Category Archives: Splashes

January Wrap-Up

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I’m back in the writing groove this month, with a lot of work for ATG, and the voice project I mentioned earlier that went live.

Also: beginning in February, my friend Debra and I are offering the first in a series of eight e-classes to help boost your writing. Watch this space for more info or check out 30 Days to Creativity.

LINKS:

Fresh Starts

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Blank blogs have almost as many possibilities as brand-new spiral notebooks. Ever since I bought this domain, I’ve been trying to balance my personal blog, my book blog, and find something to write here, as well. It was too much. I felt divided. I stopped writing everywhere.

I made the decision to re-start this blog just to keep people up-to-date with what I’ve been doing – what I’ve been writing, where I’ve been writing, any new voice stuff I’m doing – and some special projects.

It’s still January for a few more days. The year is still young.

But it’s never too late for a Fresh Start.

Every-day Magic

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Today, I’m taking prompts from the November/December project “Do You Believe in Magic?” at CafeWriting. It’s a site I started in 2007, and then took a long hiatus from, but it’s back, and you’re all encouraged to participate.

In any case, the prompt of the moment is: Give me seven examples of every-day magic. and as I like lists, I thought I would.

  1. Puppy kisses. None of my dogs are actually puppies any more – even Max will be two in a couple of weeks – but they still give sweet puppy kisses, and cuddle when they know I’m upset about something.
  2. My grandfather’s stuffing recipe. I posted it a few days ago. On the surface, it’s simple – bread, apples, onions, bacon, celery, spices – and yet it’s instant joy when it comes out of the roasted turkey and goes into a serving bowl. Yes, I made extra.
  3. The birds in my back yard. I’m not sure we get the same ones every year, but certainly we get members of the same families. There’s a family of cardinals who come back every winter and spring, for example, and this blue jay that is almost as big as a chicken. I love that they keep coming back, and even when they’re annoying (like the grackles) I feel like I’m being visited by special creatures.
  4. Imagination. I use it to put me inside every book I read, and to help me create everything I write. I feel sorry for people who are so linear, so rigid, that they cannot imagine anything other than what they have.
  5. Music. The right song can bring me out of the deepest funk or calm my nerves, depending on the moment. Most of the time, though, I can’t listen to anything with lyrics while I’m writing.
  6. Bubble Baths. Scented soap suds, toasty-warm water, a rolled towel, soft light – instant relaxation, softer skin, and hey, you come out of it smelling great, as well.
  7. Candlelight. There’s something about flickering flame that changes the dimensions of a room, and the tone of an afternoon. I like electricity as much as anyone else, but I have a special fondness for candlelight.

O Christmas Tree

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I don’t normally decorate for Christmas until after December first, although I had Christmas lights on the outside of my house the day before Thanksgiving this year, mainly because my lawn guy puts them up, and it was 82 degrees and windy that day, and since then the highs have been in the low sixties. I did not turn them on until dusk on Thanksgiving Day, however. Anything earlier than that would be gauche.

I’d planned to put up the tree this weekend, or at least unbox it, and let it rest in the house. Even plastic trees, I’ve found, look better if you let them stand there naked for a few days. Well, nearly naked. I’m a long-time convert to using pre-lit trees.

Unfortunately, the 7.5-foot faux Niagra pine tree we’ve used for the past several years had a light malfunction last year, and while Fuzzy managed to fix it by doing essentially nothing (I mean, he touched every unlit bulb, but that’s all), this year, more of the tree refused to function, and we were tired of worrying about the heat from the lights, and fighting with pulling little bulbs out of tiny plastic sockets, so we put the brakes on trying to make it work.

And so, even though the only businesses I typically visit during Thanksgiving weekend are Starbucks and movie theaters, we went to Target this afternoon (it was mostly empty) to look at trees, found one in the price range I’d dictated, and then discovered that our local Target was out, but two semi-local stores might have it in stock. Our purchased there were decidedly un-holidayish: dog treats and a new filter for the vacuum. Then we went to Home Depot to see what they had.

The Martha Stewart trees were lovely and reasonably priced, but they all use old-style mini-lights. There was a 7.5 foot faux tree with white C3 LEDs and the classic teardrop frosted bulbs around them, in a warm (yellowish) white or in multi-colors. I chose the white, because I think it looks more magical. It was less expensive than the Target tree, and it’s now in the dining room, in front of the arched window that faces the street. Or, behind it, I guess, if you’re looking in from outside.

I didn’t watch Fuzzy set it up, but it seems to have been a remarkably quick process. Tomorrow we will shape it, and let it rest a bit more (probably) because even though I’m itching to decorate, I’m also unusually tired and have been all weekend. In fact, as much as I miss church (it’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve been), I might skip it tomorrow and just rest. I’ve been really tired all day, and I went to bed early last night AND slept til nearly noon. I think I might be fighting a cold, actually,

In any case, we have a new tree, and Thanksgiving was lovely, and I’m looking forward to all of the fun of the December holidays.

Seven Days: a Lesson in Perspective

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Published by MissMeliss at 1:05 am under Events, Faith, Myth & Story, Family, thematic photographic


Click image to embiggen
Late last week, Chris and I received some devastating news: his brother-in-law, a man I know to be brilliant, vibrant, kind, and funny, who has been fighting brain cancer for about a year, was given a new prognosis: days to live instead of months. As soon as we heard, we began making plans to head north to Iowa, intending to say goodbye, which we prefer to attending a funeral. (I dislike seeing people I love looking like wax fruit, and prefer to see people when there’s still some there there.)

We’d barely had time to process the news, what with church on Sunday, a Valentine’s Day dinner that had been planned for a while, and various other ordinary distractions, when we received another call, this one early this morning, with even worse news: He’d slipped into a coma, and the estimate was now seven days.

Our car is in the shop, and won’t be ready til Friday, so we can’t really leave any sooner than we originally planned, but this means our plans for a nice vacation to Seattle for our anniversary next month (15 years! Woo!) may have to be scrapped, or at least tabled. I’m not complaining – family comes first, and it’s important that we go, and support Fuzzy’s sister and daughters, and help where we can, and make our own goodbyes.

But I can’t help but think about what seven days can mean.

For a person in a coma, seven days can mean the difference between an easy death, or one full of pain.
It can mean the difference between people holding your hand and saying goodbye, or people visiting your grave.

For an Olympic athlete, it can mean the difference between attempt and success, or the difference between being known in your own community, or throughout the entire world.

For a traveler, it can mean the difference between a room in a friend’s house, a cushy hotel, and their own bed.

For a dog in a shelter, it can be the difference between being a stray, and being rescued, or adoption and euthanasia.

Seven days can be merely a week, or an infinite amount of time. Or both.

Last October, we spent seven days in New York and New Jersey, celebrating a wedding, visiting old friends, reconnecting with family, and exploring old haunts. On Columbus Day, Fuzzy and I visited Fort Hancock, NJ, and climbed the Sandy Hook lighthouse. He took the picture at the top of the post.

Seven days before that, I’d had the flu.
Seven days after, I’d realized how much my New Jersey childhood still informs my being.

Seven days from tonight, we’ll probably be in Iowa.

In Memoriam: Zorro (1995 – 2009)

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colorblock-comforter
My stepfather found Zorro wandering the streets of San Jose during a violent rainstorm. He was skinny, starving, dirty, and covered in fleas. He called me from the car, “I found a dog like Abigail. I’m bringing him to you.”

Zorro was, of course, nothing like my parents’ neurotic virgin ice princess chihuahua. He was plucky, gregarious, gallant, and warm. The first day we met, he curled up in my lap and fell asleep. Within 24 hours he was following me wherever I went.

inredchair

He was never much into toys, but when we first got him, he liked to have things. He would steal chopsticks, shoes, balls, paperclips, and hoard them. He used to steal potstickers, too, and hide them in plain sight on the food of our bed, after digging a “hole,” of course. He was very proud of his accomplishment. This was before Miss Cleo joined the family.

About six months after we adopted him, Zorro began showing signs of epilepsy. It began with one seizure, increased gradually to the point where he would have clusters of seizures every other Monday, in which he would go from Grand Mal to Grand Mal, never really regaining himself. The vets said we should consider putting him down, we said there had to be another way. Using a combination of traditional drug therapy, acupuncture and Chinese herbs, we helped Zorro beat epilepsy. His last seizure was sometime before Labor Day, 2002.

When we moved to Texas, Zorro adjusted well. Ice and snow were new experiences for him, and he would often give us the patented Slitty-Eyed Look of Doom before going out, but he coped, and when he came back in there were always warm towels and cuddles.

sony

A couple of years ago, we came home from a trip to South Dakota, and when we picked Zorro up from the kennel, we were told he had a heart murmur. He was put on enalapril, and that kept him stable for about four months.

In February, 2008, we were told his heard murmur had progressed to a stage six, of six stages, and lasix was added to his medicines. His heart was enlarged and was pressing on his trachea, but he didn’t act sick, and was coping.

Last Halloween, we woke up to find Zorro refusing food (shocking for him) and with his pulse visible as a tremor in his entire body. We rushed him to the vet, and were given an antibiotic, and vetmedin. Within 24 hours he was his bouncy perky self, though his cough was a little worse. We were cautioned at that time, “One morning you will wake up and he will not. Or you’ll have to make a decision that his fight is over. Hope for the first.”

Last Tuesday, we noticed Zorro having trouble chewing, and on Wednesday saw the signs of an abscessed tooth (swelling under the eye). We made an appointment for an exam, and a dental if needed, and got him an antibiotic. On Thursday, he saw the dentists, who said there was no tooth to pull, and felt that with Zorro’s heart condition, the best course of action would be to leave him on the antibiotic. When he came home, the abscess began to drain.

sitstay

On Saturday morning, Zorro refused food, but took his meds. On Saturday evening he took the meds, and ate, but had to be coaxed. His breathing was labored, but we knew he was on an antibiotic, and he’d bounced back from conditions that seemed worse.

On Sunday afternoon, we came home from seeing a movie (Coraline) happy that our foster dog, Blue, had been adopted. Zorro came to greet us, but didn’t jump, just walked slowly. We petted him and soothed him, and tried to get him to take the meds he’d refused in the morning, but he kept turning his head away. We kept trying every couple of hours.

Around six, I emailed a friend and asked her for a reference for an emergency vet, because I noticed blood in Zorro’s spittle, and because he was panicking if either of us left the room (not normal for him). In the car, I tried bribing him, “Make it through this,” I said, “and you can have all the French fries you want.” We took him to the clinic and they put him on oxygen and injected lasix. They talked to us about what our options were, and said their preference was to keep him over night. They left us alone to discuss what WE wanted, and we’d just come to the decision that we would NOT leave him, when they rushed back in, “He’s crashing,” they said, “We need you to be with him.”

zorrodog0811-11

They were holding him so that his airway was clear, and blood was pouring from his throat. They asked if we wanted them to perform CPR as his heart was not beating regularly. We said, “No. Just make sure he doesn’t hurt.”

We were gently ushered around the operating table where they laid him in a warmed receiving blanket. We touched his paws and scratched behind his ears and told him we loved him, so the last thing he saw was us. He didn’t struggle, and didn’t seem to be in any pain.

They left us with him for a few minutes, and offered to let us take his body back in the exam room but it was too hard to be near him without any of his vibrance left. (I have this issues with human deaths too, and avoid open-casket funerals because I don’t like seeing people I love looking like wax fruit.) Later, they asked if we wanted to bury him, or wanted him cremated. We chose the latter, and his ashes will be returned to us later this week.

Zorro went to the Rainbow Bridge at 8:46 PM CST, on Sunday, February 22nd. He was loved, and he will be missed. Chris and I extend our sincere thanks to the folks at Parkway Animal Hospital and the Airport Freeway Animal Emergency Clinic, as well as to all of our friends to tweeted, texted, emailed, and called to express their support during the last day. Please be patient with us as we grieve…Zorro was like our child.

Zorro in 1998
Zorro in 1998

Concerto for Double Bass, by John Fuller

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He is a drunk leaning companionably
Around a lamp post or doing up
With intermittent concentration
Another drunk’s coat.

He is a polite but devoted Valentino,
Cheek to cheek, forgetting the next step.
He is feeling the pulse of the fat lady
Or cutting her in half.

But close your eyes and it is sunset
At the edge of the world. It is the language
Of dolphins, the growth of tree-roots,
The heart-beat slowing down.
~ John Fuller

John Fuller is one of my favorite poets. I post his piece “Valentine” almost every year for Valentine’s Day. This one struck me tonight, and I thought I’d share it.

Small Things

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it’s even more fitting, as we enter this month that is packed full of holidays (Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, Solstice, etc.), that we remember that sometimes the best gift we can give is something small – greeting card to a solider serving overseas, the offer of a home-cooked meal to someone who doesn’t have local family, the seventeen gazillion (or three) bags of bottles, cans, and other recyclables that will grace the curb strip in front of my house on Thursday morning…which may seem ordinary to those of you in California, but here in Texas recycling isn’t mandatory.

Box of Me

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Some men’s memory is like a box where a man should mingle his jewels with his old shoes.
~George Savile

Louisa May Alcott wrote, in Jo March’s voice, of the treasure boxes Jo and her sisters kept in the attic. Part real, and part metaphor, these collected the essence of each of the four “Little Women.”

“Jo” on the next lid, scratched and worn,
And within a motley store
Of headless, dolls, of schoolbooks torn,
Birds and beasts that speak no more,
Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
Only trod by youthful feet,
Dreams of a future never found,
Memories of a past still sweet,
Half-writ poems, stories wild,
April letters, warm and cold,
Diaries of a wilful child,
Hints of a woman early old,
A woman in a lonely home,
Hearing, like a sad refrain—
“Be worthy, love, and love will come,”
In the falling summer rain.
– Louisa May Alcott

For Café Writing this month, we are asked to list seven things that would be in our own treasure boxes.

The lid of my keepsake box bears no name; the box itself is made of dark walnut and is very simple. It was hand-made just for me, by my mother’s only brother. At some point over the years, the back piece, which was merely decorative, was lost. Originally a place to store toys, it now sits at the foot of my bed. What does it hold? Here’s a list of what may or may not be inside.

  • Zorro’s paw prints, invisible to most, indelible to me, for he uses this box as his step onto our bed, and sometimes curls up on the blanket draped across it.
  • Letters my grandfather wrote to me during my childhood, painstakingly printed for the eyes of a young girl who had not yet learned to parse cursive writing.
  • Barbie and Chuck (not Ken) and their wedding party, all in couture from my mother’s sewing machine. If you listen carefully, you can hear the echo of her voice cursing the teeny, tiny darts she had to make.
  • Spiral notebooks full of old stories and bad poems, some going back to 1975, which is when I really began writing. (I was five). Some are covered in doodles, some are not.
  • Ballet slippers and tap shoes, all sized for tiny feet, from when I took such lessons. Old leotards, worn tights, and an ice skating costume I inherited from a cousin and wore in a performance of Really Rosie when I was seven.
  • A red binder full of old MUSH code, including the first dragon I ever Impressed in an online game, and the first song Fuzzy ever typed to me, as well as printouts of email from before we were married.
  • Fishing poles and beach hats, from summers spent at the Jersey shore with my grandparents. Old reels, and a favorite beach towel, faded beyond recognition but still scented with sand, surf and Sea & Ski.
  • Suzuki books and crumbled rosin cakes, and the programs from various honor orchestras I was in throughout the years. A t-shirt from the National Cello Institute, ca. 1986.
  • Powder puffs with traces of scented bath powder still clinging to the fibers, and empty lip gloss tins like the ones currently being sold by TINte. (I liked Root Beer best.)
  • Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books, which were always fun to read. The copies from the school library pre-dated the whole “update for a modern audience” trend, but somehow they never seemed horribly dated.
  • Leather pony-tail wraps, and beaded pony-tail holders, from when I wore my hair in tails or braids every day, some with smiley faces instead of beads.
  • Records and tapes ranging from vintage Shaun Cassidy (yes, really, Shaun – and my mother never knew I had that one), to the movie soundtrack of Grease on vinyl (I’ve got it on disc now), to Billy Joel, Erasure, and Voice of the Beehive, this last which was the official soundtrack of the Thursday Nights at Mel’s Diner Ms. Pac-Man Tournaments in 1988 & 89.
  • Vials of sand from Sandy Hook, NJ, Martin’s Beach, CA, and the black sand beach in Baja Sur where we had a very windblown picnic with my parents several Christmases ago, plane tickets from a 2002 trip to France (we both got the flu, but we didn’t care because we were puking in French toilets), and old maps of SFO’s MUNI and the NY subway system.

Written for Café Writing’s November/December Project: Option 6, Seven Things, and also for Thursday Thirteen. Yes, I know, 13 is more than 7. This isn’t a math quiz.