Have You Met Me?

I met me mother for lunch today. A few hours later, I got the following:

That salad bar at Ruby Tuesday’s went through me like General Sherman went through Atlanta.

P.S. Trying to use more similes in my emails (New Year’s resolution).

For Mother’s Day, my mother had a simple request: cinnamon rolls from her favorite bakery. (I laugh because it is not that simple – that was her breakfast request). Concerned the bakery would run out if I waited too long, my dog and I left my house before 8 am on Sunday.

We scored the cinnamon rolls and coffee and headed to Mom’s. I arrived and my mother was still in bed. “Have you ever considered a hair brush?” she asked me, as I sat down on the edge of her bed.

I laughed. Because, what else can you do?

After a bit, my dog and I were able to sneak away when Mom got a phone call. I had yard work to do and no time to waste. A bit later, after trimming all the shrubs that I could reach on my own, I realized I would need to get out the ladder and climb up on it to get the tops of the row of hedges that ran the width of the back of my yard. I called my mother and told of my plans – of me, a ladder and hedge trimmers.

“Want to come over,” I asked, “in case I need to go to the ER?”

I was fully aware that this combination was an accident waiting to happen. After all, you’ve met me. And a trip to the ER would certainly be a Mother’s Day dream come true.

Mom arrived about 30 minutes later, with the Sunday paper. She and my dog soaked up the sunshine while I went to work.

I am happy to report that I did not fall. I did not cut myself. I had no injury what so ever.

I have no idea who I am these days.

“He’s no Rock Hudson.” said my mother, describing her new neighbor.

“Right.” I said. “And you’re no Doris Day.”

My dog has a pet.

So it seems. This happened nearly every night this Spring. (see movie link below). At any time, my dog could have captured the rabbit. Instead, it was his entertainment. His toy. His pet.

IMG_0977.MOV (480p) < watch >

Until Wednesday.  On that morning, in the darkness, when my dog and I were woken by this horrible howling sound.

At first, I thought cats were fighting. But it wasn’t a cat.

It was something I’d never heard before.

And then, I remembered hearing that rabbits do in fact howl when in danger or pain.

Again, I had never heard this sound before. It was bad. And loud. And a bit terrifying.

Before I even flipped on the bedroom light, the dog had bolted down the stairs, barking as he went.

Collectively, we could find no trace of anything. The animals were gone so quickly. I guess I expected to see something like feathers and fur still settling. When the dog and I came back inside, I checked his paws for blood, just in case he discovered something I missed in the dark hour of night.

In the light of the morning, a few hours later, there was no trace of anything violent happening. Birds were singing. The sun was rising.

But the rabbit was gone.

“You seem to have made a friend.” my friend, Rose, pointed out. A man had followed us from the bar back to our table and invited himself to sit down with us.

We were having a fundraiser for my high school at a bar.

“So,” this guy said at the bar, before he followed us across the room, “you all went to school together.”

We nod. And then he turns to me, “And are you someone’s baby sister, right? Because you look about ten years younger than your friends.”

I may have told the man that I loved him, thus him following us back to the table.

Of course, Rose, who is a few years younger than me, was offended.

From May 2011

I am home from my vacation. I have returned with a cold, a cough that I cannot shake and the grossest things ever dripping from my nose. (I know, TMI). All thanks to my mother, The Diva. She is a sharer.

My vacation was a family one. (I know, shocking). It was the first in a very, very long time. We rented a beach house on Hatteras Island, on the coastal Outer Banks of North Carolina. Though I have been there many times before, this was the first time in a very long time that I can truly say I have returned totally rested and relaxed. Maybe being sick had something to do with it. Maybe it was the two hours minimum that I spent floating on my raft in the pool each morning. Having been there many times, I didn’t have the need or desire to run around and see everything. I took comfort in the fact that the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse and surrounding islands hadn’t changed much in the last few years.

As for my family, it was nice to catch up with my Aunts. And, because I didn’t have to share a bathroom with my brothers, things worked out well there as well.

(I grew up in a house with just one bathroom. And two brothers. I will never chose to share a bathroom with them again).

My mother enjoyed the sunshine and reading her books on the deck of our beach house.

I tired to remember the places – the houses rented in the past – on the island. It was my own personal trip down memory lane. After all the commercial buildup and four lane highway that runs the length, cutting the towns of Kill Devil Hills, Kitty Hawk and Nags Head in two, Hatteras Island to the South, with miles upon miles of protected National Seashore is a refreshing break from the commercial world. It was the first place I ever stayed and have never had any desire to spoil it with access to the things fun up North.

The first time I went, Seven – the boyfriend of nearly a decade on and off and my high school prom date –  had just finished law school and a classmate asked him if he’d be interested in renting a house with him and his wife. I was kind of surprised when Seven asked me to join him. Things where different, we were changing.

We were so young, in hindsight.

The manmade residential landscape was so unfamiliar when we finally arrived after a twelve-hour drive, passing through Washington DC and then South, through the Navy shipyards of Norfolk into the Carolina coastal waterways. The artictecturhe on the island was, with the hurricane-resistant houses, built up on stilts. It was foreign to us midwesterns, used to traditional ‘colonial’ type homes. We got the keys to that house and turned up a sand-covered, hidden road and found our home for the week. I remember how excited we were – running up the stairs, to the bedroom level - each of us were calling out about what we found as we opened doors - and then moving upwards to the living room, dining room and kitchen on the top level.  We had never seen anything like it for the affordable price of that last week of off-season.

We couldn’t believe it was actually ours. We were so excited.

We quickly unpacked Seven’s Chevy Blazer and headed over the sand dunes to the beach. To the ocean. Though in my early twenties, just a year out of college, that was the first time I had ever seen the ocean. We were barefoot, walking along the waves of high tide. Seven and his law-school friend came from behind as I stood there taking in the vastness of it all and christened me, by grabbing me and throwing me into the water.

The powerful current was overwhelming.

To this day, all these years later, I won’t swim in the ocean. It scares me.

We were total tourists then – jumping off of sand dunes at Jockey’s Ridge State Park. Buying kites and flying them on the beach. Walking the short length of The Wright Brother’s first flight. We took the ferry down to Ocracoke Island and were sad the famed wild horses were not running free. Seven and Pete, the law-school friend, ‘shot the oyster’ at Howard’s Pub, as required by all tourists there. Pete’s wife, Jane, and I politely refused the oyster, beer and Tabasco shot. We stopped at every lighthouse. We climbed The Cape Hatteras Lighthouse.

And, we drank.

A lot.

We had nothing fancy in that first beach house – no pool, no hot tub. Our house was simple. Just a few bedrooms and a short walk over the sand dunes to the water. But we didn’t need anything more. We had the whole island. We had each other. We had hammocks on the deck and a million stars at night above us.

This time, I tired to remember the street that first house was on. Three small towns run together in the center of the island – Waves, Rodanthe and Salvo – I knew it was somewhere in that stretch of development.  I wanted to drive past, to see if it was all that I remembered. Each visit back, the houses booked got larger, grander. Closer to the water. Hot tubs were required. Then pools. (But I almost have always ended up in this stretch of the island over the years).

I know now that there may never be another time like that time – the first time. It was all so new and wonderful.

It’s still wonderful, it’s just a different kind of wonderful. Like wrapping yourself in a favorite blanket or sweater pulled from a drawer as the seasons change. You wrap yourself in it and know it is just as it should be. It is a warmth, a feeling of familiarity, of home, of belonging if only for a little while. The tides still change like clockwork, the same stars are still there if you can remember to look up.

Remembering now is the hard part.

I didn’t find the house.

It might to be lost to me in reality.

But will always have the memories of how it once was, during a week in late May, in what seems like a lifetime ago. And I will go back, for everyone needs a bit of the sea, a bit of the past and a bit of the future, with time every now and then.

Every morning, when I take my dog to my mother’s house, we pull in the driveway and the dog and I get out of the car. I try to build the excitement of ‘seeing Grandma.’ And my little dog jumps out of the car and bolts for his favorite bunch of tree shrubs, to mark them before we head in, to ‘find grandma.’

Grandma is most always still in bed. He knows this now, though sometimes he stops by the kitchen for a quick search of the floor. A dog has to have hope, after all, that Grandma may have dropped some sort of food on the floor.

It’s rare that such a thing happens but he still has to check.

Lately, though, things have changed. Most mornings, he goes directly to Grandma’s bed and waits for be lifted up. And I, being a sucker and clearly my dog’s servant, lift him. He lays down on grandma’s hip, and turns to me with the saddest puppy dog eyes ever, as if to say, ‘How can you leave me?‘ I used to think he was telling me he was cold and I’d reach for the comforter folded at the end of Mom’s bed and cover him up. After months and months of doing this, my mother finally told me that as soon as I leave, he repositions himself closer to her face, closer to the pillowcases.

Again, proof he is working me.

So this past weekend, the dog and I arrive at my mother’s house . I build the hype up for him to ‘go find Grandma,’ like it’s a weekday morning. His little paws click on her hardwood floors as he runs to her bedroom only to discover the bed is empty.

The poor pup is confused. Grandma is not in bed. He circled the bed, looking for her. She was just steps away, in her attached bathroom but to him, she was missing. Not in her usual spot. For all he knew, she was a world away.

My mother called out to him and his tail began wagging instantly just hearing her voice, as if there was much relief. Grandma was not gone. He wouldn’t be there alone. There were no sad puppy dog eyes on that day, cast in my direction. Instead, he was up on his back legs, tag wagging, trying to climb onto my mother’s lap as she sat in front of her makeup table.

I guess it’s proof that my dog really does like her as well.

And those sad puppy dog eyes shouldn’t work.

(From May 2006)

Alf and I were finally close enough; close enough to our final vacation destination to get really excited. And even more exciting than our destination was the reunion about to take place. Blair, my college roommate, and her husband were near as well. They were at one end of Hatteras Island. Alf and I were 72 miles North, just crossing over a long two-lane bridge. to reach our island.

“You come North.” I said to Blair, via the cell phone. “And we’ll keep driving South and we’ll meet in the middle.” Both of our cell phones were fading in and out. We were, for all cell phone coverage maps, in uncharted and uncovered territory, miles off of the mainland. We made plans to check in with each other in thirty minutes. There was still at least 50 miles between us.

After two days together, Alf and I were pretty excited to see the ocean, to be on vacation and to be with friends. Blair called back a few minutes later: “My cell phone is dying. Let’s just pick a place to meet.” They were technically not even on Hatteras Island yet. Having arrived to the Outer Banks the night before, they were still on a ferry, coming back from Ocracoke Island.

“Okay.” I said and thought for a moment. “How about the base of the lighthouse?” It seems like it’d be about half-way, based on timing and location. (This is the first, unofficial, party in the middle of the week).

With her cell phone quickly fading, I heard a “See you there.” We were all hoping that the messages got through. Alf and I continued Southward.

We knew we’d drive right pass our rented vacation home. We were not sure we’d be able to recognize it or spot it from the road. And then, we got to the town we’d be staying in, a little dot on the map, and spotted the yellow house we’d seen only via pictures online. It was even more beautiful that we imagined. It was more than we hoped. Alf turned into the side street and we found our way to the front of the house. The Sound was on one side of us, the ocean on the other.

We were instantly in love.

And we had not even been inside yet. We had at least four hours before check-in.

We composed ourselves and continued South, to our meeting spot, our destination, our reunion.

A bit further South, we spot the towering spiral black and white stripe of the lighthouse and we are excited, thinking our friends are there, waiting for us. We finally spot the brown, National Park signs, pointing us to the lighthouse. We park and I jump out of the car, looking for Blair and Buddha. They are no where to be seen and I am sure that they are at the base, waiting for us.

Walking over, we take pictures of the cape, of the sand and sea grass, and, of course, the lighthouse. Everything is beautiful – the sky, the sun, the lighthouse, the breeze. Alf and I wander closer to the lighthouse. There are people on bikes, a wedding party, lots of foreign tourists. Our friends are no where to be seen.

“You don’t think they mistook the base of the lighthouse for the top of the lighthouse?” I asked Alf.

Alf decides that they would not climb the lighthouse without us. I am not sure and look up to try and see if Buddha is hanging of the side, waving down at us. He is not, through it’s hard to tell from so far below. We wander around the grounds, each wanting to be the first to spot them.

And then, a few minutes later, we see our friends. we hug, laugh and giggle.

This is the first of many hugs, many laughs and many giggles.

“Let’s go up.” says Buddha so I buy us tickets and we begin to climb. Spiraling upward. And, because you have met me, you can understand my fear. Of suddenly falling. Forward onto the metal stairs. And then, over the railing. I actually made it about 2/3rds of the way when I realized that the fear of falling would win over.

I told my friends to go on without me. I calmly, slowly turned around and headed back down.

The “oh my god, I am going to die” thoughts got better as I got closer to the bottom, one step at a time.

Blair, Buddha and Alf made it to the top, took some pictures and just about caught up with my at the bottom. I have climbed this before, I try to explain. Twice and yet never felt certain I was going to die before.

Later, Blair suggested that some things get worse with old age.

At the bottom, safely back on Earth, I considered kissing the ground. From behind, Blair stopped me. Regrouped and hungry, we headed off for lunch. Blair and Buddha followed Alf’s Buick. A few miles up the road, we pulled into “Dirty Dick’s.” We figured with a name like that, it would be interesting, if not good. Signs had been entertaining us along the drive, with the slogan “I got crabs at Dirty Dick’s.”

I thought Alf needed that on a t-shirt.

A few pitchers of Bass later, we were now free to check into the house. We divided up again, Blair and I to the realtor’s office to get keys; Alf and Buddha went in search of alcohol. More Bass would be needed.

After standing in the world’s longest line for check-in, we made our way to the house. The big, yellow house was even more breathtaking than we imagined. All the pictures and descriptions had been mild and boring compared to it here in real life, real time.

Once the boys arrived, we suited up into bathing suits and climbed into the hot tub. “I wonder,” I asked my friends, soaking up the hot water and forgetting the aches and pains of the day, “what the poor people are doing this evening?”

We were on vacation. We were with cherrished friends. In a hot tub. With beer. For tonight, those poor people would not be us.

(repost from 2006)

Today is May Fourth. To my family, that means two things. The anniversary of the Kent State Shootings and the day the family pet died.

Part One:
My mother would be thrilled to show anyone her Kent State ID, if anyone cares. She’s pretty proud of it.

I grew up, fascinated by the stories of people who were there on that tragic day. Stories of how my aunt had to just walk towards home once the officials closed the campus down. Home was close to 100 miles away. An uncle had to go get her and her brother, but he could only get so far into the county. Thankfully, my mom was no where near the campus at the time. She was home, with her babies.

Did you know that the National Guard fired off at least 67 shots in roughly 13 seconds. Four students were killed and nine others wounded. To this day, no one has been held accountable.

In college, the small college’s city law official of some sort was one of the injured students, then a mid-aged man confided to a wheelchair. We’d see him pass on the sidewalks near the courthouse and say nothing. What could we?

I went to visit a boyfriend who was a student there one Spring weekend and made him take me to the hillside where the shooting happen. It is now a field of flowers, in remembrance.

And then, a few years ago, my mother took a personal day and went for a day of remembrance with her generation.

Part Two:
Compared to the above, this is going to see so terribly shallow and self-absorbed.

On May Fourth, in my Junior year of college, the family pet died. Moose, a pure-bred Collie with a championship bloodline, was never anything more than the family pet. We got him when I was in first grade. He did not know how to go up steps. He was so tiny and delicate. I remember Jim and I on a stair landing and patting the step, to convince him to try and climb up towards us.

A decade and a half later, he was gone.

My family knew he was ailing, from old age and the effects of being a big dog.

A few weeks before he died my college roommate, Blair, and I had made the decision of doing laundry at the laundry mat or spending our laundry money on gas money and drive to Funkytown, where laundry was free, courtesy of my mother. Mom usually won. Because she’d fold too.

That weekend, Moose stayed on his beanbag bed in the kitchen, no longer making is rounds from bedroom to bedroom to check -herd, if you will – on the family.

He was having trouble getting up from his bed or moving between steps. Mom had said that she was pretty sure incontinence was setting in. She prepared my siblings and I.

Moose’s days were coming to an end. She made me say goodbye to him before Blair and I went back to college.

I made Blair go first, since she was part of the family. She gentle patted him on his head and whispered in his ear. Moose sighed. I made everyone leave the kitchen when it was my turn to say goodbye.

I remember pulling Moose’s head onto my lap and talking to him. The top of his head, that tuff of fur, had always been puppy soft.

Over the next two weeks, I called often for an update on the dog. There was never an upturn of events. Finally, my mother told me that he was not eating his food, only small amounts of his favorite people food, incontinence was constant and he was unable to get up on his own. I was thankful to be more than 200 miles from home. Thankful to not see him like this.

I wanted to remember him as he was, the herder. The pet. The buddy. The guard. The gentle soul. The licker of ants. The pet that made us spell out words. “Walk” became “W,” then “jaunt.” He was such a smart, good dog.

Mom said that made arrangements for him to be put to sleep the following day. That Saturday morning, she came down to the kitchen and asked Moose, asleep on his bed, if he wanted pancakes. “Moose, want some pancakes? Moose, want some pancakes? Mommy’s making pancakes.” She was going to make him one last meal.

Moose was motionless.

Later that morning, she and my brother, Jim, called to tell me. She tried to tell me of how when he did not lift his head when she offered food, she knew he was gone. She told me of how Jim wrapped his body in a blanket and carried him to the car. Jim had been so strong and supportive. Moose was wrapped in that red, flannel blanket he always favored.

At least he died at home, the only home he ever knew.

200 miles away, I went right into the shower and had a good cry. I had never really lost anyone, pet or family member, before. I cried and cried and cried.

A bit later, clean and all cried out, I decided to take a nap to help my eyes mend.

A few hours after my mother’s phone call, I got out of bed and went out into the living room of our college apartment. Blair was studying. I reached for a remote and turned the TV on.

And on the screen, a Lassie movie was just starting. There was Lassie, running up a lush, green hill. Lassie, a beautiful Collie, just like Moose.

I threw the remote at the TV and headed back to the shower to cry some more.

This morning, around 7 am, when I went to leave my house, there were four men in Irish/Scottish kilts in my neighbor’s driveway. A row of hedges separates my driveway from the neighbors, so they were pretty close.

“Good morning, Miss.” said one of the men, in a lovely accent.

I am a sucker for accents. I am sure I giggled.

My dog barked at these strangers.

And I know, it’s kind of weird to have men in kilts in one’s Cleveland neighborhood on an early Thursday morning; thankfully I know my neighbor is a kilt-wearing bagpiper from Dublin so it’s a little less weird.

But just a little less weird.

I have no idea how long they had been out there. A few were smoking cigarettes. A minvan was parked on the street, blocking the neighbor’s driveway. It looked packed to the gills with stuff – suitcases and musical cases. I picked up my dog, mostly to stop the barking, and put him in my car. I could only assume they were waiting on the neighbor, to join them on some sort adventure.

“Gonna come out and see us play sometime?” one of the guys asked me.

“Maybe.” I said.

And then, he raised a dark can, as if to toast to the idea. I realized it was a tall can of Guinness Beer.

“A bit early for that?” I asked.

“It’s afternoon back home.” the guy said.

I guess in Ireland or Scotland, it was afternoon. “Good point,” I said and I was so jealous of whatever adventure these men were off on. I was sure it was better than going to a corporate environment. First of all, none of my coworkers ever wear kilts.