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.