Another year flies by

Here we are at the end of another year. When I was a child I couldn't have imagined living to the year 2011 never mind going into 2012.
As the years get shorter (to me) there seems to be more going on. The weather played a lot in making this year memorable with the flooding that devastated Vermont. But at the same time the stories of strength and resiliently up and down the East coast after Hurricane Irene remain as a large part of the year. 
Days and weeks blur together as I live my life. Bits and pieces pop up forever preserved in my memories. Sometimes it is as simple as the look of a butterfly or the color of a leaf.
The snow has come this winter in fits and starts. A little snow, a little warmth and then some rain. No I don't want a blizzard but some snow cover would be appreciated.
This is just an end of year ramble. What ever pops into my head not necessarily in any particular order. 
I have always had faith that what will be, will be. That our family may go through some bad times but we would all come out of it stronger. Sometimes this happens sometimes it doesn't. In the sense of the word all. Sometimes the individual who strengthens the rest of us doesn't make it. They die. I prefer being up front about the language. We don't 'lose' people. Their physical presence in gone but who they were is still with the people that knew and loved them. Saying we lost somebody refers to misplacing them. Like losing your keys or your sweater. They aren't lost. They are dead. But and there is a but, the memories, the opinions, the way the affected you which in turn you affect others is always there. It goes along and travels through friends and families for reasons we don't understand. It is because of someone far in the past. What they said, what they did. Their name might be forgotten, but a laugh, the twitch of an eyebrow, an attitude and that person is still very much with us. We have lost no one. They are here, within us and around us.
Every new year is just another year. There is not cataclysmic  change. Time does not suddenly change, attitudes are not improved, governments don't suddenly fall out of power and sick people don't suddenly heal. It is a date on a calendar. It putting up a new calendar because we have filled the old calendar up with the minutia of our lives. 
But it is a time to hope. That maybe not on the first day of the new year but through those first weeks we can start to bring about a change. It doesn't have to be world change. It can be just in us. Something small that makes us see the world differently. Something like ripples in a pond will go out and affect others.
My little ripple is I save my change. I donate it to a food pantry and because I do that someone is able to eat and because they ate, their ripple began. It's not much out of my pocket but it is a ripple. We should all try something small and see where the ripples might go. A small gesture, a smile, a kind word, these are ripples that change lives. In recent years I have had 2 people thank me for being nice to them. It changed how they saw themselves. All I was, was nice. But it was a ripple and it spread out and good things happened.
Remember it is the small changes that grow, that become large enough to change your town, your state, your country, the world. But it always take us individuals willing to start the ripples that make the change. One lone candle will not illuminate the night but 100 will, a 1000 more so and a million will make the night bright as day. We have that kind of power. Lets use it to help others and to correct the injustices we see.
May 2012 bring change into your life. Small and wonderful or large and amazing, may it happen to you.

Time really does march on

Okay, so I have already typed and deleted several times now. I am trying to figure out what I am trying to say. Sounds a bit convoluted doesn't it?
Let's see. First, the last time I wrote I was on the fourth day of recovery from some major surgery. Let's say I have had enough time now to be comfortable with my decision. Which is good because there is no going back. My incision is healing but it is itchy and still hurts on occasion. I have been out with the chainsaw working and out with the hubby splitting wood. But I have also had days I was just so tired I took a nap. I am hoping that is the surgery talking and not old age.
Second, maybe age is catching up with me because the hubby and I found out that we are to be grandparents. It's the first one which is very exciting. It may be the only one, which is okay. As long as my son and his wife are happy about this, then, bring it on! I am ready for 'grammy hood'.
Lastly, I talk about this dirt road and how little it has changed over the course of 32 years. Change is inevitable. Like time marching on. We may not want it to do so, but it does. There is no stopping of either. Logging has begun here and our road is changing. 
There are subtle changes which take awhile before you fully notice them. Our beavers are gone. The dam which they so dutifully tended has deteriorated. No, we are not in fear of our road flooding as the overflow is just that. But if the beaver were here, that flow would be otherwise directed.That is mostly how I know they are gone. There is that general air of 'empty'. Like when a house is empty, no one lives there. You drive by and you sense the house is deserted. That is what the beaver pond is like, empty. Yes, all the other creatures which inhabit the area around the pond are still there, but the guardians, the keepers of the pond are gone.
Then there is the obvious change, logging. There are so many pros and cons to be considered with logging. It disturbs wildlife, yet the open areas will encourage wildlife. People need work and this supplies work. Heavy machinery tears up the land. A contentious logger will try to repair what he has damaged. Back and forth it goes. I am sad to see the trees laying on the side of the road waiting for the logging truck to come and haul them away, but, and there is a but. I have myself purchased a 'cherry' picker load of logs because that is how we heat our home and our water. And that load has already warmed me twice. Once in the cutting, once in the splitting and a last time will be in the burning. If I had been the one stacking the wood, I would have gotten warmed four times from those logs. 
There is no good answer. It's just change, time moving forward. But there are moments when time stops. Ever so briefly. And we catch those glimpses that take our breaths away. And then we move forward once again.
 
 

4 days

A year ago I made a decision to have a body altering operation. When I had breast cancer 12 years ago the concern was getting the cancer out and not how my breasts looked afterwards. And I lived with that. Not always comfortably, but I was still alive. It came to my attention a few years ago that breast reconstruction would be covered under my insurance as part and parcel of my cancer treatment. And it didn't matter how long after the surgery it was, this 'cosmetic' procedure would be covered. My hubby and could have never been able to afford it otherwise.
You would think it was a no brainer. Fix the size difference? And we aren't talking a little difference. I had bought special bras even a prosthetic. But I was never really comfortable. And the longer out from the original surgery the worse it got. Mother nature and gravity were not being kind.
But surgery is a big step. Nothing to just jump into if you have a choice. Even if it a quality of life choice. It is a risk, a danger and damn it can hurt.
I am 4 days out from my bilateral reduction mammoplasty or 'boob job'. After surgery I closed down the recovery room. I was the first one in surgery that morning and the last one out of recovery and I was far from being recovered. So I was moved to the 3rd floor which in my state of mind had the ominous sound of the last place you stopped before the morgue.  I had no problem that they wanted to send me home. Now-a-days the less time in a hospital the better. But I didn't feel good. Really not good at all. My reaction to the anesthetic this time was completely different than my previous 2 operations. Nausea was my companion. Constant, overwhelming and only leaving during those time were I fell asleep. Pulling me back out of the depths of sleep to hit me again and again in waves. Unable to vomit because of the lack of food and unwilling to start dry heaving this went on for hours. I was out of surgery at 2 p.m. but unable to leave the hospital till 9 p.m.  But finally some cracker and ice cream made it through and quelled (if only temporarily) the urge to toss my cookies.
Today I woke up at 4 a.m. I missed most of the weekend in a fog of nausea (oh yea, it came back), painkillers and sleeping. Yes I was functioning, on FB, even talking to friends on the phone. But I wasn't me. I had big breasts. Okay, one was big and the other not so much. But they were mine. Now I have small breasts. Uniform in size. As symmetrical as two parts on one body should be. There are lots of stitches. My incision goes from armpit to armpit and goes up and around the aureoles. (My surgeon told my hubby I have 3 feet of stitch material in me.) I have so much surgical tape holding the incisions together (I think of me as a badly wrapped package, lots o'tape)  as a secondary (and precautionary) measure that at this point in time I just want to start removing them.
I admit I have been looking at them, these breasts. And I finally am learning to accept them. They are part of how I look now. The word perky floats around a lot with these new fixtures. I haven't been perky, well I am not sure I was ever perky. Not in thought, word, deed or look. But now I have perky right up front and attached to my chest. 
I will have to do some work on my belly and waist now and no, I don't mean more surgery. I can achieve some sort of change on my own through diet and exercise in those regions. But I could do nothing with my breasts. 
But this morning as the sun has rose shining it's gold and pink light through the bare branches of the November skyline I realized how lucky I am. I have come through to the other side. Finally, gratefully and gracefully (I hope) accepting a gift handed to me. I received a similar gift 12 years ago when my cancer was found, I was given my life through surgery and radiation. Now I have been given a renewal to that life. An encouragement to continue with walking down this dirt road. Not to give up. Never to give up. 
So as soon as the okay is given I will start walking again. Who knows where this dirt road will take me?
 

Where are the beavers?

My dirt road is changing and I can say I have mixed feelings about change out here. As I walked the road a couple of weeks ago I stopped as I always do to admire the changing scenery around the beaver pond. I spied two heads in the water. Diving under and coming back up. And I realized they were not beavers but otters. Beavers are industrious and swim with a purpose. They have places to go and things to do. Otters frolic. They dive, they surface, they enjoy the water. They will get where they need to be when they get there. I enjoyed watching the two for awhile and I continued on my way and they continued on theirs. 
It wasn't till about a week later I realized the beavers were gone. I don't know if the flooding from tropical storm Irene forced them to seek new areas to dam or if the pond they lived in was no longer viable or if they had been hunted and killed. All I know is when I walk by the pond now the dam they worked so hard and so constantly on is changing. Water is spilling across the top. I know if the beavers were here they would make adjustments, allowing the water to go down the spillway they have created but never just across the top. 
It's sad. That pond has been here since my husband and I bought our property almost 32 years ago. It is part of my life here. To be able to watch the flight of a great blue Heron as it comes and goes between the pond and the creek. To see and hear the Canadian geese as they announce their arrival each spring. To know that moose, deer and a variety of wildlife are sustained by that pond and the woods that surround it. That is what makes it special. 
I have been given a great blessing by being able to live on a dirt road in Vermont. One that I would have never imagined when I was young. I have been able to stand in the center of a vortex and watch the world spin around me and yet be able to look down and see that familiar dirt road under my feet and know that I am truly home.
I don't know where the beavers went. I don't know if they will be back or if a new family will come to take their place and restore the dam. I do know sometimes we are given great gifts and that something as simple as a beaver pond can be a great gift. 
I could ramble on about the beauty I have seen there or the many mosquitoes that have swarmed me as I stood foolishly looking at that scenery. But instead I will just paraphrase the old line about not knowing what you have till it's gone. Take time to take a breath and enjoy the scenery. We only get to do this once. And then the dam breaks and its all gone.

Breasts and other such things

12 years ago I had breast cancer. I had a lumpectomy, where the surgeon Dr. R took a section out of my breast about the size of a lemon (with a pea sized tumor inside). So I have a lovely 3 " scar there and the old left breast is definitely smaller than the right. I also have a lovely scar under my left armpit where a 'pad' of lymph nodes were removed so their tiny carcasses could be taken to a lab and checked out for cancer. Probably the same lab my new pea size but encapsulated in a lemon size piece of flesh went. So as they say, 'the girls no longer looked alike'.
It wasn't bad the first few years. But something changed. Having a large right breast might have thrown off my center of gravity. Or because the small left one felt lonely it often tries to shift over and hang out with righty. I have spent oodles of money on special bras to contain the girls. Even a prosthetic which like a booster seat  gets that left side a bit higher and in a more normal position. Nothing works. One side is appreciably larger than the other side. Then mother nature steps in and starts th down ward progress of these poor pilgrims.
What is a girl to do? The obvious choice after going through an array of non-surgical one it give in to the dark art of 'plastic' surgery. Which I really never understood why plastic? Has plastic ever really been used in these types of surgeries? And I am not talking the body modification types were some one want bumps on the head to look like budding horns.
I am talking about the surgery that some people seem to be addicted to. The kind that can change your body into something it was never meant to be and sometimes the idea is better than the results. You've seen those people on magazine covers or listened to their woes on TV. They weren't happy with what God gave them so then went out and changed it. Suck some fat from here and stick it back in over there. Get cheek bones implanted, eye lifts, plump lips. spend a fortune to try to look like some one else.
I feel like and older car. I would just like a little body work so I can continue to function. Men have no clue about how uncomfortable bras are and how uncomfortable it can be not to wear a bra. They don't make bras that fit me. I am not sure it my cup size is really a DD or is that just trying to compensate the 2 different breast?
I don't want another operation. I am looking forward to this as much as I would to having a tooth pulled. I do not doubt the skill of my surgeons, or the hospital I will be at or the care of the nurses. I don't want to count my life by operations or illness or pills taken. I want to count my life on a daily basis. That I did a good job at my chosen job, being a wife, a soul mate, the yang to his ying. I have already lost so many days due to migraines. The day of, sometimes the day after. I don't give up my time that easily. We all so little of it. It's okay the bits and pcs can float off on occasion. But whole days in pain, days that are forgotten. I just want to get through this surgery. It has taken me 5 long years to make the decision and now I am 9 days away from it. I'm scared. This time around I don't have Gracie to hold onto. My little dog who went through so much with me. I don't have her ear to whisper my fears into. I just have this laptop, this keyboard. I'm scared. I found the first time around that you can have your loved ones waiting for you, you can have prayers said for you, but it's still you going under the knife and you waking up in who knows what kind of pain. That's scary. You have to live inside your own head and think about best/worse scenarios. Oh and there are some beauts inside my twisted little skull. Ending up like the hunchback with boobs on my back. Heavens how did they get back there? Or like some fat old lady the just forgot where she put them. 'Honey could you look in the back closet? I know I let them somewhere. How about under the couch?' My mind runs amok among the improbable, the unlikely, the twisted, even the dying on the table. 'Sorry sir but her heart gave out.'
And after the original operation I ended back in the hospital a couple of time with massive infections from who knows where cause the doctors did seem to have a clue. Just kept getting bags of antibiotics poured into my veins. And personally my veins don't like their space invaded. They collapse and try to hide. That is not a lot of fun.
I will have it done, but meanwhile the little creatures are crawling around inside my head pulling this string and that. Taking out the crayons and drawing pictures on the backside of my eyes that are totally unpleasant. And do you think somewhere on the damn internet I could find serious pictures of what a breast reconstruction looks like? NO! Just a bunch of women showing the world their really small to gigantic boobs. I want to see real life boobs that have undergone this procedure. Then I will feel better. But for now, me and the saggy, baggy lopsided boobs are heading off to la-la land. Maybe the answers are in my dreams and maybe not. But its worth a shot. Night all!!!!

Routines

My day starts something like this, my husband leaves for work and Tallulah wants to go out. We wake Max up so he can go out too. I find my slippers and stagger behind an anxious puppy and ahead of a stiff legged old dog. They go out to contribute to the world and I find my electric tea pot, put enough water in and stand there, stupefied watching my pot boil. The dogs do not demand reentry to the house as much as stand in front of the sliding glass door looking in at their food bowls, water bowls and generally comfortable life. Dreaming of the good life. I open the door and I get two attitudes. Tallulah is all puppy with her jumping around, happy to be back inside, life is good attitude. Max is, 'about damn time'. 
I walk back over to where my tea pot sits on the counter. In the same area is an old wooden box from some long ago cheese shipment. This is where the doggie treats are. Their neat package standing, waiting for distribution to the poor starving animals. I dole out 2 pieces, 1 for each dog. Turn around put my tea bag in my mug and pour the hot water. 
As my kitchen is small, as in 2 people are a crowd small, all counter tops are a step sideways or just turn around to reach. This time of the day it is just turn around and set my mug down. I count out my daily doses of vitamins while my tea bag seeps and the dogs eat their treats. By the time my little pile of healthy pills is set my tea is at the strength I desire and I remove the tea bag. I have a little plate that the bag goes on as I am too lazy at any given time to walk the 7 feet or so over to the trash. It is an old plate probably from the 1930's which depicts a tea pot. I have just the one plate actually it's a saucer missing its own tea cup. Some how it tickles my funny bone that I put my used tea bags on this plate. Then it is a little sugar and at my age some soluble fiber added to my hot tea. A quick turn around and the fridge door is open and I grab my 1/2 and 1/2 to add to my tea. That done, the fridge door closed, I grab another treat to split between my wee beasties, pick up the handful of pills and take a sip of  hot tea before heading back up stairs to the sanctity of my room.
Tallulah bounces up and down the stairs as Max and I slowly proceed upwards. In my room the pills are put in a small dish to await consumption  and my tea is set down on the night table. The last treat is distributed somewhat unequally between the two mutts. Max getting the slightly bigger half. After all, age does have its privileges. Tallulah jumps up into my bed and Max retreats to his own. I get comfortable, my vitamins and tea within reach and I power up my laptop. Between sips of tea and vitamins I check my Facebook account, the local paper (online version of course), my emails and whatever else grabs my fancy.
From my bed I can check the weather as I can see out 2 windows. If the windows are wet then it must be raining. White covered trees? Must be snow. Small rainbows dancing on my walls? Must be sun. Rainbows? I have my mother's crystal necklace strung across the window, so when the sun comes out, I have rainbows.
When the tea is finished and the laptop powered down that is when my 'real' day starts. The wifely duties of cleaning and cooking. The creative genius deciding what kind of trouble, oops! creation can I make today. All the me(s) come together at this point and the routines dip and swirl, alter, change and life goes forward.
No matter what we say, we all have routines. No matter how wild, crazy or sedate we are there is a certain rhythm to our lives. How we start our days, move through the hours of the day  and finally how we end our day. It's okay, we don't have to be unpredictable because somewhere in our day that comes to play. From an unexpected phone call, to saying the hell with the housework, we also break our routines everyday. 
What words of wisdom to close this? I don't have any. Just enjoy your day. Take those moments expected and unexpected, routine or not and savor them. Just like I enjoy watching my beasties in the morning with their treats or how I love the taste of that first cuppa in the morning. It's my routine and frankly, I like it.

October ends

The colors that are now predominate in our landscape are those of green, yellow and brown. The only red to be seen is to be found on our blueberry bushes, our japanese red maple and the red berries found on wild bushes.
The hummingbirds have long flown away to southern climes and day by day the large flocks of geese pass overhead calling out to each other and to me as they begin their journey.
It is almost the end of fall. Pumpkins are being carved in anticipation of Halloween, apples are being made into sauce and cakes, dried and frozen in anticipation of winter. We patiently wait as the cold nights and frosty mornings bring out the sweetness in our small patch of Gilfeather turnips and brussel sprouts. Garlic is to be planted in hopes of a good crop next July and the perennial beds need a little grooming and care before the ground freezes and the snow comes.
Life flows with the seasons. It changes gradually and we almost miss some parts of it. In August I begin to notice the yellow that starts to appear on the mountains and by mid-October the leaves have changed from green to red, orange, gold and more. 
I take time each year to walk a little slower down our dirt road. To spend time kicking through the dried leaves. To listen to their crunch as I step on them. This brings back fond memories of my mother and fall. She loved to kick through the leaves.
My mother's life was not easy growing up. They were poor and her father died when she was young. This was the one time as a child when I saw in my mother what she may have been like as a child before the weight of the world settle on her shoulders and made her bitter.
She would take me up to Mt. Holyoke College which was about 5 miles from our house. They had lovely trails through the campus and woods. No one raked up the leaves to make things nice and tidy. Here they lay scattered like a rug of many hues. We would always start of at a walking pace. Just slow enough to shuffle through the leaves and let them slide off our shoes. Our pace would pick up and we would shuffle and run, kicking the leaves up and around us. The trees, always being agreeable, would continue to drop their leaves on us like so much colored confetti. We would save brightly colored ones and have fistfuls because there was so much beauty in them that we couldn't pass one up. It would be a glorious hour or two every fall. Just the two of us and the leaves. A couple of kids having fun like kids should. Even though one of those 'kids' was my mom.

Being a survivor

What is being a survivor? The definition according to Webster is:

to continue to function or prosper despite : withstand <they survived many hardships>

— sur·vi·vor noun
I have been trying to write something about surviving, being a survivor. But no matter what metaphor I think of, what analogy I come up with, they don't seem right.
I am a survivor. I had breast cancer in 1999. I had a lumpectomy, a lymphectomy, I have 3 small pinpoint dot tattoos that mark my radiation site. 
October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. Let no one ever tell you that you do not need a mammogram before the age of 50 if there is no history of breast cancer in your family or that it isn't important or you shouldn't worry about it. I was 45 with no history of cancer in my family, really didn't think having a mammogram was a big deal (I had already cancelled one appointment) and I wasn't worried about the appointment I was at (it was my first mammogram, I mean really, me? cancer?).   What more can I add?
Oh, except the geeky part....live long and prosper.

A bad day

What defines a bad day? Is it the rain, cold, heat, people? Today should have been a good day for me. I accomplished a lot. The usual household chores of cleaning and laundry. Then I mounted 5 large photos from the recent Irene flooding for our community dinner tomorrow night. Pictures that I took and that even though the camera may not be the best, those pictures are great (my personal opinion seconded by my hubby). I went to the farmer's market and didn't even have to cook dinner.
It wasn't even dealing with a doctor's office where even though I have been there, signed papers and agreed to major surgery, they don't seem to know me. Nope that wasn't it.
It was the fact I missed my dog Gracie today. Even though Tallulah (our new baby) is a wonderful dog and I have quickly fallen in love with her, I miss Gracie. It just sneaks up on me. And it makes the day a bad day. Because no matter what, I end up crying. I know tomorrow will be better and this will eventually end but it still hurts. 
Sometimes I wonder if Gracie doesn't represent more. I had cancer in 1999. My Dad died in 2000. Some where in between that and my mother's death in 2005 I had a hysterectomy. And Gracie was with me through everything. Now I am facing another surgery and she isn't here. Not that my husband isn't great. He is. But she was the one I whispered my fears to, she was the one that took my secrets with her to the grave. I have mentioned before sometimes you don't want to share your fears with those you love because it may hurt them. And first and foremost as a wife and mother, as a daughter and sister, I don't want my family hurt. So in Gracie's ear I whispered my deepest fears of being sick, dying and losing those whom I loved and into her fur I wept.
The beauty of animals is that they listen. I don't know if they understand but they curl up next to you and let you pour out your heart. They will not give you advice or admonish you for making a mistake. They will look at you with adoration and dry your tears with their tongues. Even now Tallulah is curled up next to me. Worn out from a day of running, exploring and being loved. Yes, I do love her. Differently and the same as all the animals through the years. I will continue to miss Gracie. She was special but eventually thinking about her won't make a bad day. It won't bring tears and all those bittersweet memories associated with her with fade. I can't explain in words what she represented in those 15 years she spent with me, my husband and my sons. But she was important. I would hope in everyone's lives they should have an animal like that. Well I guess you just have to be an animal lover to understand that part of it. 

Peace in the morning

I can think of no better way than to start the day peacefully. To be able to sit in my bed, tea within reach, blind open to view the trees and a warm dog by my side. Well this morning at least it is happening after having a little dog face pop up into my face as I tried to pretend I was sleeping. She had heard my husband preparing for his day down in the kitchen and she knew that meant is was time for her to get up. This is the newest addition to our family, Tallulah Belle, a five month old 'schnorkie'. Go ahead and guess what combo that is. I say mutt, my son says, designer dog.
I still haven't gotten over Gracie. She is a hard dog to recover from but I realized I had a hole in my heart that needed something. Max our sweet terrier is 14 years old. He is fat, slow, sometimes unsteady on his feet and I love him like crazy. But a thought crept into my head if there wasn't another dog in the house when Max made his final exit, what would I do? It would be like losing Gracie and Harry all over again plus Max. I couldn't stand the thought. So Tallulah has come into our lives. Max is not thrilled but tolerant. And Tallulah? She is a puppy, thrilled and exuberant in life. Either going full speed or crashed into an inky black spot on the floor. Chewing her toys or trying to bring in large pieces of tree bark into the house to chew. Hiding her treats behind the ficus or the husband's size 13 boots so Max (and maybe me) won't find them.
She reminds me of how glorious the world really is. In a time were people are looking at their losses from tropical storm Irene, she is the reminder that there still is wonder and goodness out there. Even though our community was not as heavily damaged as others. In my daily routines of shopping or traveling about the area. I am reminded constantly of what other people have lost and it is hard on the soul and spirit to see such loss. And it bring back the memories of when we lost our home and all our processions in a fire. Tallulah eases the stress. How can I not laugh when I see her running through the long grass, finding herself lost 5 feet away from the driveway? The world is a jungle for this small dog and she faces it head on and at full speed. No it may not be the wisest course of action but it is a wonder to watch. And to me she reflects the rebuilding of Vermont. People are facing the devastation head on and are going full speed ahead. Temporary bridges are being put into place, some roads may not get fixed till next year but most are passable. People have relocated. Funds have been raised and are continued to being raised to help those in need. Of course there are stories of greed, of those who would take advantage of this situation or any that would make them money. But the bigger stories are those of recovery. And that is what I focus on.
During the storm and after the smell in the air was that of dirt. Farm land and yards swept away and floating down the many creeks, streams and rivers. Then it changed. You could smell the decay. The waters looked like light coffee flowing between the banks. It was brown, chocolate, foaming, swirling, full of debris. Depositing the debris where ever it could. Trees, brush, bridges, houses found miles from where they came from. And it smelled. Not the earthy smell of walking in the woods but the smell of a dump. 
The waters have receded and life goes on. I have a new pup and she brings me great joy and at the same time sorrow. She reminds me of what was and what is to be. But that is okay. The sun is coming out, it looks golden and the leaves through my window reflect the sunlight in the raindrops left on them. The geese fly overhead crying and talking to each other. My pup is asleep and I am happy. Even Max is snoring away in his bed. What could be better? This is a perfect moment. We all have them we just have to recognize that we do. And with that we go on, just like Tallulah, running head long into our futures.

A new month....

It has been almost a month since I last posted here. Almost a month since I last took a walk down my dirt road. Why so long? I don't really know. But Sunday changed my attitude. Or should I say Monday did. Sunday was a day full of rain as Irene hit Vermont as a tropical storm. I guess the problem is we aren't a tropical kind of state. By the time Monday morning came with its clear blue skies and fresh breeze the amount of damage done by this storm was starting to be realized. Land, buildings and lives had been lost. What was, was no longer. Our serene state was filled with the cries and tears of hundreds if not thousands. We were rudely jarred out of what might be called by some 'the Vermont state of mind'.
I was asked to take pictures of the road damage in our little town. So my husband and I got into our vehicle and spent the next 5 hours driving and walking the roads of our town. I walked were I have never walked before. I walked over gravel, stones and climbed over boulders. I walked up and down roads familiar to me only from the view through my windshield. Then finally today I walked my road. I had stopped and taken pictures of the damage to my road on Monday but I didn't walk it. Our road was still fairly intact on the west end so we were not completely cut off from the rest of the town or state. But today the road called out to be walked once again.
The damage is minimal relatively speaking. Bit and pieces missing, ferns, grasses, small trees and brush bruised and damaged by the swift flowing water. Our road crew will eventually get here and fix what issues need to be fixed. Our road is not on the top of the list as we still can come and go as we please. Our electricity will eventually be turned on and the sound of the generator will be silenced till the next time it is needed.
Today it was different. As I walked I could hear in the distance the 2 town dump trucks burdened with gravel coming and going on Herring Hill. Around me was the vague hum of generators. The air doesn't smell so strongly of dirt today. On Monday that was the pervading smell, dirt. Dirt from farms and yards. Silt that had followed the current through our beaver pond leaving an edge visible to the naked eye between dirt laden water and clear water. Marking its trail as it ran through the woods to catch up once again with creek in once was a field. Leaving behind a fragrance of dirt. Today the creek runs clear again unlike the rivers still carrying the debris and dirt further south.
I listened to the screech of the hawk, the call of the birds. I saw the bees and the dragonflies. I marveled how the world had changed yet stayed the same. My thoughts went to the survivors of Katrina and other disasters and I wonder if this was how they felt. Coming out and seeing that everything had changed but somehow, it was still the same.
Is this what makes us go on? Even knowing that it can all be wiped out. All the years, the work, everything can be gone in an instant. But yet we do it again and again. We pick up the pieces, move the dirt, get the hammers out and start again from nothing. In five years will a stranger coming into town have to be told of what was? Will this be the stories told in the future? 
I remember as a kid seeing a pole down on Rte. 47 in Hadley, MA. It stood in front of an old house and in very neatly lettered hand on small wooden plaques were dates and depths. For this is how they measured how high the Connecticut River had rose in that spot over the years. Will the date August 28, 2011 be neatly painted on a plaque in Brattleboro and place on a building benchmarking where the water rose to? Will there be a memorial in Wilmington, Grafton, Wardsboro or any of the towns so devastated by this disaster? 
I don't know any of the answers but I do know what I see and hear from the people of this town and the residents of this state. They will rebuild if they can. They will stay here if at all possible and they will help their neighbors without being asked. In some cases even before they help themselves.
It tears at your heart when you see so many suffer. But it also opens your heart to being able to care more for others. I am very proud to live in this state. And even though I am not a 'Vermonter' by birth I am by choice. This is where I have chosen to live and hopefully where I will end my days, in Vermont.

Geese!

I had mention how quiet our dirt road has been since the mysterious disappearance of our Canadian geese. Well this morning the silence was broken. Two geese flew overhead while I was taking my walk. I won't pretend to understand where they have been or why only 2 have come back, but I am glad to see and hear them.
The veggie gardens are in full glory right now. Yep, I'm one of those mad gardeners that spends the winters dreaming of fertile soil and seeds. I have a stack of catalogs for seeds, gardening supplies and books about gardening next to my bed. My bookshelves are filled with volumes of books on gardening, about gardening and anything having to do with growing plants. Yes, I love to garden.
The thrill of it I suppose, is the fact that during the winter I know it is all out there but somehow with the cold and snow I forget about how glorious it all can be. From the first blush on the maples till they drop that last scarlet leaf it is all somehow it is all magical. To think in April the sides of the road were bare. Brown dead grasses, leaves and assorted debris lay there. Now the grasses have heads nodding in the breeze full of seed for next years crop of plants. The trees are covered with leaves, large, small, sharp edged and lobed. Birds have come and raise their broods in and around my gardens. My ornamental grasses are four feet high or taller. Every day I am awed by the colors and different sizes of the daylilies. My 'Winky Pinky', a lovely conical shaped hydrangea has formed flower heads that although white right now will change to pink. There are pumpkins, squashes and beans. Gilfeather turnips are growing larger as I type this.
Of course with all this glory comes the weeds. I don't even know the names of half of them. Some are grasses, some have flowers but all are just ticking me off. I always have good intentions of mulching, keeping ahead of the weeds. But suddenly I look out and there they are, silently and stealthily creeping, crawling and winding their way into my gardens. Now some I don't mind. I have a lovely stand of 'Joe Pye Weed'. Tall and graceful and to me smelling slightly of baby powder. The golden rod just pops with it's bright yellow. But others like bind weed, jewel weed and crab grass just drive me nuts. Some areas it doesn't matter if a few weeds should pop in. There are so many perennials that they almost choke out the weeds. This is the part of gardening I could do without. Or at least I could do with somebody else doing the weeding.
But it is all good. Fall will come, the gardens will get cleaned up and out. The geese will leave (and this time I will know why). Winter will come, the ornamental grass will eventually succumb to the weight of the snow and disappear under it. The 'Winky Pinky' blossoms will turn brown and be blown away. I will forget promises made to myself about gardens and weeds and how much work it all is. Sometime in November the first catalog will arrive with pictures of veggies and flowers and promises of next spring. And I will fall in love with the whole idea again. And then I will wait to hear the geese. Knowing if they are here, spring cannot be far behind. And hopefully next year our dirt road will not have to endure that silence again. After so many years living here I have gotten use to the ebb and flow of life. And I expect that it will not always be the same. But the geese seem to be my constant. They reflect the rhythm of the seasons. I hope as long as I live on this dirt road the geese will continue to come and I will hear them and see them in their daily flights. It's one of the things that makes living out in 'the boonies' worthwhile.

Summer 'tails'

The end of July is in sight. Summer is slipping away from us faster than it came to this dirt road. The road has been strangely silent with the disappearance of our Canadian geese. I understand from some of my more knowledgeable neighbors (at least when it comes to wildlife). That geese will sometimes leave an area when their breeding season has been unsuccessful. And this year our cool, damp spring was particularly damaging to egg layers at least around here. Another neighbor has said that she saw 3 turkey hens but only one chick between them. Usually there will be a dozen or more. On the other hand the black bears have been around several houses on our road. In all the years I have lived here that is unusual. Bears and people don't mix and both sides do like to keep their distance. Well normally we do. There has been one report in VT were a woman who fed the bears (believe me, this is not the smart thing to do), ended up being mauled by one of them. I admit I love the wildlife, turkeys, foxes, bears, the whole group of them but I like them at a distance. It's safer for all involved.
The summer season is a very busy one up here. Us gardeners and all the farmers have to get a lot of work in during a very short season. A few weeks ago my pumpkin plants were just 6 or so inches high. Now they have grown at a steady pace and have made their way to the lawn. Why we have a lawn is beyond me. The gardens just keep closing in on it. There are some pumpkins set along with the squashes. Lots of green tomatoes with the cherry tomatoes just starting to come in. Lettuce, chard and spinach were pretty steady. Broccoli was so-so and is now gone by. Beans (3 different kinds) are coming in at a rampant pace. Turn your back too long and you have more than you will ever know what to do with.
All and all its been a fairly good season. I have put up quite a bit of strawberry/rhubarb (berrybarb) and blueberry/rhubarb (bluebarb) jam. Enough that I can give a few jars away. Of course the hubby went and did the blueberry picking for me, so there are 18 qt. bags of frozen blueberries. You just have to love this time of year. Things are a-poppin'.
Speaking of which, I have this water feature at the edge of our patio. Its really a big 100 gallon Rubbermaid water trough. But I have turned it into a little oasis which my goldfish and water plants spend the summer. I bring my more tropical plants, the jasmine, bougainvillea, bleeding heart vine and elephant ear up from the greenhouse, then put the 6 ft. braided ficus next to it. Surrounded by those plants and my perennials its quite nice. Then a little pump with fountain complete the scene. Every year I purchase a water hyacinth to float in the water. The goldfish just love to nibble on the roots and it helps keep the water reasonably clean as I don't have a filter system. This year something has happened that I have yet to make sense of. There are black baby fish in the water. Anywhere from a 1/2" to 1 1/4" long. Black not gold. I don't know where they came from and its sort of obvious from their sizes that they vary in age. Could they be flying fish? Might they have flown out of the beaver pond or creek and seeing a nice, small, quiet retreat landed in my water trough? It is a mystery. But one that great 'tails' might come from.

Walking with the dog

Max is the last of our dogs. Sort of the middle child in age (now 14) he was never the gentle, laid back type of dog like Gracie or the spoiled child of my hubby dog like Harry. He went along with the pack because that is what he did.
I think he misses his 4 legged siblings. Now he follows me or the hubby around almost constantly, keeping us with eyesight. And he wants to take walks again. 
I try to get out and walk 6 days a week, 2-3 miles at a time. Max stopped taking walks years ago as sore joints, a portly physic and his own set of allergies sidelined him. In his youth he climbed up and down the ditches and banks of this dirt road. Avidly smelling and searching for the creatures that produced the smell (and sometimes finding them). Although a fox terrier he wasn't really very good at hunting but he loved to move. Running and walking in that high prancing step of a terrier 20 feet for every 2 I went. He was amazing to watch. But after awhile going out to do 'his duty', coming down for dinner and the occasional walk to the bottom of the driveway were enough. He preferred to lay on my bed in front of the window and guard the world from the safety and security of the house, much like Harry.
Today I looked behind me and there was my shadow Max. I decided I would be willing to slow down if the ol' boy thought he could make the 2 miles. It might take me longer but that was okay. So Max and I continued on. He made the 2 miles! It was a little slow, not the wild walks of youth but Maxie stopped and sniffed and left behind some remembrances for other animals out there. It was all good.
When we got home he had his treat, drank up some water and laid on the cool tile floor. He's a little stiff but I'll slip him a baby aspirin later to help with the sore joints. I wonder if he know how much he is helping me. Maybe I am helping him. But I know we both miss the rest of the pack. 
I can't imagine what life would be without an animal. Without that special bond. I hope Maxie hangs around till I can make that decision whether or not to add to our pack. Meanwhile, I will walk slower if he wants to come along.
 

Moving on...

In recent weeks I have be involved in the drama of my own life that I hadn't noticed something was missing from this dirt road. Our Canadian geese have left the beaver pond. The pond which is now graced with elderberry's blooming at the spillway and white water lilys floating among the green lily pads is quiet. No longer do the geese take to the air for their morning and evening flights between the pond and Mike's field. I walked by the field today and there was a family to turkeys rooting about in a pile of hay left for the cattle. A flock of redwing blackbirds broke from the tall grass startled as I walked by. The crows noisily 'talked' to each other as they hopped from branch to branch on the trees by the edge of the field. But there were no geese. Not Walker with the bad wing or any of his extended family. No goslings following the mom around, no geese paddling away in the stream. They have moved on. Left for some unknown reason to me. And I am saddened by this.
Unlike suburban or urban areas where geese can be an annoyance or a danger, here they still live freely. Of course we didn't have a huge flock of them, only 6 at most. And they seemed content to have the beaver pond and to have Mike's field. Occasionally when they had goslings you might see a group hurriedly waddling down the road to get from pond to field. They were welcomed guests in the spring when the first flyover came with much joyous noise from them. As if they were letting us know they had returned. I have had them fly low enough over me that I could hear the air rush over their outstretched wings. 
I will miss them. And I hope that maybe next spring they will return. There is just something wonderful about watching the sky in the evening when the sun is turning the clouds gold, pink and red and seeing the outline of this great bird flying gracefully calling to its mate and family saying, 'I am here, follow me, lets go home.'

Changes

Remember that Beatles song 'Changes'? Well the dirt road is changing. No matter how much we would like things to stay the same they are continually changing. 
Logging has come to our road. Not for the first time nor for the last. When we bought our property some 30 years ago a lot of the land surrounding us had been logged. Even now 30 years later you can see where a skidder left its ruts. They are large relentless machines with a job to do, pulling logs out of the woods. Down at the far end of McKusker Rd. which connects to my road is a large logging operation. Even though they are over a mile away I can hear the skidder, the chainsaws and the cherry picker as they do their work. Cutting trees down, pulling the logs out and loading them up to go to a mill somewhere. Double logging trucks hauling out the logs of every size and length.
Then much closer to home is a smaller operation. But with the same results. The woods that I only discovered last year with the original road are to be logged.
But this is life. In the late 1800's there were very few trees on this dirt road. This was farming land. Pastures for sheep and cows, acres of apple trees. Fields to grow corn and vegetables. And maple trees for sugaring. Trees were for cutting down, milling, burning, fence posts. The only trees needed were the ones that could make you money or feed your family. The rest, no matter how magnificent, beautiful or large were impractical. Life was living off the land and the land still has many scars to show how we mistreated it.
Rock walls line either side of the dirt road and wander off deep into the woods marking what use to be the fields and pastures of the families that lived here. Eventually the families left, the stones tumbled off the walls and trees reclaimed the fields and pastures. Sandy soil supports more of the pines while richer soil grows the sugar bush and hardwoods. Its not to say they don't mix but you can tell your soil by what grows in it. Now the trees have matured and the fields and pastures have disappeared. The trees have become the currency of the day. Just like they were 30 years ago, 60 years ago or a hundred years ago. Once again they will support some families.
Its sad but it is what it is.

Is this grief?

When my parents died Dad in 2000 and Mom in 2005 I mourn their passing. The 2 people that had shared my childhood were now gone. Not having sibling growing up there were no other people in the world that knew the story of my have been 'chosen'. Adopted to those uninitiated. But the thing was we had lived apart longer than together. In fact they lived in Florida longer that I lived with them. Taking in to consideration I was adopted when I was 3 and flew the nest at 18, it was a mere 15 years. And as much as I loved my parents we were not close. 
So when Dad died it was a whirlwind of getting down to Florida and helping Mom out. The arrangements had been made years in advance. And although I knew she missed her life partner of some 50+ years my mother did not break down. I left feeling sadden by the fact that I didn't know my father well or my mother. Time had pulled us apart.
When I returned to VT I could almost pretend my Dad was still alive down in Florida. I had never seen his body. So it was a mental exercise in denial. Eventually the pain of loss decreased along with the increase in the reality of his death. I cried but there were no daily reminders for me to see of him. No comfortable chair, no magazine set aside but not read, no toothbrush in the bathroom. Just pictures of happier days.
My mother lived with us for several months before she died. She died in local hospice care. And before that for a brief time she lived in assisted living. Again because of who we were and the short time living at my house there were no reminders. We knew her wishes of cremation and since our small family is far spread and I am not a great believer of wakes or funeral services my mother's passing was noted only by a small group of friends and family. I think she would have wanted it that way. It did take 3 years for me to finally be able to take her ashes to Florida to be put in the small vault with my father's remains. It was at that moment I knew great grief that the two people in the world, that had know and loved me as a child were really gone. I could no longer deny this fact. I couldn't wait to get out of Florida and never go back. Somewhere in the back of my mind they are down there and they are happy. And that is what counts.
You may ask why I bring my parents up. Well it is in connection with the recent death of my dog Gracie. I wasn't 'heartbroken' when my parents died (I do not care for euphemisms concerning death). I missed them greatly and shed many tears and I still miss them but now with a warm fondness. But my heart did not feel like it was breaking nor did I feel grief stricken. I feel these terrible emotions with the death of my dog. 
When I called my parents and told them I had breast cancer I was told I would be alright. No problem, modern science, etc. I don't remember phone calls to see how I was doing or even a card. It's not that they didn't care they just didn't understand. What they didn't understand was my fear. They were in Florida and could see it or feel it. I was 45, they were in their early 80's dealing with the death of friends, family and their own health issues, their own fears.
My dog was with me the whole time. Soaking up my tears, laying in bed with me when I felt like crap, listening to me rant about the unfairness of it all, keeping my secret fears, secret. I shared with her the things I would not share with my husband or children. And life continued on. 
With Gracie I can still see her on my bed, hear her nails clicking on the floor. The house is quiet without her joyous bark on my return home. I feel like there is an empty spot larger than me within me. Max our last dog, is a lovely old boy. But he is not Gracie, in looks or temperament. He is Max. I just miss that damn dog and at some moments it really is a physical pain. You would have had to known her to know her gentle nature and her fierce devotion. She was 'the' dog in my life. And yes I do know it gets better and there  have been a couple of days I have merely gotten misty eyed and not cried. But today is not one of them. I miss her, simply put. And despite all the emotional upheaval caused by having to make the decision that ended her life I would gladly do it again. It was a great 15 years, every last moment, the good and the bad. I just wish it had been a little longer.
So yes this is grief. Hurting from top to bottom. Crying, being okay and crying again. And it lessen with time. But I think once you have been touched by it, it doesn't go away. It always lives with you and makes you more sympathetic to others. It becomes part of who you are. 

Harry

Harry was the dog you loved to hate. He was a large chihuahua with an attitude. Like most of the animals we have had over the years he was wanted and then found wanting. So he was a dog somebody paid a lot of money for and gave away for nothing. 
Our youngest son wanted a chihuahua. It probably wasn't the best idea I've had but there have been a lot of not great ideas and you can't live with regret. Believe it or not, I don't regret Harry. Turned out the idea of a dog that wanted to sleep in his bed was not my son's idea of a great trait. So Harry became sort of an 'odd dog out'. I had Gracie and Max and was not welcoming yet another bed hog in. Well Harry fell in love with the hubby, Don. And the feeling was mutual.
Don built Harry a window seat so Harry could bask in the sun while Don was at work. Harry faithfully snuggled under the blankets every night with Don. Harry howled and rushed to greet Don when he returned home from work. Harry tolerated the other dogs, put up with me and hated the cats. It wasn't a match made in heaven but for the first time in many years of marriage Don had a dog that was his.
Harry was like the villain in an old movie. You loved to hate him. You almost wanted to see what awful thing he would be up to next. We found the problem with two male dogs that both wanted to be the alpha male that this caused pissing problems. I won't tell you how much male dog urine I have cleaned up over the years. How many times Harry snuck into my room and peed on the edge of my bed because he disliked Max intensely. Or how we spent a fortune in gates to keep the dogs from going into rooms or to keep them in rooms when we were gone, at home or otherwise preoccupied. I didn't have to do this when my boys were little. But I had to do it for my dogs.
Personally I loved when Harry visited the cow pasture down the street and found some particularly stinking patch to roll in. Then he would come home all pleased with himself and wait for Don to return from work. I would wait to, for that glorious moment when Don realized that Harry rolled in cow shit. The look on his face and the discussion that would ensue with Harry was well worth the mess in the bathroom that would happen when Harry had to be bathed.
So now there is just Max. In four short days our 'pack' has decreased by two. Its sad to come up the driveway to the house and not hear those voices greeting us from the house. Gracie, Max and Harry all calling out in joyous chorus because once again Don and I had managed to find our way home. There will not be a warm doggie body cuddling against Don tonight or shedding copious amount of fur every time he was picked up and loved. 
Goodbye Harry. You were a cat hater, a dog hater but you loved Don with all of your little heart and because of that, I loved you.

Summer is here (?)

Although my 'girl' is no longer with us the days continue on.
It was the first day of summer this week and it still doesn't feel like it. That day was a beautiful weather day which I appreciated in spite of the fact it was the day Gracie left us. The temperature was just right and there was a little breeze. The sky was fair with barely any clouds to be seen. And once the solstice had been celebrated and the skies darkened, the clouds moved in. I admit they and the rain that followed suited my mood. But even I know that you have to move on. And it's about time summer actually came to New England and gave us all some relief from what has been a less than stellar spring.
One of the great things about living in VT is the summer and all that it provides us. It starts slowly with asparagus and fiddleheads, then before you know it all sorts of greens are available and farmers markets and farm stands start opening up again for our all too brief growing season.
Even now on this dirt road I am admiring the produce that is slowly coming out of my garden. We have plenty of lettuce and the chard is small and delicious. I have a small strawberry bed that contains enough plants to eat strawberries fresh but not enough to make jam with. For that I go to a field not to far from our house that is 'pick your own'. And last week that is just what I did. Some 33 pounds worth!
Some got sliced up, packed in quart bags and put in the freezer. Quite a few seem to have ended up in my hubby's stomach and the rest have been earmarked for 'berry & barb' jam. That is to say, strawberry and rhubarb jam. One thing I have plenty of is rhubarb. And the combination is heaven. 
As the season progresses there will be blueberry picking done by the hubby. And hopefully our wild blueberry bushes will contribute a quart or two. At that point I will take some strawberries out of the freezer and make some blueberry and strawberry jam. With any luck raspberries will be plentiful and you guessed it more jam. 
There will be lots of veggies to eat fresh and freeze. Maybe some more experimenting with preserving. I did buy a new cookbook this year with that as the subject. This is the best time of the year here. At least when its sunny and there is a breeze. Sitting on the swing on the front patio and seeing the gardens that have formed and almost wrap around our house is rewarding. Knowing our life has been blessed with a wonderful family, great friends and loving pets makes life worthwhile. I can sit here in my bed with my laptop writing this blog and here the 'pop' of my jam jar tops as they cool down. There is a cool breeze from an open window and my 'last' dog Max is snoring ever so gently in his bed on the floor. I have it pretty damn good. And for that I am thankful.

My Gracie

My dog was a mutt. An accidental mating between 2 different types of dogs. Now they call them hybrids but 15 years ago the were still mutts. She was suppose to be the product of a chihuahua and a yorkshire terrier. She had fur as red as my hair once was and she had the sweetess disposition in what could be the worse to times. She was for me the perfect dog.
Gracie only took up the middle of the bed leaving all the rest to me. She only snored when I was trying to fall asleep and she only rearranged my pillows when she thought I hadn't placed them right.
She didn't mind being cradled in your arms like a baby. If in that position and you stopped rubbing her chest she would reach out with her front paws and gently pull your hand back to her chest to continue the chest rubbing. She liked to lay on my chest and take a nap. She was the perfect fit and I loved to feel her heart beating so close to mine.
On the couch she would wiggle up just close enough to butt bond. As if contact would keep us together.
She listened to my rants about cancer. She held secrets that I told her. I looked into her eyes and I saw her world was me.
She loved to greet people in a calm manner and except her due as Queen of the land. It seems that those who meet Gracie fell under her little dog spell. She loved people but she loved me best and I find that particularly wonderful.
Now my bed is empty after 15 years of having her here. I don't like it. It feels wrong somehow. But I knew I had to be able to release her no matter how much it hurt me. Before the real pain and indignities befell her. She had to know that I would have never let go otherwise. I loved her too much to let her suffer.
So now she is as much part of the landscape of the yard as she was part of my heart. I can look out my bedroom window where so many times she laid her head to watch the day float by and see where her final resting place is. Don dug a true grave. Deep and quiet. Room for her and her big blankie. Moss and ferns surround her final resting spot with a large flat rock as a marker.
I know at some point we will be gone, there will be nothing left of Gracie and someone will wonder why that stone is there. But it doesn't matter in the long run, it just matters now. That I know that she is nearby and will be there if not physically in spirit.
May her spirit be free. Chasing the rodents and tennis balls. And maybe waiting on me. I truly want to see this special dog again.
I miss and love you sweetpea.

On saving Grace

We had gotten 2 beagles. Beautiful little pups, which we named Violet and Laurel. I can still see those small bodies with fat, round puppy bellies stretched across our couch. They were cute as all hell and just as much trouble.
Came a point in their lives when they met the beagle down the street from us. His personality was that of a good ol' boy but between the 3 of them, they could run and run they did. No matter how hard we tried those girls wanted out and the slightest gap in a door meant they bolted for freedom. Eventually they didn't make it home. 
When we finally decided it was time to get another dog (1 not 2) we went to the humane society. When filling out the paper work there was a question about what kind of breed we would not like. We said hound. Anything that wanted to run. We still had our greyhound Daisy living with us but she was somewhere around 16 years old at the time and her running days were long gone. She loved to curl up on the rug next to the baseboard and soak up the heat. And we wanted a small dog. We had a lifetime of larger dogs. Dogs that could take up the back seat of a car or half of a full size couch.
There was a call a couple of weeks later about a litter of 3 pups that had just come in. Two boys and a girl. Could I come and look at them? I had to hurry because I was informed small dogs are popular. In a state where you think big dogs would abound people actually wanted small dogs. I called them and said I would be there immediately after work. I rushed there breaking most of the speeding laws and got to the humane society with about 10 minutes to spare before they closed the doors for the day. On the counter was a cat carrier and inside this carrier were  the 3 pups. She opened the door and one by one these tiny puppies stumbled out, blinking and yawning just having gotten up from a nap. That is the 2 boys came out that way. The third, a little female came prancing out as if she owned the world. She had pine pitch on her nose from a recent foray into the world where she tried to conquer a pine tree. She was 3 pounds of hell on wheels and I fell for her. She had attitude and I loved it.
I signed the papers and walked to the car with a dog my husband was later to say I got because our hair coloring was the same. 
Now I was faced with the dilemma of a 20 minute or so drive with a puppy, how was I going to do it? I sat there pondering the question when this pup with absolute authority managed to crawl out of my arms and settled herself between the head rest and my neck, promptly falling asleep. Dilemma resolved, I drove home.( And yes she slept the whole way.)
As we all know the naming of a dog is crucial. And as I drove I ran various names through my head. I really wanted to name her after a flower. Marigold? No. Geranium? No. Rose? No. On and on it went. Nothing was coming. This was odd because over the years if an animal hadn't already been named by a previous owner, naming an animal was never difficult. I turned on to Rte 35 and was about 5 or so minutes from home with no name for this pup and for some reason I felt she needed to be named before I pulled up our driveway. I looked to my left and I saw it, the perfect name, Grace. I named my dog after a hospital, Grace Cottage Hospital. A place very important in our lives and that of our area communities. So she became Grace, Gracie, Miss G or the queen.
She is 15 years old now and we are facing end of life issues. She is not well. My faithful companion who has been at my side through the absolute worse of times is dying. Her fur has gone from red to white about her face. She sleeps a lot. But worse is she can no longer hear me and cannot see the tears I am shedding for her. I had hoped that somehow I would not have to make a decision like this. That she would slip peacefully into whatever realm awaits her loving soul without my help. But now I have to make that appointment and one last time hold her in my arms. For now I will listen to that snore that has become her trademark and watch her as she twitches in her sleep dreaming of more youthful pursuits. I wish everyone could have such an animal in their lives as Gracie. I did not save her so much as she saved me. 

Strawberry pickin'

There is so much going on this time of year. Not just what is happening on this dirt road but what is happening off the dirt road.
Yesterday I got up and had the insane idea it was time to pick strawberries. I had read in the paper that the local field was open at 7 a.m. and it is PYO (pick your own). So without further ado I changed into my work pants, boots, a tee shirt and my ratty sweatshirt. Wallet in one pocket and checkbook in the other, I was ready.
Eating strawberries is always easier than picking them. And not matter which way you try, bending over, squatting or crawling on the ground it is hard work. Fortunately time went by a little faster as my niece Jacki is working down at the field again this year. As a college student she needs some bucks for school and this is one place where summer employment and higher than minimum wages are offered.
There was one solitary man out picking at that hour. The sky was grey and overcast. A slight chill to the air and you could feel the humidity as it flowed down from the tops of the mountains to the valley floor. Eventually the rain began, (The man left.) not a hard rain, a soft rain. The type of rain that reminds you of childhood. Running and dancing in the rain. Even better that swimming because there was no deep end and the entire yard was your 'pool'.
So for about 2hrs Jacki and I talked and picked. It is a lovely combination. You can keep moving down a row, picking strawberries, taking time to sample one on occasion and swap stories.  By the time I was done I had picked 33 pounds of berries, was pretty well soaked through to the skin and knew my niece a little better than when I had started. To me that was well worth the time and effort.
Then last evening after some constructive bonding time out in the yard (also know as yard work). The hubby and I processed 2 of those flats full of summer treasure. 18 quart bags down in the freezer. And what was left of last years crop, came out of the freezer and got processed into 6 pints of strawberry-rhubarb jam. There is still 1 flat left with about 10 pounds of berries. Some will be made into strawberry-rhubarb bread to take to my other niece's graduation party today. And the rest will go in to plain strawberry jam. Although there is nothing plain about homemade jam. I might even dry a few just so I can enjoy that lovey smell into winter.
All this activity means I haven't taken time lately to walk down my dirt road. But I find now I drive down a little bit slower. I saw 2 groups of turkeys yesterday on the dirt road. When you drive fast, they are gone in a blink of an eye. They can move fast when they want to. But if you drive slowly, they take time to look at you while you can take time to look at them. That's what yesterday was about. Seeing what has been in front of me for years. My niece, the flat valley floor which contains such lovely red and ripe richness and life around me.
You really do need to stop and smell the roses, or in this case, the strawberries.

It ain't easy

I have discovered that writing ain't easy. I thought when I started this blog I would be able to just sit down and type. The thoughts, words, paragraphs would come and away I would go mesmerizing people with my wit and humor. And now I can't think of a damn thing to say.
I just deleted 5 posts I have started and not been able to finish. I can't think of where to go with them. I can't have writer's block because I am far from being a writer.
I have tried writing about planting, breast cancer (my own), not be able to write and the list goes on. 
I guess the easiest way to go is to tell you all that although the dirt road I live on binds my heart with its beauty I can be persuaded and have recently left the confines of this small town to wander what to me is far afield. 
I recently visited my cousin Kelley down in Pelham, MA. There is an absolutely stunning area known by folks down there as 'the Q'. Q being short for Quabbin Reservoir. My cuz (as I call her) works at the boat launch at Gate 8. You can stand there and just keep looking. The Q is about 28 miles long. I lived near it well into my 20's and not once had I gone there. I knew the general history of the Q and the fact that my hometown housed not only a few buildings from towns that were dismantled and/or destroyed by the construction of the Q but also a cemetery moved from one of those towns. I won't go into all the details but goggle it if you have a chance. The history is fascinating.
I made it my goal for this summer to go places. To visit friends and relatives in an effort to stay in touch. To do a few things a little out of my comfort zone. Not far, just a toe over the line kind of thing. 
It has been 12 years since I was diagnosed with breast cancer. A lumpectomy, lymphectomy and radiation took care of it. And I have been in remission for all these years. But it is something you live with and something you continue to fear. I don't know why but this year is the year I feel I need to do something. Visit, draw, sew, write, (and more) some of the things I have laid aside or ignored for awhile. I think better than a second childhood (how many of you would even want to go through puberty again?) this is a second adulthood. A chance to be 25 again. Not in looks, the wrinkles and white hair are starting to show. But in attitude. When I was 25 I could do anything (and pretty much did). I still can do almost anything. I just have to do it a little slower. 
My road reminds me of the poem by Frost, read it an enjoy. Its about my dirt road and all the other roads out there.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Planting time

This is the time of year I love and hate the most. I have always loved dirt. Even as a kid I was not the little girl playing with the dolls. I was the little girl stealing the little boys trucks so I could play in the dirt. And that is what I love about gardening, it is playing in the dirt and being rewarded for your efforts.
I can't say much for the condition of my hands, dirt is rough on them because eventually I have to take my gloves off and feel what I am working with. And it is hard on my feet, because the shoes have to come off so I can feel the grass as I walk back and forth doing my various projects. 
But the rewards of blood, sweat and tears and yes there are tears, are great. From seemingly out of nowhere come hundreds of plants. Not only do I have perennial beds but I let nature have its way with my lawn. Creeping Veronica, bugle weed, sweet white violets bloom along with the dandelions. I mix flowers with vegetables and I let the pumpkin vines snake their way onto the lawn. My gardens are not planned, they do not stay the same from year to year. I view each and every plant as a piece of furniture or artwork meant to be moved in order to create a more pleasant and comfortable view. Although I can and do appreciate gardens that hours have been spent in the planning and execution of I like, no love, the randomness of my gardens. I love the small creeping Veronica wending its way from underneath a giant hosta. The bright blue of its flower contrasting with the variegated greens, bright lime green or deep blue green of the hostas. The daylilies I have gotten when they were nothing but side shoots off a mother plant thrown into a basket like unopened packages. Unlabeled, unknown, a game of patience in which the reward has been flowers of yellow, peach, red, and all colors inbetween. The blooms ranging from small and delicate to large and gaudy. Some with fragrance and some without. But all the more special because they were all unexpected.
This is the time of year where my senses overload. I want to see all the colors, look at the contrast between plants, feel the textures. Gardening in a sensory pleasure. It is not just visual. It is the fragrance of the lilacs on a warm breeze. The prick of the thorn of a rose. The textured ribbing on a hosta leaf.  I want to hold it, embrace it, close my eyes and see the paths, hear the sound of the water, the chatter of the swallows as they swoop down from the sky feasting on bugs. 
And soon enough the growing season will be over. And I will be happy. I will enjoy the apples, pumpkins and even turnips. Knowing that I have spent an amazing time watching blossoms and seeds and every day dirt become more than they were.
I will be tired of weeding, watering and heat. I will be ready for soups, breads and a fire burning in the furnace. But sometime between the last frost and first snow I will start dreaming about my gardens. I will spend the winter watering and caring for my 'alternative' garden, the many houseplants that sustain me during the cold winter months while I wait out another year anxious for planting time to come again.
 

My 'birds'

I have one of the best views right from my bedroom window. I can see a part of the dirt road I live on and I can see my gardens. Okay sometimes its not the best view looking down because then I realize how much work I have yet to do on my gardens. But right now even with the gardens needing a lot of attention my view is great. And the reason for this is swallows and robins.
A few years ago I started being gifted tools. I call them my 'girl' tools because they are scaled down versions of some tools/machinery that can be fairly large. I have a small drill press that sits on a counter top. They make huge drill presses that could not even fit in my cellar. So slowly over the past few years I have been gifted lots of tools and/or machinery. I got my hubby an air compressor he got me an air nail gun. And so it goes.
Of course the one drawback is I really don't know how to use most of this stuff. I may be married to a carpenter and know how to hammer a nail but actually figuring out and using stuff that could possibly hurt back? Nope, hadn't done that.
But I found that instead of trying to start out large, like building a chest of drawers, start small. Birdhouses are small. Birdhouses come in a variety of styles and can be embellished upon. They also teach you the first lessons of cutting straight lines, learning angles and how to nail things together that need two set of hands to hold all the pieces. They also can be made with a variety of scrap wood so you don't need a big investment there.
The first birdhouse design I stumbled upon was totally different. A birdhouse with only 3 sides. A kind of 'shelf' birdhouse for birds that prefer not being in an enclosed box. Robins being and example. So I struggled through and made 3 of them. I hung them in various, suggested locations around the yard and the birds ignored them. I swear I heard laughter from them.  So much for that.
I tried again this past winter. I made swallow houses. A bit more complicated. But overall they came out well. I made 3 but only had 2 poles to mount them on. I figured even if the damn birds didn't like them, they added a bit of art to the garden. So I got them on the poles and attached them to our fence. Then a miracle occurred. A pair of swallows came and started looking at one of the houses. Then they moved in!
When I look out my bedroom window in the morning I can see the male hanging off the front of the birdhouse busy feeding bugs to his mate. This is thrilling and what adds to it is one of those silly 'shelf' birdhouses about 25' away is occupied by a robin. I got birds!!!
It is an amazing feeling to watch these beautiful birds swoop and dive across our front lawn. I get to spend a season with them. That in one word is 'awesome'. 
They don't seem to mind me wandering about as I do my yard work. I am probably helping both sets of birds with stirring up the bugs for the swallows and mucking about in the dirt gets the other bugs and worms moving for the robins.
There are days when I think, 'this is the best time of my life.' I have found that in the balance of my life, the best times do out weigh the worse. But it isn't a balancing act. It's just life. As my little grandma would say (& this is paraphrasing), stop and see the sunset. Don't just look at it. See the clouds, the colors, feel the air. See the sunset. Like I see this dirt road, the same, different, changing, staying the same. Now that I have walked it, I see it, I no longer just look at it. And what a difference that makes.

At last...

Well things are finally looking like spring. It seems to have taken forever this year for the plants to start popping.
The creek that runs by my dirt road has bright green skunk cabbage now lining it's banks. The trees have lost their blossoms or catkins and the wonderfully small, perfectly forms leaves are starting to appear. From a distance the hills surrounding this area look 'misty' with the different shades of spring greens that is now visible.
Trilliums in both white and red are blooming in the woods are as the tiny, yellow dog-tooth violet. The viburnum lantanoides is also flowering in the woods. It is a small woody, bush like plant with white flowers. In fact my 'picture' is one that I took of a plant that grows on the side of my dirt road.
It is not only the plants and trees that are starting to come to their own on the dirt road but it is also our yard.
The hubby and I have already put in many hours cutting down and digging up various things. I have the usual tulips and daffodils blooming but there is also lungwort and lenten rose. The red Japanese maple is starting to unfurl its leaves and the Henry Lauder walking stick has long catkins, like tassel decorations hanging from its lovely twisted branches.
The early planting of turnips and peas is starting to show little seedlings and the tomato plants are growing bigger every day down in the greenhouse. Now is also the time to start my pumpkins, squashes and gourds. I planted one batch of potatoes yesterday and have 2 more varieties to go in today. 
I will walk around my gardens with pad in hand and blackflies swarming to make notes of what needs to be done. I did get my birdhouses up finally and may be rewarded with a swallow family. There were a couple showing interest. I got the hummingbird feeders up a little later than usual but they seem to have forgiven me and I have seen both male and female feeding. 
How can you not forget the rest of the world and all the problems there in when you walk out to the quiet of my road. The simple beauty of the woods, the sounds of stream and wildlife. I suppose this is way the world should be. We should all be able to choose whether we live on a quiet back water dirt road in a little town or an apartment in a busy city. 
But I admit my friends the ugly part of the world invades this dirt road too. The hubby and I participated this past weekend in Green Up Vermont. We walked from the west end of the road to the east end. Now over the past year I have made it my goal to try to pick up the trash that people with less conscience  throw out their vehicle windows. Still there were 2 tires that people actually had to make an effort to get out of their vehicles to dispose of and the numerous beer cans and bottles. There are the occasional soda can or ice tea bottle, but beer seems to be the favorite. But what was most disheartening was finding needles. We found 4 needles, used, in one spot. Somebody was shooting up there. You could tell by the debris in the area that the needles had been used there. Not for taking insulin but another drug. Fortunately we had a quart size beer bottle with cap and were able to dispose of the needles without danger to ourselves or others. But it is a sad story to tell. My little bubble, my little piece of heaven has really been tainted. 
But my faith has not. The flowers are still blooming and the trees leafing out. This will continue long after me and the person with the drug habit. And most like I will still be enjoying it long after they are gone. They see their world in a needle. That is truly the sad part of the story.

A dirt road dinner

In recent months our community has been offering a once a month community dinner held in the basement of the local church. This is a 'free' dinner with contributions taken. We have 2 main women that are our cooks (Sandy and Heidi, thank you). The dinners are not fancy but well done. Ham, beans, coleslaw & bread or tonight, spaghetti, sauce, meatballs, salad and bread. Good quality, filling food. Dessert is provide by several of the diners. Cookies to cakes every piece sweet and delicious.
The people gathering are as varied in personality as can be. There is one older woman who as a young girl taught school right next door at what use to be the one room school house. It now serves as our town office but back in the day this woman taught 6 grades in one small building. She brings with her one of the oldest town residents her friend of many years, Pearl. A woman whose sisters names were like jewels in the family crown.
Then there were our neighbors John and Treah. We were informed tonight they are putting their house on the market. Selling up to move closer to family. Fortunately their family is only about an hour or so away in MA so they won't be going far. But the realization that they had live next door for 13 years and we didn't really know them hit hard. It's part of the isolation some of us have chosen living on a dirt road. You can know your neighbor on 3 levels. Not at all, barely and friends. We never got beyond barely (thought we had a few more years) and I realize tonight that it is our loss. As we sat there and talked and laughed I realized how much I actually like these people and now they are moving. I guess that is the part about getting older is sometimes you move to either be closer to or get away from you family. We moved to VT because we liked the state but also because we realized we didn't want to live too close to our families. Close enough to visit but not on a daily basis.
So hopefully the summer will show the house off to its full advantage and a buyer will be quickly found. One who likes dirt roads and quiet neighbors. 
But during our conversation tonight Treah gave me an idea for a book title, 'My memories of Vermont, I think'. I was telling them stories and she said I should get them down in book form before the dementia set in. Being polite I thanked her. Before it sets in? Some days it does feel like it is visiting. But I think it will be awhile yet before I have to worry about it. Actually I want to be one of those old ladies that people whisper, 'She's as sharp as a tack, but watch out for that cane. She'll trip you.' That will be me over in the corner sticking my cane out to watch people go ass over teakettle to the floor. And I will politely mumble my apologies. I won't need the cane but I will have one.
So maybe the next step in the blog journey is to start another blog with that extraordinary  title, 'My memories of Vermont, I think.' Yep, another part of this dirt road to travel on. 
Tomorrow is my hubby and my day to celebrate Mother's Day which is Sunday. We plan a full and long day. This tradition came about due to my hubby's involvement in a prison ministry for about 18 yrs. Every year his group ended up giving the service that fell on Mother's Day. So we start ed celebrating it a day early because I would be spending a good portion of that day alone. Face it with kids its a card and a kiss if your lucky and then they are off to their own lives. They may be in the same house as you but a not spending time with you. They have done there duties as children and therefore must find things that amuse them and not you. And now that they are grown and off living their own lives they usually just remember Mom when the need something. And only for Mother's Day if you remind them that it's coming up and a card would be nice.
So tomorrow in annual celebration of Mother's Day (I should explain hubby doesn't do the prison ministry anymore but we liked our tradition too much to give it up) we will start by participating in Green Up Day. We have the brightly colored trash bags in hand and we will police our street east to west or west to east and pick up the trash. Next we will probably go to Walkers on Rte 5 outside of Brattleboro. My favorite nursery. This is the time for quality bonding with plants. Then there is the southern side of Rte. 5 down by Greenfield which contains another of my passions, soft serve ice cream. Townline is the name of the place and it has the Capp Family #1 rating. Finally on the list is something a little more somber. Replacement of the flags on the veterans graves at both our local cemeteries. The job come from my hubby being the chair of the Cemetery Commission. And I think it is a fitting end to my Mother's Day. A mother placing the flags on the graves of the brave children of this country. Some who fought and died for our freedoms and some who were lucky enough to come home and celebrate Mother's Day for many years with their own mothers. I also love these old cemeteries so I don't mind this job at all.
So that is it from the dirt road on this fine spring day. Love your moms, enjoy your neighbors and keep and eye out for my yet unwritten, unpublished new best seller, 'My memories of Vermont, I think.' I do love that title.