Sarabi

Even her name has always been an added complication. Sarabi, the mother of Simba in the Disney film “The Lion King,” isn’t easily recognized or pronounced. (Sir Robbie seems to be the typical way her name is understood.)

Fifteen years ago “The Lion King” ruled in our household of 7 year-old twins, and a 4-year old. We planned to get a little Rottweiler based entirely upon our love of the dog Carl in Alexandra Day’s classic books. When we heard of a female Rotti who had recently given birth to some unfortunate half-breeds, we decided to pay a visit and ended up with new puppy, soon to be named Sarabi by our Lion-King-crazed children.

From that very first night, we had an idea that Sarabi was going to add complications to our domicile, as she barked the entire night without ceasing. By the second night she lost her voice from all her barking, but the vet assured us that she would adjust and not to worry. We took her out for a walk that first weekend and discovered another life-long trait: she disliked certain people. At 9 weeks of age, she would not allow the neighbor to pet her, but growled and barked at him. Until the years took her hearing and much of her sight, she continued to target random people for inclusion on her list of “Dangerous-Criminals-Who-Shall-Never-Be-Trusted.”

Although the kids lavished her with affection and attention, she seldom sought out physical affection, content to lie nearby. She did enjoy romping with our older dog, and eagerly shared her affections for her canine-friends. Except for her increasing anti-social behavior to guests, she was easy to train and demanded little attention. She would “sit,” “come” and “speak” on command, but mastered no tricks worthy of remembrance. Until she was fourteen and her eyes clouded with age, she didn’t even slow down or show any graying on her black muzzle.

Her quirks included panic attacks at the first sign of a thunderstorm, a phobia about having her paws touched, a manic hatred of the mail carrier, an ability to shred mail which dared to be thrust through the door slot, and a bark which would literally rattle the windows. When we moved to a small city for a few years, she was assuredly the sole reason that a rash of neighborhood break-ins skipped over our household.

Two years ago we got another puppy, thinking that Sarabi wasn’t long for this world. Her hind legs weren’t working well and the vet didn’t think she would make it through another winter. But never one to go with trends, Sarabi rallied and continued to maintain the use of her back legs, although she lacked feeling in them. Her incontinence and bad breath were legendary in our household, but she was like the energizer bunny and just kept going and going. That is, until this past week, when she seemed to lose even more eyesight and started running into things. First, she missed catching dog treats thrown her way, and then began running into cabinets, end tables and chairs. The panic attacks (which had subsided with her loss of hearing) seemed to return. This weekend she began having seizures and refused to eat for the first time in her fifteen-plus years of life.

So, tonight is the night, at 6 PM. She lies on the floor in our mudroom, incontinent, drooling and confused. Her gaze is vacant and she is clearly ready to be at peace. We have had many dogs over the years, and truthfully, while Sarabi hasn’t been one of my favorites, she does hold a special place that no other dog can ever take, because with her passing an era ends. There will never be another puppy picked out with our excited young children, as the “children” are now all in college themselves. So with Sarabi goes another piece of our family history and another link to the past. I mourn not only the passing of an old, quirky, yet faithful friend, but also the passing of a season of life, the aging and changing of a family and the closing of another chapter.

Zoey

(Here is a second draft of my piece about Zoey, newly expanded, for Writer's Workshop feedback.)

You hugged me on the last day of school,
your ponytail swinging and bracelets jingling
as you swept into my room, interrupting another visiting student.

Just two weeks ago you said that mine was your favorite class.
You asked if we could connect on MySpace,
or if you could email me over the summer.
You sent three emails in your IM lingo these past two weeks,
asking what I was up to and if I was reading anything exciting.

Last night your email made my heart skip and my mind whirl in protest.
Impossible words from one so young and feisty.
Yes, feisty, sassy, spirited.
Never quiet, often combative and always opinionated.

Even with your poor spelling skills the words were unmistakable:
Leukemia. Chemotherapy.
A knot tightens in my stomach and disbelief screams.

I imagined you riding your horse this summer,
the wind in your hair as you enjoyed your freedom.
I imagined you working on your mother’s ranch with abused animals,
being annoyed by the goats and chickens,
loving the dogs, and taking special interest in the horses.
Trying to save the world.

Now you are thrown into another battle.
Acute Promyelocytic Mylogenous Leukemia.
Intimidating, weighty, terrifying, life-changing words.

Fight, Zoey.
Use all that energy and fight to save yourself.
You just turned fifteen last month.
So many plans, experiences, dreams, and opportunities await you.

Fight hard, Zoey.
May you win this battle,
to fight the injustices of the world another day.

Morning Coffee

As a more recent convert to the joys of morning coffee, I do relish the ritual. On weekends and vacations I love to sit on our patio or back porch with my favorite mug and the morning newspaper. There is something almost sacred about the time to look at the mountains, listen to the birds, and sip the dark comfort in my mug. My husband makes the coffee every morning, which is an added personal bonus. He takes satisfaction in the ritual of grinding the coffee beans, adding the filtered water and brewing a very strong pot of Italian Roast coffee. During the school year, my handsome hubby gets up in time to make the coffee before I fly out the door with my thermos of joy. During the summer months, I can lazily wait in bed, listening to the coffee-making ritual in the kitchen, until the aroma urges me to come-hither. Such a guilty pleasure to just go slowly in the morning, enjoy, and savor my perfect cup of coffee.

Being Humbled

On my way out the door this morning, a quick glance in the mirror caused my heart to sink. There, on the front of my new shirt, was a symbol of my total ineptitude. My “scarlet letter” was in the form of clear sticker-tag which boldly announced “MMMMMM.”

This, of course, was the very shirt which I had worn the previous afternoon to a picnic. The very shirt in which I had visited with at least fifty people, strangers and old acquaintances that I hadn’t seen years. How could I have missed this tag? Although the shirt does have polka dots, the emblazoned “MMMMMMs” were still plainly in view.

So, how many people noticed the tag and decided against commenting? (I know at least two people didn’t notice: my husband and I.) Perhaps the people with whom I was visiting when I dropped my entire plate of hors d'oeuvres thought that I’d suffered enough embarrassment for one evening, so couldn’t bear to mention it. Perhaps a few truly didn’t notice, but alas, it was noticeable. Well, I only hope that most of them enjoyed a good laugh in the car on their way home. And perhaps, the next time they embarrass themselves publicly, they will think of me and know that they are not alone.

Family Travels

Spelling Matters

Last night we were driving along a nearby highway. We came to a blinking, neon construction sign informing motorists to “OBAY SPEED LIMITS.” My husband and I simultaneously yelled, “OBEY!” in disbelief and then read the next construction sign: “PROCEDE WITH CAUTION.” More screaming ensued. While this might seem to be a perfectly logical spelling, no one claims that English is logical.

I can just imagine this spelling-challenged construction worker back in high school, sitting in my classroom insistently informing me that he doesn’t need to know how to spell because HE is going into the construction business. And, besides, even if he did have to write something, he would just use spell check.

Obviously, construction signs do not come with a spell check option. So, where are the spelling police when you need them? What an embarrassment! I want to require this errant speller to correct his work and perhaps even write OBEY and PROCEED ten times correctly! I certainly will be able to use this anecdote with the next student who tries to convince me that he or she doesn’t need spelling!

In the meantime, perhaps we should look into creating a spell check option for construction signs.

Lessons from a Tractor

Yesterday I had my annual summer lesson on driving my husband’s tractor. Driving the tractor is on my list of “Life Skills to Avoid.” This is an evolving list which includes such items as adding toner to the copier at work, power-washing the back porch and putting air into the car tires. These are things in which I have actively sought to cultivate a complete lack of skill, thereby recusing myself from the chore.

Nonetheless, since I needed to move mulch and my husband wasn’t going to be home, I agreed to the tractor lesson. (I have indeed been given this lesson before, but as part of my endeavor to cultivate a total lack of proficiency, I deleted all directions from virtual memory following usage last summer.)

My patient and bemused husband patiently told me the function for each lever and knob, watching to make sure I could indeed operate the bucket correctly. After my first successful maneuver I asked him about another lever on the left side of the seat.

“What is a PTO? I’m sure it isn’t a Parent Teacher Organization,” I remarked.

“That is the Power Take Off,” he responded nonchalantly.

“The WHAT?” I asked incredulously.

“The Power Take Off,” he restated. As the words left his mouth, I began to laugh uncontrollably, until I had tears streaming down my cheeks. Between my gasps for air, I kept repeating “The Power Take Off?” When I could speak, I asked if there was also an eject button and parachute.

The PTO lever is now my favorite part of the tractor. I’m sure the engineers at John Deere has some more mundane function in mind, but having a PTO is such a wonderful idea. If I had such a lever, I pull it every morning as my alarm went off. An extra surge of energy would be just what my body needs at 5:30 AM. And think how useful it could be when pulling out into traffic. And, if children could be given a PTO, it would be an amazing development. My first block of the day, when my sleep-deprived students are staring into space, I could just throw the PTO lever and off we would go. Forget an “easy button,” I want a PTO lever!

So, how was your day?

How was my day? Well, my desk top is cleared, the mulch is raked even on the front flower beds, the floors were vacuumed, my bed is made, one of three boxes from Fed Ex is unwrapped, the NY Times Crossword puzzle has been accomplished, and the soup was moved to a smaller container in the refrigerator. Did I mention that I ate a bowl of popcorn? Doesn’t seem like much to have accomplished by 2 PM in the afternoon. So let me try to recount where the hours actually went:

“Mom, please move my washing to the dryer. Make sure it is set on regular. And the nicer shirts need to be hung up, and the rest could go in the dryer…but only on regular. Did you hear me?

“Mom, can you look and see if you have spices we need for cooking an Indian meal tomorrow night? It would be a shame to have to buy all those spices…there are twelve listed here….”

“Mom, are you by a computer? Can you MapQuest from Auburn to Mt. Rainer? Which side of the park is the visitor’s center? Do you remember where Reflection Lake is located?”

“Hi, again, Mom. Did you say that you had whole cloves or ground cloves? And was it mustard seeds I still needed to get?”

“Hi, hon. Did you remember to call the car dealer to replace that headlight? And be sure to tell them that the car needs routine maintenance and its inspection too.”

“Hi, Mrs. Baasch? This is Cheryl from the doctor’s office. We still cannot get Blue Cross, Blue Shield to complete the processing on those claims for your daughter. Can you please call them again? I have spent hours on this already and they have not returned my calls.”

“Hi, Debra. Did you want more mulch delivered today?”

“Hello, is Debra Boo-she there? Because of your excellent credit payment record, I’m calling to offer you lower interest rates on your cards.”

“Hi Mom. Me again. Can you look down in my room and see if my black shirt is hanging in my closet? I need it for next weekend and maybe you could bring it down tonight?”

So much for the first seven hours of my day--perhaps I’ll at least get a blog entry out of this for my summer course!

Weed Therapy

Therapeutic. That is what my friends tell me about weeding. As I swat another black fly and dig endless for the tendrils of my latest victim, I try to keep this thought in mind. Time to think, reflect, and ponder while in a flowerbed making the world a more beautiful place. What drivel, what hogwash, what wishful thinking. My thoughts are consumed with complaints and I just want to whine like a spoiled child. I hate weeding! So why is this task so arduous for me? After all, I love planning new flowerbeds, buying the perennials, bushes, and annuals. I don’t even mind planting my new recruits, but weeding is another task completely. There is something so hopeful about the freshly dug flowerbed with its new promise of beauty and nary a weed to be found. And there is something so repugnant about a flowerbed completely overrun with weeds.



So, I need an attitude change. I’m always telling my students that attitude matters. So, let’s try this with a positive attitude. What can I learn from my weeding endeavors? Okay, I think the first thing I learned is that ROOTS matter. If you just worry about the surface stuff, you really don’t effect change in a garden or in life. Your roots really matter; things interconnect in ways that you may not foresee from a surface glance. Getting to "the root of the problem" is mandatory for effecting change.



Secondly, I think that you need BOUNDARIES. Without something to clearly delineate the driveway from the rock garden, the two become enmeshed and intertwined in unfortunate ways. Just like in life, we all need to set clear boundaries so that work, friends, whatever it is that overruns your life, doesn’t overtake the truly important.



So, I guess I CAN find something therapeutic in weeding after all. Of course, I still wish I was sitting on the patio reading a book, but at least I did find a worthwhile contemplation. I don’t think that you’ll ever find me out gardening at 6 AM thinking this is bliss, but I am glad that I persevered for today.

Zoey

You hugged me on the last day of school.
Just two weeks ago you said that mine was your favorite class.
You asked if you could email me over the summer and
sent three emails in your IM lingo these past two weeks.
Last night your words made my heart skip and my mind whirl in protest.
Impossible words from one so young and feisty.
Yes, feisty, sassy, spirited.
Never quiet, often combative and always opinionated.
Even with your poor spelling skills the words were unmistakable:
Leukemia. Chemotherapy.
A knot tightens in my stomach and disbelief screams.
I imagined you riding your horse this summer,
working on your mother’s ranch with abused animals.
Trying to save the world.
Now you are thrown into another battle.
Fight, Zoey.
Use all that energy and fight to save yourself.
You just turned fifteen last month.
So many plans, experiences, dreams, and opportunities await.
May you win this battle, Zoey,
to fight the injustices of the world another day.

Saving Money with Mom

Looking for a pleasurable way to spend the day with my mother, we opted for a quick trip to our nearby outlet center in Manchester, VT. We had considered visiting a spa for a massage, but decided that was too expensive an indulgence. Truthfully, it would have saved my budget significant money if we had merely whiled the afternoon away in spa bliss. As it turns out, the Ann Taylor clearance rack was sinisterly awaiting to ambush my thrifty intentions. These four letters were my downfall: SALE. This dreadful proclivity for sales is a genetic condition passed along to me by my sale-addicted mother.

The entire bag still sits in my closet hiding its guilty contents. I am reluctant to cut off the tags, which are the proof of my shopping prowess. Shirts tagged at $34.00, which were now only $11.24; blouses tagged at $49.00, now only $14.99; and cardigans, which were $78.00, for which I only paid $18.74. What a triumph, what a find, what a coup d'etat! There is, of course, a small footnote to this tale of glory, and that would be the receipt total for $231.53. Wait, what was I thinking? I will total the order before the discounts to reveal my net savings. Aha, in reality I did not overspend; I saved $448.46. Wow, that makes me feel so much better. What a great way to spend the day AND make $448.46.

Who says that English teachers don’t need math skills?

Letter of Apology

Dear Mister Sun,

I wish to express my sincere apologies for any perceived indifference and assure you that I am most appreciative of your efforts on our behalf. I realize that your job is truly staggering and that I do not begin to comprehend your daily routine. Nonetheless, I am a life-long fan of your appearance and have been deeply saddened by your recent reticence. I implore you to come back with greater regularity in July and August. Furthermore, I am certain that any perceived indifference on the part of your loyal subjects will be emphatically dispelled at your next appearance.

Your rather pale lady-in-waiting,

Debra

Openings

Tonight I am setting up a blog for my UNE summer course, Connecting Reading and Writing for Success. This blog will be used for submitting writing to a Writer's Workshop group.

Although I do read a couple of blogs regularly, I have not kept my own blog. I journal, which feels much more appropriate and private. I do have a Facebook account for my public sharing, but tend to write newsy emails every week or two which I send out to family.

So, welcome to my newest cyberspace endeavor. No promises about the usefulness or creativity of any of the material to follow. Perhaps, I should write a disclaimer in this first entry which warns that you are entering at your own risk and the opinions expressed are merely a reflection of my current thoughts on the given subject.