tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67333998893949772692024-02-18T20:20:48.495-08:00sauntering dogLife in the dog lane.NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.comBlogger112125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-52860353909606012942024-02-14T14:35:00.000-08:002024-02-14T14:37:26.206-08:00February Leaves<p>I have never been very fond of autumn: light on the wane, cold advancing, color dimming. Not to mention, classes starting. So, while the conversational world is full of guessing when the peak weekend for fall color might be, I hunker down and count the days until the winter solstice, when daylight would begin tolengthen, sharing its promises of where it will take us.</p><p>My dog Niko and his friend Sunny celebrate an October rite of passage. They run and leap into piles of dried leaves, just for the fun of it, for the feeling of the sudden splash into another realm, hiding for a few seconds, and then popping backup into the ordinary world. I know this feeling, because I did it as a child. For Niko and Sunny, though, there are also hidden discoveries, tennis balls in the leaves, and small treats to root around for and find (or not) as a proper reward for having a good time with friends. We humans play god to the dogs, with our rakes and tricks, showing them that there are joy and gems to be found and friends to laugh with</p><p>. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiW7pA4WatKc3rgve1PLDyv00wRuqBSpyPTpKaVJNE46_bfo79UMZLTyv0OGd0eOE1m7oYdMw88gDvb-7RrKWy7yrRe4C57IicDtsZni4ImHdAy_tkWt-dfgc-aHMhZpKkaTgSNAQ3MjI3v2e6NciAm5yu6PPTRxq7L69sYPHJpQMMtvfxVAgZ3D_wi5jye" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2190" data-original-width="4426" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiW7pA4WatKc3rgve1PLDyv00wRuqBSpyPTpKaVJNE46_bfo79UMZLTyv0OGd0eOE1m7oYdMw88gDvb-7RrKWy7yrRe4C57IicDtsZni4ImHdAy_tkWt-dfgc-aHMhZpKkaTgSNAQ3MjI3v2e6NciAm5yu6PPTRxq7L69sYPHJpQMMtvfxVAgZ3D_wi5jye=w400-h198" width="400" /></a></p><p>But an interesting thing happened this late winter. Snow receded; the time not yet changed. I find I have fallen in love with dead and dry, curved and wrinkly leaves that have spent the last few months under the snow cover. I stroll the yard and the streets with Niko, and every leaf I see seems more eye catching than the previous, I pick one up, turn it over, admire it, and decide whether to bring it home. No offense, little leaf, I say to it if I replace it to its original resting place, it's just that maybe this is where you belong.</p><p>School children gather the brightly colored leaves of October; I have done that in the past with children, preserving the colors and shapes by dipping them in melted wax or ironing them between sheets of wax paper. No doubt, October reds and yellows do have a very deep allure.</p><p>But now, I have a bowl full of February leaves. They are infinitely different in their size, shape, shade, and brittleness. Some are torn, broken, or stepped on. They are beautiful and interesting in their dotage; they have personality. I arrange them for portraits. Singly, can I get the twists and folds right? The color? In groups, which ones belong next to each other? Does it matter if they are arranged, tossed, or jumbled?</p><p>In the end, it is the variety of how each leaf shows at this stage of its life that I most admire. There is no limit. Like snowflakes there are no two alike. Like snowflakes, they each tell of their own journeys. And, like snowflakes, they will, in time, change shape, break apart, to share their essence elsewhere. Their atoms will move together in new ways, form new molecules, unite in new forms. Places to go, atoms to meet.</p><p>That part, yet to come I can imagine but future details are hidden. My job, at the moment, seems to be to take notice of unexpected beauty, as it lets me see into the secrets of other worlds. That's my way. Meanwhile, come next October, Niko and Sunny will engage once again in their own other worlds, leaping, and finding surprise treasures down in the depths and the dark of the leaf pile.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivC0im32Zzp7sE5h5dBHU6n3EQzLxWWaANA9txRtN6CYtRXkOYTqiymvwEQg-KrDpCkYr43JqAGmnDocyW-nyGZaPhO8vCWRQ1HoeyRceHC0wEQVR9RB1edZpUwbEYNChdqM57olCHLJ2n9TQq0WfPPTBmi9CJE2XtnB4bmA0gcNDJez1rcujA8lM_9TiS" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4793" data-original-width="5337" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivC0im32Zzp7sE5h5dBHU6n3EQzLxWWaANA9txRtN6CYtRXkOYTqiymvwEQg-KrDpCkYr43JqAGmnDocyW-nyGZaPhO8vCWRQ1HoeyRceHC0wEQVR9RB1edZpUwbEYNChdqM57olCHLJ2n9TQq0WfPPTBmi9CJE2XtnB4bmA0gcNDJez1rcujA8lM_9TiS=w400-h360" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the yard.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-82735428959643908792023-03-10T12:40:00.000-08:002023-03-10T12:40:34.611-08:00Turn left at the corner<div><br /></div>My dog Niko is a trained and certified therapy dog and reading partner, <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fAL1Xc6pqg8FmYIdz2w5Z2OrzNSdqlOcn4hxP_Rkkv3uTpHdufxaOPTm3UTdWjmkBDIdJm1m7xkQIjCEEzzYT8JYl1cES5MXdUHo-JQviOIq501l_8rEEmJKOrpBPe7dDZ2u2NLfAEyExk_GtPM7BwBK3rBSpRKlmh8KaL6ggVlxnHtqaMuzszmvbw/s4032/IMG_3045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fAL1Xc6pqg8FmYIdz2w5Z2OrzNSdqlOcn4hxP_Rkkv3uTpHdufxaOPTm3UTdWjmkBDIdJm1m7xkQIjCEEzzYT8JYl1cES5MXdUHo-JQviOIq501l_8rEEmJKOrpBPe7dDZ2u2NLfAEyExk_GtPM7BwBK3rBSpRKlmh8KaL6ggVlxnHtqaMuzszmvbw/w182-h137/IMG_3045.jpg" width="182" /></a></div>which means he (and I) can go into nursing homes, assisted living residences, libraries, and schools to visit, do tricks, read aloud, or just lie around and be funny and/or comforting, whichever the situation calls for.
So, when we pass someone on a walk, he stops and gazes expectantly at the passerby. That’s his job, to invite people into relationship, and he is good at it.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67kPYHxjYFYN30IkZit6HHHzccmXwGWz4jtJ5nGXUNp5QQfGZtcMjDUnq2RZr6mmk-mRMfT05sYl8OZHNTunaYBA1GVa3wiiotph39LG4m4Vfd2J4d3YVnv-YceQ4-cgpGBs4HeekaE4MIoae19JPkM7pm2EdJM8AYPnFXL1I58m51rNp6qLg0kQdiw/s4032/IMG_2918.jpg" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67kPYHxjYFYN30IkZit6HHHzccmXwGWz4jtJ5nGXUNp5QQfGZtcMjDUnq2RZr6mmk-mRMfT05sYl8OZHNTunaYBA1GVa3wiiotph39LG4m4Vfd2J4d3YVnv-YceQ4-cgpGBs4HeekaE4MIoae19JPkM7pm2EdJM8AYPnFXL1I58m51rNp6qLg0kQdiw/w283-h212/IMG_2918.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>For that reason he has always loved to go onto the local college campus. Students stopped, singly, in small groups, and in droves, and asked – "Can I pet your dog?" Niko's response was to lean in, to sit, lie down, or turn belly up, always receiving laughter and delight in return. Students would compliment him and talk about how much they missed their dogs. "He chose ME!" they would exclaim if he lingered longer by one, melt into a prone position, and display his belly. <div> </div><div>Then COVID came. The campus emptied out. Niko still preferred to turn left at the end of the block to go onto the campus, but it was disappointing; squirrels and an occasional rabbit were all he could find to divert his attention, but he had those at home. He missed his students, but each time we turned left; he is a dog of unquenchable hope. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then COVID receded! Students came back, and Niko stepped a little lighter when we turned onto the campus, where he spotted once again his pals, his fans, his reason to be!
But here is the thing. After two years of COVID, of isolation, of mixed messages about how COVID spread (You might get it if you pet a dog!), the students now take no notice of Niko. They don’t pet him, or stop to reminisce about the dogs they left at home. They hurry past, phones at their faces, looking neither left nor right and certainly not at the expectant dog, who goes stock still when he spots one student or a gang, looking up at their faces, invitingly, even pathetically, slowly wagging his tail in gentle invitation. Students are now complete in themselves and their phones. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lucky for Niko, the occasional staff person does still stop and R. S. V.P. to Niko's invitation, and they talk about how he can smell their dog(s), or offer him a biscuit, or sadly tell about the dg they recently lost; some proudly describe the cat or two or three at home, waiting patiently for their return home at days end. </div><div><br /></div><div> So there you have it: The therapy dog eager to be in relationship, the students fearful, unnoticing, isolated.
But in spite of two snowstorms in the last week, each bringing seven inches of snow to our north side of the hill, there is no doubt that the season is turning and the spring display of new life is not far distant. Snowdrops have been seen; a few benighted crocuses are poking their purple flowers up through the melting snow. </div><div><br /></div><div>I would like to promise Niko that the students, too, will not be able to resist the call to warmth and welcome, and Niko will have his job back again. And he, possessing a hope and faith in the goodness of the world unrivaled by any religious adherent, will continue his insistence that we turn left at the corner. Students, staff, squirrels, rabbits. The world is always full of lovely new possibilities.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbhrMOpOuP0QD9Mud-VnD_gAcu6-BLBfKlx7r_hCQ2W9ZJKSPaLkXgqtZ0lwus6eXKz5lSGcBLIx4vKGeaHMkV5pjWAdzMPsbjgZQCJAG1hdn-J9Xvpl_Bv4MSa07orx77pZZq5N2uLNmCCNdsolDVsgL3npw6VoIoQgpT8jZ-Vui7v4XrmJJA3GTJw/s2531/IMG_7904.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2321" data-original-width="2531" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbhrMOpOuP0QD9Mud-VnD_gAcu6-BLBfKlx7r_hCQ2W9ZJKSPaLkXgqtZ0lwus6eXKz5lSGcBLIx4vKGeaHMkV5pjWAdzMPsbjgZQCJAG1hdn-J9Xvpl_Bv4MSa07orx77pZZq5N2uLNmCCNdsolDVsgL3npw6VoIoQgpT8jZ-Vui7v4XrmJJA3GTJw/s320/IMG_7904.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></blockquote><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-39907738774918436932023-01-01T18:18:00.001-08:002023-01-01T18:18:46.999-08:00January 1, 2023<p>Two friends and I agreed on a new year's resolution for 2022; my daughter chimed in with a variation. We agreed to take a picture each day and post it on Instagram. No saving up photos for future use, no mining past photo collections on the dull dreary days. The photos didn't have to be the greatest, but they had to be from that day. </p><p>And for the first time in my life, I carried through on a new year's resolution from January 1 to December 31! </p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYS9W0Vm7iBG3ySkEYS05QuagCUROqg8OqBk7GagVtOjuMLEQkpRMSDp2_jdNBenEilP4cM_EVxIY14qhBdvV0iH9_nNVqNP6fjqS4lLfEy5jm2ErE7RGrSV3ibW0IKOtP0Vaib87L8uTt6SzWuamt0Q7BA43ry9uSsgdNWqFffhksxHJdwK_7rBtCpw/s973/P1380053.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="973" data-original-width="805" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYS9W0Vm7iBG3ySkEYS05QuagCUROqg8OqBk7GagVtOjuMLEQkpRMSDp2_jdNBenEilP4cM_EVxIY14qhBdvV0iH9_nNVqNP6fjqS4lLfEy5jm2ErE7RGrSV3ibW0IKOtP0Vaib87L8uTt6SzWuamt0Q7BA43ry9uSsgdNWqFffhksxHJdwK_7rBtCpw/w166-h200/P1380053.jpeg" width="166" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Nancy Lowry</td></tr></tbody></table>Starting in my single digit years, I have most always vaguely and halfheartedly chosen a resolution because I assumed that's the way the world worked, and I wanted to be part of a world that worked. In my teens it was most likely about losing weight or being more charming (!), maybe even snagging a date or two. On into the twenties and upward, it was most likely about eating better or being a nicer, friendlier person. As my fifties and sixties rolled in, it was about writing a daily list of things to be thankful for, or drawing a picture a day, or even drawing a picture a day of things I was thankful for. Somewhere in my sixties and seventies, I lapsed. January <span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif; font-size: 10pt;">1<sup>st </sup></span> would roll around and I would dither, spend a few moments digging into hopeful changes I could make in my life, review my previous years of utter failure at keeping to the resolution discipline, and decide it was futile, vain, or even silly, Then a friend suggested the picture-a-day resolution. I agreed because I like photography and I wanted to support my friend. Another friend joined in. My daughter saw the potential interest and joined on her own schedule. And we were off. </p><p>As someone who never saw a rule that wasn't asking to be circumvented or ignored, I was hopeful. And<br /> almost right away, I knew this was going to work. It is encouraging to have the same goals as others. Each day, I was eager to see where others (our little crew on Instagram and others who shared photos by email or text) were going, what caught their eye, what they posted. And everywhere I went, I was seeing things with new eyes, new possibilities, new wonder. Sometimes, when I was ready to call it a day, I would realize that I had not done my photo, and just as quickly realized there was plenty of interest and imagination left in the day I thought had drawn to a close; I wandered outside in the dark with a light or set up a still life indoors with odds and ends.</p><p>I was unable to drive for seven months of this past year. and during that time, family and friends took me on photo-op field trips, sometimes on the prowl for new opportunities, sometimes to their favorite haunts; I am so grateful to them for these expeditions. Closer to home, I grew intrigued by the variety and beauty hiding in the nooks and crannies in the yard, underfoot, on the block, within walking distance. The mundane emerged with new glory and possibilities. </p><p>Our little band of photographers has re-upped for a second year. What will it be like the second time around? Will the luster have faded? Have I seen it all? Taxed my resolve to the max?</p><p>A year ago, a friend used the Mary Oliver poem "Instructions for Living a Life" as the focal point for one of his photography exhibits:</p><p> Pay attention.<br /> Be astonished.<br /> Tell about it.</p><p>Somewhere in the middle of my first year of taking a daily photograph and sharing it, Mary Oliver's simple set of instructions crystallized and became my own. Second time around, I will be paying attention. I will undoubtedly be astonished. And I will continue to take great pleasure in sharing my work and seeing other peoples' visions of what matters to them. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3O8Df7BdDHU-_dxQtkCkhZES6xCH5B310iGw_7p59nMGEr-pR9aTtw9XztDBUaEmQdxpGJasCV6Pdwlcj9k4gJDsH9U5qrsXnkseQxhSIHAP7CKzrPba-f1KqQtHmgwxi3D_fdHY77Yq6LNKN6vwi14qW1cswpzw762HVmwPoAA6zLtSYfuVSC1Khw/s4294/P1360541.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3224" data-original-width="4294" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3O8Df7BdDHU-_dxQtkCkhZES6xCH5B310iGw_7p59nMGEr-pR9aTtw9XztDBUaEmQdxpGJasCV6Pdwlcj9k4gJDsH9U5qrsXnkseQxhSIHAP7CKzrPba-f1KqQtHmgwxi3D_fdHY77Yq6LNKN6vwi14qW1cswpzw762HVmwPoAA6zLtSYfuVSC1Khw/w640-h480/P1360541.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Connecticut River, June 2022<br />Copyright Nancy Lowry</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-26140174176984360372020-12-25T16:07:00.003-08:002020-12-25T16:46:15.237-08:00<p><span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-family: Cambria;"><b>A Christmas Eve Blessing</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Making my rounds, delivering odds and ends of Christmas offerings to odds and ends of households, I pulled in to a Dunkin Donuts, as I had been short of breakfast. I placed my order, and the unseen voice on the intercom said. “That will be one fifty one, Sweetheart. “<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sweetheart! I am not sure anyone has ever called me Sweetheart. Totally charmed, I way over-tipped! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I continued on my way, stopping here, there, and a few other places. It was a very fine morning, I passed many elderly dogs walking their people, people waiting for busses – maybe even a bus my granddaughter was driving; people running, biking, strolling. The radio was playing Christmas carols, reading lessons, asking us to remember the lonely and the unloved and calling for unity, peace, and goodwill among all. The voice on the radio called us “beloved,” if not sweethearts – they mean the same thing, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Joy to the World! Yes! Time out from the news. I sing in the car with the choristers; no one will hear and discourage my vocal additions. But then again, we sound great together.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My last stop was at a temporarily empty house; the resident cat, elderly and lame, was embarking on his final journey to that other shore, to the greater light. As I place my envelope by the door, I worry that I am intruding on grief and sadness. But – the carols continue, and I continue singing, and I know that darkness does indeed give way to light. Sweethearts all.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was the greatest of Christmas Eve blessings – the anonymous voice, totally unexpected: “Sweetheart!” There were, for sure, many sweethearts on the road that Christmas Eve day, driving up for their coffee and donuts, driving off as sweethearts in the world. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqv30q9AO6-l5v5GNGl7JthxvWbsp9XT2C05eJy_jmH15-eXo71ggLyHIf1oTAojubD1_o1D3gsmO6nu94QhAmo2VI9tuHgPAsR5LMoEoe8A4PgqlWjPjZUMab7IkmpWaY-t_x3Pzt1fN/s2048/P1200627.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1538" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqv30q9AO6-l5v5GNGl7JthxvWbsp9XT2C05eJy_jmH15-eXo71ggLyHIf1oTAojubD1_o1D3gsmO6nu94QhAmo2VI9tuHgPAsR5LMoEoe8A4PgqlWjPjZUMab7IkmpWaY-t_x3Pzt1fN/w400-h300/P1200627.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-49612903821051104092020-10-26T10:47:00.002-07:002020-10-26T10:47:25.122-07:00<p> <b>Things you learn when early voting</b></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhHrWRajl0S_buBoObkojf5SxmMY_e2JGzGqqkfR7ehQkWErEAMw2tXO2p-rN_CxyhnqaUqxeIBhblMKOMnNj4G5MIT_dNNiKBteZaFS7aAnUtC-9i804GzGWO7Qi4gV3pab4mchqUatl/s755/IMG_4439.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="755" height="105" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhHrWRajl0S_buBoObkojf5SxmMY_e2JGzGqqkfR7ehQkWErEAMw2tXO2p-rN_CxyhnqaUqxeIBhblMKOMnNj4G5MIT_dNNiKBteZaFS7aAnUtC-9i804GzGWO7Qi4gV3pab4mchqUatl/w115-h105/IMG_4439.jpeg" width="115" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Virtue signaling!</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We had planned to vote on election day, keeping a decades-long tradition of sauntering in to the polling place, signing in with a long-unseen neighbor, marking our ballot, and churning it through the ballot counter. In the olden days, the kids would come with us, squeeze into the the little desk space with one of us, and watch as checked the boxes, drew the connecting lines, or filled in the dots. During the primaries in September this year, we were numbers one (me) and three Tom (someone got between him and me while he checked his ballot for the fifth time). We worried about mailing our ballots because of all the angst being strewn about reporting on lost or purloined ballots as well as reports of drop boxes being set on fire. We saw an ad in the daily Gazette that the local senior center was hosting early voting (100 generous hours) and we decided to vote that way. We really wanted to get it over, cast our votes, pick up our stickers, and wear them proudly. So we did.<p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS5TIntDFn_cThaEaNGVI01VXbckpmLnafyfdLczJItjFWGPVrOTZbwcR2dvZkYAR5Jvj34gu5Q0wzx0SIf97OxY2goemJdWrD6v0pKeKw-MYGqyPjK5-kzaqWJo1LRwEe-kqE43bkSiMs/s2048/IMG_4438.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS5TIntDFn_cThaEaNGVI01VXbckpmLnafyfdLczJItjFWGPVrOTZbwcR2dvZkYAR5Jvj34gu5Q0wzx0SIf97OxY2goemJdWrD6v0pKeKw-MYGqyPjK5-kzaqWJo1LRwEe-kqE43bkSiMs/w150-h200/IMG_4438.jpeg" width="150" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Medlar<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The senior center has a small tree by the parking lot that I had noticed a year before, when we were there for a lecture. It has an odd-shaped fruit, and this year I took a photo and submitted it to iNaturalist, figuring it was too odd or exotic for it to recognize. But lo and behold - it came up right away with the suggestion that it was a medlar. This was the first thing I learned on my voting morning – this fruit + this tree = medlar.<div><br /><div><span face="sans-serif" style="color: #202122;"><span><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black;">The leathery-looking fruit is actually edible, but not right away; its insides become sweet and appealing only after the fruit is bletted. Bletted? A new word, and the second thing I learned this morning. Spellcheck doesn't even recognize that word. To blet is to let a fruit ripen after picking. First, the medlar fruit needs a hard frost. Next, it needs to sit around in a cool place to continue ripening, allowing the sugar content to increase, and the acid and tannin content to decrease. </span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black;"><span face="sans-serif" style="color: #202122;"><span>"If the fruit is wanted it should be left on the tree until late October and stored until it appears in the first stages of decay; then it is ready for eating . . . </span></span></span><span face="sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">The taste of the sticky, mushy substance has been compared to sweet dates and dry applesauce, with a hint of cinnamon.</span><span face="sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">" It apparently is an ideal </span><span face="sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">companion to wine. (ref: Wikipedia)</span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span face="sans-serif" style="color: #202122;"><span>I read this information to Tom as we drove home, where we were not greeted by the dog.</span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span face="sans-serif" style="color: #202122;"><span>When we leave, he always puts on a convincing display of sorrow </span></span></span><span face="sans-serif" style="color: #202122;"><span>and longing. but when we come back, there he is, in classic Niko style, in a restful snooze, barely acknowledging our reentrance.</span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="background-color: white;"></span><span face="sans-serif" style="color: #202122;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div><span face="sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 34); color: #202122;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); clear: both; color: black;"></div><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; text-align: left;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyILeO4yWbri_onP0IZVzL0nnPyo6nb7vXwI86yMOYtEtAqiSdHtsgPL-CT6L3TfzEjiCfrDzVHQ5l7HEyIVCtaSfXb5BK-DZyjX7HlqKmu4O1yx-wRrMm2564Uvk6K78RqFMH1aYYU0T/s2048/IMG_4434.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyILeO4yWbri_onP0IZVzL0nnPyo6nb7vXwI86yMOYtEtAqiSdHtsgPL-CT6L3TfzEjiCfrDzVHQ5l7HEyIVCtaSfXb5BK-DZyjX7HlqKmu4O1yx-wRrMm2564Uvk6K78RqFMH1aYYU0T/w300-h400/IMG_4434.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></span></span><div><p></p><p>PS: The third thing I learned just now: There is no official spelling for spellcheck/spell check/spell-check; they are all alike to the grammar police.</p></div></div></div>NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-41121300607843540682020-05-08T15:24:00.000-07:002020-05-08T16:49:49.201-07:00Unexpected Chaos<br />
When I woke this morning, my day lay sparsely in front me, much like yesterday was, much like tomorrow will be. I took Niko on a long walk in the park; the only scheduled event on the calendar was a Zoom lunch with another retired colleague. She is a physiologist, I am an organic chemist, and we collaborated on issues of women in science and ran science workshops that made science available to traditionally underserved groups of middle schoolers, girls and kids in the cities.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwQksvWPzlTcXQzU7ZqlEv3qEGtERNrduLMAcHoNsUzxhscK2lDK7AQcBSnmQv7-xdA4Mty71px91Q7p5kaRZuXGU3ssBCCCLzdpy6pajzCXwTzBXBX_RU0mA2_M4uM_soDWeto_5UHWF/s1600/P1130163.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1450" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwQksvWPzlTcXQzU7ZqlEv3qEGtERNrduLMAcHoNsUzxhscK2lDK7AQcBSnmQv7-xdA4Mty71px91Q7p5kaRZuXGU3ssBCCCLzdpy6pajzCXwTzBXBX_RU0mA2_M4uM_soDWeto_5UHWF/s200/P1130163.jpeg" width="181" /></a>But I have a friend in a neighboring town with a wonderful garden, and today is her birthday. I calculated that I could visit her at a physical distance of six feet, take some photos of the newest bloomers in her garden beds, wish her happy birthday, and be back home by noon. Alas, I lingered past the appropriate departure time; at the last minute I decided to photograph a unique primrose that had cross-fertilized in her garden, her own private primrose sport. So I texted my colleague and told her I would Zoom up at 12:15. No surprise – she was flexible. I packed up my camera and set off on the twenty-minute drive home.<br />
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When the bridge over the Connecticut River drew near, so did the ominous sight of cars sheltering in place. Construction of a roundabout on the other side of the bridge had reached fever pitch, lanes were closed, lights flashed, people in yellow vests sauntered here and there, dump trucks, scrapers, back hoes all lumbered about their tasks, rearranging roadbeds and moving dirt and rocks from one pile to another.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEPGz1hGztNuPJIsNfQm_gqDSL7_pYoc9JcesvgKqD0xdbgaGsA0NMo0o4QY2T5-M1ueB6k2HUzgm1jeTqfxlbzqr0xNfN8z1OFVG6XQ7uwxkMlmuOe1nIgHa1O-o7eg2UlBtr9Y2T8gFb/s1600/IMG_3543.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1563" data-original-width="1600" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEPGz1hGztNuPJIsNfQm_gqDSL7_pYoc9JcesvgKqD0xdbgaGsA0NMo0o4QY2T5-M1ueB6k2HUzgm1jeTqfxlbzqr0xNfN8z1OFVG6XQ7uwxkMlmuOe1nIgHa1O-o7eg2UlBtr9Y2T8gFb/s200/IMG_3543.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
We sat, inched along, merged to one lane, and sat some more. It took forty-five minutes to travel a half mile. For a lovely minute our two, before merger, I traveled alongside a very happy Samoyed who posed elegantly for the entertainment of the rest of us.<br />
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I pulled into my garage at 12:51, just as a text dinged in from a friend who was soon to be passing by the back gate with Niko's best friend. Could they drop by? Both Niko and Sunny are optimally bored and confused by the lack of people and admirers in their lives, and when they visit together, it is the high point of their week.<br />
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I went in, Zoomed my colleague, and told her about the visitors that were about to join our call, albeit at a distance.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNHuOu1W5oac84IccVJXMiejhR_2ti2SPyKsVdzHi7NWS1N9WKE3gKi4bd5DqCu7dDtj4fCQWhEjBc0ozJfydZsOGtGtidBO8nmq9R-e7pBKm_gAkCt-lyp1_13vmCh83D-25We6dPzvCr/s1600/P1130242.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1028" data-original-width="1600" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNHuOu1W5oac84IccVJXMiejhR_2ti2SPyKsVdzHi7NWS1N9WKE3gKi4bd5DqCu7dDtj4fCQWhEjBc0ozJfydZsOGtGtidBO8nmq9R-e7pBKm_gAkCt-lyp1_13vmCh83D-25We6dPzvCr/s200/P1130242.jpeg" width="200" /></a>Niko has bones and other hard things to chew on that Sunny loves. She always goes into the house, takes a tour of every room, comes back down to Niko's stash of stuff, picks out the bone for the day, and skips triumphantly back into the yard. Their game is always a dance. Sunny chews with wild abandon, Niko pretends not to be interested. Sunny looks away, Niko makes his move and dashes off with the prize. Sunny follows, until Niko leaves the bone unguarded, and Sunny takes possession. I could watch them all day in this game.<br />
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Somewhere in the middle of this cat and mouse dog game, my brain fried and I Zoomed off; my colleague and I decided we would look for another, quieter time for lunch at a distance. She had actually ended up eating her lunch before we connected, and my lunch was still far in the future.<br />
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Sunny's person had work to do, and they left, much to Sunnys distress.<br />
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Noon (+ or -) Friday: Friend, traffic, friend, friend, dogs at play. I had declined another noon meeting to learn the ins and outs of a communication sharing board because of the already scheduled lunch..<br />
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When my lunch came, it was exceedingly good. Sliced egg sandwich, cream cheese and crackers, peanut butter on Graham crackers, lemon ginger tea, and a chocolate covered toffee I had found hidden away in the bread box,<br />
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What a great day!</div>
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<br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-40543318567489003212019-06-14T06:26:00.000-07:002019-06-14T13:47:52.520-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: large;"><b>One Saturday in June</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small;"><b>Things do happen that aren't planned.</b></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BgneL124KaP-Tk2hjyOz6P6-6sUZpxL9kixwVXz2koHUH_o01-CdYvPTlGkCfoFAKez8x8vnqBVSu7Q8inB95Nz0KM9-W9k1YEX-0U9OvfMUbLvmcAjZGIo8bTdlUE2_wmNKs-2L7Ydt/s1600/P1020445.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1090" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BgneL124KaP-Tk2hjyOz6P6-6sUZpxL9kixwVXz2koHUH_o01-CdYvPTlGkCfoFAKez8x8vnqBVSu7Q8inB95Nz0KM9-W9k1YEX-0U9OvfMUbLvmcAjZGIo8bTdlUE2_wmNKs-2L7Ydt/s320/P1020445.jpeg" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cardinal with attitude<br />One of my photos in the show.</td></tr>
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<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">I walked the dog, but discovered I had forgotten a plastic bag, so I returned home lest I be discovered in an embarrassing situation. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">My houseguest from Portland (Oregon) was eating breakfast, getting ready to join her family for a brunch before departing back to Oregon.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">I had breakfast as well, but discovered the milk had turned sour. I apologized to my friend from Oregon, who was too polite to have mentioned it.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Niko discovered a nest of baby rabbits under my favorite daylily in the yard, and I buried two rabbits. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">The second baby rabbit – he rolled on it and squashed</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">it, so I had to hose him down.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Another friend came came as my Oregon friend backed out of the driveway and we went up to the Hill Institute to see the annual exhibit, a collection of work from the year, including two photos of mine, a riotous and stunning display of quilts, exquisite displays of woodworking and boat building, and my favorite, a wall full of drawings of carrots from a beginning drawing class.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">We went home. Niko dug out and I buried a third baby rabbit.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">I returned to the Hill institute to pick up my photographs.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">And lo and behold, my raffle ticket won a beautiful hand-turned cherry bowl.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv0TyuUVX51vsBdjGtMnVtTsictpN_VWMZytGIQy5ZKvkLDPGRTRZVVWZnLeXghwYCEX87s2_bdqYZLldA1wl-ziiedNPq2WHGoct3JGmzGBpz1JRVTIhgkRjLngkEv1jIGTXUVi6kq-rE/s1600/P1030862.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv0TyuUVX51vsBdjGtMnVtTsictpN_VWMZytGIQy5ZKvkLDPGRTRZVVWZnLeXghwYCEX87s2_bdqYZLldA1wl-ziiedNPq2WHGoct3JGmzGBpz1JRVTIhgkRjLngkEv1jIGTXUVi6kq-rE/s200/P1030862.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bowl I won.<br />[Wombles not included.]</td></tr>
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</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">I returned home ready for lunch.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Niko was busy; I buried another baby rabbit.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">I peeled an egg for a sliced egg sandwich, put it in the slicer, and discovered it was a soft-boiled egg.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Oh well. It wasn’t a bad sandwich. Certainly not dry. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">While I was making my lunch the dog returned to the day lily.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">I am putting off exploring the yard to check for additional rabbit bodies.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">The dog is calm, lying placidly in the open doorway basking in his prowess as a mighty hunter.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Now for chocolate cake and malted vanilla ice cream.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Later. The fifth and final baby rabbit has been buried.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">The dog has been washed.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">I was wrong. There was a sixth.</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Blessings on the baby rabbits, friends who don’t hold sour milk against you, craftspeople who put beautiful goods up on display and for raffle, chocolate, the person who invented malted vanilla ice cream, chickens who give us eggs, daylilies, and especially my dog, who makes my days interesting and my soul thankful.<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-51583780512895202432018-12-22T05:45:00.000-08:002018-12-22T05:45:07.458-08:00Split Seconds<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">There are so many "What ifs” as we move through the day.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evidence</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">I hit a deer the other afternoon as I was travelling at a moderate speed through a wooded area. Woods uphill to the left, woods downhill to the right. The deer came from the left and suddenly he was there, glorious antlers held high, center stage. I slowed and veered to the left, and I thought he had cleared me, but a soft thunk that neither caused the car to veer nor my body to react indicated otherwise. I turned around; two cars behind me had also stopped. Apparently the deer fell, got up, and ran off down into the woods. We had a clear vista to search, but saw no indication of him. I hope he continued to safer quarters, survived the impact and outwitted the hunters who are afoot in the woods.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">This happened the same day that a friend was to die. Her car had been hit by a falling tree a month earlier, and in spite of heroic and loving efforts, she died that night, the day the deer escaped. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">The car is in the shop for three weeks, with the headlight and hood askew, and several panels cracked and needing replacement; the front passenger door was jammed shut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">We rented a car for the first week, and Niko took against it instantly. We had a college appointment to help relieve exam stress four days after the deer encounter, and as I cheerily opened the back seat of the lovely compact rental car, Niko backed off with all his weight. I prevailed, and off we went across the river and through the woods to one of the local colleges, where he was the object of many students’ love and longing for their dogs back home. Two hours later, we approached the car in the cold, wet darkness, I was eager to get on the road to home, but Niko had other ideas. He pulled back once again from the car. I pulled on his harness, calling out encouraging words, but he pulled back, more strongly and extremely determined. He pawed his way out of his harness. I was instantly terrified as the suddenly free Niko pranced backwards into the darkness. I reached out for him with strong hands and loving words. Somehow, he decided not to bolt; somehow I got the harness back on him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">I sidled into the back seat and held out a treat for him, and with physical, verbal, and gustatorial encouragement, he grudgingly arrived into the back seat with me. But I needed to drive, and as I sidled by him, he pushed by me and bolted out again, loose once more. This time two students were walking along the road. Niko loves his students; he ran to them, sat, and said hello. That gave me the chance to step on his leash. I have no idea how I finally got him into the car, but my will and his resignation somehow colluded and we were suddenly both in our proper places in the car and on our way home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niko's third day with us</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Niko is our Easter dog; two days after Easter in 2015 we went off to visit a dog who had not grown up tall enough to be a show dog and needed to find a new home. The second he skidded to an exuberant greeting at his front door I knew this was our dog. An hour or two later, we popped him into the car and drove him home. He had been a beloved dog in his first home, and he instantly became a beloved dog in his new home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">He wasn’t so sure. As that first day came to an end, he was looking to go home. As days went by, he showed a few troublesome quirks. He wouldn’t eat, although about ten dog foods later we finally found one he decided would more than satisfy him. And he wouldn’t get into our car again. That ended up being a long, hard sell. After several weeks, he finally consented, with personal encouragement and many tasty lures, but to this day he will only get into the car from the left – the right was the side we put him in when we drove him away from his first home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niko three years later.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">A split second that Easter season in 2015 and Niko was on his way to a new home, leaving behind all he had ever known. He is now devoted to us and our house is indeed his house. My thought is that Niko’s fear of the rental car was a kind of PTSD that he carries deep inside himself. The rental car smelled and felt like danger to him, and he was not willfully going there again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Split seconds are so haunting. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">A split second either way – total escape for the deer, or the deer (and impressive antlers) up and over the hood of the car and through the windshield. Or a different home for Niko. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Or safety for my friend.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise with ducks, Long Island Sound</td></tr>
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NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-5681512361930895742017-09-21T12:19:00.000-07:002017-09-21T12:19:36.661-07:00Dogs Go Camping<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dogs go into complete decline when they see their person fiddling with clothes and suitcases, rattling keys, or, worst scenario from the dog's point of view, closing up the back room and heading for the treat supply while continuing to the door. "I'll be right back!" I always tell Niko, whether I am headed downtown for a brief errand or going to Minnesota for two weeks. That makes me feel better, but I have no idea what he makes of it other than to know that I am going somewhere that he isn't and the floor is falling from his life.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1NyMRFQ33cuPNPqnGh6HFhZG_WRsoCA3qqMNYvTW9_tl_td-oFIzypTovoygezBACjVU4XhGTvpYSFUw57vrxr0EzVzC4MMCbcjOHJbe26rcOY2SaQWVHFlmdP-nwD-6c_oc5s0cviHw/s1600/IMG_6462.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1NyMRFQ33cuPNPqnGh6HFhZG_WRsoCA3qqMNYvTW9_tl_td-oFIzypTovoygezBACjVU4XhGTvpYSFUw57vrxr0EzVzC4MMCbcjOHJbe26rcOY2SaQWVHFlmdP-nwD-6c_oc5s0cviHw/s200/IMG_6462.jpg" width="200" /></a>Yesterday, I went through the first stage of this process, but then I boxed up some of Niko's food. There is no hiding the sound of kibble being transferred – and it got his attention in a twinkling. I put it into his sack, along with a few bones and tennis balls. He knew in that instant that he was going on an adventure, his mood did a u-turn, and, when the RV camper pulled up to the back gate and his friend and protege Sunny emerged to greet him, he knew life was good and he embraced it with wild abandon. The four of us got into the truck, and off we went to the sort-of-local state forest and camp grounds.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIyVqfV8061_JoyigGV0InZoclXum0aptCiHwyBDfdTh5Wcz9tj-IPopTvr6SlRWSrifyRxQfhwMTaqmmb5ov1NGP0UcPdpRo4BQZNwxdHj6iE0ngFeCQhA095tkTxz3T9kId_g8fZGbv/s1600/IMG_6476.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIyVqfV8061_JoyigGV0InZoclXum0aptCiHwyBDfdTh5Wcz9tj-IPopTvr6SlRWSrifyRxQfhwMTaqmmb5ov1NGP0UcPdpRo4BQZNwxdHj6iE0ngFeCQhA095tkTxz3T9kId_g8fZGbv/s200/IMG_6476.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1znVtmghOTAgHizSbILbTR80Xxot5aRqijz-eLLyoJmChHN6od5Vm3KSi5tzfU_wo6CUwAf9SJSjVSJ-HP1XhPxb-B0ATAn0GH1XYq_6mi69yPqaqNwxLUcVVni-6T_PLgnb5fADo9-G/s1600/IMG_6489.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1znVtmghOTAgHizSbILbTR80Xxot5aRqijz-eLLyoJmChHN6od5Vm3KSi5tzfU_wo6CUwAf9SJSjVSJ-HP1XhPxb-B0ATAn0GH1XYq_6mi69yPqaqNwxLUcVVni-6T_PLgnb5fADo9-G/s200/IMG_6489.jpg" width="150" /></a>The park is only 45 minutes away, and when we got there, Deb secured the camper and Niko surveyed his new world from the top of the picnic table. Things smelled wonderfully to him, We ate (kibble and yogurt for the dogs, lobster rolls for us), and went for a walk. We had forgotten towels, so Niko and Sunny could only look longingly at the water. On our return to the site, the sun was setting and boding well for the next day. Deb made a campfire, and together we four felt happy and secure in the dark and silent forest.<br />
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Sleeping was interesting. Niko, a prodigious sleeper, took over 75% of my bunk, and promptly conked out; I did what I could. In fact, I did sleep. I heard three owls – a screech owl, a barred owl, and one that I am still trying to identify. No coyotes. No bears came knocking at our door. At 3 AM, the dogs traded bunks. I know this because I lay directly in the path of the exchange: first, I felt Niko climb over me to attain the next level up, and then Sunny took a flying leap down to my level. At 4 AM they exchanged places again, this time for the rest of the night.<br />
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The coffee was fantastic! We packed up, went for a walk, let the dogs enjoy the lake (we had found some towels), got into the truck, and set off for home. <br />
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A Celtic Blessing, adapted</div>
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Be the eye of the creator dwelling with you, </div>
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The foot of a friend in guidance with you, </div>
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The shower of company pouring on you,</div>
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Richly and generously,</div>
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Each day and each night</div>
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Of your portion of the world.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-50821081471176972762017-04-07T08:05:00.001-07:002017-04-07T08:05:42.476-07:00An Easter Dog<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5bT2vlgbrQMXVOioKG2wpdpw__nMjgT9xy5tG9tGD3vX0LiQOclgbblLUgTx_GBbkiyHZDGpC30HavQtKv9TWxTZa1BpXHfc_HoH7etebckNefUcVD7Ir5xgjDE51HAqO2DGD5Azohu5/s1600/IMG_4086.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5bT2vlgbrQMXVOioKG2wpdpw__nMjgT9xy5tG9tGD3vX0LiQOclgbblLUgTx_GBbkiyHZDGpC30HavQtKv9TWxTZa1BpXHfc_HoH7etebckNefUcVD7Ir5xgjDE51HAqO2DGD5Azohu5/s320/IMG_4086.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
Today marks the second anniversary of our visit to Niko at
his place of birth. We went to visit him on his home
turf, just to take a look. As a friend said, “Yeah, Nancy and Tom are driving
two hours to “just look at” a golden retriever! When we rang the bell and he
ran to greet us at the door I knew in an instant that he was meant to be mine.
I was worried that Tom wouldn’t be so sure, as he had favored looking for a puppy
rather than adopting a full-grown dog. I encouraged Niko to hang out with Tom,
and it did the trick, even though I already knew he was the dog of my life and
there was no way I would leave without this beautiful dog at my side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
So we popped him into the car and discussed new names on the
two-hour drive back. He came with the name Knox, but I needed a two-syllable
name to call him out the back door when it was time for supper. I was partial
to the biblical J names, but Tom – not so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I couldn’t quite let go of Izzie, even though the name was already
claimed by a sweet boy two doors down the block. But somewhere the name Niko
popped out of my memory, and that was that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Niko adapted quickly to our household. The neighborhood
kids came to greet him and helped him feel welcomed, loved, and at home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The transition was not all smooth sailing. Later on
that day Niko looked around and began to wonder when he was going home. He went
on a hunger strike for a few weeks, he would not get back into the car on his
own, and he showed other behaviors that I thought were due to separation
anxiety. But his good nature, his idyllic puppyhood and adolescence, and our
patience, tricks, and subterfuges paid off. He went back on his feed, entered
the car again (but only from the left side, never the right, even to this day),
and began to see our house and yard as his kingdom. He passed his canine good
citizen and his therapy dog tests in short order.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is how Niko changes my life:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
</div>
<ul><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYMl-rN7dWbW5Zy43d4oDIn-m2E76SP5AbXJDZbiWnxyXm7i0Wer5T8nRtTvsZ5PrtvRoHZS1ZFgHrDZXvKaelwDQzBmySuUKZ2dpeG0uPHPyyOjEr4o1BzEIciTECgRLH6Vw75C0EiT5/s1600/IMG_3471.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYMl-rN7dWbW5Zy43d4oDIn-m2E76SP5AbXJDZbiWnxyXm7i0Wer5T8nRtTvsZ5PrtvRoHZS1ZFgHrDZXvKaelwDQzBmySuUKZ2dpeG0uPHPyyOjEr4o1BzEIciTECgRLH6Vw75C0EiT5/s200/IMG_3471.jpg" width="171" /></a><br />
<li>Without Niko, I wouldn’t be
visiting people in nursing homes, some who had had vibrant lives once, and some
who are alone and forgotten. People whose eyes brighten when Niko rounds the
doorway to their rooms.</li>
<li>Without Niko, I wouldn’t know the
kids on our block, and our neighbors would have fewer errant tennis balls in their
yards.</li>
<li>Without Niko, I wouldn’t be
walking 2-4 miles a day, greeting other people and their dogs.</li>
<li>Without Niko, I wouldn’t be
offering students the chance to remember the dogs they left behind and taste a
little bit of home as they stop and make eye and hand contact.</li>
<li>Without Niko, I wouldn’t laugh
nearly as much. Studies show that the very act of smiling and laughing leads to
a happier sense of the moment.</li>
<li>Without Niko, I wouldn’t have a
raft of dog friends, old and new, who know exactly what I am talking about.</li>
<li>Without Niko, I would have fewer
Facebook friends, different Facebook friends, fewer funny photos and videos
posted by Facebook friends.</li>
<li>Without Niko, I wouldn’t be dog
bait to every passing dog on the street because they know my pockets conceal
(or so I thought) dog treats.</li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> So April 7 is Niko Adoption Day. It was two days after
Easter, and he is my Easter dog.</span><br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-22608754670294748092017-03-20T10:39:00.000-07:002017-03-21T04:39:10.853-07:00Where is Mr. Rogers When You Need Him?<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQVvDajaJUVaByrnqEMYYL6WE1C8iE5ktatKuknkVky5tt-WdVwvWbI2N58LVVbXVhPeYDRWxm4oMo6jPMp44mVqRMLbXJ6AJUVxmPGivCRBeEDQvYO_HgspUBsQV1z_5IUG0MfubSQ-9/s1600/IMG_3057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQVvDajaJUVaByrnqEMYYL6WE1C8iE5ktatKuknkVky5tt-WdVwvWbI2N58LVVbXVhPeYDRWxm4oMo6jPMp44mVqRMLbXJ6AJUVxmPGivCRBeEDQvYO_HgspUBsQV1z_5IUG0MfubSQ-9/s200/IMG_3057.jpg" width="200" /></a>Walking downtown today to meet a friend for breakfast, I
passed one of those signs that are springing up all over our town. I can read
one third of the sign, and envy those who can read double or triple that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No
matter where you are from, </i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> we are glad you're our neighbor.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An image of Mr. Rogers immediately sprang into my mind’s eye,
Mr. Rogers, that gentle soul who brought up many generations of children with his TV show and
introductory song – “Won’t you be my neighbor.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We need Mr. Rogers now. We need gentleness, welcoming, kindness,
generosity, honesty. Are these values still treasured, sought after, in this
country? Today’s newspapers note that in a neighboring town, the neighbor signs
are being stolen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also report that
while the process of rounding up and deporting immigrants is escalating, the
official word is that the process will be more humane than a previous plan. How
so? There is an oxymoron in there somewhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My father’s father and mother immigrated to this country
from Belgium during the time of famine and economic hardship. In fact, emigration
from Belgium was even encouraged t<br />
o ease hunger and hardship. In this country,
they worked as bartenders and loom repairers and thus were able to establish
themselves and their seven children comfortably into a lower economic class
life style. There is very little to know about their early history, because
records were not kept for poor immigrant families. Yet, to my surprise, I
stumbled upon some letters, written by some of my father’s older sisters in
their later, more comfortable years, deploring the fact that the neighborhood
where they lived was being settled by a new wave of immigrants, possibly from
the south of the US, and referring to their new neighbors in pejorative and
denigrating terms; they wondered if they should move to avoid the taint of
these new arrivals in their neighborhood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How quickly we forget our previous hardships, our humble
beginnings, how people already in residence mistreated our own immigrant predecessors. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m with the neighborhood signs. And Mr. Rogers. And my dog
Niko. who is an icon for the fruits of the spirit: <span style="font-family: "times new roman";">love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness,
faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.<sup>*</sup> </span>He and his friend Sunny
delight in each others’ company, and, when resources are tight, find it in
themselves to share the bone.<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
* Self-control when the plate is unguarded is, I admit, a bit of a stretch.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBDvkDUMsQvG5lC_lj5GIjuPKh45U2AdW2M0PfasWZErC-w4Wr3luof6Qfk03j0JNm3wzAYHG3Lrp5U0u0Hcdz1JExxjrd3CY3NkOzc5YGTQGLsc27msvMDr69Tqw9vtNR4-xmmLC5IjWR/s1600/P1110162+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBDvkDUMsQvG5lC_lj5GIjuPKh45U2AdW2M0PfasWZErC-w4Wr3luof6Qfk03j0JNm3wzAYHG3Lrp5U0u0Hcdz1JExxjrd3CY3NkOzc5YGTQGLsc27msvMDr69Tqw9vtNR4-xmmLC5IjWR/s400/P1110162+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lacking a better alternative, Niko and Sunny decide to share.<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-71037515103530827842016-07-22T07:18:00.000-07:002016-07-22T07:21:28.438-07:00Squrrels and rabbits and cats. Oh My!Niko operates with a clearly defined hierarchy of prey desirablility. Insects are fun, but too easy and not very satisfying in the long run, even the crunchy midsummer versions. Chipmunks occupy a slightly higher notch in his fantasy world, but they live mostly in slim wall cracks and rain drainpipes, which, while enticingly noisy, never yield a chipmunk.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGGErzSG8PC6o3fbo2V9nunh88kw5yIClc8_OqTm_H_fkS6uyDfueEa-sGVcf-8awiZBr0oCjV7mdrsA2TEBYYWOakZqJLYaYQ7GYBZdyNWHAhlgajPoLIj-iC8mDPngBbm-UhCNdxzHx/s1600/IMG_2074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGGErzSG8PC6o3fbo2V9nunh88kw5yIClc8_OqTm_H_fkS6uyDfueEa-sGVcf-8awiZBr0oCjV7mdrsA2TEBYYWOakZqJLYaYQ7GYBZdyNWHAhlgajPoLIj-iC8mDPngBbm-UhCNdxzHx/s200/IMG_2074.jpg" width="200" /></a>Up one more notch are squirrels. Squirrels are very plentiful at this time of year, and Niko has a keen eye for spotting slight movements in the shadows. When a shadow moves, he stands stock still, feet firmly attached to the ground, with an intent gaze meant to terrify his opponent. My job is to stamp my feet and make threatening throat sounds. The squirrel will eventually saunter over to the nearest tree and climb out of sight. Sometimes Niko leaps and tries to climb the tree like southern hound dogs, but the squirrel knows this dog's limitations and sits securely out of reach, making rude and derisive noises.<br />
<br />
Higher still: rabbits. Rabbits are very desirable<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhExcovRCzHXb38p0IldLJAcQXOKmpudeI9fentQaomKfuy849irb0YYgwsXU5pc_5VRiD7YUQIkEbPZTG1n3SN6sn8VfdswdP25S_M8KPMgIysFoiimjf5HzaTFXR_j2chRIfZSJ3Knzkc/s1600/IMG_2070.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhExcovRCzHXb38p0IldLJAcQXOKmpudeI9fentQaomKfuy849irb0YYgwsXU5pc_5VRiD7YUQIkEbPZTG1n3SN6sn8VfdswdP25S_M8KPMgIysFoiimjf5HzaTFXR_j2chRIfZSJ3Knzkc/s200/IMG_2070.jpg" width="161" /></a>in Niko's prey hierarchy and the world is currently awash with young, naive, trusting, and, presumably, tasty rabbit souls; they graze on local clover without a care in the world. The other day Niko became fixated on a rabbit five feet to our right. This was a standoff; the rabbit ate, Niko froze. Down the block a little gang of three more rabbits headed our way. They drew near, then veered into the road, just to the left of our sidewalk position. They began a little circle dance, right in the middle of the road; around and around they danced. They whirled, stopped, and whirled some more. At one point they paused to do their bit to ensure the next generation, but that didn't take long. They gradually swirled off to a neighbor's bushes to engage in who knows what activities. Niko, meanwhile, continued to be concerned only with the lone rabbit to our right. We did finally part: I was firm, Niko was unwilling, the rabbit was unconcerned and turned its back on us as it foraged for sweeter clover.<br />
<br />
<br />
Finally, we get to cats. Niko has never met a cat. A cat did approach him once. It plodded over in a friendly manner and started to rub on Niko's astonished head, but when Niko went down on his elbows to play, the cat changed its mind and hissed and spat, but, at the last minute, decided not to attack further.<br />
<br />
We have two new cats in the neighborhood, brother and sister, both black and white. The male is friendly, and one morning as I let Niko out to greet the day, I spotted the friendly cat in our yard. Alas, Niko spotted it a split second before I did. Like a shot, he tore after that cat, who in turn tore back and forth by the fence, trying to climb or leap over it. It failed on both counts. He then stopped and turned to face Niko; all his hair stood perpendicular to his body as he doubled his size, his huge tail straight up, back arched, ears laid back. Niko was at his ferocious best, and at that point I decided I had better intervene, and stepped onto the terrace to mediate. I needed to save my dog's pretty face or the cat's life, I wasn't sure which.<br />
<br />
And then, Niko just calmly turned away. He put his nose to the ground and went happily off on another errand, most likely pursuing a rabbit trail. The cat took stock, hesitated, saw his salvation, and ran off to the gap in the fence he had presumably entered through.<br />
<br />
It all seems like a game to Niko. Did he think he had won and that was that? Is the point of the game to freeze? Stare? Chase?<br />
<br />
Then last night, Niko got a bit of a turnaround We had bats hunting flying insects near the back door; We were in the yard for last outs, and the bats blocked our re-entry. Oddly enough, Niko was not intrigued by their soft fluttering and wanted to get in the house fast; he apparently didn't think games with bats would be much fun.<br />
<br />
We have other wildlife in the area that would put Niko on his guard. Every few years we spot a neighborhood fox. There are raccoons and possums. And we periodically spot bears on the block. A neighbor sent photos around last week of a mama bear and her cub in his front yard, crossing the street in the direction of our house on their way home to the dingle that they would cross our yard to reach. I like the idea of bears passing by in the early morning, me with my coffee and newspaper, my faithful dog sleeping on my feet, twitching and dreaming of his next exciting chase/freeze/chase encounter. How do these end in his dreams?<br />
<br />
And now for something completely different: Niko loves his possums. He has three: One that still grunts, one that occasionally grunts, and one whose grunting days are over. They play fair and let him catch them, toss them up in the air, and entice visiting dogs with. What more could a hunting dog ask for?<br />
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<br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-58905675292644525752016-02-22T17:06:00.002-08:002016-02-22T17:29:29.277-08:00Comfort and JoyOne February weekend it was -13 over the night and never got out of the single digits during the day. The next weekend to was +50 during the day; it is inconsequential what it was at night. The result was a yard that was muddy and squishy with patches of treacherous, rugged ice where human and others had tramped in the snow that fell during the in-between weekdays. <br />
<br />
So one afternoon during the second weekend, when there was a whiff of spring in the air, a carefree attitude, and an overconfident mittens-free choice, a friend and I and Niko and one of his friends were playing in the yard; the time had come to wind up as the sun was going down and the air was taking on a more seasonable chill. There were children passing by the fence excited by the chance to be out of doors and Niko's friend was careening around the yard having triumphantly made off with one of his sacred bones. Niko couldn't decide - pursue the children? Retrieve his bone? And at that moment, I went down on the ice. I hit my head, bent my glasses, tore my hand, and knocked up a knee, one I had broken many years ago. I lay there, face and bare hands on the ice, unable to get up.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQPUjQSXN66Nx-O3vcY8q5DVbnnOytIYXOJG1TmnyUo3UKQumGZq87mqhN6PGToX5rfqs4h4eojYqUSSwDcediHPidmUGvuvKNgrJA9F4hdWjTwUQY-nv_EJQPXCn7nXDnVHKKeFx3u8a2/s1600/IMG_0509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQPUjQSXN66Nx-O3vcY8q5DVbnnOytIYXOJG1TmnyUo3UKQumGZq87mqhN6PGToX5rfqs4h4eojYqUSSwDcediHPidmUGvuvKNgrJA9F4hdWjTwUQY-nv_EJQPXCn7nXDnVHKKeFx3u8a2/s200/IMG_0509.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niko practicing the laying on of <br />
paws on my granddaughter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And here is the thing: before I knew it, Niko was by my side, sitting, then lying, pressing up against my body. I couldn't see him; I could only feel him. Fur. Warmth. Comfort. Breath.<br />
<br />
Of course, I did get up and I turned out to be quite intact. But I can still feel the pressure of Niko leaning, body length, into my side. In mid-track, he ceded the bone to his friend and postponed the company of the children to another day. It is a very lovely feeling, remembering his presence in that moment as I lay there, fearful of what I would be able to do (or not do) next.<br />
<br />
Blessed are the healers, for they bring warmth, comfort, and the breath of hope to the fallen. Niko's continuing state of grace has recently earned a loving and forgiving caress after I found a half-eaten lemon in the middle of the living room rug. Blessed are the thieving dogs for they bring laughter and joy into our lives. Amen!NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-76243323807109227622016-02-02T13:20:00.001-08:002016-02-02T17:43:43.953-08:00Early Morning Walks<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzoYbG4V6E4uEEtMSJXGUEw01WtZrBTMypYQmiQXvror2nfxGUwUmPnM-DNMOdclVja8FtjzVW3AOMXbmJxm8l6-vnxzoeOwJyAXv5wvupfAVI8JBIVfdGYpjk9D0CO_C-YOxzkvmJItL/s1600/IMG_0396.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzoYbG4V6E4uEEtMSJXGUEw01WtZrBTMypYQmiQXvror2nfxGUwUmPnM-DNMOdclVja8FtjzVW3AOMXbmJxm8l6-vnxzoeOwJyAXv5wvupfAVI8JBIVfdGYpjk9D0CO_C-YOxzkvmJItL/s200/IMG_0396.jpg" width="150" /></a>This comes close to the highlight of my day – my early morning stroll with Niko as the sun rises and the day comes to life. We step out the door around 5 or 7, although during these long nights of winter I admit to an occasional starting time of 8. We live close to the center of town so our routes are predictable; we rely on paths, sidewalks, and streets the city has determined appropriate for walking. Each morning we cover two to three miles, an adventurous expedition for Niko, a meditative stroll for me.<br />
<br />
If we are out early the squirrels are still asleep – to my delight and Niko's distress. As day becomes a reality, we meet others who are venturing forth for business or pleasure. Students emerge from dorms; this morning two fell all over Niko in mutual appreciation; one has two dogs at home she misses. Others pass by at a quick pace, heads down, wired to media and music. Some look warily at this fierce beast by my side, who often stands stock still until it is clear whether the passer-by will or will not stop to greet him.<br />
<br />
Niko knows much more about the recent history of our path than I do. I am clueless unless there has been a recent snowfall and even I can figure out that a squirrel, rabbit, raccoon, or yet larger co-resident has preceded us along our path. Niko buries his nose in each fresh piece of information (whether seen by me as a paw print in the snow or only sensed by him through his superior number of receptors on, around, and in his nose area). His ability to read the newspaper of recent events is joyous; in the dog world the newspapers speak of only exciting, upbeat information.<br />
<br />
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Then there is always information in plain sight, discarded by humans along the way. Almost every morning I have to pry a wayward kleenex from his jaws, and there are of course the more obvious leavings – perhaps half of a donut, an oddly discarded sandwich, or a piece of detritus that is completely unrecognizable to me but irresistible to him. I keep watch for these pieces of street garbage and hope I spot them before he does. Recycling and trash days are particularly interesting.<br />
<br />
We meet people and their friendly dogs; we exchange greetings and names and ages of dogs that we promptly forget. We meet people who claim their dog is friendly, but it approaches at top snarl and we detour and agree that maybe another day would be better (for what, I don't know). We often pass a homeless man with his dog Sweetie; we always stop to chat.<br />
<br />
I was dogless for two-and-a-half months in early 2015; I vowed I would walk anyway, as I experimented with what it would be like not to have a dog. I managed two morning walks in that time. I strode purposefully. head down, greeting no one; I was totally uninterested in logging the pieces of food people had dropped along the sidewalks. People walking dogs did not stop for me, even though I wanted to shout out "Hey! I too had a dog, a companion on the street." I paid no notice of details along the way. And had no reason to reflect on what I passed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmxhMFqYf3OYs3kwb18Q3fQGjKQ2UPS-VA_AtrJiuQgzWuR1A2-nQOvu2lmpSahfV_iwomFDHC6q_BQGqpk9Q8I-s91h1ngCIuHuTHG0qLa-wa9GnxpBcw3kZgK66H38V2b87E2jJzSjJ3/s1600/IMG_0401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmxhMFqYf3OYs3kwb18Q3fQGjKQ2UPS-VA_AtrJiuQgzWuR1A2-nQOvu2lmpSahfV_iwomFDHC6q_BQGqpk9Q8I-s91h1ngCIuHuTHG0qLa-wa9GnxpBcw3kZgK66H38V2b87E2jJzSjJ3/s200/IMG_0401.jpg" width="193" /></a>But with Niko, I am all eyes. And I reflect, interpret what I see, draw meaning from it. Like the small print in the recycling bin this morning – how incredibly hopeful people are that they might have some influence and control over their lives. Imagine – someone makes, and people buy and install, squirrel-proof bird feeders. I am sure all the neighborhood squirrels came out to take a look at this empty box, hopefully unpacked and neatly folded and discarded, and took up the challenge; at this very moment they are most likely stuffing themselves with bird food dispensed from the box's former contents.<br />
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There is a famous Bible verse that extols the virtues of faith, hope, and love. Niko and I share all three on our walks: Faith that we will have a splendid time; hope that we will find adventures along the way; and love of just being companions along the way, together, pursuing our own thoughts, rejoicing and giving thanks for every step we take. Amen! And Happy Groundhog Day!<br />
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<br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-87553368791075676542015-12-19T09:06:00.000-08:002015-12-21T09:20:50.320-08:00Face Book Choices<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every so often I feel embarrassed that my Face Book photos
dwell almost entirely on my dogs. I periodically change course, put up a photo
I like – what I call an artsy picture – trees, candles, snow scenes – and get
practically no response. A few stalwart “likes” dribble in, but when I switch
back to Niko (or previously, Dover), people show up again, hitting the “like”
button with wild abandon and even leaving a note or two.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDfAw_pzKJeK5bWNYVlOj8Rqf50zHaYfqASek6YAGWRpeyqOa0eIdAM-T6oZnxChAAOMgcX-eI0onxfu-ztUjxg6IdwO934pXd808tVtVv1lUS2RRfJQZkG72HOtsP7W3XuLXKove4x5nS/s1600/IMG_4619+-+Version+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDfAw_pzKJeK5bWNYVlOj8Rqf50zHaYfqASek6YAGWRpeyqOa0eIdAM-T6oZnxChAAOMgcX-eI0onxfu-ztUjxg6IdwO934pXd808tVtVv1lUS2RRfJQZkG72HOtsP7W3XuLXKove4x5nS/s200/IMG_4619+-+Version+2.JPG" width="183" /></a><o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I post pictures of Niko and his friends and predecessors
because I am devoted to these friends and I am gladdened by their devotion to me.
I find the pictures I post funny, touching, and above all else, I believe that
our relationships with our dogs provide mirrors for our own lives and behaviors,
our joys, our needs, our desires, our meaning. I suspect that many of Niko’s
Face Book human pals feel the same way, and photos of Niko and other dogs stir
deep and possible unnamed recognition of moments they have known. Or wish for.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I just finished a reading a book called <i>Two Dogs and a Parrot</i> by the well-known and highly-respected
spiritual writer Joan Chittister. She is a writer with a sharp eye for justice
and a deft writing style that makes her one of my heroes. The chapters are
devoted to Danny, a rambunctious, playful Irish setter; Duffy, a golden
retriever who had been groomed for the show ring, but he grew too tall and he
was relegated to an unloved section of the kennel and destined for oblivion
unless he was adopted; and Lady, a colorful and jaunty bird who showed more
human characteristics than I ever thought possible for a bird.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And there it is – each chapter divided into a few of the
dog’s or bird’s characteristic quirks, adventures, and misadventures with reflections on a few implied human counterpart behaviors, followed by a
page or two riff of related spiritual and psychological insights. Some chapter
subheadings are </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> relationship,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So remember this: Dogs R us. Dogs are everywhere. Love me love my dog. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And, of course, everyone knows that dog spelled backwards is . . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-44253535579613666222015-09-05T03:20:00.001-07:002015-09-05T03:20:04.402-07:00A walk on my birthday"What will you do on your birthday?" she asked.<br />
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To start the day, Niko and I went on a three-and-a half mile saunter around the streets of the town. I love walking Niko; he makes stops for each person or dog we meet along the way. If he sees a likely human, he will stand his ground and stare, until she or he, dog optional, stops to greet him. Should they not pick up the signal, he watches the poor benighted suspect recede into the distance and then returns his mind and feet to our journey.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9qUmKvnkiwnSvIIb046y2aW24YCVIHZa5ZrOMVD9yW4GOJyXcjUAimnq3Xmjz4Rfc5MrUTAuSKbxk4jFkQnEGksIAbtSxDqiJcVvOW0YBXDPP-gV2g3U5JSH44p0dsqPetE4ECH9Dpx4/s1600/IMG_3996.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9qUmKvnkiwnSvIIb046y2aW24YCVIHZa5ZrOMVD9yW4GOJyXcjUAimnq3Xmjz4Rfc5MrUTAuSKbxk4jFkQnEGksIAbtSxDqiJcVvOW0YBXDPP-gV2g3U5JSH44p0dsqPetE4ECH9Dpx4/s320/IMG_3996.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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There are many sights and, for Niko, scents along the way. We amble and consider different aspects of the landscape. He prefers rabbits, squirrels, and chipmunks, but he was mightily confused by this rabbit tucked away under a hedge. He backed away, extended his snout to top inquiry mode, bristled, and finally responded to my commanding summons to "Leave it!" and to "Let's go!"<br />
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As he was happily sniffing away and responding to the invisible call of the wild things, we passed a small stand of mayapple in a struggling, drought-struck garden; mayapple is a poisonous plant, but a delicate one when it is in flower. There were many different kinds of hydrangea in bloom; one I thought was particularly lovely, one just plain confusing, and several others in between.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzs2BdnvevZujHt98yACbO-9LoEE_zx4AgidzooiS3u-WavaPG0oq9TUSAeoSRThBLtR8IihDyYSeFBK7zSqfeQrtJr-nIDsNiI1l-Dr9B_RQiQ2KJzYjg05UHqEOHnhrE3Jo6S427pptN/s1600/IMG_3806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzs2BdnvevZujHt98yACbO-9LoEE_zx4AgidzooiS3u-WavaPG0oq9TUSAeoSRThBLtR8IihDyYSeFBK7zSqfeQrtJr-nIDsNiI1l-Dr9B_RQiQ2KJzYjg05UHqEOHnhrE3Jo6S427pptN/s200/IMG_3806.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNdZZHOCjKFF6m2qCbaIPGTVmpvV2DwKQ3ulYMRcMPH82jAkuaE8TEpWwICmGcCueWW49sASP5x6anSovGTw1sOm8y1bRAzdruESrdPCSnYxYd__MMU6AhDE3QWvEIQOO6TZI4jsncclfI/s1600/IMG_3420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNdZZHOCjKFF6m2qCbaIPGTVmpvV2DwKQ3ulYMRcMPH82jAkuaE8TEpWwICmGcCueWW49sASP5x6anSovGTw1sOm8y1bRAzdruESrdPCSnYxYd__MMU6AhDE3QWvEIQOO6TZI4jsncclfI/s200/IMG_3420.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGemXlAVCtREMO0bgmALwxmbpCt28WjOqadwURt3rliJ90iS8apFxwQq0IdGCXEF4NQPBeDACuIegnAFEZfJbO-d8FoWjOKcyMiDz2-q2M5birKHW_2nfhvnySE6syMfozYa8ANNnBDmfo/s1600/IMG_3807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGemXlAVCtREMO0bgmALwxmbpCt28WjOqadwURt3rliJ90iS8apFxwQq0IdGCXEF4NQPBeDACuIegnAFEZfJbO-d8FoWjOKcyMiDz2-q2M5birKHW_2nfhvnySE6syMfozYa8ANNnBDmfo/s200/IMG_3807.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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We passed idiosyncratic front-yard art, stopped to check out a Scottie, a yellow lab, a recently-shorn golden retriever, and a miniature chihuahua. </div>
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At one point one of Niko's beloved boys from down the street drove by and called out the window of the car to us; a friend calls this boy and his brother "Niko's empire." I thought I would never get Niko past that spot, but the car turned into the schoolyard and he eventually decided he would accompany me onward.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDci5cQWhcZJPrALdMcNldiXIiUKhGu6eGMh22JVyQnlPhkGhGrmV-LwIVARcX8mXv76bz3hk1xUSRV_83jPqQ-ICvXLWSmKEtGYxlx3IRJxrGxBYz_WeCUnJ2vq9suR3B3k4hzfv6TT8U/s1600/P1040419+-+Version+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDci5cQWhcZJPrALdMcNldiXIiUKhGu6eGMh22JVyQnlPhkGhGrmV-LwIVARcX8mXv76bz3hk1xUSRV_83jPqQ-ICvXLWSmKEtGYxlx3IRJxrGxBYz_WeCUnJ2vq9suR3B3k4hzfv6TT8U/s200/P1040419+-+Version+2.jpg" width="163" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-R2GiUd6gZ-NrWJ2IszGZqX3xxT49W4yOOif93m2bvJrTbQAWP_K70Y4-sw7L7JfbycYV1nC-odhrYG3E5as_2riGVe7xbJyOyn7UlETlWu5UEtbnPZQJOMXTXq6uOhHnnahEexyXwnD/s1600/P1040410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-R2GiUd6gZ-NrWJ2IszGZqX3xxT49W4yOOif93m2bvJrTbQAWP_K70Y4-sw7L7JfbycYV1nC-odhrYG3E5as_2riGVe7xbJyOyn7UlETlWu5UEtbnPZQJOMXTXq6uOhHnnahEexyXwnD/s200/P1040410.jpg" width="133" /></a><br />
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Hostas are the national plant of our town, and we passed lots and lots of hostas in various states of decline. Hosta can be quite beautiful, and that may be why it is so widely planted, but mostly, people plant with hopes of this (see left), but in fact, what they get, is this (see right).<br />
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We turn a last corner and are reminded that life emerges even in the most untoward places.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIngeyGz7FTMSLtjT9bvYqBdeKQDbPtzOdNdkiBN5is9Yn8FBZpLxwKBDypLKLKEL3bWF13jJvy9FUfGZ1PQoSFrLKu9-LNTPyH-aLGKBAUsiH6nb7KG3tZ_ZEWGdzLFCYPUmQ8En10-O/s1600/IMG_3412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIngeyGz7FTMSLtjT9bvYqBdeKQDbPtzOdNdkiBN5is9Yn8FBZpLxwKBDypLKLKEL3bWF13jJvy9FUfGZ1PQoSFrLKu9-LNTPyH-aLGKBAUsiH6nb7KG3tZ_ZEWGdzLFCYPUmQ8En10-O/s320/IMG_3412.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYHLRG1Pq-8g-tzy8YDny3kxgOysYxgtpeIg9BU7yEVhzKbvm5HS6JPYd0uOAb8u21NvsHGAj7XjYb_f5vHL1pUn_cI5PyvyOiqwyRVeve3Ew7dVrho3POHpk82dkbKOe9RR5LpauuPuo/s1600/IMG_3410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYHLRG1Pq-8g-tzy8YDny3kxgOysYxgtpeIg9BU7yEVhzKbvm5HS6JPYd0uOAb8u21NvsHGAj7XjYb_f5vHL1pUn_cI5PyvyOiqwyRVeve3Ew7dVrho3POHpk82dkbKOe9RR5LpauuPuo/s200/IMG_3410.JPG" width="200" /></a>We arrive home to discover that the second morning glory of the season has come into bloom by the back gate. It is time for breakfast – poached egg on toast or kibble.<br />
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And that is how the day started. It was followed by BLTs for lunch and lobster rolls for supper, friends, a new squeaky toy for Niko, and much pleasure in between and all around.<br />
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NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-18773972486063268112015-07-06T10:01:00.000-07:002015-07-06T17:28:35.661-07:00Free Gifts: Part III*<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Dover died in January, unexpectedly and way too young, I was devastated. I had always thought he would be our last dog, perfect as he was and ready to accompany us in the older lane we were already traveling; we would all grow old gracefully together. We decided we would not have another dog, and – I lived with that very rational conviction for two months. No longer did I roam the streets with a dog at the end of the leash, stopping to exchange dog lore with others out for a stroll. No more nursing home visits; no more dog classes. In fact, I didn't even go out for walks - the few times I did go out to see what it was like walking without a dog I found myself imaging my arm outstretched, with an imaginary dog setting the pace, thinking of good names for dogs. I was very lonely. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One day we woke up! Tom and I looked at each other and said almost simultaneously – maybe we should think about another dog. Within the week, I mentioned it to a friend who has corgis, who talked with others in the corgi world, who knew people in the golden retriever world, who had heard that there was a year and a half dog in lower right Massachusetts in need of a new home. I emailed, talked on the telephone, and emailed some more. We arranged a visit to meet and greet, but – only to look. A friend said to himself. "Yeah - I bet. You are going to drive two hours and just LOOK at a golden retriever? I bet!"</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinFuJVlq6YqmoPtmveplgJBVFCXte8Cy0pNjiTyu6lPB_e7cR6otMcYsfBe2y5s0FdGWk404Ovuh6n327vW0ijUsixXt-N7SulrR9KzxX1vAZ9WiyDBW0acKhH7czciQLkMk_uwNCRgcrq/s1600/IMG_2849.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinFuJVlq6YqmoPtmveplgJBVFCXte8Cy0pNjiTyu6lPB_e7cR6otMcYsfBe2y5s0FdGWk404Ovuh6n327vW0ijUsixXt-N7SulrR9KzxX1vAZ9WiyDBW0acKhH7czciQLkMk_uwNCRgcrq/s200/IMG_2849.JPG" width="168" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, Niko joined our household that day. Golden retriever #5 for us. And what a dog. His first job on arrival home was to greet two small and curious children who came into the yard to check him out; he took one look, lay down, belly up – and lay his head in their laps; whenever he sees them, in the yard, on the sidewalk, even the middle of the not-too-busy street around the corner, he sinks to his knees, rolls over, and tells them how glad he is to see them and asks - "Where have you been all day?" When we meet other dogs on the street, he is friendly and eager to exchange dog-ID scents, even with the ones who want to shred him to bits as their owners cross the street, leading them by at top snarl but a safe distance.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinviyEjKTBsmpntAE-AtYPL4HuHHyL_bvnawlrl4LWttxFAHkv2TDuyW8k-SgQqB476f2loIkvQm4kP4JmVRzK-NYkB9xTZBlJgWlTUOUvYi090M2cyYp8ehvgYZDUAXoIyccuEb9coEyS/s1600/IMG_3206+-+Version+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinviyEjKTBsmpntAE-AtYPL4HuHHyL_bvnawlrl4LWttxFAHkv2TDuyW8k-SgQqB476f2loIkvQm4kP4JmVRzK-NYkB9xTZBlJgWlTUOUvYi090M2cyYp8ehvgYZDUAXoIyccuEb9coEyS/s200/IMG_3206+-+Version+2.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niko in visiting mode.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He is a natural visiting dog.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpk3KmkKWyQbx8wb6ePZXklZaRKsCIg0gVMTrKa1zToa-9Oz-CykQfcnzach_HbHYUAeA3hASzChamRO9Mh0lQ_itQmBbxf25cLnbn9kxd0e4CQGbYqe3NsRe6-FYYVie-cVP1jxpxFfmO/s200/IMG_3565+-+Version+2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An unsuspecting cat asleep in the flower box.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Does he have drawbacks, things to learn? Definitely. The unguarded peanut butter and honey sandwich on the all-too-low table is mine, not his. (Too late on that one! But – he and I are both learning.) On walks, he is much too interested in stalking chipmunks, squirrels, rabbits, and cats (in increasing order of perceived desirability). And we have to remember, he is still an adolescent, and we need to stay out of his way when he goes into one of his maniac moments, circling the yard at top speed and with deep pleasure.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But - he is our new perfect dog. At first I felt unloyal thinking this way, but a friend pointed out – we don't get stuck in the past. Niko is our perfect dog, no apologies. In reverse order, so were Dover, Mungo II, Jonah, and Mungo I. I am so thankful that such an abundance of canine perfection has graced my life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where did that sudden turnaround in our mindsets come from? The swift move from a call of the head that we were too old for a new dog, to a call of the heart that there was a definite dog space in our household needing occupancy. And - that there were people who knew people who knew people who knew people - all at the ready to help when we needed them? Chance? Coincidence? Free gift? Grace? Even . . . amazing grace? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do they all mean the same thing and we just choose different words, depending on our beliefs and views? I think so. My choice is free gift, and for that, to whoever offered the gift of enlightenment, the gift of changing minds, the gift of new life, the gift of friends, the gift of taking chances, I say "Thanks."</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCB9YfrFIwBPZlIQaAfSaWsxQ414xu3hDcayNOJySlQpTvfe3EXVttQq7j5LV_lHeOX0g5O9pvkoR3sP6Eyh_C1oD6o8-FUzw7vJ_2fkqkArGSYa-8dTLk7yugWgo5GxxQE8LLycEWVukU/s1600/IMG_3949.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCB9YfrFIwBPZlIQaAfSaWsxQ414xu3hDcayNOJySlQpTvfe3EXVttQq7j5LV_lHeOX0g5O9pvkoR3sP6Eyh_C1oD6o8-FUzw7vJ_2fkqkArGSYa-8dTLk7yugWgo5GxxQE8LLycEWVukU/s320/IMG_3949.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niko invents a new game. His entertainment value is huge.</td></tr>
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* Free Gifts, Parts II and I:<br />
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<a href="http://saunteringdog.blogspot.com/2015/02/free-gifts-part-ii.html">http://saunteringdog.blogspot.com/2015/02/free-gifts-part-ii.html</a><br />
<a href="http://saunteringdog.blogspot.com/2013/09/free-gifts.html">http://saunteringdog.blogspot.com/2013/09/free-gifts.html</a></div>
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NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-83063961708577876622015-02-25T05:42:00.001-08:002015-02-25T15:01:11.636-08:00Free Gifts: Part II<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxP_v0hyaPRCuYPxyjwaBDpZAy-fN2Z1mYtDqRYHHhO-oZEUkg51JnTgL6DCg11c1CXA50qRzjQ3HOyDzdDHIYrCj6KxAqglnaGbCoET9tznbkvbizKxv9MaM3SyZSNfTclkXGynXk9gU_/s1600/IMG_1904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxP_v0hyaPRCuYPxyjwaBDpZAy-fN2Z1mYtDqRYHHhO-oZEUkg51JnTgL6DCg11c1CXA50qRzjQ3HOyDzdDHIYrCj6KxAqglnaGbCoET9tznbkvbizKxv9MaM3SyZSNfTclkXGynXk9gU_/s1600/IMG_1904.JPG" height="228" width="320" /></a></div>
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I<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">t was snowing, of course, and snowing fast and furiously, but when a torrent of snow flying by the window </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">caught the corner of my eye because of its beyond-belief abundance, I stopped to cast a closer look. I saw two small children, neighborhood boys, working their way up our as-yet-unplowed drive. They heaved shovels full of snow to the side, into the air, onto each other, up onto the wall of accumulated snow that was taller than they were, and they were having a great time. I laughed out loud at their exuberance, their enjoyment of an often bemoaned task, and their gift to us as they rearranged the snow.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwRYF0h7CAlcuJ9XqUj4Exc3HJ_BSvvycqrAtXFAhGxA2u8hoXu734cCowZKvxJ065VQ4pkGLl0tVtLBcuMgkkwfUrh016Iahnw8jwzFfTrLDKt-XCM_KUWTeFZg1q1Qq5ay_jBc6irQOH/s1600/IMG_1894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwRYF0h7CAlcuJ9XqUj4Exc3HJ_BSvvycqrAtXFAhGxA2u8hoXu734cCowZKvxJ065VQ4pkGLl0tVtLBcuMgkkwfUrh016Iahnw8jwzFfTrLDKt-XCM_KUWTeFZg1q1Qq5ay_jBc6irQOH/s1600/IMG_1894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwRYF0h7CAlcuJ9XqUj4Exc3HJ_BSvvycqrAtXFAhGxA2u8hoXu734cCowZKvxJ065VQ4pkGLl0tVtLBcuMgkkwfUrh016Iahnw8jwzFfTrLDKt-XCM_KUWTeFZg1q1Qq5ay_jBc6irQOH/s1600/IMG_1894.JPG" height="130" width="200" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrer2X7K3JO2qbdduTGVWYQLS_6aXTSbV5Wo8rvM1POH4LMceqU4pnOOpBB0wrcD6nMF8tYx-vsgumgKuuU1s23C0WUFUliwmCS97b_RaJVnK9FTyX6neS6fDfDMr34qndk2QYQlXREAT/s1600/IMG_1618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrer2X7K3JO2qbdduTGVWYQLS_6aXTSbV5Wo8rvM1POH4LMceqU4pnOOpBB0wrcD6nMF8tYx-vsgumgKuuU1s23C0WUFUliwmCS97b_RaJVnK9FTyX6neS6fDfDMr34qndk2QYQlXREAT/s1600/IMG_1618.JPG" height="160" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPX0xIpUv37SRzRb4szo626VfHSEjeuBL5skC_dMPv6InskJJ0VJeDkiqwnVRel3usadYh7XnDVgzj60N3rBVe878q6S-H0wdeAm4uoQh_Y0-yQXY4R8wuMOpzb3i4JOibrDx6BwC7K6ck/s1600/IMG_1616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPX0xIpUv37SRzRb4szo626VfHSEjeuBL5skC_dMPv6InskJJ0VJeDkiqwnVRel3usadYh7XnDVgzj60N3rBVe878q6S-H0wdeAm4uoQh_Y0-yQXY4R8wuMOpzb3i4JOibrDx6BwC7K6ck/s1600/IMG_1616.JPG" height="154" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About two weeks prior, two snowstorms back, when my dog Dover was in his final illness and keeping very close to the house, I had urged him (to no avail) up the path to his old haunt by the back walk, for a change of scene for him and a hope of evidence of higher energy and a possible road to recovery for me; thus he would gladden my heart. Minutes afterwards, these same boys appeared at the back gate and asked to come in and play with Dover. Dover saw them and and immediately bounded up the path in top greeting mode, his unbridled joy overpowering any reluctance he had shown just minutes before. The boys had no idea he was ailing; they loved him and threw tennis balls for him, and he responded. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The gift of their presence and Dover's response did indeed gladden my heart. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHbtfK6QfohEHeFpSPDBJRQyxSzNcmZZ39Gz9wwZDLqqZFPsse1QeCXqjcLO8oXU9MYtdb40Uy2NSsDi8__Mh1wvoRtAwJe9WDKBsaKvoEBJPWeOok81v-KNxKN3NZqXmByOUe_58wjQ2Y/s1600/IMG_1613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHbtfK6QfohEHeFpSPDBJRQyxSzNcmZZ39Gz9wwZDLqqZFPsse1QeCXqjcLO8oXU9MYtdb40Uy2NSsDi8__Mh1wvoRtAwJe9WDKBsaKvoEBJPWeOok81v-KNxKN3NZqXmByOUe_58wjQ2Y/s1600/IMG_1613.JPG" height="147" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Free gifts come in many guises, unbidden, and always as surprises. They reach deep down into places we sometimes forget we have and remind us that – in spite of many indications to the contrary – this is the way the world works. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><i>Life is short, and we have never too much time for gladdening the hearts of those </i></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><i>who travel the journey with us. Oh be swift to love, make haste to be kind.*</i> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HnBOrI-Y5VA8wC0HCEevVRYMltTuiJ6tN_c-5fg9hm-8qDgv0c-09ucHChhOzLyd1Px9BUJE26LQOsd4VwxlbunP9DADjFGvPsLI8zoCBjoAs3eCho-36sXizWNKxqNglG8FEI6YmpTN/s1600/IMG_1895.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HnBOrI-Y5VA8wC0HCEevVRYMltTuiJ6tN_c-5fg9hm-8qDgv0c-09ucHChhOzLyd1Px9BUJE26LQOsd4VwxlbunP9DADjFGvPsLI8zoCBjoAs3eCho-36sXizWNKxqNglG8FEI6YmpTN/s1600/IMG_1895.JPG" height="257" width="320" /></a></div>
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*<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Henry Frederic Amiel </span><br />
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<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-5KbsSwEFQuk%2FVO3IY8RK-7I%2FAAAAAAAAArg%2FqYJqqtLpi8c%2Fs1600%2FIMG_1894.JPG&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwRYF0h7CAlcuJ9XqUj4Exc3HJ_BSvvycqrAtXFAhGxA2u8hoXu734cCowZKvxJ065VQ4pkGLl0tVtLBcuMgkkwfUrh016Iahnw8jwzFfTrLDKt-XCM_KUWTeFZg1q1Qq5ay_jBc6irQOH/s1600/IMG_1894.JPG" -->NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-83711092718631470362014-12-18T04:41:00.000-08:002014-12-18T04:42:27.490-08:00Gifts!There is not much one can say about gifts at this time of year. Most people are happy doing their own form of plotting, buying, hoping, delaying, ignoring, fretting, and wrapping - it's all about gifts. Or not. Some people give gifts to charity in friends' names. Some people wrap up last year's unused gifts and pass them on to – one hopes – not the original givers. The idea of a circle of gifts appeals to me, gifts given, unwrapped, puzzled over, and stashed away thinking inspiration will come with time. And it does! After many months of inspiring indifference, the gift on the shelf is taken down, wrapped once again, tagged, and proudly offered to a host in exchange for some social time and interesting small pieces of food. I wonder what the world record for the number of unique times a single gift traveled from hand to shelf to hand again? The gift that keeps on being given.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWwOlyeecCXksFtCM3tmUGOJWvH6NCDiJWCPWk1Nqpz5P7W2x6i9TtEw2Rnk8_z6laJ7y7vxvBVAj3m9Ss1ExrhWuSPzAb6-mUgMEoFJLl_AtF2U5piqPkxOfo1tUZWMPZA3nbHX3K5j0D/s1600/IMG_0952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWwOlyeecCXksFtCM3tmUGOJWvH6NCDiJWCPWk1Nqpz5P7W2x6i9TtEw2Rnk8_z6laJ7y7vxvBVAj3m9Ss1ExrhWuSPzAb6-mUgMEoFJLl_AtF2U5piqPkxOfo1tUZWMPZA3nbHX3K5j0D/s1600/IMG_0952.JPG" height="187" width="200" /></a>My dog Dover, of course, raises the giftedness quotient of the world every day just because he is an extreme meeter and greeter. He passes it on with no holds barred, to all comers (except, for some reason, German shepherds). He is an equal opportunity trinity of spirit raiser, peace maker, and tennis ball tender. And he definitely gets into the season. Good dog Dover!<br />
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News that we read, watch, or hear ranges from poignant to harrowing to horrifying, so it is hard to remember that giftedness is at the heart of creation. We receive and offer many gifts, every day, almost every moment. We take them for granted, which is okay, but every so often I find myself in the middle of a surprising gift that seemed to have an unknown, unnamed source.<br />
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This past summer, on a dank, dark, drear day at the beach, a loose scrum of over twenty people, aged two to seventy, watched and tended five kites in the sky. There was a dragon, a box kite whose parts rotated in opposite directions, a fighter kite, and, of course, the plain old variety. Kids took their turns and sat on the seawall to watch and kibitz. Others wandered by to see what was up and some stood at the ready to rescue and relaunch kites that crashed. The wind was the honored guest that day.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnRAYchegauE0v0hktYGQLYqzWdw7xulGKu4qarK79vT_SG8TsiNYe4hi4lrCIcFjbk6QmqtRDxBAYF2fsHCyN2Elzi-2WgLJjWw9l1R4AqMrJSoWxMo7NiLa3UYcBmut3bLGmxVZ0NWn/s1600/IMG_5397.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnRAYchegauE0v0hktYGQLYqzWdw7xulGKu4qarK79vT_SG8TsiNYe4hi4lrCIcFjbk6QmqtRDxBAYF2fsHCyN2Elzi-2WgLJjWw9l1R4AqMrJSoWxMo7NiLa3UYcBmut3bLGmxVZ0NWn/s1600/IMG_5397.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a>At the center were eighth cousins, perhaps with a once or twice removed in their relatedness. One had come from the east, bearing kites; one had come from the west, bringing interest. I am not sure where the kite-bearer had developed such a keen interest, but out west, the gift of playing with the wind had been offered by one, accepted by another, and shared on this otherwise raw day with a transient community which had wandered by and stayed a moment to watch or, better yet, to feel the pull on the line when taking a turn.<br />
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The giftedness at the center of this hours-long moment is hard to name, intangible and ephemeral. But think on it: people had taught and learned, tried and crashed, tried again and flew, and then – the learners become teachers. The children on the sea wall were absorbing the laughter and friendship, the soaring and the crashing and the relaunching of the kites – their beauty and how they worked with the wind. Gifts had been passed on through time and space and burst through the grayness of that day.<br />
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As the kites were reeled in, folded, and put away, participants and bystanders strolled off to home with a few more bits of laughter and relatedness stored up for times when they would be needed, recipients and offerers of gifts, from and to others<br />
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I can't help but be sure of that. Lines were invisible as they stretched from hand to kite, but we knew they were there.<br />
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<br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-20035897963854340302014-02-04T13:51:00.000-08:002014-02-04T14:09:15.735-08:00The train to Washington and back<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I went to Washington, D.C. last week, a trip I like to make at least twice a year to visit a friend. I take the train, of course, my preferred method of travel. The seven-hour trip goes by very quickly if I have a good book, a little time to sleep, a window seat, and no chatty seat mates. I get to see big cities like New York and Philadelphia, big waters like the top end of Chesapeake Bay, and interesting bridges, like the </span><a href="http://www.nycroads.com/crossings/hell-gate/" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Hell Gate Bridge</a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, which crosses over the treacherous waters where the East River and Long Island Sound meet up.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRIASfO83O-7QaHLaZpKc5TwNuCnH353YBhNIMKd0I92ClIy12vNZFyigjK4OSY_7tYxgCnYQUzRQds7F4Fk34QESLKEHCK6Z4flYzP5mbzlCp1KNKVA9SQupJs6CF2euvSaQpEWQVRKiY/s1600/01255-Arch--Hell-Gate-Bridge--under-construction--New-York-City-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRIASfO83O-7QaHLaZpKc5TwNuCnH353YBhNIMKd0I92ClIy12vNZFyigjK4OSY_7tYxgCnYQUzRQds7F4Fk34QESLKEHCK6Z4flYzP5mbzlCp1KNKVA9SQupJs6CF2euvSaQpEWQVRKiY/s1600/01255-Arch--Hell-Gate-Bridge--under-construction--New-York-City-.jpg" height="232" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hell Gate Bridge under construction, 1915.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The trip down was a gem, as 99% of my trips on Amtrak are. The trip back - not so much. In Union Station, our departing train was posted as on time, even though the message boards ominously noted that both north and south trains could be delayed due to extreme cold weather. Indeed, the screen listing train departures was littered with yellow DELAYED notations; our train, however, was happily noted as on time. A half hour before departure, we were herded into the boarding area, where we stood massed together, while all eyes shifted between the clock and the door through which the conductor would arrive to start the process of boarding. By two minutes before departure time, the door remained shut, no conductor was in sight, and in a twinkling of an eye, the yellow delayed sign appeared where we didn't want to see it. We waited. Twenty minutes later, not a bad wait, in fact, all signs changed; the conductor appeared, took our tickets, and we were on our way after a frighteningly but gratifyingly short boarding time. Northward we went, only half an hour late. It was a sold-out train, so I had a seat mate then, and again, and again, and again.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Passengers have developed bold techniques to maintain an empty place next to where they sit. The main trick is to deposit coats and suitcases on the empty seat. The more the better. And - put a bottle of water in the pouch in front of the empty seat.Sometimes the passenger sits on the aisle seat, lowers the tray, and piles it with a computer, coffee, sandwiches, and cords, while piling personal belongings in the inside seat, thereby erecting a veritable fortress that prevents another heavily-laden passenger from asking: Is this seat taken? But, one by one, each defended seat eventually falls to a wandering passenger. When directly asked, the person claiming both seats always appears totally dumbfounded that there is an extra seat by them, clears the seat, and one more roaming passenger is seated. One middle-aged man, tired of wandering the aisles, finally asked the young person behind me: Is this seat occupied by your coat taken?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Of course, I always hope that the unseated will take one look and consider me an unsavory neighbor, pass by my pristinely empty seat, and pursue a better offering in another car. However, I was taught by nuns, and they would have considered it rude, if not downright stingy, not to offer hospitality to the wayfarers, so it never fails, I am always among the first to have a seat mate, which will make it difficult to get up and out for whatever purpose - a stroll, some water, or a visit to the (on this train) unappealing restroom.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPapvKfYvlfVQ61d6aqXNPBkaNRXys4Qq33-Jw9np7Bj8oZPNckZGEmjcC6_iSXd-Y8Ja80iN-IJGCCH8HeY6PcpqqW1AfT30es9HWUez3HsdNIaIl0j3eF-28I5RLSGapDIT7A0NJFTr/s1600/Image_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPapvKfYvlfVQ61d6aqXNPBkaNRXys4Qq33-Jw9np7Bj8oZPNckZGEmjcC6_iSXd-Y8Ja80iN-IJGCCH8HeY6PcpqqW1AfT30es9HWUez3HsdNIaIl0j3eF-28I5RLSGapDIT7A0NJFTr/s1600/Image_2.jpg" height="132" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: left;">Preserving open space.on the train</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My immediate neighborhood was serially taken up with a variety of talkers: Two young professionals earnestly consulting across the aisle - he the mentor, she the eager learner; they got off in Philadelphia.Two young people striking up a fevered new relationship, talking breathlessly for miles, exchanging telephone numbers and vowing to be in touch. They got off in New York. A very talkative middle aged man aiming to impress a sweet young thing, expounding on matters such as the pleasures of the French language vs Italian, a beautiful Italian women he knew who died of liver cancer, and trichinosis. She got off in Stamford and he was last seen entering a restroom. Somewhere along the line I spilled a whole glass of diet soda down my pant legs, while my bulky neighbor in a puffy winter coat sat imperviously, with her hands on her purse, staring intently at the back of the seat ahead of her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And my fourth seat mate, a young, slim woman, spent miles reading a tabloid article titled "I have the bigggest butt in the world."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I won't even go into the last leg of the journey: a hundred passengers were disgorged onto a freezing platform to wait for a connecting train, which usually is ready and waiting across the platform but wasn't there this particular night. Short version: it came, we boarded, we arrived at our destinations.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All told, it could have been much worse, and the restrooms did actually work.</span><br />
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<br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-19839255835274119472013-10-20T17:15:00.003-07:002013-10-20T18:13:59.873-07:00Hanging out at the interface<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As an organic
chemist, I know that when we are holding a container with two liquids that
don't mix (think salad dressing) there is lots of action inside those two
liquids. It is particularly interestng at the point where the two liquids meet.
What appears to our eye as a smooth line separating the two liquids is
everything but calm and static down on the molecular level. Molecules zip
around, hit the wall, bounce back to stay with their own kind, maybe get
through to the other side for a little while, then get knocked back where they
belong. Maybe a few will stay awhile in the foreign territory. Maybe some will
even react with a stranger and be changed forever into something new, a new
molecule, that will then choose which space is home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3S5jgmfHfPuyvFILaEM16YcK-E3Yx2cPt-qTABIY5QhzmEOrrYaMuj-U1rkK2Vb_yTnKf-yaVCthRVUniiQLnqgk5IrSgQEMT_7bM7_8CtDUWoqPxiP-fcGEPBwES7FGS8FYMtin7i1xl/s1600/P1020347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3S5jgmfHfPuyvFILaEM16YcK-E3Yx2cPt-qTABIY5QhzmEOrrYaMuj-U1rkK2Vb_yTnKf-yaVCthRVUniiQLnqgk5IrSgQEMT_7bM7_8CtDUWoqPxiP-fcGEPBwES7FGS8FYMtin7i1xl/s200/P1020347.JPG" width="200" /></a>I love that we live
at many interfaces. When I was walking a week or so ago with a niece and a
great-niece, a puppy and Dover, we were taken by the juxtaposition of rain
drops on the red maple leaves we were strolling through. Water drops
of varying sizes beaded up into bright jewels on a leafy setting. Interfaces
galore! Water on waxy leaf, solid color under transparent beads, reflections of
the sky on the surface of the water, while its under surface rested on an
earthy base. Signs of death and decline in the red leaves harbored the life-giving
promise of water. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRd8c0ReD_IzBZSW0HVIGdnh9ZG9YdcEF4FdPVItCnO9W8C3IsPjLlXc4nxm0lM61h5eE-r0RO7l-Lc2rUGQFuuT4kp6kl2Wr9t-yi8hX3CU5vP3SlyljWp7ZjtmCwdvvLgOOgeR-UpIt/s1600/IMG_4709_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRd8c0ReD_IzBZSW0HVIGdnh9ZG9YdcEF4FdPVItCnO9W8C3IsPjLlXc4nxm0lM61h5eE-r0RO7l-Lc2rUGQFuuT4kp6kl2Wr9t-yi8hX3CU5vP3SlyljWp7ZjtmCwdvvLgOOgeR-UpIt/s320/IMG_4709_2.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the extended
warm weather this October, the morning glories on the front fence continue to flaunt their exquisite color on our curve of the street – well past their seasonal allotment.
The weather is warm, but the days are short; now the blue flowers are
outnumbered by the spent petals of yesterday, which in turn are outnumbered by
seed pods in varying states of development. Yesterday's crumbling
petals. Today's brilliant blue. Tomorrows' furled buds. And next
year's promise of new life, new blue, new gifts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then there is
Dover. He keeps watch; he lies in thresholds, in doorways, keeping a quiet
lookout for change. If one of us moves rooms, he silently rouses and
repositions so he stays between us; he knows that's where the action might be.
Perhaps we will reach for a tennis ball, or perhaps . . . a treat? Perhaps one of
us will bend down and touch his head, or – sadness – someone might be leaving. He
establishes his space between our spaces – at the interface. Therein lies his –
and my – belief that that is a place of transformation, from the apparent
stillness of a moment to the promise of adventure and joy, both of which are already forming </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">in that apparently quiet, in-between space.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNlOPRJTKwr4rMiiqkQNyOn44ZY7mImsHzguubGzC__H7BKvrEr7lto_dDH5LAhrR4jhM6RanXPgIJ2gQvu6Oow7MuKBMWe8SXErKycn7_OCEwE_CH_L_bXo8D882V6o4CskIShZ_ZUW0/s1600/IMG_3303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNlOPRJTKwr4rMiiqkQNyOn44ZY7mImsHzguubGzC__H7BKvrEr7lto_dDH5LAhrR4jhM6RanXPgIJ2gQvu6Oow7MuKBMWe8SXErKycn7_OCEwE_CH_L_bXo8D882V6o4CskIShZ_ZUW0/s320/IMG_3303.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-74199172135151692902013-09-27T12:08:00.001-07:002013-09-27T12:08:16.920-07:00Free gifts<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dover and I were on our three-mile, early-morning stroll a day or two ago and as we walked past the college chapel, the tower bell suddenly rang out over the still sleepy streets. Dover gave an initial start and then kept on his nonchalant way, always on the prowl for garbage in that high student density part of the walk. I added a little skip to my gait; I knew the bells announced Mountain Day, a day to suspend classes and meetings so students and faculty (alas - not staff) could bicycle out into a beautiful fall day to enjoy the New England countryside. I have always regarded Mountain Day as a free gift, much the same as snow days. Neither plays a direct part in my life now, but I always see the announcement, by bell or radio, as a recognition that schedules and routines are made for interruption and surprising turns.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8a7-q8Q6s-rdgrtGfbdEzYV7y8A_WNSBr2lKpph3-KoAw4zc8-w_bqNS6FtFwIgus8j4QNwpcdwmA3sW2XZdvYvAP636PghNSD85P0Hevpi5nQSwSbgZQZwlnb7MIGT61a7q731OaSlpX/s1600/P1020291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8a7-q8Q6s-rdgrtGfbdEzYV7y8A_WNSBr2lKpph3-KoAw4zc8-w_bqNS6FtFwIgus8j4QNwpcdwmA3sW2XZdvYvAP636PghNSD85P0Hevpi5nQSwSbgZQZwlnb7MIGT61a7q731OaSlpX/s320/P1020291.JPG" width="250" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some faculty complain that Mountain Day makes a hash of their teaching syllabus, and some students complain that they would rather Mountain Day be a known holiday - for better planning - and that it preferably be scheduled on Friday or Monday so they could depart for other cities or campuses for long weekends. But - Mountain Day drops uncontrolled into their lives, and, frankly, I think it is great. I wanted a Mountain Day when I heard the bell that cool and crisp morning, but I didn't think the dentist would understand that excuse.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just looking around, there are other free gifts close at hand. The morning glories on the front fence are my free gift to the street; Dover's belly-up, groveling greeting to his walkers is his free gift to them, college students in search of dog company. One day a few weeks ago, I was out of town at a meeting and despondent at a surly turn one session had suddenly taken. That night, as I checked the email one more time before before turning out the light, I received news that in my absence, Dover had invited friends over for a party. The pictures that came with the message lifted my despondency and sent me into uncontrollable hilarity. In that one moment, I received free gifts of relief and laughter - relief that Dover was okay in my absence, and laughter at the irrepressible exuberance of dogs, who with infinite good nature, will submit to any article of clothing to have a good time with friends, good eats, and and exciting party games. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Go dog, Go!</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtLiJkc_MH-Ts4dU5wU01qPAGaIYrDPfxblTfFX8-ibujgqvrZLs8ELXex26jLDHQlbmG9wEj4dg5aKiwBRQMJ9RcLHdQsv0fPNh2wjUhUPq61OsQNJGbNJRR-AH8DSvDI8nDqHRi9JkK/s1600/Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtLiJkc_MH-Ts4dU5wU01qPAGaIYrDPfxblTfFX8-ibujgqvrZLs8ELXex26jLDHQlbmG9wEj4dg5aKiwBRQMJ9RcLHdQsv0fPNh2wjUhUPq61OsQNJGbNJRR-AH8DSvDI8nDqHRi9JkK/s400/Image.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-43689771148917413232013-06-27T03:34:00.000-07:002013-06-27T03:35:27.559-07:00The unknown sower<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_AmRlyUiICKdDitK-OTmmtNinvjtrMq2sfYJDjjKen8Q9dvSH5o5twQKUHqjoOFzeog-hClRZmafYiQsFoglfPdRevg2yBsjSfR0suyX3PcMR3zw1z5Od9CRRg8wQn2oVTIYXWc_5s82S/s1600/IMG_1912_3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_AmRlyUiICKdDitK-OTmmtNinvjtrMq2sfYJDjjKen8Q9dvSH5o5twQKUHqjoOFzeog-hClRZmafYiQsFoglfPdRevg2yBsjSfR0suyX3PcMR3zw1z5Od9CRRg8wQn2oVTIYXWc_5s82S/s400/IMG_1912_3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Driving the shortcuts that get us where we want or need to go, we get used to our routes and concentrate on getting there rather than taking time to admire the passing scenery. One such shortcut I take daily, if not two or three times a day, involves getting out of town and over the bridge with an emphasis on avoiding the deep and varied potholes and high-rise pothole patches which loom as equally destructive to tires and various bits and pieces that hold my car together.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back in the dawn of digital camera time, however, I did notice an extraordinary floral display taking shape on the verge of this otherwise uninteresting (to the determined traveller) route. A wild flower garden began to bloom, and I looked forward to seeing it develop over several days. Blues, yellows, reds, and subtle whites and pinks, became unavoidably part of my morning and afternoon commutes. I looked forward everyday to seeing this display, and one day I decided to stop and take a few pictures.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was lucky I did, because a day or two later, this little garden, perched between the poorly-tended road and a seldom-strolled sidewalk, was gone, mowed down in its prime. It presented itself as a stubbly crewcut of brown stalks and weedy grasses, just like its neighbors.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who planted this little gem? And - who mowed it down, and why? The next year, and the next, and the next, I kept hoping to see the garden rise again, but it didn't. I am glad for that day when I remembered to take my camera and to somewhat self-consciously stop and take the photos, because words can not express the beauty of that little patch of land. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So blessings to the unknown sower; who, for that week or so, bought daily pleasure and thanks into at least one comuters life.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7QIEQ99o0JyKMvyt_jcwKWpdddpO8T4MrDTP7WmJib4BREpybzgvd6iRy-cKaSNFbRvjWqlZPdF_FRpIOJBPfCos-X7GNLNPxoDmoCJc1RiyaKuDmj_dGeolt98nhq66vEqBAlZBwFIWQ/s1600/IMG_1915+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7QIEQ99o0JyKMvyt_jcwKWpdddpO8T4MrDTP7WmJib4BREpybzgvd6iRy-cKaSNFbRvjWqlZPdF_FRpIOJBPfCos-X7GNLNPxoDmoCJc1RiyaKuDmj_dGeolt98nhq66vEqBAlZBwFIWQ/s400/IMG_1915+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-52991627614144678702013-05-10T13:09:00.003-07:002013-05-10T13:09:54.075-07:00The Naming of DogsWhen we knew a puppy was in our immediate future, we made lists of possible names. First was the list of names we liked, but, as it turned out, each of these was already claimed by a child or a dog already on the block. We eventually settled on Joey, and shortly thereafter, a big lumbering Newfoundland hove into view - and his name, alas, was Joey. We had gotten far enough along with Joey that I even had the name tags for his collar - little ones, as would befit a puppy; they sit on the shelf, unattached. I loved the name Mungo, but we had already had two Mungos, and the second one lives in infamy because he ate absolutely everything in sight - from grandchildren's sandwiches (low hanging fruit for Mungo), to pens, pencils, lemon tarts, boxes, homework, and, of course, socks.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDI4BoK8yWZo8pTEwdVrQKeUTqvhTkl-RZMLn2E83YaCBu8QM65RB84-GjEBTfcuqotpNsQVvkmwOUh8O7G_S4SUtCps6IpuYLPqLDMY7hn3jJA6drP-JewrE0VoFhu_nvjSLHmMMW6vLL/s1600/IMG_3481.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDI4BoK8yWZo8pTEwdVrQKeUTqvhTkl-RZMLn2E83YaCBu8QM65RB84-GjEBTfcuqotpNsQVvkmwOUh8O7G_S4SUtCps6IpuYLPqLDMY7hn3jJA6drP-JewrE0VoFhu_nvjSLHmMMW6vLL/s200/IMG_3481.JPG" width="200" /></a>Next I went through lists of saints names. Nothing appealed. I went to the internet. Boys names meaning light, hairy. sweet, speedy, and peace. On to fauna and flora, earth, air, fire, and water. Water. That's where I found it. Dover is a Welsh boys name meaning water. The name suits Dover to a tee. And there are no kids on the block called Dover, although there is a dog up the hill named Dozer. Dover and Dozer are friends.<br />
<br />
Dover will gravitate to any water he can find - rain, the shower, the hose, the spigot, the sea, the pond. So it turned out to be a very fine name. It sounds great, people like to say it, it sounds soft and sweet, and when I announce supper time out the back door, no extraneous kids, dogs, or cats come running down the street to see what's on the table in our house. Only Dover ambles in from the fence up-back for his evening gruel and yogurt, with maybe a little egg or cheese added in as a special treat.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9dILypctyZx5NRlFOJDlYrNso44FCMDSaR3olt67y-bS3wbL2G-4YxkCbGVnb8ds455SQjvSmBiOj6JsJRR5l1mZ-Hp2CpTm10lMLG2dIJbaPlUXQBsot6vZqVvkQVF1A8zCBhf-tyHv6/s1600/image-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9dILypctyZx5NRlFOJDlYrNso44FCMDSaR3olt67y-bS3wbL2G-4YxkCbGVnb8ds455SQjvSmBiOj6JsJRR5l1mZ-Hp2CpTm10lMLG2dIJbaPlUXQBsot6vZqVvkQVF1A8zCBhf-tyHv6/s320/image-2.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dog-paddling with a friend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733399889394977269.post-28775603152099923062013-04-21T13:32:00.000-07:002013-04-21T13:34:06.740-07:00Comparative April Landscapes<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Late April in Western Massachusetts</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Late April in Minnesota</b></span></div>
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NancyLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10552776172473174701noreply@blogger.com0