful in creating outlines and characters and chapters for stories and books which are all just itching to be scratched out of my head.  At one point, dropping non-essential activities and chores in my life was the answer to eking out portions of my day for pouring my words onto paper or into the laptop and Mac.  


However,  I did choose a particular life.  I decided that for me, staying at home unless working outside the home was a necessity was the way I needed to go in order to be an effective mother and wife.  I didn't want to try and have it all because I don't truly believe that bandied-about phrase really delivers what it promises.  Somewhere, if we are giving everything our all, SOMEthing will give, some aspect of live, home or health or work or hobby or dream, will suffer and receive less than it deserves.  Thus, writing simmered ever so slightly on the back burner of my life, while I filled my days and weeks and months with  activities pertaining to my domestic self, including titillating tours of duties in booster clubs and fundraisers and potlucks among countless other past-times.  Not to mention that the moment I lightened up on gardening in more recent times, I happened across a certain abandoned satin-eared puppy who requires more time than any hosta or hydrangea I've ever planted.

And often, when I did write, my words targeted a very small and specific audience in the name of family dynamics, especially where my baby brother and younger sister were concerned.  Letters to lawyers and judges and doctors.  Not to mention newspapers.  And when my eldest child struggled through a period of school and social life, that had me zipping off missives to teachers and principals and other parents with obscene frequency.  That all takes time . . . and a great deal of energy.


But that child now works two jobs and has her eye on a future life with her boyfriend of four years.  My son has two years remaining in his high school career before deciding how to approach his college path.  (Actually, he'll have that decided BEFORE the two years expire.)  And everyone is well aware that my middle child now resides in Germany with her Army husband . . . for the next three years.  Hank the Wonder Pup has wondrously tromped right into the middle of his second year of life; I have it on good authority that labs start to settle down in their second or third year.  Though he did chew a tad bit on the corner of our kitchen table a couple of weeks ago (he hadn't nibbled on furniture for a fair stretch of time) he hasn't ingested anything of major value since that unfortunate incident with my first iPhone, Girlfriend GS, back in the spring of this year.  And that old bra he tore up this morning?  Well, it reeked of sweat from my early walk in hot humid morning temps, and it was hanging on a kitchen chair.  What normal curious dog wouldn't be inspired to investigate such a treat as that?!

Anyway, my point is that things are slowing down.  Kids are growing up.  Dogs are settling in.  The husband has his musical hobbies.  And there's a perfectly respectable and sunny bedroom upstairs adjacent to this study with my name awaiting to be written ALL OVER IT!  I have the green light to turn Sarah's old bedroom into my writing room.  Shelves for organizing journals and letters and material I'd like to have at my fingertips.  A door, which this small study does not have, to shut out the world and cocoon me in my own facsimile thereof.  Space for a chair by the windows.  A small section of wall for chalk paint and magnetic paint; large walls for whatever shades of me I wish to roll and brush across their expanse.  Permission to search for a sturdy used executive desk with simple lines, no bulk, just right for this large Mac and my paperwork.  A room in which I can freely explore my ideas and discipline my tired but eager to stretch brain.

There's a place for the blog within this construct.  And that will flesh out as I continue to follow my turn arrow on the path which has led me thus far.  I want you all along for the journey.  And for the choices.


Just keep reading the signs:

Rules of Engagement

Topics which you won't see covered in this entry: 1) the almost empty space adjacent to this study, formerly known as Sarah's bedroom; 2) the seemingly blatant disregard by this writer to supply three blog posts per week; and 3) anything to do with flatulence.

There.  Now that the rules of engagement have been established and recognized by all involved parties,  namely you, the readers, and me, the one who spins this wordy web, we can move on.

Since three hours of sleep is all I managed to squeeze out of last night -- I was packing personal items in a space about which I will not discuss right now -- and the hour inches ever closer to midnight, I'll keep this brief.  I have no real choice in the matter as my eyes are rolling back up into my head of their own volition.  My fingers on the keyboard appear to have a mind of their own.  And somewhere in there, the ol' gray matter is definitely operating on far less than fifty shades!

Hank the Wonder Pup, whose nickname has morphed into Hankie Mutt from here on out, is starting to realize that he possesses both maleness and alpha dog potential.  On yesterday's walk, he marked our way at least three times; that's two more than he usually pees in a week of leash-n-collar sessions!  At home, our elderly dog's increasing vulnerability due to arthritis and the natural slow-down that nips at the heels of a sixteen year-old pooch, has made her a target for snarling, barking and teeth-baring encounters with her younger counterpart whenever she enters the kitchen, which Hankie Mutt believes to be his territory.  Several times a day, I wade into the fray and assert MY alpha position over BOTH of them.

Our great white hunk of an overgrown pup managed to add a few friends to his collection of four-legged and two-legged pals in the past week.  Today it was Brian and Andre.  They work for the moving company which is contracted out by the Army to relocate the belongings of certain individuals to parts outside of these United States for the purpose of keeping married couples and families together.  This capital business arrangement works well for both parties and pertains to me in ways which, at present, I am not allowed to discuss for maternal heart reasons.  Upon the completion of their mission, Brian and Andre enjoyed iced tea, berries and Doritos provided by yours truly: I allow no one to leave my home hungry and thirsty on a hot day when hard work has been executed to my exacting standards.  Really, serving others, anticipating their needs, feeding people: it's who I am.  So I roll with it!  I learned that Brian and Andre grew up together, got in trouble playing football in a neighbor lady's yard together, and now work together.  Andre is quick to grin and operates a mean tape dispenser.  Brian is married to a Laotian woman.  His fifth wedding anniversary is just around the corner.  And he owns a pit bull mix who has been trained to respond to commands ordered in his wife's native tongue.  I rather like that.  (I'm thinking I could teach Hankie Mutt a bit of Spanish?!)

Brian and Andre

 Now you see it . . . 

 . . . now you don't!!!

 Good sports!

While we're on the subject of pit bulls -- dogs who get a bum rap in the ownership department because of the nasty habit many folks have of turning these handsome animals into bloodthirsty fighters for gambling human onlookers -- let me direct your attention to Hank's newest girlfriend, Emma.

 Emma: she's ALL woman!

 Introductions.

Look, Hank has an instant family.  

And Emma is REALLY good with children . . .  

. . . REALLY good!  Brave little bugger, eh?

All played out.  About time for Starbucks, Hank.

Emma is a regular at our local Bark Park.  During our prolonged heatwave of this past week, I thought it a good idea to bond with my pup after a week-long absence (the Colorado trip for my niece's wedding, which we will explore later).  To further this bonding, we awakened early on Saturday morning and took a road trip in search of apple fritters from that small donut place on Broad Street (had an itch that needed a sugar scratch).  One said apple fritters were procured (one for me; one for my hubby) and stashed out of range of Hank's powerful sniffer, owner and animal headed to the Bark Park. Once there, we engaged in a marathon two-hour play session in which most of the dogs who wandered in and out of the confined area chose to remain in the shade for all activities, including Hank.  Emma sauntered in, sleek and brown and nonchalant, resembling something more akin to a handsome small pig with fangs than an actual dog, and my young Casanova was instantly smitten!  I think it's safe to call it . . . prepare yourself . . . puppy love.  Sorry.  You know I had to go there.

"May I kiss you?"

"Not in public, methinks . . . "

If you'll recall, Hank's first girlfriend was a pit bull.  Rosie.  A sweetheart of a petite gal owned by one of my Earth Diva's and her family.  Rosie and Hank met during dog-training last year.  Outside of his blankie, Rosie was Hank's first experience with 'physical affections' which bring to mind the same visual for all people who know anything about dogs.  It's been quite awhile since these two lovestruck hounds have laid eyes on one another.  On a regular basis, Hank's main squeeze lives next door to us.  Cheeto.  Another petite girl, but with long hair, less muscle and daily access to our yard.  I believe she's a Gordon Setter.  And she's not the jealous type, so any worries that Hank might have bitches fighting over him can be put to rest.  Besides, I'm pretty sure that the stout-of-frame Emma could knock the stuffing out of the other two in Hank's harem.    

 

A reminder of Emma's stout form.

Hank also befriended a small-breed puppy, the name of which has flown straight outta my head . . . a Jack Russell terrier (my cousin had one once, hyper little guy, almost drowned in our yard during a sudden downpour when we all forgot he was tied to a pole which was attached to a large tent which was set up for my husband's surprise 40th birthday party five years ago).  The owners of this little guy wanted to socialize him with large breed dogs in an effort to avoid the aggressive behavior toward big dogs that their OTHER Jack Russell terrier displays.  Every dog at that park behaved with a respectful curiosity and playfulness toward that tiny ball of energy that was touching to watch.  Not to mention downright entertaining.  Of course, Hank, much like his human brother, Zachary, handled the youngster with a deference and genuine interest that stood out above the pack.  The other owners thanked him profusely for playing so well with their wee one.  My favorite moment, of which there were many, came courtesy of the pup, who clambered atop the sturdy edifice which is all Emma, like a nimble-footed mountain goat.  I didn't get the shot but I sure got the belly laugh!

 My OWN 'Harry The Dirty Dog.'

 "Hank, meet dirt.  Dirt, Hank.  Now GO play!"

 Happy in his freshly dug hole.

 He unearthed a portion of something we never could identify.

 He does NOT want Hank's big ol' paw in his little ol' hole.

 This pup is gonna give his owners YEARS of fun!

 New pals beating the heat.

Here Hank demonstrates the PROPER use for his nose . . . 

as opposed to violating the backsides of humans entering his home.

Well, as often happens, the squeaky wheel gets the grease.  You are once again up-t0-date and in-the-know where all things Hankie Mutt are concerned.  Next time, I promise to regale you with stories about humans.  Until then, I pray you sleep well.  I've been trying to do so for the past hour!