Starting to say Good-Bye

How do you begin to say goodbye to a home you’ve known for a quarter of a century? Save the farmhouse I grew up in from the time I was nearly three until I was 14, this is the longest I have ever lived in any one place. This was home for me, my husband, for all three of our children, and a second home to my mother during the last several years of her life, because if the truth be told, her first home for many years was the open road.

I know 25 years of stories about the trees in our neighborhood. I know which ones fell in Hurricane Andrew and which ones grew back from their stumps; which ones weathered Hurricane Wilma, and of course, which ones gave it up to Wilma, including the large banyan that took up most of our backyard.  I chose this house for that banyan. I wanted to put roots in deep somewhere, tired of having moved eight times in less than five years at that time, and when I saw the banyan and considered its size and strength, it seemed the perfect metaphor for longevity. How was I to know then that banyans look massive and while the root structure is invasive and can grow to exceed their canopies breaking apart foundations and infiltrating water pipes, their roots are shallow? Anyway, I took one look at the tree and said “this is the house for me.” No matter that the house didn’t really fit us—didn’t fit our needs at the time—but we fit the house. And for 16 years we had the banyan to consider, too.

Well, this is how I am saying goodbye: a little bit each day. I take the three dogs with me on our usual morning walks, sojourns around the neighborhood that is in the process, as my friend Amy says, of “becoming gentrified,” and I speak to the trees, animals, and neighbors still existing, as well as those that are already gone. Today I stopped and looked at what was the O’Brient’s homestead, a single story ranch replaced a few years ago by a massive two-story house and occupied since last fall by a muscular anesthesiologist and his family. I can see the new house, of course, but also the old one as it ghosts its way into my thoughts so instead of the fine paver driveway, I can see the old shell one that preceded it. After Mrs. O’Brient died, sometimes Mr. O. would sit in his station wagon and listen to baseball games. I worried at first that he’d be overcome by heat, sitting in the car, but they had a massive banyan of their own that filled their front yard and shaded the driveway. The tree is still there, still beautiful, trimmed perfectly and surrounded by lush ferns that uncurl their knuckles just enough to brush the swaying tendrils of roots dangling from the tree. As I stood there looking at the past this morning, the doctor came out and waved. I said good-bye to Mr. O’Brient and waved and told the doctor he has the best looking mailbox in the neighborhood. (It’s a white wooden bull terrier that looks just like his real bull terrier.)

The dogs think I’m being too emotional about it all. Texas Pete actually accused me last week of blatant nostalgia. He reminded me that just because our home is going to be knocked down soon, it doesn’t mean something meaningful to someone else won’t spring up to take its place.  He suggested that I let someone else enjoy the mahogany-lined street of Broad Court for the next 25 years. But Scruffy, who understands me the best, said I should just say good-bye to one thing a day, which will allow me to have room to say hello to someone new in San Carlos Park. (He’s a Shih-tzu and exudes a calm and sensible philosophy.) So today, it’s so long to certain neighbors of the past with a grateful nod to the tree that lives on after them.

Steering into the Skid

Florida as we know it has returned!

The dogs have shed their sweaters and the space heater has been stored.

Yet, I can't help feeling that somehow I've arrived at a different place. Like time has been folded and revealed a permanent alteration in my seasons, the same way my brothers and I used to fold the back covers of Mad magazines to discover an entirely different picture. And in part, I'm not ready to give up the sweaters and mufflers myself; part of me has folded a bit and longs to experience real northern winters again, if only for a few days each year.

This is a first for me. I've been content for years now to say to those who attack our southwest Florida seasons as seasonless, "We have our seasons, you just have to be perceptive enough to recognize them." One needs only to watch a Bald Cypress or Tabebuia tree to know that; however, I secretly find that I'm longing for a different sort of winter than I've enjoyed for the last 20 plus years. I miss the falls and winters of my childhood. Roasting winter vegetables and creating hearty stews seem appropriate when there's a chill in the air; cold salads and seafood on the grill less so.

At minimum, the cold weather we experienced brought me back to some basic advice I received in my youth. I've come to remember driving on snow-covered roads in Northeast Arkansas and my mother's advice: "Always steer into the skid."

Now advice like this is always ripe with metaphoric possibility and adolescent incredulity. Really, Mom? Head for danger? When I'm careening out of control, you want me to steer into the skid? I won't begin to really discuss how I've acted on such advice for the better part of my adult life, but certainly bringing Texas Pete into our home is a good and fairly recent example. We all crave a bit of danger and excitement, sometimes even when it seems inappropriate.

In reality steering into the skid was good advice; my mother was one heck of a driver. She started driving at 13 and I can remember clearly at least three times where she steered into the danger of the road and brought us through to tell about it: a drunk trucker near Marked Tree on a long two-lane bridge, an old wooden bodied Chrysler without any brakes on a steep gravel road in Hardy, and a snow-covered highway near Imboden laden with jack-knifed semis.

But then there's the advice that my mother doled out that seemed inane even at the time she gave it, like "Always wear clean underwear and don't give your real name." Or "Boys are like buses, another one will show up in 15 minutes." Or "There's more to school than books; don't forget boys and recess." If I were to try to describe my mother through these sayings I'd paint an entirely different picture of her personality and general ethics, one that is truly nothing like the extremely loyal and morally conscious person I know her to be.

Maybe she secretly longed to be a bit more wild, a bit more like our Texas Pete, and these sayings gave her a little outlet for that desire. Maybe she wished for a different life, or if not entirely different, one with a different set of seasons at least. It seems to me now that her seasons must have been something like this: Spring, the season of fixing fences, planting a garden, and chasing kids. Summer, the season of fixing fences, working the garden, chasing kids and chasing calves. Fall, the season of cutting the hay, getting it stored, harvesting the rest of the garden, butchering, and chasing kids and any remaining cows. Winter, the season of trying to keep everyone warm and well fed and wishing they were all outdoors. I'm sure there were days when all she wanted was to sleep in a bed she didn't have to make and eat a steak she didn't have a personal investment in.

I sometimes look at Texas Pete and wonder if we've done him any big favor. He is for the most part still a wild animal. Truly. Some days he seems to be moving toward becoming one of the Marshmallows, folding a little bit after a couple of seasons inside, a little more docile, a little less hostile. A friend suggested that the life he has now is the one he was supposed to live and the time he spent before us a diversion in his path. I love my Zenic friend, but I'm not good at philosophical concepts like this.

But I have a little advice for Pete. "Steer into the skid buddy; we're waiting for you just this side of danger."

Shadows on a Stone

I think I am slightly preoccupied with death.

I don't like that feeling, worse even saying it, and I'm hoping it is a temporary thing; but there, I've said it.

Perhaps the cause of this preoccupation is seeing my 83 year old mother now in an assisted living facility. Or perhaps it is the news, the constant barrage of stories of death and near death. Or perhaps it is me drawing ever closer to that big 50--five zero--that makes me estimate the years of my dogs' lives in comparison to my own life. I grew up with the understanding that every year a dog lived equated to seven human years. According to onlineconversion.com the calculations differ from the long held seven to one theory, specifically "the formula is: 10.5 dog years per human year for the first 2 years, then 4 dog years per human year for each year after."

If I have this right then Pepper is about 71, Scruffy between 37 and 42, Marisol a sprightly 26, and Texas Pete may be about 29. I've never been good with math (just ask the IRS or my students when I try to divide them into groups) but these numbers present a fascinating range, one that has me trying to figure out everyone's "real age" and wondering where we all fit into this strange pack-turned-family. And how long we can all stay together.

Recently, lots of attention has been focused on finding our "real age" based on environmental, health, and mental faculty factors. 50 is touted as the new 40. 75 the new 60. Apply this theory to dogs. Specifically, Texas Pete. When Katie first rescued Pete and imagined that he'd be living in her household we took him to the vet who estimated that he was between two and three actual years old. Let's just say he was two then and three-and-a-half now. Apply the "real age" theory knowing only that we found him extremely malnourished (ribs and hipbones protruding) apparently living off whatever he could find for an unknown period of time. The brown ring where a collar had rotted away remained obnoxiously obvious for the first four months he was with us (seriously, who wants to wash a savage dog with extremely sharp teeth?) further indicating neglect. A Collier County Animal Control representative who visited our home (yes, Pete has a rap sheet but that's a story for another day) said of Pete, "these poor little guys often get used as footballs. Somebody probably kicked him a lot."

Okay, that's enough to know that environmental factors aged him. Starvation, poor hygiene, and physical abuse. I'm going to guess this aged him a good 15 human years, and as these likely occurred during his formative 10.5 to one ratio years, that would put him at about 45 now in dog years.

But, we must also factor in speed. When Katie first tried to catch Pete (after nearly hitting him with her car as he ran loose in her neighborhood) she called me and said she had found "the fastest chihuahua in the world." And he is fast. He used to run away from our house any time the porch door was open, slipping past us like a greased prayer. He shot out into the neighborhood so quickly we had to look twice to make sure it was actually his tiny body already half a block away before the screen door slammed shut, announcing his departure.

Speed. Pete's built for it and surely running kept him in better cardiovascular shape. He's like Jason Bourne, able to crash through buildings sideways and hit the ground running and ready to dropkick the nearest would-be assassin. So add back in (rather, take away) five years for speed and general buffness and he's closer to 40. Take into account that he came to us surprisingly tick-, flea-, and heartworm-free, and we can grace him with another two years. A young man still at 38. A fact made obvious since he has managed to tear actual wood off of our spa and the porch floor in an attempt to reach the three feral, black and white cats living under the porch. Pete has spent countless hours on that porch, lived there exclusively the first six months he was with us, and he'll be hanged if cats are going to occupy space right under his domain. This is what happens when you relocate into a warm house and become part of the inside pack...cats move into the neighborhood.

But then there's the way he sleeps. Oddly enough it is the sleep of the dead. Jason Bourne might sleep with one eye open, but try and wake Pete from his burrow under a bedblanket with gentle calls of endearment and voila, a 99 year old man, so positively still and quiet I feel the need to pass a mirror under his muzzle to see if it fogs. What does it mean? Did the time spent in the wild foraging for garbage fragments, running the speed of sound, age him that much? Or is he simply deaf like most 99 year olds I know? Of course, that's if you try to wake him. Perhaps he's just playing possum, because should you be unaware that Pete lurks asleep below a blanket and say you are another dog, one of the Marshmallows perhaps, just looking for a nice place to take a snooze atop a bed or sofa and you step on Pete, however unintentionally, he will rise up, a blanket-swathed living Venus fly-trap, and commence to snapping like a steel trap.

This is where the tough math and not-so-tough love comes in. Instead of the 61 years of difference between a 99 and a 38 year old, I'm going to err on the spirit of vigor, the same eternal spirit that makes most of us look in the mirror feeling like we're still a ten year old mentally and wonder "who the heck is that old person?" I can't say if he's always a sound sleeper, but I believe that his environmentally induced sleep pattern adds about ten more years onto his human-based age.

So Texas Pete is 48. In dog years converted to real age human years. Basically, he's my age.

48 in human years is still pretty young. It's the new 30-something. Still young enough to make a difference in someone's life, read thousands of good books, maybe write a couple of good books. Learn to skateboard or ski. See the world.

For a dog, 48 is pretty prime. It's the new 30-something. Still young enough to make a difference in someone's life, sleep thousands of hours, chase hundreds of cats. Learn to sit or stay. See the world.

But sometimes the world Pete and I see is scary. Just this morning we were looking out the kitchen window and I saw out back in the grassy alley that divides our yard and that of a neighbor's a small still body, white and black, evidently one of the feral cats John has had me feeding for a few weeks. One of the small ones from under the porch.

I set Pete down. I washed some dishes and waited to see if the cat would move. It didn't.

I tried to calculate cat years to my own. Were they the same as dog years? I didn't know. It was so small, it had to be one of the kittens. Maybe six months? I went outside to take care of what had to be done. And when I got to the small black and white body lit by sunlight, I was stunned to find it was simply shadows on a white stone. Mango leaves shadowed from the morning sunlight onto a stone roughly the size of kitten.

I estimate the stone is much older than me, possibly thousands of years older than me. I googled for a conversion of a stone's life to a human's. No hits.

A Dog's Life (x 4)

I'm working in my office at home. It's a cubbyhole really, an anthropological study of a small interior room that's been everything from a dining room (its original state where once hung a Munster-family-like chandelier), to my son's bedroom, to an office, then to my mother's bedroom, and back to an office, and then to the youngest daughter's room, then to the eldest daughter's room, and now back to an office, where, amidst the clutter of storage boxes full of papers from our recently sold business and bookshelves housing the college books and papers of the recently graduated eldest daughter and my desk (a salvaged 1955 oak schoolteacher's desk), lie a scattering of four pillows on the floor, four pillows in various shapes and levels of plumpness.

They are dog pillows and each pillow boasts a dog. Small dogs, all. None weigh more than 12 pounds and combined they couldn't form an adult-sized German Shepherd. They could bark it to death, or give it and its owner a good run about our neighborhood, but the Shepherd would still twice outweigh the collective. The four are snoozing on their pillows. A favorite pastime. I recently heard on a radio show that dogs spend about 18 hours a day sleeping and I was so certain that this couldn't be right I began to keep track of their sleep vs awake time, and I'll be...by my calculations our dogs each sleep approximately 21 hours a day, well above average, waking up only long enough to eat, go for walks, and play a game of keep-away or T-Rex or dismember a stuffed toy.

Oh, and bark. When they aren't sleeping they can bark, each with a sound as distinctive as crying babies are to their mothers. And they especially, and most notably, like to bark in their extreme disharmonies, whenever anyone comes to the front door (or I should be so honest as to add, when someone walks or drives by within 2000 feet, when a wind blows, when a leaf falls). They form what looks basically like a trapeze group pyramid, some standing with front legs atop the shoulders of others, and commence upon a communal yowling that my husband John describes as "the sound of a pack of Yetis."

But for now, they sleep. It is unusually cold and they are unusually Floridian and so they are huddled about the small space heater John has set up specifically for them ("it's colder down where they are, low to the ground" he tells me) on their individual little dog pillows.

In brief, the four: Pepper, the oldest and most revered of the pack. He is 14, a long-haired Chihuahua, black with a bit of white, and increasingly gray tufts about his slightly grumpy old muzzle. Scruffy, a pleasant gray and white Shih Tzu and best described as Gumby in canine-mode. His age is a bit of guess, as my youngest daughter, Katie, rescued him prior to his being shipped to the pound by a family who thought he was only two at the time. If they were correct, he'd be over six years now. Marisol, the only girl in the pack, three-years-old and another long-haired Chihuahua who looks like a slightly smaller version of Pepper; she is built low to the ground, all body and short legs and whose nature is as sweet as Pepper's is grumpy. These three comprise the "marshmallows"; dubbed so by my husband, John. And then there's Pete. Texas Pete to be more specific, the most recent addition to this pack, rescued nearly 18 months ago by--who else--Katie. It's best to imagine Texas Pete as ten pounds of unmitigated fury housed in the body of a well-muscled short-haired Chihuahua/Jack Russell mix. John and I have frequent discussions (arguments) on his exact lineage, but for now know that he is a rescued black and white problem-solver with extremely sharp teeth, and a sharper temper, a dog that can become surprisingly docile and loving (but I'd not allow him around children). This is the pack. Joined occasionally by their "cousin", Rasti, Katie's dog, another of her rescues that is best described as a living spring, brindle in color and extremely intelligent (he can talk, I'm not kidding). When Katie brings Rasti over from her house I get to feel somewhat like a grandmother must feel, watching a house full of dogs racing around the house at break-neck speed. Unfortunately, I can only send one of them home at the end of the day.

A final note on this very first day of my very first blogging experience. Yesterday, the mailman came to the door with a certified letter and as he watched the circus-act chaos behind the glass lite beside the wooden front door, he said "How do you stand the noise?"

"They sleep a lot," I told him. "More than most dogs even."

"I don't like dogs. Actually I don't like any animals" he said. "Sign here."

I nodded. I mean, what is there to say? I could make the usual postal jokes, but it's not really funny anymore. I thought about asking what he did like, and could I bring him some of whatever that is, play the postman myself and bring him a book about gardening, or a nice bit of chocolate cake, a seashell, something? Anything? But I didn't. I just took my certified letter and said "well, they are great to watch. They teach me a lot. And they need me."

Of course, part of that is a lie. Because when I get a certified letter, or a not-so-nice email from a student who feels I've shown favoritism, or listen to the international news, or am just feeling rather out-of-sorts, I reach to the nearest pillow where something warm and living shares a bit of space with me in my tiny makeshift office. I know I need them more than they need me.

But, for now they sleep.

Although it is just about time for the mail.