Doing It With Grace

A Thing of Beauty

2011-07-03T11:43:00.000-07:00

It's official. If my regular bouts of crankiness haven't yet earned me the karmic award of returning to earth as a larvae, I'm coming back as a golden retriever.

"What a beautiful dog!"

No doubt about that. Leggy, lanky and blond, she might give any Sports Illustrated Model a run for her money if it weren't for an overabundance of hair.

"What a lovely face-it looks like she's smiling."

She is the canine Cameron Diaz with an ear to ear elastic grin. By the way, you'd be smiling too if you had someone at the ready to pick up your poop with a Ziploc bag.

"Her fur is so soft; you must spend an awful lot of time brushing her."

That's right- I am Rapunzel's lady-in-waiting with a brush surgically incised to my hand. No matt would even consider forming in my presence; burrs run screaming at the mention of my name.
Truth be told, Grace is pretty much a wash and wear gal. Aside from her monthly after-bath brushing and a hindquarter trim to avoid the unsightly "saggy butt" look, she's on her own.

"She's so well behaved"

Admittedly, at times Gracie makes me look like the dog whisperer's prize pupil. She is sweet, affectionate and well practiced in focusing her attention on a new acquaintance. By accident or by design, she conceals the counter-surfing juggernaut who would happily snatch a donut out of the hand of a sleeping old man.

"Look-she really likes me!"

Please pardon the roar of bursting bubbles, but she likes everyone. She couldn't care less if the hand stroking her head is attached to King Kong, Godzilla, or the Son of Sam.

"You're so lucky to have her."

Wisecracking cynicism aside, I know I am. No one on the planet will ever be so happy to see me when I come home. She rarely turns down an invitation and always pays her way in good will. Who can blame me for giving in to jealousy? Compliments are showered upon her and she can accept a public body massage without fear of sexual harrassment. The moment is hers as she grabs it and hangs on for a good time ride.

Trust me- next time around, I'm going to be on the other side of the leash.

Photo: Gracie chills out after enduring hardcore petting sessions during her hike to the falls at Bash Bish Falls State Park in southwestern Massachusetts.

Dog Smarts

2011-03-22T06:23:00.000-07:00

"It is absurd to divide people into good or bad. People are either charming or tedious." ~ Oscar Wilde

According to veteran freelance writer Robert Brault, http://www.robertbrault.com/, "Charisma is a fancy name given to the knack of giving people your full attention." Having a knack for something indicates a genetic predisposition; either you have it or you don't. While we can hone our social skills, the ability to "charm some one's pants off " comes with the territorial DNA. We've all admired the sparkling beacon in the center of a pantless crowd and muttered, "Maybe she's born with it." Whatever the source of the magic, the results are easily measured by the reactions. Case in point: a certain golden retriever named Gracie.

She is the canine "It" girl and I'd like to think that this assessment is not the product of a stage mother's pride. I've witnessed her ability to engage and amuse without any coercion from my end of the leash. No doubt about it, she was born with it.

As Grace adds to her growing ranks of admirers I often hear, "She's so smart!" While I can't disagree that she is entertaining as she jockeys for attention and executes her repertoire of tricks, I haven't attributed her actions to a heightened sense of intelligence. Perhaps I've let her affable nature and goofball countenace get in the way of a fair assessment; can problem-solving and the desire to roll in deer poop coexist in an enlightened creature? Well, boys and girls, according to the results of a fifth grade science project, the answer is yes. Feel free to roll in deer poop without damaging your academic status.

About a month ago, I received an e-mail from Candice Cunningham, the owner of Gracie's alma mater, Positive Paws Training School, http://www.positivepaws.org/. Amelia Smith, a local fifth grader, needed help in compiling data for her science fair project, "Dog Smarts - What's Going on Behind Those Puppy Dog Eyes?"

Hi Everyone,

I would like to ask all of you to consider participating in this Science Project with your dog! On Monday (2/7) Amelia and Paula (Amelia's mom) will be at our Hopewell Location ready to interview any willing dog and owner. They will arrive around 5:30 and prepare to "test" dogs before class and during class. Each dog test will take about 3 minutes. Students that are currently enrolled in the 6pm Elementary Level or 7pm High School Level class will have the opprtunity to participate during class. Any other interested people should plan to arrive around 5:30pm to participate before the 6pm class begins.

Again, please do consider helping Amelia with her science project.

Thanks!

Candice

Unable to pass up the opportunity to do something fun with the diva and perhaps settle the intelligence question, I packed up her highness and headed to Positive Paws' Hopewell Junction, New York location at the Golden Dog Grooming Salon. Owners and their puppies were preparing for class while Amelia conducted her tests in the back of the room. Gracie stood in the doorway, set to full exuberance and ready for a good time as we took our place in line and observed as the other participants were put through their paces.

Watching the black and white blur of a border collie whizzing through his tasks, I looked at Grace and said, "We can leave now if you'd like." Apparently unaware of the vaudevillian's advice to never follow a dog act, she grinned and chose to stay. We introduced ourselves to Amelia and her mother Paula and prepared to determine the extent of Gracie's genius. Poised and focused, Amelia described the three tests and explained the facets of intelligence each would measure. Impressed by Amelia's sweet, yet serious nature I imagined that her mother must be proud of her daughter and her dedication to her project. I remained skeptical as to whether or not my four-legged debutante would do the same for me.

Does a dog realize that an object still exists even when they can't see it?

Amelia showed a treat to Gracie and then placed it under a tin on the floor. Lassie did not immediately tell me that Timmy was in the well, but she did knock the tin over after I jiggled it a little, demonstrating that she was indeed aware of the treat's out of sight existence.

How well does a dog understand spatial relationships between objects, especially horizontal objects?

Holding a pillow on a tray above Gracie's eye level, Amelia showed her a treat and then dropped it on the pillow, which was used to silence the treat's landing. Gracie's gaze went to the pillow, a sign that she understands the way that horizontal objects relate to each other. I filled out her application to Harvard in my mind.

Can a dog figure out how to get around an obstacle to retrieve a desired object?

Amelia showed Gracie a treat and then dropped it behind a V-shaped barrier formed by two chairs on their sides. Gracie quickly went around the chairs to retrieve her prize, rather than barreling through the barricade. Her response may have been because she had encountered this situation before, or is adept at looking at physical problems and coming up with solutions. Either way, hers was the big-money response and she went to the head of the class. I mailed her application to Harvard in my mind.

Three weeks later, I attended the Science Fair at Amelia's school. Standing in front of her beautifully designed presentation, she fielded questions and explained her research like a seasoned pro. She had tested 100 dogs and displayed the results with carefully executed charts and graphs. Normalizing the scores ( 3 being the highest ), she arrived at a mean score of 2. Only 8 dogs scored below 2, and while she did observe differences in breed performance, Amelia concluded that, overall, there is a lot of thought and intelligence behind those puppy dog eyes. Sorry if I doubted you, Grace.

Photos: 1.Amelia with Gracie at the Golden Dog Grooming Salon. 2. Amelia and her presentation at the Science Fair. 3. Gracie's 15 minutes of fame.

Thanks to Paula Smith and her daughter Amelia. Her interest in dogs continues beyond her project and has led her to competing in Junior Showmanship with her Norwich terrier, Diesel. I hope to follow her progress and look forward to seeing her at Westminster one day.

The Storm of the i: An Artobiography

2011-02-04T03:10:00.000-08:00

"Storm of the i", an "artobiography" by author/artist Tina Collen, is a cohesive marriage of exhibition and memoir. She opens her life's portfolio and gives us a dazzling view of her aesthetic triumphs while battling the bedevilment of unanswered questions. The target of her father's irrational anger, she is plagued by the apparent absence of his love. Though she may never completely transcend her disappointment, she certainly gives it a run for its money, living creatively and tenaciously. Beautifully designed and well-written, her book pays homage to the scraps, trophies and mementos that have become her tapestry. Images of her artwork, family photographs, treasured relics and poems treat us to a candid and refreshingly amusing view of her personal and professional journey.

I began writing "Grace" as my father entered his final months. Chronicling the ordeal at hand, I also found myself packing up my past as I reviewed the contents of my life. Memories provoked tears and laughter while the souvenirs of a simpler time brought me the warmth of comfort. The love of supportive parents shines from artifacts I have retrieved and brought to my own home; they ignite emotions and serve as a visual diary. They tell my story and I'm more than willing to listen.

Tina has crafted a compelling portrait of her search for a truthful and rewarding artistic existence. "Storm of the i" is a clever combination of storytelling and artistic expression that begs the reader to revisit and reflect; one woman's unique journal reminds us that loose strings and unfinished business should not prevent us from moving forward.

"The most unusual thing about this remarkable memoir is that it's not about the author-it's about the reader." ~Marilyn Van Derbur, Award winning author, motivational speaker, Miss America 1958

Please welcome Tina Collen as she describes the birth of "Storm of the i". May she experience continued success with her book and with the work in progress that is her life.

You've said that it was a performance at the Aspen Comedy Festival that started you down the path to this emotional and revealing book ( How it all began ). What happened after the festival?

Back home in Boulder, Colorado, while still under the festival spell, I happened to glance at a ceramic figure I’d made in my early twenties. It was displayed prominently in a bookcase built along a wall going up my stairway— I’d seen it thousands of times before. This time, however, I saw something different. Here's how I describe that moment in the book: “There in front of me was the incarnation of longing, disemboweled and exuding a feeling of eerie emptiness. The piece was an archeological relic I’d been unable to decipher until that very moment. Though it has hands and feet, it has no eyes, no face, no internal organs. No voice. I could see that the figure has no self. Its insides are an empty space, a void—perhaps, waiting to be filled. And the piece was about me.”

So I was standing there on the steps all alone and yet I felt extremely vulnerable and exposed. Everyone has a wound—I was looking directly at mine. I felt nauseous. And at the same time, I felt excited by the idea that maybe other pieces of my work also contained messages. I quickly went up the stairs and into my bedroom where I saw an album cover I’d made in college. It was hanging on the wall opposite my bed. When I’d made it I thought I was just doing an assignment using a photograph I had taken for a photography class the day before and writing the words of a song I had heard across the top. It never occurred to me, in all the years that this piece followed me to every apartment and house I lived in, it never occurred to me that the piece was about me. "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child," the album cover read. My childhood was seeping out everywhere. Hiding quietly in plain sight, it was a message to me. . . from me. I was touching the unconscious.

Vaulted into a frenzy of activity I began unearthing relics from my past. I was captivated by the intrigue of decoding my own cryptic clues unwittingly planted over a lifetime. From closets and flat files and computer hard drives I began pulling out written pieces, sculptures, etchings, art photographs, letters, newspaper clippings, journal entries, poems—everything I could find. Unraveling inner mysteries, no doubt to reconcile a difficult family dynamic, has been an endless quest for me.

As pieces haphazardly fell beside each other, some of them seemed to exhibit a magnetic attraction and once locked together moved as a pair. Startling juxtapositions began to emerge. A faded quotation, clipped from the pages of my later life, fell arbitrarily next to a series of small paintings I’d made in college shortly after I was married.

The paintings, one leading to the next, showed the evolution of birth. “It’s never too late to be what you might have been,” the quotation read. The image of an unborn child right next to those words catapulted me back to that time in my life when I faced the dilemma that would become a major life struggle—to what degree do I follow my own path.

Each of the items in front of me, whether written or graphic, turned into puzzle pieces as they fell into place. The objects with which I had surrounded myself, I discovered, were telling me the real story of my life. Hours morphed into days and then into months as the landscape of my life was laid out in front of me. The objects worked synergistically to reframe personal issues that had been floating disconnected inside of me for years—issues that, until then, would only occasionally bob to the surface.

Working out this complex and often contradictory collection of memorabilia and memories liberated me in ways I never imagined possible—for as I found order for the objects and pieces of paper in my hands, I myself was reassembled.

If you'd like to see a bit more about how Artobiography came into existence click here.

To purchase a personally autographed copy of Storm of the i go to www.TinaCollen.com

and in the comment box include how you'd like it signed. Books are also available at Barnes & Noble, Borders and Amazon. If your favorite bookstore doesn't have it on the shelf they can order it for you. I look forward to hearing from you. Tina

The next stop on Tina’s blog tour is on Monday, February 7. She’ll be visiting on Minding Spot at http://mindingspot.blogspot.com/.

We’re giving an autographed book away in a contest, asking people to leave a comment answering this question:

Oftentimes the objects we hold onto contain cryptic clues that point towards something deeper about ourselves. Take a look around your house (or your room) at the things with which you have surrounded yourself. Is there anything you are still hanging onto that seems to contain a hidden message for you? What do you think it is?

Snow Bored

2011-01-31T06:48:00.000-08:00

Although she spends a large portion of her day traveling back and forth between a couch and a comfy chair, my retriever Gracie is by no means your garden variety potato. The jingle of a leash brings this sassy senior to her feet in seconds; the human equivalent of 61, the golden girl is in standby party mode and ready to rock at a moment's notice.

Mounds of snow, bitter temperatures and sloppy, salty roads have kept the diva indoors and put a serious dent in her social life. You would have thought she had made the call when the cable guy arrived to check our service.

"Hello- I'm experiencing an interruption in the transmission of butt rubs and head pats. May I please schedule an appointment? Between 8 and 11? Yes, someone over the age of 18 will be here."

Understanding that no one thinks your dog is as incredibly cute as you do, I did my best to keep the socialite at bay so the technician could do his work. Although he didn't seem to mind when she opportunistically nosed her way underneath a free hand, I lured her away with a bag of pita chips and hummus. When our issue was resolved, Gracie followed her new best friend to the door, made him promise that he would call and bid a wagging farewell. I looked into her limpid pools and said, "You need to get out more, girlfriend." She agreed.

The list of places to take a dog on a chilly weekend night in January pretty much begins and ends with Petco. So off we went to the pet-friendly superstore so the queen could hold court with her subjects.

Her anticipatory whines rose to a fever pitch as we pulled into the parking lot and she couldn't get through the store's automatic door fast enough. She did a quick survey of her kingdom, planted her lanky front legs and went into a full body shimmy, smiling at the highest setting. "Well, well... Hello Dolly, well, Hello Dolly, it's so nice to have you back where you belong..." Stock boys danced through the aisles, accompanied by cashiers on their registers, while the manager served up a glittering silver platter of the finest canine haute cuisine. "Bridge that gap, fellas. Find me an empty lap, fellas. Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away again!"

The music faded into the background and the spotlight shifted from our heroine to the Petco piece de resistance- the Treat Bar. "We feel the room swayin', for the band's playin', one of your old favorite songs from way back when..." Brightly colored plastic scoops rest atop mounds of biscuits and cookies spilling forth from their bins. I decide that it is a contemporary still life worthy of the old Dutch masters; Gracie decides that it is an open invitation to petty thievery.

Subtlety is not one of our girl's strengths; she shoots toward the bar like a heat-seeking missile and scores a mouthful while a nearby group of boys can hardly contain their laughter. I assure them that there is no charge for the entertainment and I attempt to redeem my dog-training credentials by demonstrating one of Gracie's brilliant tricks. A small crowd gathers, and in no time at all, the bandit is the belle of the ball. Perfect-yet another felon catapulted to celebrity status. Pretty soon she'll be
headed to rehab.

Mistaking Grace's audience for a potential onslaught upon her register, the lone cashier called for reinforcements. Basking in the oohs and ahhs of a
few teen aged girls, Gracie snapped out of her trance long enough to see a familiar figure scurrying towards the front of the store. Darlene, our favorite Petco employee hurried to the aid of her coworker, stopping when she recognized the center of attention. "It's Graaacie!" She stooped down to greet her highness, who immediately demanded a massage. Darlene happily conceded, golden curls running through her fingers as she kneaded Gracie's shoulders. "I love this dog-she's my favorite." Like a sidelined stage mother, I smiled in agreement.

Darlene returned to her duties and we finished our shopping. Our social mission accomplished, we made our way to the checkout, where Gracie racked up a few more head rubs and earned a couple of treats. The lights dimmed, and we exited stage left. "Wow, wow, wow, fellas, look at the old girl now, fellas... Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away again."

"Money, pardon the expression, is like manure. It's not worth a thing unless its spread around, encouraging young things to grow." ~ Dolly Levi

Top photo- Gracie with Petco employee extraordinaire, Darlene. She is warm, professional, and a huge fan of Ms. G.
Bottom photos- No explanation necessary.

Literary Grace

2011-01-27T09:47:00.000-08:00

I'm honored to be part of the virtual blog tour for "Storm of the i", an extraordinary memoir by Tina Collen. Her struggle to make sense of an unfulfilled relationship with her father weaves throughout her creative and personal life, speaking to the unanswered questions we face everyday. Please stop by on February 4, 2011 for a guest posting by Tina.

Virtual Book Tour Announced for

STORM OF THE i: An Artobiography

Her father didn’t speak to her for 15 years and she never knew why.
Then she wrote the book she needed to read.

BOULDER, CO -- January 21, 2011 -- Author-artist Tina Collen will begin a Virtual Blog Tour on Jan. 31 to promote her award-winning memoir, Storm of the i: An Artobiography. This virtual book tour will take the author around the country via ten blogs that include book reviewers, literary commentators, fellow artists and even a Los Vegas stand up comic(!).

"A project five years in the making," Clay Evans wrote in his review for the Boulder Camera, "Collen’s slick, clever, refreshingly unpredictable labor of love, is like no other book you’re likely to read any time soon." Going a bit further, Sara Davidson, TV producer, and New York Times best-selling author describes STORM OF THE i: An Artobiography as "a fabulous hybrid, a memoir that's alive with foldouts, paintings, drawings and a surprising lift-up flap. (There's even a pop-up that hands the reader a fortune cookie with a message inside!).

Beneath the playfulness, however, lies the story of an artist trying to understand her father's lifelong anger towards her. At the pinnacle of her career, an exhibition of her work in Paris, Tina Collen finds herself inexplicably weeping. It takes courage to probe a father's lifelong rejection, but Collen has wonderful tools: her humor, memories and the trail of art she created. (I discovered Collen through her Fleurotica collages. At first glance, I thought I was looking at lush paintings of wildflowers, but on closer examination, I was in the world of the Kama Sutra. Based on the idea that flowers are simply sex organs, Collen created her wildflowers from risqué magazine scraps. She took something forbidden and transformed it into something witty, beautiful and acceptable.) In Storm of the i, she takes a heartbreaking story and transforms it into something witty, beautiful — and unforgettable."

"A reminder—vivid and visual– that the parent-child bond is the bedrock on which lives are built," wrote Stewart Oksenhorn, book reviewer for the Aspen Times.

After receiving an EVVY (1st prize for autobiography) and a 1st place Tech Award (for layout & design) from the Colorado Independent Publishers Association, Collen went to the Benjamin Franklin Awards in NYC—and with her book #3 on the best-seller list at the Boulder Bookstore back home, she walked away with a Silver medal for memoir. The next night she collected a bronze IPPY.

Demand for Collen’s multimedia presentations has been growing steadily. Her most recent author event in Denver was for an audience of 250. At these events, Collen concludes with a shocker—the story of what transpired between her and her 93 year old father after she finished writing the book he never read.

Excerpts of this remarkable work can be seen at http://www.tinacollen.com/

If you're curious about Fleurotica, Images in Erotic Montage you can also see some of the collages there.

Please join us on our tour by clicking the links on the days each review will appear. We hope you'll stop by with a question or comment.

TOUR SCHEDULE

Week 1

1/31/11 - James R. Ament - http://www.jamesrament.com/
2/1/11 - Book Fetish - http://bookfetish.org/
2/2/11 - Found Not Lost - http://jmomfinds.amoores.com/
2/3/11 - Sandra's Book Club - http://sandrasbookclub.blogspot.com/
2/4/11 - Doing it with Grace - http://doingitwithgrace.blogspot.com/

Week 2

2/7/11 - Minding Spot - http://mindingspot.blogspot.com/
2/8/11 - CIPA Bookshelf - http://booksatcipa.wordpress.com/
2/9/11 - Faye Quam Heimerl - http://fayequamheimerl.wordpress.com/
2/10/11 - Thoughts in Progress - http://www.masoncanyon.blogspot.com/
2/11/11 - Linda Lou, Live from Las Vegas - http://www.vegaslindalou.blogspot.com/

For ongoing blog tour information, go to Tina's blog at http://www.tinacollen.com/bookselfpublish/#

Artist/author Tina Collen begins a virtual book tour for her book Storm of the i: An Artobiography on Jan 31, 2011. Collen's book has been described as a fabulous hybrid, a memoir that's alive with foldouts, paintings, and a surprising lift-up flap.

Get It Off Your Chest

2011-01-17T12:58:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, my friend's sister and her family made a trip from their home in San Fransisco to New York City. Primarily a baseball pilgrimage planned around a game at Yankee Stadium and a trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, the ladies decided to meet in the city to grab some "girl time" in an otherwise chock-full boys' adventure. Somewhere between the cheesecake and the observation deck of the Empire State Building, they hopped into a cab and made a trip to Linda's Bra Salon on Lexington Ave. Though not on the general public's list of tourist attractions, the salon pampers its clients with personal service and attention to detail. Two very important details, to be exact.

Linda "the Bra Lady" Becker and her bra-fitting team have matched thousands of women with the proper foundation garments for over twenty years. While attending a mastectomy bra fitting class hosted by the American Cancer Society, Linda was shocked to find out that most women were wearing the wrong bra size and operating under the medieval notion that an uncomfortable fit was acceptable. She has since built a business committed to helping women of all sizes find bras that look and feel great.

My own bra epiphany came in the form of an e-mail lingerie advertisement which contained a sizing calculator much like the tool used to figure out a mortgage payment. By entering the measurements around the rib cage and across the fullest part of the breast, the correct size magically appears with the press of the button. I had become frustrated with my 34A riding up my back, and decided to see if this Internet Ouija board would give me an answer. Note to tiny self- don't ask the question if unprepared for the answer.

Imagine my horror when 36AA popped up in the little box on my computer screen. While I realize we're talking about a bra size and not a jail sentence or cancer diagnosis, as a 50 year old woman I thought I had left the training wheels behind in junior high. A quick online search found few 36AA's that weren't decorated with polka dots or bunnies. I suddenly found myself breaking out in hives before the high school dance. Oh my God! Is that a zit? Really? He said he likes me? Really?

I yanked myself out of algebra class and eventually found an age-appropriate model made by Wacoal, ordered it and blessed them for their sensitivity to the smaller set. When it arrived, I tried it on, took it for a test drive and it's been smooth sailing ever since.

Last week my friend forwarded me an e-mail for Linda's Bra Salon. She and her sister had indeed found the perfect fit on their visit and received regular e-mails from the store. Teaming up with Bra Recyclers, Linda is donating gently used or new bras on the one year anniversary of the earthquake in Haiti. A discount will be e-mailed to all those who donate, the size of the discount depending upon the number of bras sent. Soon a box filled with 34A's will be on its way to Linda and Bra Recyclers, who will in turn make sure they reach the women who so desperately need them. If you'd like to help them reach their goal of 1000 bras, you can send used or new bras to:

Linda's Online
c/o Operation: Bras for Haiti
68 Jay Street Suite 401
Brooklyn, NY 11201

Be sure to include your name and email address so they can email the discount to you.

You can also drop items off at the store at 828 Lexington Avenue between 63rd and 64th streets in New York City. While you're there, you might want to treat yourself to a little attention from Linda and her staff.
Of course, you can always benefit from Linda's expertise by visiting her website at http://www.lindasonline.com/.
Believe me, there's nothing like a great fitting bra that knows its place and stays there. I'm proud to say that
soon my 34A's will find their place in Haiti.

Photo- Against the backdrop of my vintage childhood bedspread, Ms. Grace models one of my retired 34A's. I must admit it fits her better than it ever fit me.

Old Dogs, New Chicks

2010-12-27T15:18:00.000-08:00

While working on my latest article for the magazine Caribbean Belle, titled "Old Dogs, New Tricks? The Art of Aging Creatively.", I found myself in search of inspirational accomplishments by people generally considered to be past their prime. As I added athletes, musicians and artists to my list, a friend asked, "How about Hugh Hefner?" The pajama-clad mogul's business savvy and apparent staying power aside, I laughed off the suggestion and decided not to go down that particular bunny trail.

A few days after I had finished and submitted my article, I fired up my computer, navigated to my home page, and found among Optimum Online's newsworthy items a beaming Hugh Hefner alongside a (surprise!) beautiful young blond. "Playboy's Hefner gets engaged to a Playmate again" headlined the Associated Press blurb. In a Twitter message the day after Christmas, he said that he had given a ring to girlfriend and Playmate Crystal Harris and that she had burst into tears. "This is the happiest Christmas weekend in memory," he wrote. Now if he could only remember what he did with the last Playmate.

Largely regarded as the father of the sexual revolution, Hefner founded Playboy magazine in 1953 and over the course of the following half century built an empire with one of the most recognizable brands in history. He championed the "Good Life" and outlined his philosophy in an editorial of the first issue of Playboy.

"We like our apartment. We enjoy mixing up cocktails and an hors d'oeurve or two, putting a little mood music on the phonograph and inviting in a female acquaintance for a quiet discussion on Picasso, Nietzsche, jazz, sex... If we are able to give the American male a few extra laughs and a little diversion from the anxieties of the Atomic Age, we'll feel we've justified our existence."

Bring on the nuclear warheads, Hugh.

As the Internet blogs and tweets its disapproval of the May-December liaison, the 24 year old Harris has no problem with the disparity in their ages. "A lot of people talk about the age difference between Hef and I, but I don't see the age difference at all. If anything, I feel like I'm the adult and Hef's the kid," she said.

She'll get no argument from me on that one, but I would advise her to supervise his play dates and keep a close eye on his BB gun.

Up until about a month ago, Hefner had been dating twins Karissa and Kristina Shannon at the same time as his involvement with Harris. In an interview with Fox News, he described monogamy as "something that has been invented along the way to take care of children." Whether he recognizes his own need for daycare or he is simply a hopeless romantic underneath the bathrobe, "Hef" is offering an ironic stamp of approval to the institution of marriage for the third time. May I offer my sincere wish that this will indeed be the charm and that the happy couple will enjoy many loving years together. However, should paradise find itself in trouble, I'd like to direct Mr. Hefner's eye to the available leggy blond in the photo above.

Photo- "Is that a biscuit or are you just glad to see me?" Gracie lives out her boudoir fantasy.

Dream On

2010-10-08T21:48:00.000-07:00

In a recent installment of "Green Monkey Tales", my friend and fellow blogger Shannon Kennedy laments her loss of the "Past Love Story" writing contest. Disappointment and denial of recognition have delivered a powerful blow; go to self-doubt, go directly to self-doubt. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.00.

Grantland Rice, the great sportswriter once said, 'It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game.' Well Grantland Rice can go to hell as far as I'm concerned.
-Gene Autry

I'm with the Singing Cowboy on this one. Losing didn't launch his career, keep him on Forbes magazine's list of the 400 richest Americans, or pen "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer". Yep, pardner, it's fun to win and it sure as shootin' pays more.

Contests are a double-edged sword; preparation and practice can lead to the exhilaration of victory or the embarrassment of holding an empty bag. Unfortunately there are a lot of empty bags out there. I'm pleased to report that by the end of her post, Shannon had come to terms with her defeat and decided that it wouldn't stop her from writing. Here's to looking at that bag as half full.

As competitive as I am, I'm not a great competitor. I can be totally undone by nerves and I'm not terribly receptive to criticism. My mother used to tell me, "You're thin-skinned, just like your grandmother." Apparently, "Ma'am" used to talk through television shows while remaining quiet during the commercials. No matter how gentle the reprimand, her beautiful blue eyes would fill with tears and she would clam up for hours. I guess you could say she was "Good to the Last Drop."

Genetic hyper-sensitivity coursing through my veins, I search for signs of validation as I now stand on the far side of the half century mark. Music and art have remained a constant thread throughout much of my life, though I haven't pushed either pursuit to its limit. Little victories aside, I, like Ralph Kramden, have yet to "hit the high note". But I'm not dead yet and I'd like to think that the drill team competition I won in high school was not the apex of my creative accomplishments. Outside of reality TV, you can only go so far with white boots and a pair of pom-poms. Now there's a thought...

So while I prepare to take on the Kardashians as a banjo picking, dog loving, pom-pom waving mid life maniac, I'll keep reaching for the ring, brass or otherwise.

I know that Shannon will do the same.

Shannon Kennedy is the colorful force behind "Green Monkey Tales". Her writing is exuberant, poignant and hopeful. Please visit http://greenmonkeytales.blogspot.com/

Dear John

2010-08-17T13:47:00.000-07:00

Your daughter Jenny called me yesterday. Memories and anticipation rode shotgun as she drove to the airport a day earlier than planned. After nearly two weeks in the hospital, the doctors are sending you home to end your eight year battle with Alzheimer's. In the arms of a remarkable and loving family, you are quietly slipping away as you say goodbye. I am brought to tears.

Imposing and brusque, you scared the hell out of me as a kid. Your wife Donna once described you as "a complicated man."; I accepted that explanation and played by its rules. Your opinions were iron-clad and your respect was hard won. You weren't easy.

I grew up alongside Jenny and, over time, became a member of your extended family. During your oldest daughter Holly's graduation party in the backyard, a contingency of underaged revelers sampled some Sloe Gin on the front porch. Bounding down the steps to dispose of the evidence, I found myself locked in combat with the fire of your steel blue eyes.  I don't remember the exchange of words as you took the bottle out of my hands; for that matter, I don't recall any major repercussions resulting from our antics. I do remember, however, looking for toilet paper in your bathroom many years later. As I searched through the cabinet under the sink, I found the empty bottle of Sloe Gin. Why you kept it, I'll never know, but I felt an odd sense of honor wash over me that day.

You walked your daughter Holly down a lovely makeshift aisle as she was married in your backyard. The spirit and warmth of that day so impressed me that I could think of no other place to have my own wedding. My own parents were surprised and somewhat concerned by my decision and didn't know you all that well at the time. Who in their right mind would want to host someone else's daughter's wedding? What will our friends think? Well, their friends wound up having such a wonderful time that they asked my folks if they had another daughter to marry off the next weekend. Your hard work and generosity resulted in one hell of a party and the beginning of a wonderful relationship with my parents. They loved you and made several trips to visit you when you moved south of Pittsburgh, to your beautiful "Booth Hill" in 1991. I have heard many fond recountings and will always be grateful that they were treated to the luxury of your friendship.

A farmer at heart, you approached life with a no-nonsense attitude. After giving many years of compassionate and intelligent service to the Pennsylvania State Game Commission, the farmboy from Mansfield, Pennsylvania has come full circle. "Booth Hill" fits you like a glove; you've taken good care of each other. I carry with me the memories of my own visits and a lifetime of love from you and Donna.

I texted Jenny today, asking for an update on your condition. She answered, "I am not gonna lie...this is rough, but there is a strange beauty to it..." Less than a year after my own father's death, it is not surprising that I should remember the nights I spent by his bed, with Gracie asleep at my feet. I watched as he stirred and sputtered in his sleep, his hands at times reaching in the air to capture morphine-induced hallucinations. There was a great deal of sadness among the suspense, yet I felt a singular sense of purpose and peace. All I had to do was be by my father's side; nothing else mattered. Nothing else was needed.

You are now surrounded by your family as they do their best to let you go. You won't be forgotten; your hand has touched them in ways that they have only begun to know. If there is an afterlife, I'd like to imagine it as a large sun-drenched porch complete with bottomless glasses of mint-laced iced tea. You are needling my mother as she bursts into one of her trademark giggles; my father and you enter into a lengthy mechanical conversation about tractors. Please tell them that I said hello and that I love them.

Thanks,
Joan

Photo: John Booth  at "Booth Hill". Unidentified cat and faithful pickup "Roger" are in the background.

John Ainsworth Booth, September 1, 1929 - September 1, 2010.

Better Late Than Never

2010-07-31T07:48:00.000-07:00

I had every intention of publishing this post on July 25, the day my mother would have turned 86. Unable to pull it together in time, I came to the realization that a delayed posting was, in fact, the perfect tribute. My mother was always late.

She never caught the beginning of a movie. Accustomed to the out-of- breath whirlwind digging through her purse for money, the ticket vendor always allowed her to come back to watch the start of the next showing.

Dinner at 5:30 was out of the question, and the plates reached the table later with each passing year. While a moonlit meal in Paris brings to romance to mind, the same scenario in Trucksville, Pennsylvania brought only an empty stomach and gas pains. We knew she meant well and did our best to enjoy leathery steak sentenced to death by one of her many distractions. I often tried to rescue the meat while Mom bustled about the kitchen; my efforts were at best 50/50 as she chastised me for being impatient. So much for my career as an EMT.

The concept of an early start was elusive and seldom realized. A trip to the mall never began any earlier than 1:00 and ended with her Chevy Caprice flying up the hill just in time to be late for dinner. "There's Dan Gurney," my father would say, making reference to the famous Formula One driver. "Do you know that she can back out of a driveway faster than most people pull in?"

Though governed by a skewed time zone, she managed our lives and schedules and was a loving hands-on mom. I may have gotten my behind into the dentist chair nanoseconds before the Novocaine hit, but I got there. She had all the time in the world while I agonized over the latest fashions in a fitting room. I didn't return the favor, fidgeting and whining before she could get one finger in a glove. She chauffeured my friends and I to the mall, where we would go our separate ways after determining when and where we would later meet. Manning our post well past the appointed time, we would eventually hear the screech of heel clatter as a five foot two inch bullet barrelled towards us like a bat out of hell.

While I can't lay claim to my mother's good nature and sweet disposition, genetics' sense of humor has kept this apple pretty close to the tree. I carry on my mother's tradition of dysfunctional time management while making a mad dash for the finish line. She recognized my gift and often told me, "You'll be late for your own funeral." God, I hope so.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

Photo- Rosemary Devine Harrison and unidentified beau.

Out Standing In My Field

2010-07-28T10:58:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it's not my field. But it is a field, and a mighty big one at that. Packed to the tree lines with pickers, grinners and listeners, the Walsh farm in Oak Hill, New York becomes the home of the Greyfox Bluegrass Festival every third weekend in July. Named the International Bluegrass Music Association's Bluegrass Event of the year in 2009, Greyfox has assembled the finest talent and steadfast fans for over thirty years. Neither rain nor sleet ( hmmm...) nor gloom of night keeps the legions of devotees from lining up in anticipation of the opening of the Greyfox gates. While at its former location in Ancramdale, New York ( the festival moved in 2008 to Oak Hill ), a pre-festival tradition of camping  at the bottom of the hill began in order to secure prime camping real estate. Dubbed "The Foxhole", it is now held about 4 miles from the current festival site on the Allan farm. Bluegrass enthusiasts Elsie and Jim Allan welcome the not yet tired and weary as they pick and party their way through the week before the actual event. "Gumbo Night" serves up a grand finale to the Foxhole and the masses move on to the "Really Big Shoe".

Born in 1976 and christened the Berkshire Mountains Bluegrass Festival, the gathering was eventually named "Winterhawk" and spent its first 30 years in Ancramdale, NY on a beautiful sunset-blessed hillside belonging to the Rothvoss family. Ten years ago, Winterhawk became Grey Fox when one of the founding partners decided to part ways with the administration.  In January 2008, the Rothvoss farm was sold and an intense search ended at the Walsh farm in time for that year's festival. Renamed and relocated, the spirit of Grey Fox lives on and flourishes as more fans discover its magic.

I first experienced Winterhawk in the mid-eighties as a fledgling banjo player. Lacking the confidence to insert myself into a jam, I stood on the sidelines and watched as musicians traded solos and sang in harmony. While I may have been under equipped to join in the music making at the campsites, I was able to bask in the talent flowing from the main stage. The best of the best in bluegrass took to the floorboards year after year, from the Father of Bluegrass, Bill Monroe to the progressive heat of the powerhouse New Grass Revival. Doc Watson's brilliant guitar stylings were served with the warmth and humor of his front porch demeanor. A young Alison Krauss celebrated a birthday during a set, going on to win 27 Grammys during the course of a career that continues to spread the bluegrass word. In 1989, I watched as Pete Wernick of Hot Rize took the stage after surviving the crash of United Airlines flight 232 in an Iowa corn field. There are eight million stories in the Naked Bluegrass City; this has been one of them.

Twenty years later, I'm setting up a tent on a patch of grass thoughtfully reserved for me by my friends. It's hot. Sweat pours from my face as I put together the poles and bid farewell to my vanity. My hair will be flat, my feet will be dirty and my hygienic routine will be compromised. I could very easily forgo camping these days- my home is situated on a wooded lot and offers daily access to Mother Nature and her wonders. As I question the sanity of signing up for three days of blistering sun and steaming Porta-potties, I hear the answer.

A novice fiddler practices intently alongside her parents' camper, while a spirited jam session kicks up a few sites away. Young, dreadlocked, and decidedly bohemian, the folks on the other side of our temporary road pay homage to Jerry Garcia. A cluster of old timers play it like Jimmy Martin; a young man on jazz keyboards plays it nothing like Jimmy. Music. It's all here and it's all good.

We arrive with our instruments and our arsenals of material in hopes of sharing our musical thoughts and enthusiasm with fellow pickers. Although the main stage line-up is top notch, I am drawn to Grey Fox by the promise of finding that special jam session, that moment where it all comes together. Even if it never happens or if I come up against material I don't know or can't execute, I pack up my shortcomings and head home to prepare for the next festival. Move 'em out, Rawhide!

Music as an art form is organic and ever changing. Bluegrass traditions are preserved while new ideas emerge and evolve. Having spent his lifetime pioneering and creating the "high lonesome sound", Bill Monroe considered himself the father and caretaker of bluegrass. When a new band didn't perform to his standards, he would say, "That ain't no part of nothing." With all due respect, I disagree. It's all part of something; something which draws thousands of people to festivals across the country. We step out of our lives, into our cars and campers, and settle down in the middle of  a musical encampment that will disappear in a few days. It is our Brigadoon, if you will, but we don't have to wait a hundred years for the gates to open again. See you next year.

Photo by Dan Tressler. Thanks, shmerrr.

Walk On

2010-05-23T21:26:00.001-07:00

I let my feelings get the best of me today, which in turn brought out the worst in me. Mindless chore completion and a trip to the gym did nothing to soothe the savage beast. Nonsense spewed from her foaming mouth and when it became clear that she would remain until day's end, I decided it might be prudent to leave her to her own devices. Why not take a walk? Why, it's right up there with the daily apple or prune juice to combat attitude malaise. Add a dog to the prescription and you're on the road to recovery.

I packed up the canine and drove to Poughkeepsie. Hardly the Disneyland of the northeast, it does boast of a marvelous new attraction- the Walkway Over the Hudson. The longest pedestrian bridge in the world, its 1.28 mile span offers unobstructed views of the river set to the heartbeat of scores of walkers, joggers and cyclists. From the moment our feet and paws hit the pavement, I could feel my inner monster loosen her grasp. Just what the witch doctor ordered.

Walking with Gracie makes me laugh. She is a fur-covered dose of Prosac without the side effects. Her goofy grin set to full power, she scores head pats, butt rubs, and at the very least, charmed smiles from our fellow walkers. A party waiting to happen, she issues countless invitations to her festivities and receives few refusals. Her guest list grows exponentially as I follow in her four footsteps. "It's okay-I'm with the dog."

The realization of 20 years of reclamation efforts, the Walkway Over the Hudson is the rebirth of an abandoned railroad bridge damaged by fire on May 8, 1974. Failed attempts to save it led to popular opinion that it would eventually be torn down. Bill Sepe, a local handyman obsessed with the idea of a pedestrian walkway, formed Walkway Over the Hudson in 1992. While his original plan to restore the bridge with volunteer labor and funds didn't work, the organization took over ownership of the bridge in 1998. In 2004, a new board with a greater vision was in place, and in 2007 joined forces with the Dyson Foundation to raise the necessary funds. The project took 16 months and $38.8 million dollars to complete. Managed by the state as an historic park, the handyman's obsession stands as a glorious tribute to the tenacity of its supporters.

In our precarious economic times, even the most successful projects face the pressures of downsizing. New York State is considering the closing of 41 state parks and 14 historic sites, and the Walkway may feel the sting of that decision. A charge for parking may be in place by summer and the winter may find the Walkway closed on certain days. One trip across this masterpiece will prove that these problems are well worth tackling.

As we finished our stroll, I realized I no longer carried the weight of my miserable mood. Unable to stand the euphoria brought on by clear air and spectacular views, she must have hurled herself into the river. A glass of Cabernet and a salad at one of my local haunts would keep her there.

Like Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz", I had found what I needed in my own backyard, or more specifically, in Gracie. Sweet and short-sighted, she offers immediate relief to anxiety and access to the simplest of pleasures. When in doubt, listen to the dog.

For more information on the Walkway Over the Hudson, visit www.walkway.org.

Please Don't Eat the Daisies

2010-05-13T10:26:00.000-07:00

I sat in my father's kitchen and stared at the wallpaper. Daisies. Crazy daisies. Avocado and harvest gold crazy daisies. Elvis may have left the building, but the building never left the seventies.

Classic fodder for an HGTV episode of "House Hunters", I hear the paper-hating moans of prospective buyers. Were it another house on another show, I'd be right there with them. I found my present home nestled in a time warp and diligently brought it up to date, unencumbered by the memories of former owners. The family manse, however, is another matter. While I question how much work I want to do to stage the home for sale, I wonder if I'd rather keep the museum intact as long as I can. I have the luxury of visiting with these artifacts and listening to their stories. Call me crazy, but those daisies sure can talk.

They remind me of the Tuesday night I stood in the kitchen with my Mom as we finished doing the dishes. "Marcus Welby, M.D." was on TV ( The television is also still in the house and would willingly corroborate the daisies' story.) and I noticed the ceiling light flicker. "Mom! It's a bat!" She channelled her inner shortstop and snagged the creature with her dishtowel. It lay in a ball on the floor and Mom grabbed its edges and ran through the living room. She threw open the front door, snapped the towel and released the invader onto the porch. As I caught my breath, I turned and looked up the stairs to our second floor. Bats swooped back and forth like barn swallows. I sounded the alarm for the second parent. "Dad!"

He ran into the living room to find two clearly distressed damsels and a growing formation of bats. They had begun to descend down the stairs and one had attached himself to the dining room wall. Armed with a tennis racket, Dad decided against its use. "Too messy.", he said. He ran to the hall closet and returned with the vacuum cleaner. Before we could read the animal its rights, Dad had sucked it into the canister, his eyes fixed on his next victim. The Nightmare on Vonderheid Street had just begun.

About a half an hour into the skirmish, I went down to the basement in search of a sweater to cover my halter top. The thought of a scantily clad pubescent Barbarella might be titillating, but I felt underexposed. I opened the door and was horrified to find another airborne visitor. If Chicken Little thought his sky was falling, then this was the end of my world. My brother and father responded to my screams, manned the vacuum cleaner and motioned me upstairs to guard the second floor.

Holding two tennis rackets, I nervously stood at the bottom of the stairs. Within seconds, I had trapped a bat on one of the treads and stared at his beady eyes through the grid of the strings. Another circled my head as I kept it at bay with the other racket. Just as I began to review my life, my Dad and brother relieved me of my duty. Batman and Robin were going to save Gotham City.

Well after midnight, the battle appeared to be over. Nineteen bats, an exhausted family of four, and one hardworking Electrolux. We concluded that the bats had come in through the ceiling of the unfinished second floor bathroom. Workers had finished putting up our aluminum siding that day and covered up the hole that had allowed them to come and go as they pleased. Two stragglers surfaced over the next few days and the official total stands at twenty-one. Months would pass before I could open my closet without fear, but I had survived "The Trucksville Horror".

My thanks go to the craziest of daisies for their retelling of this tale. I'm dying to hear what the shag rug has to say.

Cloud 8

2010-04-23T11:00:00.000-07:00

As Dad and I approached the buffet at a Mother's Day brunch, he pointed at a little girl all decked out in lacy white tights.

"Y' know, Joan- they shed those in the spring."

Well into my teens and equipped with a fully-functioning adolescent attitude, I did my best to dismiss his comment as ignorant and inappropriate. Stifling the laughter swirling inside my chest, I moved along the steam table, filled my plate and walked past the corn chowder. I knew I'd never make it back to the table with both the thought of his remark and a bowl of soup intact.

What the teenager chose to ignore is what fills this adult with the warmth of humor. No doubt about it, my father was one funny son of a bitch.

His delivery was direct and dry. Governed by common sense, he made no apologies for uncompromising opinions or close-minded commentaries. "If someone has a problem with it, they can shit in their hat." I never understood how that would benefit either party, but it did put and end to more than one blossoming argument.

Dad's culinary tastes were basic; he rarely strayed from his comfort zone. The mention of garlic brought a curl to his lip and an exaggerated shiver to his spine. Although he generally stuck to his script when dining out, my mother might convince him to try something new once or twice a year. "Y'know- I like that French Onion soup with the Maserati cheese on top." His review may have been more Grand Prix than Food Network, but at least the old man gave it a shot.

My father had a low tolerance for upper-crust affectations and the putting on of airs. He had no interest in elevating his social standing or mixing with the society page crowd. "They think their shit's ice cream."

One scoop or two?

Fashion placed no pressure on Dad during his retirement years; the suited executive became the "regular guy" in a plaid shirt, tan pants and slip on loafers. No alligators, no pleats, none of those crazy "moon shoe" soles. Keep it simple, stupid, and top it off with a bucket-shaped "Go to Hell Hat". I have no idea where he came up with that one, but I'm sure you wouldn't find any shit in it.

He may not have shared my obsession with fitness, but he understood its' importance. "I saw on TV that Tina Turner takes pierogie classes." Proud Mary, keep on rollin' that dough and filling it with potatoes.

My mother loved Dad's description of the end of one his youthful romances. "She sent me a John Deere letter." What a pain in the grass.

When one of my father's employees received a promotion, he told us "He was so happy he was on Cloud 8". I joked and said, "Well, I guess he wasn't really THAT happy." Now I know better.

See you on Cloud 8.

Dad would have been 84 years old on April 17. He left behind a tired pair of loafers and a "Go to Hell" hatful of memories.

If I Had a Hammer

2010-04-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

My mother loved Easter. As a matter of fact, she was on the front line of any holiday celebration. An Olympian in the shopping arena, her ear was finely tuned to the desires of her loved ones; a passing thought about a lovely blouse could propel my mom towards the mall in search of it. She was relentless in her pursuit and rarely came up short.

Once she had her prize, she spared no details in its presentation. Our gifts were impeccably wrapped; I have yet to achieve the perfectly folded corners that were a trademark of her packages. For that matter, my bed making skills are not up to her standards and I may never iron a T shirt- certain practices are best left to the masters.

"That Joan- she's always into something..."

At times my mother may have uttered that phrase with a hint of exasperation, but she used my "cyclical obsessions" to her advantage. Her shopping expeditions were fueled by a purpose and the results of her hunt were creative and often humorous.

I was fortunate to grow up in an era unbound by the overwhelming fear of abduction and Amber alerts. A three hour bike ride or an afternoon hiking expedition gave our parents little cause for concern. No eyelashes were batted when I announced that my friends Laurie, Jennifer and I would be building a fort in the woods; dolls and dresses had long ago given way to more unconventional interests. We were told to be careful and were off on another adventure.

As the self-appointed project manager, I went over the plans with my friends; we could outdo ourselves on this one. We would find four trees to use as our corners and layer about two feet of field stone to connect their bases. Walls finished with pine trees horizontally nailed into the corners supported a sturdy roof doubling as the perfect hi-rise patio, complete with safety railings. Of course, our project should be kept under wraps to avoid sabotage by the neighborhood boys. We quietly crept into the woods after school and went to work.

Pooling our financial resources, we were able to buy enough nails to begin construction, but the tools were another matter. I knew that I couldn't casually borrow from my father's arsenal without consequence; his was a territorial tribe that frowned upon lending. We could make do with one saw, but we each needed our own hammer to make any serious headway. While grocery shopping with my mom, I saw the answer to my fort-building prayers.

"The Ladies' Hammer" caught my eye as we made our way down one of the aisles. It had a dainty head and the handle grip was a soft shade of red. Hanging from a card decorated with a goofy 70's cartoon of an aproned housewife brandishing her very own cartoon hammer, it was perfect. I pointed it out to my mother, who responded with minimal interest while moving on to the Tastykakes. Her apparent indifference threw me for a loop; she was generally an easy mark. Deciding against my usual display of theatrics, I quietly headed toward the checkout, sans hammer.

Stumbling down the stairs on Easter morning, I couldn't wait to see my basket. Overflowing with sparkling green grass and adorned with a big shiny bow, it was filled with coconut nests, jellybeans, speckled malted eggs, marshmallow peeps and an over-the-top assortment of solid white, pink and milk chocolate bunnies and chicks. As I emptied the contents and prepared to bite the head off my first victim, a silver glimmer shone through the grass. Delighted and surprised, I reached in and pulled out "The Ladies' Hammer".

Wait until Laurie and Jennifer see this.

The hammer in Grace's basket is indeed "The Ladies' Hammer". Its chipped face and bent neck give testimony to many years of use, reminding me of childhood dreams and one very cool mom.

Bringing Up The Rear

2010-03-23T21:00:00.000-07:00

The ass is where it's at.

I set my sights on the glowing golden buttocks as they swoop and sway down the road in front of me. Brazenly strutting her showgirl stuff with the confidence of a drum major, Gracie brings a smile to my ordinary day. She may be going nowhere in particular, but she'll have a good time getting there. The hostess with the mostess makes no discrimination and invites everyone to her party. Throwing Cesar Millan's pack-leading advice directly into the wind, I follow the dog.

I've often said that I'd like to have a room in Gracie's head. Sunny and spacious, complete with singing birds, I imagine it to be a place with no agendas, no malice and very few rules. Disagreeable feelings are easily pushed out the door by a biscuit or a butt massage; you're not even guaranteed that level of service in a five star hotel. Assuming that said room is perpetually sold out, I console myself by traveling in her good-natured wake.

Our road quietly cuts through the woods and offers little in the way of entertainment; traffic is light and we rarely encounter other pedestrians. When we do run into the occasional road crew, Gracie throws herself at the workers like a bubbly tween at a Jonas Brothers concert. Living in the moment leaves no room for the maintenance of decorum and "Her Heineyness" does not apologize for her enthusiasm. A master of the head butt and posterior press, she demands attention, preferably in the form of heavy petting. She rarely walks away empty-pawed.

While I may draw the line at rubbing up against strangers, I'd like to join in Grace's appreciation of the simplest of pleasures. Galumphing along with purpose and conviction, she always takes time to stop and smell the roses. Although her roses may come in the form of a dead squirrel, I remind myself to do the same.

"Dogs are the leaders of the planet. If you see two life forms, one of them's making a poop, the other one's carrying it for him, who would you assume is in charge?" - Jerry Seinfeld

Snow Way!

2010-03-10T11:00:00.000-08:00

I really thought I had it figured out. After a productive installment of cleaning my parents' house in Pennsylvania, I'd pack up the dog and head back to New York. Sure, the weather was threatening, but I gathered enough information from the 3 channels on my father's 13 inch television to convince myself that I could sneak home between the episodic snowstorms set to pummel the Northeast. I went about the prolonged business of securing the homestead, and got on the road at 5:30 p.m. Tiny snowflakes had begun to fall among intermittent raindrops, but I didn't consider them a cause for concern. After all, I'd have the storm at my back and would be home well before the snow hit the fan. Or would I?

Passing Scranton on Route 81, I reveled in the absence of rush hour traffic I had anticipated. Mistaking my relief for arrogance, the gods put me in my place about 10 minutes later as I turned onto Route 84. Someone shook the snow globe and I was in the middle of one nasty whiteout. Tightening my fingers around the wheel, I set my mind to the task and my eyes on the tail lights of the car ahead of me. Fast asleep beside me, Gracie had a first class seat in blissful ignorance as Amelia Earhart prepared to cross the Pacific.

Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains may not be on par with the Idaho Panhandle or an icy switchback in Montana, but I'd think twice about passing through in a blizzard. Exits separated by dark and lonely stretches of woodlands offer little in the way of respite; I decided to forgo my usual pit stop in favor of continuing in the wake of a Honda Accord traveling at a comfortable rate. Traffic was light and I was at least spared the anxiety of tail gaiters and Indy wannabes passing at inappropriate speeds. My back straight and my knuckles white, I fixed my gaze on my new best friend in the Honda and crept along at an excruciating 35 miles per hour.

Our two car caravan continued until my guide grew a set of cojones and left me in the slush. On my own and suddenly surrounded by eighteen-wheelers, I fishtailed as I made the descent into the Delaware River town of Matamoras. Unnerved by the performance of my all wheel drive, I felt Dumbo's feather slip from my grasp. Regrouping by reminding myself that I had made it to the halfway point of my trip, I regained enough confidence to pass up the chance to make a rest stop and carried on. Within minutes, the gods were at it again. The parade came to a dead stop on the bridge and my overfull bladder woke up with an attitude.

Feeling the bridge quiver as I waited among the idling cars, I looked over at Gracie who had heaved herself up from her nap. She calmly surveyed the situation while I imagined the structure collapsing under our weight. To hell with the camera, to hell with the banjo, to hell with my new boots; I would hold onto Grace's collar and swim us both to safety. As I struggled to reach an onshore rock, my grip loosened and my beloved best friend was swept away by the icy foam. My cries went unheard and as my eyes closed in desperation, I was pulled from my fantasy by the flash of red brake lights; the traffic had begun to move. Gracie let out a low whine as she was summoned by her own needy bladder. "Knock it off, Grace- I tried to save you, really I did..."

She whined again.

Moving at a respectable crawl, we finally reached a rest area. I went inside, checked each stall for axe murderers and relieved myself. Upon returning to the car, I grabbed Gracie's leash, brought her outside and waited for her to do the same. Through the veil of huge falling flakes I could see the lights of a truck pulling into the parking lot. I couldn't stop my mind from racing to the scene in "Pee Wee's Big Adventure" where Pee Wee accepts a ride from a mysterious lady trucker on a lonely, foggy night. Her name was Large Marge...

On this very night, ten years ago...
Along the same stretch of road, in a dense fog just like this...
I saw the worst accident I ever seen.
There was this sound, like a garbage truck dropped off the Empire State Building.
And when they finally pulled the body from the twisted, burning wreck,
It looked like... THIS! ( Marge's eyes pop out of their sockets.)
Hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo haaah!
Yes sir, that was the worst accident I ever seen.

The instant Grace raised her haunches, I hoisted her into the car and pressed the automatic door lock. A raging river, an insane trucker's ghost and then what? The flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz? I threw my overactive imagination on the back seat and pulled on to the interstate faster than you could say, "I'll get you, my pretty!"

Slowly negotiating the remaining miles of Route 84, I managed to keep calm in spite of the occasional rodeo cowboy at the wheel of a tandem Fed-Ex truck. I decided to head north on Route 9 instead of the dark, shoulderless Taconic Parkway. Dehydrated by the window defroster, Grace's tongue flapped in a continuous pant. We stopped at a Dunkin Donuts where I grabbed a coffee for myself and an ice water for my co-pilot. Refueled but bedraggled and heading east through Poughkeepsie on Route 44, I was finally on the last leg of our journey.

Doing the math as I turned north onto Route 82, I realized that my usual sub-3 hour trip had taken over 5 1/2 hours to complete. I supposed that it could have been worse; we were safe and the vehicle was intact. Only eight miles from home, I noticed the snow-covered trees drooping a la Dr. Seuss and considered the possibility of an outage. Five minutes later, my husband called to tell me that the power had gone down.

"How did it get so late so late so soon?
It's night before it's afternoon.
December is here before it's June.
My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?"

-Theodor Seuss Geisel, aka "Dr Seuss"

Doing It With Brace

2010-02-02T10:22:00.000-08:00

If you have been drawn to this post in search of a steamy tale of sexual escapades or advice on shoveling with a back injury, I'm afraid you've been misled by its title. The "Brace" in question is my friend Greg and he's about to roll with life's punches in an unexpected and dangerous adventure. Still looking for sex or medical advice? You may leave the classroom now if you'd like. The rest of you, please take your seats.

While most people consider themselves lucky to have one loving family, I have been blessed with two. Many years ago, I gained honorary entry into the clan of my best friend, Jenny Booth. (see "Calamity Jen", posted 11/24/09) Holiday gatherings were celebrations of warmth and laughter and I cherished my inclusion in this extended troupe of characters. The sumptuous scent of spiced "Family Recipe" filled the air as we raised our glasses at Christmas. Memorial Day and Labor Day brought the tribe together on the side of a hill in Mansfield, Pennsylvania that was, and is, the remaining parcel of the once-sprawling Booth farm. Tents were pitched and thus began the cycles of food, drink, laughter and conversation that would culminate in a late night game of high-low jack. The faint of heart or overly sensitive needn't have applied to this family; the sound of busting balls could be heard for miles. I loved that sound.

Fun was the order of the weekend and Jenny's cousin Greg Brace was no slouch at bringing it to the table. His wit was sharp and he had inherited his mother Myra's gift of storytelling. He could be found rocking out on a guitar or taking off on his bicycle and was never far from a good time. Having relocated to Beaufort, South Carolina, his presence wasn't always a given, so we made sure to rack up the laughs when we got together. Goodbyes brought with them an open invitation to continue the party in Beaufort, but I have yet to redeem that offer.

Although I remain close with Jenny, I'm afraid my contact with the rest of the family has been limited to Christmas cards and Facebook postings. Caring for my elderly parents took precedence over holiday celebrations, so it's been some time since I've made the annual Mansfield pilgrimage. News does travel my way on occasion, and this week I received an e-mail update about Greg. A life altered by divorce and the loss of his job in construction management had led him to accept an out of state offer - in Afghanistan.

Building had come to a screeching halt. His search for work lasted nearly a year and a half and came up dry. A former associate suggested he join him overseas, as there was a great need for construction professionals. Faced with crippled finances and little hope for industry recovery, he applied for a position, put his life in some form of order and is now in the middle of intensive training in Florida. He ships out to Bagram Airforce Base at the end of the week.

Life is unpredictable at best, but few of us could imagine ourselves up to our 52 year old asses in the sand of a country at war. "They told me to expect 30 meetings a week traveling between the FOB's and the main bases... It is also my understanding that the traveling is the sketchiest part of the job, so I am thinking there will be a fair amount of "sketchy". Some of the travel will be by convoy, some by Blackhawk helicopter, all with a military escort."

An excerpt from an e-mail Greg sent out to family and friends is proof that his strength and humor are in tact and will serve him well on his journey.

"By no means do I have a sense of doom about this; but... Should fate induce me with the "big dirt nap", you guys are in for it. Giving free reign to eccentricity I have requested the largest wake possible. There should be a New Orleans style "Second Line" procession to the wake. If you've never seen one, "YouTube" it. A Dixieland band leads a procession of mourners/celebrants dressed to the teeth carrying outlandish parasols. The music switches between dirges, where the procession solemnly walks heads down, then suddenly kicks into Dixieland jazz, the parasols pop up and wild dancing ensues..."

I believe there will be a parade, but it won't end with a wake. Instead, it will lead to the wildest of blowouts, where Greg's son Nash, his stepson Shay, his parents Myra and Fred, and the rest of the Brace/Booth circus will welcome him home.

Dress casual- parasols required.

Clean Slate

2010-01-25T09:37:00.000-08:00

My dog ate a bar of soap the other day. Dial Gold. 'Round the clock odor protection. I imagined foul smelling intestinal flora running for their lives as it barrelled down the pike. I thought about cleansing, renewal and resolutions. I thought about the New Year.

You may marvel at the disturbingly short distance I've drawn between January 1 and a dog's ass. I welcome you to my world of disparate associations, sometimes amusing and often as claustrophobic as a carnival sideshow in August. This is not easy territory for one as black and white as myself; lines are crossed, boundaries blurred and it can be one mell of a hess.

A New Year's tune-up is an exhilarating exercise in drama-the first day of the rest of your life. Buoyed by the optimism of fellow resolutioners, we set out on the path to self-improvement. We will extinguish cigarettes, shed pounds and reduce clutter. Our teeth will be whiter, our finances will be in check and we will be on time. Ha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho, and a couple of tra-la-las. That's how we laugh the day away in the Merry Old Land of Oz.

Soon the holiday lights grow dim, the confetti is swept away and we find ourselves in the clutches of mid-winter's icy grip. Even the noblest of intentions may not have a fighting chance against cabin fever and chilly winds. Let's see- couch or cardio? Hot chocolate or hatha yoga? A short tumble off the wagon and we're right where we started with an extra helping of guilt on top.

I'd like to propel my life in a positive direction, but I think I'll refrain from making grand declarations, proclamations or predictions. Spouting off about my great expecations may provoke the gods into sending a reality-filled meteorite my way. In the meantime, I'll just watch for those sparkling bubbles to pour out of my dog's derriere, a la Lawrence Welk. A one an a two...

Trouble With The Grey

2010-01-08T23:00:00.000-08:00

"This will never work out. You're black and white and I'm all shades of grey."

Great breakup line, eh? Handed to me by a fellow artist in my senior year of college, the colorless phrase was perhaps a bit too perfect but said it all. I've always had difficulty navigating life's muddy waters.

Monday morning wakes me up to yet another dreary week.

It'll come and go like every one before.

There's enough to keep me busy but my interest isn't piqued.
Frankly dear, it's all become a crashing bore.

I wrote those words several years ago for the first verse of a song called "Trouble With the Grey". The chorus continues:

No one calls me on the telephone.

If they did, what would I say?

The highs and lows don't get you down,

It's what happens every day.

I'm having some trouble with the grey.

Ain't it the truth, ain't it the truth. We rise to the occasion in the most extraordinary situations, but can be unraveled by a Monday. I rode my parents' waves of dementia, macular degeneration, spinal stenosis and cancer for nearly six years and now I'm beached. "What's wrong with the beach you ask?" As tranquil as any place on earth, it's a nightmare if you're stuck there with sand in your pants. I'm stuck and I'm afraid to check my pants.

Momma told me I'd be someone,

But she didn't mention who.

Said there wasn't any place I couldn't go.

I could climb the highest mountain,

Sail across the ocean blue.

But instead, I'm sitting here on my plateau.

My mother did tell me I'd be someone. Her exact words, delivered during one of my frequent scream fests, were, "You know Joan, you should be on the stage." Perhaps my interpretation of that phrase is a bit loose, but she was always in my corner and, if not supportive, tolerant of the wackiest of my endeavors. I suppose I should "get my ass in gear", as she would say, and pick a passion and have at it. Said ass does not slip into gear as easily as the younger version, but I will remind myself that I'm not dead yet.

Gonna roll out my red carpet

Chase away these sorry blues

With the brightest palate you have ever seen.

Won't my friends be tickled pink

By all the colors that I choose

If they haven't turned a lovely shade of green?

Shortly after Dad passed away, I said to a friend,"Shit, now with my parents gone, I'm going to have to make an effort to get some sort of life." Hardly an epiphany worthy of Oprah (or even Judge Judy), but it's one I'd like to remember.

You can try me on the telephone
But I might be on my way.

The highs and lows don't get you down

It's what happens every day.

I'm having some trouble with the grey.

"Too Blue" is currently in the studio, recording their latest CD which includes "Trouble With the Grey" by Joan Harrison. Details on the release will be posted here and on http://www.toobluemusic.com/

WOOF!

2010-01-04T11:29:00.000-08:00

I am honored to kick off the 2010 Blog Tour to promote "WOOF- Women Only Over Fifty", a delightful book geared toward those women of a certain age who refuse to go down without a fight. Please enjoy this guest posting provided by the "Woofers" and take time to visit their site via the links provided below. You'll also find a link to Amazon.com where you can purchase your own copy of "WOOF", a great post-holiday treat for fiesty Fidettes and Fidos alike. Here's barkin' at ya."

Chocolate-"Nuff Said

"...an explosion of cocoa science that has the potential to change the lives of people in terms of their health."

"...flavanols have the potential to inhibit biochemical pathways that can cause inflammation, which is a process that can contribute to cardiovascular disease and other health issues."

Flavanols, Schmavanols! Who cares? The only thing smart WOOFers know is that chocolate, especially the dark kind, improves our moods and gives us reasons to woof down dinner to get to dessert...a creamy Dove Chocolate or Hershey's Extra Dark. What the hey? Gimme a full-size bar!

Now, before you go jumping on me about ignoring my health, I'm thrilled knowing these small bites of heaven really do have medicinal benefits. But I can tell you right here...right now, that the only biochemical pathways I care about are the ones from my hand to my mouth.

Unfortunately, chowing down on a five-pound box of truffles usually coincides with my expanding waistline. Guess that's why I only bake 2 chocolate cakes a year...for birthdays. There's just the two of us. Still, a full-size layer cake disappears in less 3 days. Not good.

So, when I saw a recipe for "chocolate cake-in-a-mug," I thought, problem solved! I don't know what brilliant chef came up with this, but I'd bet a bag of Butterfingers it's a woman, and she's over 50! Be warned, though, it's still very filling and has a *few* calories. (heh-heh)

Recipe:

2 tablespoons flour (I used self-rising. Some recipes call for cake flour)

3 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa (I used Hershey's Dark!)

1 large egg

2 tablespoons milk

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 tablespoons chocolate chips (A MUST!)

Small splash of vanilla extract

Preparation:

Add dry ingredients to mug and mix well. Add egg and mix thoroughly. Pour in milk and oil and mix well. Add chocolate chips and vanilla extract and...you got it...mix well.

Microwave on high for 2 minutes. The cake may rise over the top of the mug (I used over-size coffee mug), but don't be alarmed! Allow to cool and tip onto plate if desired. (Hubby added vanilla ice cream to his)

*Note: Prepare and consume this early in the day, or plan to spend the night — wide-awake — watching reruns of The Golden Girls! Or...read WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty

Do you have a favorite chocolate recipe? Whether you do or not, leave a comment and enter a drawing for "Accentuate the Pawsitive," a WOOFers guide to realigning your life!

"Mind spinning? Mood Swinging? Middle sagging? Get used to it! When you reach 50, shift happens. But, you're not alone. WOOFers to the rescue!"

Mary Cunningham (aka - Milkbone)

“Hilarious! Made me laugh out loud!” Blog Critics - Reviewed by Mayra Calvani

WOOFers Club
http://woofersclub.blogspot.com/

WOOFers Club Blog
http://www.woofersclub.blogspot.com/

Amazon Buy Link

http://www.amazon.com/WOOF-Women-Only-Over-Fifty/dp/1590806069/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1219407881&sr=1-1

Echelon Press

http://www.echelonpress.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=9_5_22&products_id=125

Like to laugh? You'll discover more funny women stories, limericks and poems when you...

BUY WOOF!
Melinda Richarz Lyons is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in many publications, including True West, Nashville Parent, Cats Magazine, Reminisce, Frontier Times and Cincinnati Family Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul: True Love. Lyons is author of Murder at the Oaklands Mansion and co-author of WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty (Echelon Press).

Mary Cunningham is author of the award-winning, four-book ‘tween fantasy/mystery series Cynthia’s Attic (Quake) and two short stories Ghost Light, Christmas with Daisy, a Cynthia’s Attic Christmas story, and is co-author of WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty (Echelon Press). A member of the Georgia Reading Association and the Carrollton Creative Writers Club, she lives in the mountains of west Georgia.

Diana Black is the third author of the humor book WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty (Echelon Press). A published songwriter and cartoonist, her professional work also includes illustrating children’s books as well as graphic and cover design. Her project, Wendel Wordsworth: No Words for Wendel, a picture book, song and educational materials, is designed to encourage young readers. Black is a member of the SCBWI (Southern Breeze Chapter) and the Carrollton Creative Writers Club.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

2010-01-04T11:23:00.000-08:00

Babies are okay. I have been known to hold one, managing to look reasonably comfortable, but I can't say I actively seek out the job. Not one of those women overrun by maternal urges, I don't often find myself nuzzling an infant and drinking in the aroma of baby powder. My sensibilities may have descended from my father. I once asked him if he was sorry that I hadn't provided him with grandchildren and he answered, "What, and have them run up to my car with jelly fingers?"

My mother was enamoured with infants, the smaller the better. At home with the tiniest of subjects, she was undaunted by their size and fragility. She often expressed a desire to have a third child, but Dad was nowhere near the same page. With a brother eight years my senior, I often wondered if even I was in the script. Realizing that my birthday, September 1, was exactly 9 months after New Year's Eve, I asked, "Mom, did you and Dad plan to have me?" She answered slyly, "I did." I still wrestle with the image of my mother in a negligee with a noisemaker.

My own parental instincts have been pretty much limited to puppies. I have been disappointed and delighted by the canines, and occasionally wonder how well I would have fared with a human. Still a work in progress, the jury may be out on the results of my development, but God knows my mother gave 110% during my formative years. She was the "Neighborhood Mom", chauffeuring kids to movies, school picnics and practices. Her tolerance was drawn from a bottomless well; she withstood my screaming tantrums, answering with, "Do you want something to cry about? I'll give you something to cry about." She never did. Maybe she should have.

I think that I might have been a good mother if it hadn't been for that little thing called sacrifice. The thought of passing along a part of myself was intriguing (or bone-chilling), but I never wanted to stop whatever I was doing long enough to seriously consider the task. What was I doing, anyway? Ah, yes- waitressing, painting, playing the banjo, living in New York City, moving upstate, decorating the apartment, decorating the house, mowing the lawn, raking the leaves. As far as Mom was concerned, the list read like the minutes from a session at the U.N. Living vicariously through my life, she could romanticize my most ordinary days and glorify the slightly unusual ones. While working out at the New York Health and Racquet Club, Farrah Fawcett and Tatum O'Neal walked into the room where I was doing an exercise for my butt. Farrah asked if I would show it to her, so I gave her a demonstration which lasted all of three minutes. Of course, my mother bragged to her friends, "Do you know that Joan works out with Farrah Fawcett?" I'll never have a more motivated publicist or a bigger fan.

My lack of maternal desires aside, I really do love little girls and could have been easily swept away in a daughter's world. I would have provided her with memories of swimming pools, shopping trips and Broadway plays. She would have been advised to adjust the price of a new blouse before she modeled it for her father. We would have had our little secrets.

While delivering Christmas gifts to my father's neighbors, I stopped to visit Kim and Dan Natitus, a wonderful young couple who moved in next door to Dad. Nearly a year ago, they were blessed with the smiles and sweetness of a baby named Julia. I sat on the floor and was warmed by her easy acceptance; she rested against my knees as I played with her hair and held her hands. Clearly in love, Kim's eyes widened with every move of her little girl. I like to imagine my mother looking at me that way.

A Major Change

2009-12-25T23:00:00.000-08:00

"I'm changing my major to art."

Look up these five words and you'll find they roughly translate into "I'm going to make no money."

Just what every parent with a kid in college wants to hear.

"It doesn't matter- just so long as they're happy, healthy, have ten fingers and ten toes..."

Yeah, but couldn't five of those fingers be pushing around numbers on a spread sheet instead of paint on a canvas? Wouldn't six figures bring you closer to health and happiness?

My parents silently accepted my proclamation, although I'm certain these questions, among others, were swirling around in their heads. I had entered Penn State as a pre-veterinary major, and here I was, in the middle of my first term, being lured by the sirens of the art world. You can count on a siren for a romantic notion or two, but you won't see too many of them forking over the rent money. My education, room and board were being completely subsidized at the time so I didn't understand the satisfaction of security, nor was I planning on worrying about it anytime soon. Tomorrow was another day, and frankly, my dear, I didn't give a damn about the details.

As a child, when asked what I wanted to be when I would grow up, I would answer, "A ballerina or a veterinarian." Considering that there are more than six degrees of separation between toe shoes and a terrier's testicles, you could say that I hadn't as yet made up my mind. Careful not to be blatantly discouraging, but doubting my commitment to the veterinary cause, my mother would say, "You know, Joan - you have to do more than love them. You have to clean up after them, too."

You also have to make it through your first term of classes.

Penn State's sprawling campus and enrollment of 40,000 did not intimidate the small town girl, but disappointing test grades and a handful of teeth-baring pre-veterinary majors proved to be more than an annoyance. They were driven and ruthless right out of the gate; I now admire their single-minded passion, but I was not up for the fight at the time. This particular dog-eat-dog world would not work for me.

An elective course in graphic art led me to the dark side. My Darth Vader came in the form of a charismatic printmaking instructor I met while struggling through the land of press type and cut and paste. Looking to increase his own enrollment, he convinced me to take a course in "intaglio" or metal plate printmaking. I took the bait and entered the print shop...

... and left four years later with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in printmaking. Armed with academic idealism and a reasonable amount of artistic knowledge, I landed back at my parents' home. My own collegiate experience had been quite the bipolar ride; I had spent hours laboring over lithographic stones and zinc plates yet managed to shape my social persona as well. It was not all work and no play for Joan, and she did not emerge a dull girl. Who better to light the fires of future students? A position as a printmaking professor at a university my objective, I set about applying to graduate schools in pursuit of a Master's degree. Giving in to immature confidence, I targeted only two schools and was accepted by neither. On to Plan B.

Plan B was intended to be implemented for the short term; I never imagined it could span two decades. I took a job as a hostess in "Wanda's on the Park", a restaurant in the Wilkes-Barre Sheraton Hotel, looking forward to saving some money and reapplying to graduate schools the following year. Waitressing at a favorite lunch spot followed and soon I was up to my neck in dishes and double shifts. By chance, I encountered a Penn State alumnus on her way to New York and in need of a roommate, so off I went to the Big Apple, with my Master's Degree a dot in the rear view mirror.

Sharing a duplex with four other women, I secured a server position at the Plaza Hotel's Palm Court. Although more glamorous than a luncheonette, I'm sure that my parents had doubts about their four year college investment being used to artfully place a piece of cake on a plate. How about that dollop of whipped cream with three strawberries as a garnish? Now, that was worth something.

Twelve years passed in the big city, and I found myself married and looking for a house. Once settled in upstate New York, I began to look for waitressing work. Though kept alive, my creative pursuits had never generated much income. "Good evening. Would you care for something to drink?"

My skills in the hospitality business, though not my vision of a career, have served me well. (Get it?) These days my plate-toting is limited to my own dinner and a few private parties. I have yet to stumble upon my big artistic break or institute the mechanism to make it happen and I'm sorry to say that my parents will never see an artistic economic return on their tuition dollars. House portraits and pet portraits have generated a lot of interest and little cash flow. "She's so talented; if only she could find her niche.", my father would say.

Though Mom and Dad may have had reservations about my choices, they rarely voiced negative opinions. They listened as I ran on about the exquisite nature of lithography limestones quarried from a singular source in France. My ink-stained hands were the color of a mechanic's, yet it was unlikely that they would earn me as much. Keeping quiet, my parents let me find my own unconventional way.

Easter of 2005 was the last time they visited my home; two months later my mother would enter a nursing home with dementia. As I prepared dinner in the kitchen, my father surfed through the televison channels and landed on a religious drama. When the image of a young boy hammering hieroglyphics into a stone appeared, Dad casually remarked, "There's Joan in college."

Santa Has Left the Building

2009-12-22T11:00:00.000-08:00

Two nights ago I made an honest attempt to catch Clint Eastwood's latest film, "Invictus", at the Regal Cinemas in the Poughkeepsie Galleria Mall. Running about 15 minutes late (not bad for "Joan Standard Time"), I arrived at the theater to find a long ticket line standing between me and the movie. Deciding that I should see this particular story from the beginning, I aborted my original plan and took a stroll around the mall. After about ten minutes of dodging kiosk salesmen and stray children, I started to head back to my car and towards a glass of wine at one of my favorite restaurants.

Before leaving the mall, I caught sight of a poster that read "Paws and Claus. Pet portraits with Santa. Mondays 6-9". Housebound by the recent cold snap, Ms. Grace was in need of an outing and a trip to the mall seemed just the ticket. I'd bring my Heidi Klum back the next night for her very own photo shoot. Now, back to that cabernet.

We arrived at the mall at about 8:15 on Monday and jogged through the parking lot to the mall entrance. The photos were being taken at the opposite end of the building, so we made our way through the waves of holiday shoppers, only to find that Santa had finished his shift at 8:00. "I'm sorry- there was a typo on the advertisement. You can bring her back tomorrow morning, if you'd like. We could fit her in before it gets too busy with the kids." Thanking the very nice young woman behind the counter, I knew that I would not be back the next day. I had brought my own camera, so I figured I'd grab a few shots of Grace amid the holiday decorations while she socialized with the shoppers. Our mission would be accomplished.

We got about twenty feet away from the photo studio when we were stopped by a baby-faced security guard who informed me that only certified therapy dogs were allowed in the mall. I explained that we had missed the Santa shoot and that we had to walk back through the building to the car. With sheepish authority, he advised me to avoid the food court. "We had an incident today with a small dog-someone had an allergic reaction." I thought to myself that said reaction was more than likely due to MSG infested Chinese takeout, but I held my tongue and politely went on my way.

At the risk of sounding like yet another overly infatuated parent, I can't get over the effect my dog has on people. Whether it was her goofy grin or the showgirl swish of her hindquarters, she captured the attention of countless passers-by. Undoubtedly, a dog out doing her holiday shopping might prompt a second glance, but the hugs and kisses bestowed upon Gracie as she continued along her promenade appeared to be the product of her own brand of magic. I kept my eye out for the next authority figure who would bust us as I allowed Grace her share of the limelight. She was in dog heaven.

We made a quick stop at Petco's treat bar where I filled a bag of mixed biscuits while Gracie cleaned the floor and grabbed a cookie or two out of the bins. A few more petting sessions and a display of tricks for the cashier and we were on our way back home.

Craving a cup of coffee, I turned into Dunkin' Donuts. As I reached onto the floor for my purse, I looked into the store window and saw a familiar character in a red suit. Santa! I hurriedly unzipped my camera case, grabbed Gracie's leash and jumped out of the car just as he was walking out the door. "Santa! May I take a picture of you with my dog?" As calmly as any man capable of delivering millions of presents in one evening while at the helm of eight tiny reindeer, he said, "Why of course."

He handed me his card, which identified him as a "real beard Santa", available for private and corporate parties, holiday parades and Christmas Eve. Apparently a distinction has been made between the St. Nicks who sport their own growth and those who don prosthetic fuzz; this fellow was the jolliest of natural specimens.

After taking some quick shots, Santa asked if I would snap a few on his disposable camera. I obliged as he explained that his stepfather was battling cancer and he was sure that the photo would cheer up his mother. Popping Gracie back in the car, I thanked Santa, wished him well and went inside to grab my coffee. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I smiled as I saw Santa on his cellphone, standing next to his minivan.

Ho, Ho, Ho. Merry Christmas.

Twisted Sister

2009-12-08T16:12:00.000-08:00

A third grader bowed his head in an attempt to hide the tears as they spilled beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. His apparent plight caught the eye of his teacher, who quietly asked him what was causing his distress. She might have expected him to complain about homework, a test score, or a class bully. Instead, he looked up at her and proclaimed with a sigh,

"I HAVE A SISTER!"

I'm pretty sure he would have preferred the bully.

My mother relayed this story to me, and although it sounds like one of those "cat in the microwave" urban myths, I always thought it would make a great first scene in the independent film of my life. Whether or not this actually took place, the foundation of an eight year old boy was severely shaken the day I was born.

Wayne was a wonderful child who followed all the rules. He did what was asked of him and took exceptional care of his belongings. When walking up the street to visit his grandmother, he could be trusted to safely avoid the dangers of the road by adhering to the grass along the edges. No need to worry about this kid. But look out for number two.

I took it upon myself to cover all the bases Wayne had missed with his good behavior. I whined, I cried and threw fiery tantrums. My father fenced in our entire yard, as I could disappear before the hat dropped. Having yet to learn respect for the possessions of others, I was the terror of the toy box. The human equivalent of an untrained puppy, platoons of my brother's plastic soldiers fell victim to my teething jaws and I was incredibly difficult to housebreak. I preferred the feel of a clean diaper but was resistant to toilet training, so I often took it upon myself to empty out the contents behind the downstairs couch. More often than not, it was my brother who would make a gruesome discovery while playing with his friends. Yep, I was a real princess.

The gap in our ages made it unlikely that we would be the best of friends during our formative years. We travelled in our respective circles and he was simply my older brother while I was his pain-in-the-ass little sister. Passing years brought differing opinions and heated arguments often ending in accusations of favoritism; although neither of us had ever wanted for anything, it was clear that I was "Daddy's little girl".

We managed our aging parents' care with minimal contact. Only the rare special event would find us back home at the same time. Throughout my mother's nursing home tenure and my father's cancer, decisions were questioned and tensions mounted. Dad quietly wished that we would somehow mend our fences, but he wasted no time on fruitless peace-making measures.

As we tag-teamed our visits to watch over Dad in his final weeks, the tide unexpectedly turned. Sweet little singing birds did not pull back the curtains to reveal a pot of golden friendship at the end of a glistening rainbow, but we could clearly see the benefits of compromise. We helped each other through my father's passing and seamlessly joined forces as we faced the aftermath of his life. I never would have imagined a "feel good" Hollywood ending for this independent film and I can't explain how I let it come about. Dad tried to tell me that I would need my brother, but I had so often refused to listen. I guess I'll just assume that the bug up my ass had affected my hearing.

Watch out for those bugs.

Guess Who's Coming To Dinner

2009-12-03T15:54:00.000-08:00

"So they sold the house up on the corner, and you'll never guess who bought it."

I shuffled through my list of improbable or fascinating potential inhabitants, and since it was unlikely that either Britney Spears or Bill Clinton would relocate to Trucksville, Pa., I came up blank.

"A gay couple."

Definitely not on my list, I quipped, "Well Dad, their yard will always look nice."

Having learned that an old man's mind should be allowed to open at its own pace, I withheld my views on acceptance and tolerance. With the exception of a few years in an apartment in the nearby town of Forty-Fort and a stint in the war, he had spent his entire life on the same block. He could admit change or quietly live alongside it with benign indifference. I decided to leave it up to him.

Nine years have passed since Wade Shaw and Jim Hawk took up residence on Vonderheid St., causing not even the slightest stir. A close knit community, I was fortunate to have my father surrounded by wonderful friends as I tried to manage his care from 3 hours away. Watchful eyes surveyed the house, monitoring the safety of the lonely old man within. Wade and Jim joined the team, sending down food and paying friendly visits. Sexual orientation was not at the table as my father and Wade would trade car stories and discuss the history of the local yokels. Just two regular guys "shooting the shit", as Dad would so elegantly say.

Firmly believing that no one should be alone on the holidays, Wade and Jim welcomed my father to their table, where he was treated to the warmth of family and the comfort of delicious food. I began a tradition of taking Dad up on Christmas Eve, as he was reticent to go alone after Mom's death. We shared laughs, exchanged presents, and gave new meaning to "Dad's night out with the boys".

My father didn't understand that being gay is not a choice. He was a "man's man" and held on tight to decades-old beliefs. Oftentimes, I would find myself wincing at my father's point of view on certain subjects, but he was remarkably low key in his assessment of his neighbors' lifestyle. As we walked back down to his house after a Christmas Eve visit, he started to speak and I fully expected a long overdue defamation. Instead he said, "Did you notice that those guys wear shorts and barefeet even in the winter? Now, that's pretty weird."

"Yeah," I answered. "That's pretty weird."

Calamity Jen

2009-11-24T23:30:00.000-08:00

I've never been to Europe. Except for a few cross-country trips and a couple of island vacations, I wouldn't consider myself much of a world traveler. Hell, I haven't even seen the world's largest ball of string or South Dakota's corn palace. My path seldom varies, yet I have been able to intersect with some genuine characters. As a result, I have in my possession a choice collection of crazy and cool friends.

Jenny Booth moved into our neighborhood when I was in the sixth grade. She lived next door to my best friend Laurie Fry and I soon became the third wheel on a bicycle which clearly needed only two at a time. Since my house was about a block away, I often found myself left out of the loop and pissed off. (Those who remain close to me might cite the beginning of a pattern, but that's subject matter for another cup of coffee.) In spite of occasional tensions, we managed to rack up quite a few wonderful adventures. Having full run of the then undeveloped woodlands above Laurie's house, we hiked, camped and even built a fort that was the envy of the neighborhood boys. Laurie and Jennifer were remarkably tolerant of my moodiness and insistent behavior and had front row seats to watch as the seeds of anal retention sprouted. "Of course we'll buy galvanized nails for the fort, Joan. You're right- we must have galvanized nails." In return, I provided them with plenty of fodder for healthy laughter as I attempted to shed my uptight and prissy skin. You can imagine the response when I showed up for a camping trip with a satin pillowcase. As the other kids chanted, "Harrison's got a satin pillow!" I tried to explain that it was an old one my mother had given me, but the imagined shade of my blood had already turned an ostracizing shade of blue.

Although we moved in and out of each others lives throughout high school, the bonds were never broken. Laurie chose to go to college in Washington state, while I remained closer to home at the main campus of Penn State in State College. Jenny was two years behind us and our relationship strengthened as I came back for breaks and summer vacations. Her family became my "second family"; I loved being with the Booths and their extended clan on holidays and the annual family reunion on Memorial Day. My folks were understandably jealous as I had chosen another family over my own, but the feelings melted away as they were brought into the fold and went on to become good friends with Jenny's parents, John and Donna.

Eventually, Jenny heard the call of the west. Her passion for horses led her to Phoenix, where she landed a job at a racetrack. Not particularly enamoured with the industry, she moved on to Cody, Wyoming where she became a "wrangler" at Valley Ranch, a beautifully rustic lodge on the Shoshone River. Along with the demanding care of the horses, she tended to the equine needs of the guests as she led them through the surrounding countryside on horseback. The abilities of the riders were varied and often a test for the guide's patience, but Jenny rose to the task and performed her duties, with what else, grace.

The following years played out like a series of red dots traversing a map in a spy movie. My address book has pages of crossed-out listings chronicling her whereabouts. After Cody, she touched down in Arizona, doing a brief stint at an Arabian farm. Moving on to Stanley, Idaho, a tiny town nestled in the Sawtooth mountains about an hour from Ketchum and Sun Valley, she led pack trips in the summer and drove teams of draft horses as they pulled sleighs full of guests into the snow-covered mountains. At the end of the ride, they found a wonderful dinner waiting for them, and I suppose it was at this time that Jenny began to hone her culinary skills. Clever and creative, she went beyond franks and beans into the land of homemade croissants and sauteed sweet potatoes. "Now that's French, ain't it? Why that little lady sure can cook up some fancy grub! And she's a hell of a lot easier on the eyes than some old codger in his undershirt and suspenders..." Sorry-guess I was out riding the range for a few sentences. Back to the saga.

After five years in Idaho, she moved on to Telluride, Colorado, where she spent the following five years working as a wrangler at the Skyline guest ranch. Her next stop was Reno, Nevada, where she was able to devote herself to another of her passions-carving. Her designs, mostly equine in nature, were drawn on the face of a moose antler and executed, using a Dremel, with precision and fluidity. Though one might think of antler carvings as somewhat kitschy, these are not your grandmother's crocheted poodle toilet paper holders. The forms pulled out of the antler are detailed and energetic, surrounded by a seemingly in motion negative space. She received commissions for her pieces and continued with her work until, you guessed it, she moved.

Back to Telluride for a few years, and then on to Durango, Colorado ( are you out of breath yet? ), where she stayed put for nearly a decade. She trained cutting horses, willing and athletic animals prized for their ability to separate a cow from its herd, and even went on to excel in competitions. Her days were long, and the work to maintain the barn and grounds, backbreaking. Burnout began to set in and seeking a change of pace, she took a framing job at an online art gallery. She honed her computer skills and enjoyed the camaraderie of her fellow workers. The gallery was sold a few years into her tenure, and she found herself at another crossroad. So...

This past year, she moved back to Cody. She hit the ground running, and took advantage of a myriad of opportunities. She works part time in an art gallery, took a position at a bank, and signed on as cook for several hunting camps. Not surprisingly, the bank job didn't hold her interest, but it wasn't long before she was back in the saddle again. She is now assistant to the performance horse trainer at a privately owned operation which focuses mainly on reined cow horses and cutting disciplines. Back in Cody's arms, she has built a new life filled with satisfying work and wonderful friends. It seems that my cowgirl friend has come full circle.

Welcome home, Jenny.

Leaf Me Alone

2009-11-19T10:50:00.001-08:00

Green Acres is the place to be.
Farm living is the life for me.
Land spreading out so far and wide.
Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.
New York is where I'd rather stay.
I get allergic smelling hay.
I just adore a penthouse view.
Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue.

The chores! The stores! Fresh air! Times Square!

You are my wife. Goodbye city life!
Green Acres, we are there.

We may not be Oliver and Lisa Douglas, but my husband Brian and I did make our own foray into rural America nearly 15 years ago. Our life in Queens, New York had become cramped and congested. Even the additional storage unit we rented couldn't accommodate the seasonal pile of snow tires under our table. Reaching the "it's time to stop throwing money away on rent" fork in the road, we decided we were ready to stake our claim in the name of home equity. Our search for a house began and ended in upstate New York.

There was never any doubt that our flight from the city would lead us northward. Brian's job near White Plains ruled out a laborious commute from Long Island and we weren't lured westward by the song of New Jersey. The fond memory of day trips to Rhinebeck drew us to the Hudson Valley; it was beautiful, within a reasonable driving range and, at the time, affordable.

When asked how we wound up in Stanfordville, I laughingly reply, "By mistake." We had come to the conclusion that the village of Rhinebeck itself might be a bit pricey, so we began to look at the surrounding areas. Off the beaten path and just south of Rhinebeck, the hamlet of Staatsburg emerged as the strongest contender. It was quaint, quiet, and within striking distance of the Hudson River, which appealed to me as I had hoped to reacquaint myself with my passion for landscape painting. A listing in a local paper caught Brian's eye, and soon we were off and running towards our new life in the country.

As we followed the realtor, I was struck by the absence of a river. We had begun to head east off the Taconic Parkway, and even I, in all my directionally dysfunctional glory, was doubting the promise of a sunset over the Hudson. Sure enough, the property was listed as being in Staatsburg, instead of its actual location in Stanfordville, 16 miles northeast of Poughkeepsie, in the heart of "Hunt Country".

Keeping an open mind, we looked at only two listings before we decided that this mistake was the happiest of accidents. The second property included a well-maintained, yet simple ranch on a potentially lovely setting of 5 acres. Hidden by trees, a small stream traveled through the back yard; we were certain we would be able to clear the land to secure a view of the water from our picture window. Although the house was conceptually stuck in the seventies, we were not frightened off by the burnt orange wall to wall carpeting and the amber plastic inset into cutouts in the wall between the hallway and living room. On his first visit, my brother-in-law dubbed the kitchen's wrought-iron enclosed orb of a light fixture a fine example of "Mediterranean Sci-Fi". I think you get the idea.

Curiously, these dated decorations added to the appeal of the house, as did its owners. I might as well have been visiting my parents-she was sweet and personable, he was straightforward with a touch of cranky practicality. Unfortunately, this comparison may have lessened our clout at the bargaining table; we were ineffective hagglers who let sentimentality get in the way of a great deal. No matter, we had our first home.

Fifteen years, four dogs, and two cats later, we are still here. The transition from the urban center of the universe to the middle of nowhere was not as difficult as we had imagined. Brian's 1 1/2 hour commute is a straight shot down the Taconic Parkway; far less stressful than the same trip on the Long Island Expressway would have been. Initially, I worked at a succession of restaurants and odd jobs, but have dodged the full time employment bullet for some time now. My days are spent maintaining my home, my creative pursuits, and until recently, the care and feeding of elderly parents. Although I can be heard bitching about my indentured servitude as a "yard slave", I have inherited my father's pride in a well-maintained property. I suppose I can thank him for the energy I can summon up to haul 30+ tarps of leaves into the surrounding woods. I suppose I can thank him later.

My folks loved to come and visit, but would admit that our location was too rural for their tastes. There is a compromise of distance and convenience; Mom would have found it difficult to indulge in her shopping obsession with a 40 minute drive standing in the way. The closeness of neighbors comforted them, while I prefer to hide my quirks behind a tree line.

When someone would ask my father where I lived, he would tell them "Hooterville". I rarely corrected him and had my own chuckle as I saw the irony in such a jab coming from a man who had lived nearly his entire life in a town called "Trucksville".

Back at ya, Dad.

The Seven Year Bitch

2009-11-17T21:18:00.000-08:00

Dateline- Brewster, N.Y. November 17, 2002... An expectant Golden Retriever paces and paws in a classic nesting fashion, and when the moment is right, she settles down for the blessed event. Hours of exhaustion, elation, and suspense bring a healthy and beautiful litter of pups. Mom kicks back while the kids begin to nurse; it's been quite a day.

Happy Birthday, Gracie.

Seven years old, the canine equivalent of my fifty, she remains svelte and sassy. This is in no part due to the practice of moderation, mind you. Ms. G. is the ultimate party girl and has no concept of when to stop. There are never too many tennis balls, no frisbee game is long enough, and petting sessions should last until the cows come home and go back out again. She does her time on the couch until the rustling of a coat or the turn of a knob promise a new adventure and propels her toward the front door. The destination has no bearing on her level of excitement- the Vanderbilt mansion, Petco, the front yard. She is the ultimate optimist. Or her closeted marijuana habit has taken its toll on her judgement and short term memory; I'll let you know if we catch her in the act.

I look at Gracie and I see a timeline of years that have passed so quickly. She has helped me through the mundane and the monumental. At times her sense of humor makes it possible to hold on to my own. Few things can bring you out of a funk like a dog parading through your father's kitchen with a thong in her mouth. Or a bra. Or a box of tampons. Her inappropriateness has no boundaries- she accompanied me to meet with the pastor scheduled to speak at Dad's funeral, and managed to steal a donut off the desk of one of the women in the office. My embarrassment was momentary, as the ladies, all dog lovers, burst into laughter and invited her to drop by anytime for another donut. She may not have been an obedience school valedictorian, but she was, and is, the class clown with honors.

My first Golden Retriever, Emma, was not yet five when I lost her to liver cancer. Within two days of her passing, I had an eight week old Gracie in my arms. My parents, saddened by Emma's death, had helped me pay for her medical expenses. Feeling a little guilty that I had turned around and spent more money on another dog, I didn't tell them right away- a fine example of a middle-aged woman resorting to teenage white lies.

About a week passed before I decided to take Gracie home to Pennsylvania to meet the grandparents. Bonnie, the notorious Scotty/Jack Russell mix still lived with me, so I told them I was bringing her along for a visit. I turned onto my folks' street and imagined my father telling me what an idiot I was to take on a puppy and the subsequent bills. Instead, when I walked into the dining room where Dad sat in his lazy boy, he took one look and my golden ball of fluff and yelled to my mom, "Rose, take a look at this."

With respect to the wall-to wall carpet in the rest of the house , we barricaded Gracie in the kitchen, and laughed out loud as she went through her repertoire of puppy antics. As I smiled and let go of any concern for my parents' assessment of my sanity, my father turned to me and said, "Honey, it was the best thing you could have done."

Thanks, Dad.

Hanging Up His Hat

2009-11-12T20:54:00.000-08:00

One week ago today I buried my father. We said our goodbyes on a windy hillside, warmed by the the possibility of his reunion with my mother. Although he battled with pain and ultimately, sickness, for some time, the actual end came surprisingly fast. His suffering finally over, I am surprised at how I am unable to share his relief. I guess no amount of preparation readies you for the stunning reality of loss and the emptiness that follows.

For nearly five years, my father has been the object of my steady, if not constant surveillance. From the moment my mother entered the nursing home with dementia, I telephoned Dad twice a day. I returned home more frequently, bringing chocolate chip, sugar and peanut butter cookies and a variety of dinners I had prepared and frozen in single-serving containers. I washed his dog, mowed his grass and carted his leaves to the dump. He was my project, my pet old man.

After my mother's death, he tearfully expressed his desire to join her. "I wish I could lie next to her. It would be so much easier for everyone if I could just 'pop off'." His pleas were heartfelt, but not easy to take over the long haul. My attempts to redirect his sadness were not always successful and exhausted me from time to time. A "spoonful of sugar" may work for the general public, but not the Harrisons. We can be a moody, dramatic troupe, with a hint of the martyr. When we find a funk, we tend to stay there until we're good and ready to come out. Makes you want to stop over for a spot of tea, doesn't it?

So now he's gone and the whirlwind of funeral planning has passed. The flowers have been donated or given away and I'm left with just a few thank you notes to write. While I am grateful for the opportunity to take a breath and get my own house in order, I will miss my care taking years. I complained about the running back and forth, the ramping up before each visit and my father's weeping on a dime. Wouldn't you know it, I'd do it all over again. I used to think people were crazy when they said that, so I guess you can consider me certifiable.

Goodbye, Dad. I love you.

Thomas J. Harrison April 17th, 1926 - November 3, 2009

Little Bad Bonnie

2009-10-13T07:54:00.000-07:00

"Want a puppy? She's awfully cute." I heard these words fourteen years ago while working at a local restaurant. Common sense must have been on sabbatical; the next day my husband and I found ourselves at a hunt club checking out our third dog. She was adorable in spite of her questionable pedigree. Her mother, a Scottish Terrier named Cora, belonged to the daughter of the woman who took care of the club's army of hounds. Unsupervised while in heat, Cora had an encounter with a Jack Russell Terrier named, of all things, "Chance". The coupling resulted in two pups, one of which was about to become the next monkey wrench in our lives.

Bonnie barrelled into our home and straight to the food dish without a hint of respect for the canine hierarchy already in place. Sheila, our Australian Shepard, and Wednesday, the raggedy old man we rescued from the streets of New York City, saw their worlds rocked that day. Seniority had no meaning for the swaggering combination of Napoleon and James T. Kirk-she came, she saw, and she most definitely conquered.

The "Scotch Terrier" had a limited tolerance for other dogs, especially females. Since he was old enough to have maybe one or two of his senses in working order, Wednesday couldn't care less. Sheila, however, often found herself at odds with Bonnie and fights would end up with a trip to the vet's office. Our newest addition was an incendiary bomb, going off in a succession of squeals and howls at the sight of a strange dog. I soon concluded that she was not fit for public consumption.

Bonnie made the assimilation of new dogs an absolute nightmare. Our first golden retriever, Emma, was quarantined to the kitchen for months before we were comfortable enough with their relationship. We had it a little easier with Gracie, but it was still no picnic. Blood was drawn as the two dogs watched me eat an order of buffalo wings in the kitchen. After a flurry of snarls, poor Gracie broke into a pathetic puppy yowl. I picked up the sweet ball of fluff, only to have her sneeze a spattering of red spots all over the kitchen counter. Minutes later, my husband arrived home to what looked like a crime scene. We were held hostage by a canine goon.

Eventually we reached a state of compromise, thanks to Gracie's inability to hold a grudge and her willingness to submit to the little one's tyranny. However, Bonnie remained the sheriff of the household and would reprimand our benign golden at a moment's notice. She had the teeth of a Great White Shark and was not afraid to use them. As you can imagine, we were always a little on edge.

In the fall of 2005, my father's Macular Degeneration took a turn for the worse and he found himself no longer able to drive. My mother had been in a nursing home with dementia for about 6 months, so he was incredibly alone. His need for companionship triggered a light bulb- how would he like to have Bonnie come live with him? "I was thinking the same thing." he said. What is it they say about great minds?

They spent the next four years together, two crotchety seniors on the same page. Bonnie stepped into the role of my father's second wife in the same way she entered our home. No questions asked, my way or the highway. She nagged him to go to bed, woke him up for a midnight snack and demanded attention worthy of a princess. He doted on her and acquiesced to her every whim. In return, she did what the best of dogs do-she made him feel needed. "You see that?", he would say as she lay at his feet. "That's as far as she ever gets away from me." Lucky for you Dad, I thought, and lucky for me. I had killed two birds with one dog. Dad had a companion and my home was considerably quieter. But all good things do have an end.

Bonnie came back to live with us over a week ago. Both she and I are doing our best to adjust to the new arrangements. My father's cancer is advancing and as he lies in bed in a Hospice ward, he can no longer take care of "his girl". His goodbye to her will always bring me to tears, but I try to console myself by remembering the time they spent together and the incredibly great work Bonnie did. As my friend Betsy said, "Who ever thought that such a miserable little cur would have such a noble purpose?" Somehow I think Bonnie knew.

Not So Just Desserts

2009-10-10T20:28:00.000-07:00

How many times have you relished course after course of a fabulous meal, only to have it go downhill with a not so fabulous dessert? This particular culinary faux pas has the power to forever mar the evening simply by virtue of its placement in the meal. No matter how many talk shows extol the virtues of "new beginnings" or "fresh starts", we have a tendency to remember most clearly the ending of an event. It ain't over until the fat lady sings, so let's hope she delivers on key or we'll be stuck with a dissonant memory.

With this in mind, it might be better to start out at the end of our life and work backwards. Our recollections would be colored with youthful optimism rather than the melancholy of age. But then, moviegoers saw how it worked out for Benjamin Button; I guess either direction brings with it the possibility of winding up in diapers.

As I witness my father's decline, I am trying to view his life as a whole. Rather than focusing on these final images of exhaustion, I search my mind for the man who fixed my bike, drove me to college with a U-Haul trailer full of way too much stuff, and made me check my suitcase for cockroaches whenever I came home from New York City. No kidding- he'd insist I go through my bags out on the picnic table. I may have grumbled at the time, but now it brings a smile to my face and reminds me what a wonderful pain-in-the-ass he was.

Friends attempt to help with the "He lived a long, full life" bit. Yeah, 83 is not a bad run, but let's see how we feel when we get there. How many of us will truly be ready to cash it in? Dad's later years have been assaulted by my mother's dementia, his own macular degeneration and a laundry list of painful and debilitating maladies. Sure, he's told me many times that it would be better if he just "popped off" and how he wished he were laying next to my mother. Loneliness and depression plagued him daily, but he has persevered. Cancer is, however, bringing down the curtain and we are moving him into an assisted living facility for his final months. I will do my best to look past the disease and spend my time with the man and the memories within the tired shell. This final course may not be particularly sweet, but I'll try not to let it ruin the whole meal.

Return of Florence Nightingale

2009-10-05T20:50:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday I got a call from John Roushey, my father's neighbor. He had stopped over to help Dad get his garbage ready for the next day's pick up and found him suffering terribly. "I've called Hospice and told them that your father probably should be hospitalized. I think you should come home."

I told him I would be there as soon as possible, which meant my arrival would at least be within the same day. I believe I've hinted at my inability to get out of the house quickly in an earlier post. "I have to shred last year's phone bills. I need to clean the hummingbird feeders. Oh, and I can't forget to alphabetize my breakfast cereal." Well, maybe it's not that bad, but you'd have to visit some parallel universe to see me get somewhere on the early side.

Four days later(just kidding), I'm in Trucksville, Pennsylvania, at the family manse. I took care of Dad's dog Bonnie and unloaded my 17 or 18 suitcases. I'm sure just about any circus travels lighter than I do, elephants included. I guess I have more than just a few issues.

Dad had been taken to the Hospice Unit at the Geisinger Hospital in South Wilkes-Barre. It really is quite the place and exactly where Dad should be. His room is spacious and private with a couch and a flat screen TV, a step up from his 13 inch analog with sub-basic cable. I had a hard time leaving the first night to go back to Dad's house where I knew the only channels I could get were standard broadcast, QVC, and a talking nun. It's comforting to know that I could remain shallow enough to be concerned about TV reception; one does not want to lose oneself in a time of crisis.

When I returned the next day, I had Gracie with me, but left her in the car in the parkade. Just for the hell of it, I casually asked the nurse if they allowed dogs on the floor. Actually, my question was pre-meditated, as she and I talked about dogs the night before. She spoke of her daughter's golden retriever with a great deal of fondness. I figured she might be Gracie's ticket to the unit.

Bingo! I got clearance and went downstairs to get my canine Marilyn Monroe.

Gracie entered the building with her best "Can I have fries with that shake?" wiggle and an air of enthusiasm as if she knew she was back on the job. We stepped out of the elevator and onto the fifth floor. Her smile leaped from face to face as we walked down the hall to Dad's room. Bouts of heavy petting ensued.

The bitch was back.

Florence Nightingale

2009-10-05T10:52:00.000-07:00

The last two years of my mother's life were spent in the dementia unit of a nursing home. One warm summer day I stopped by for a quick visit with Gracie in the car. When I mentioned to the supervisor of the facility that I was going outside to take water to my dog, she told me to bring her into the building. Within minutes, Gracie's unofficial career as a candy striper had begun.

She sauntered into the building with the confidence of a politician and the smile of a USO show girl. Always the belle of the ball, she quickly won over the staff and the residents and added an element of fun to potentially monotonous visits. Gracie was tailor made for the job; she went through her repertoire of tricks on command and never made notice of the errant senior hand tugging at her tail. I wasn't surprised-she is the ultimate party girl.

Gracie and I joined my father at the nursing home at 9:30 p.m. on May 22, 2007. I drove him home at about midnight and returned with my co-pilot. She sat patiently with me until 4:00 a.m., when she tried to crawl into bed with Mom's roommate. I accepted this as a sign that we should head back to the house. At 6:00 a.m. we got the call.

Although I had every intention of returning to the nursing home with Gracie, I only managed to stop by once or twice. Enduring a loved one's stay in such a place is not easy, but I must say my experience was not entirely unpleasant. Gracie had accompanied me on every visit; sharing her spirit was a gift I gave as well as received.

What A Difference A Year Makes

2009-10-01T09:39:00.000-07:00

The passing of a year is a revelation of varying degrees. Sometimes we look back and wonder what the hell we did for 365 days. Sometimes we sit back and marvel at a dizzying list of events and accomplishments. Most years are between the two extremes, allowing us to beat ourselves up while patting ourselves on the back. So you thought you couldn't tap yourself on the head while rubbing your stomach.

I made a bit of a hasty retreat from my Dad's yesterday and am paying for it today through my heart, gut and bowels. Medical research may be up to its eyeballs in diseases to treat, but they really should turn their attention towards guilt. A pill to counteract its effects, while giving the pharmaceutical industry a whopping case of reflux, might eliminate the need for antacids and proton pump inhibitors. Isn't the general idea to feel better and to feel better about ourselves? Guilt may be making me delusional, but I really think I'm on to something.

My father's cancer seems to be sending in more troops to increase his pain. How long the present barrage will continue I have no way of knowing. I do know that he is a far cry from the man raking the leaves of 2008 in his "Go to Hell" hat. ( The origin of that term is my father's own brain; there's more where that came from. ) He spends most of his time dozing in his black leather Lazy-Boy. "I've got to get the oil changed on this chair. I've put a lot of miles on it." In between the bouts of crying and moaning, he can still make me laugh.

He can piss me off too, and when he does, it doesn't take long for guilt to set in. I momentarily forget his condition and sound off like a 13 year old. Where's that puppy when you need to kick one?

Unfortunately, I have to end this post prematurely. My father's neighbor just called and told me I should come back right away. He had come over to put Dad's garbage out and found him in bad enough condition to call hospice and feels that a trip to the hospital might be inevitable.

It's a good thing I hadn't unpacked yet.

Switching Hats

2009-09-27T10:49:00.000-07:00

Last night I was a banjo player, this morning a dog walker and homemaker. At the moment I'm blogging away on my home computer and in a matter of hours I'll be in Pennsylvania with Dad. It would appear that I slip in and out of these roles rather easily considering the time factor, but I have way too much overlap between transitions. Were that not the case, I would have been on the road hours ago. Instead, "Road Joan" has to reconcile herself with "Home Joan" and attend to important tasks like cleaning the lime buildup on the kitchen faucet and laundering two pairs of underwear and three pairs of socks. Gotta have that closure, or these things will tug at my brain like a three year old on a shirttail. Have I mentioned that I'm a bit anal?

Punctuality has never been my forte. My mother always said, "You'll be late for your own funeral." She was one to talk. She rarely made it in time to catch the beginning of a movie. The ticket booth attendant, concerned about her blood pressure as she barrelled into the theater, took the pressure off by allowing her to come in and see the start of the next screening. Of course, this allowed for a little mall prowling and dysfunctional purchases, but that's fodder for another blog.

As I wait for my laundry to dry and decide which 15 shirts I will take for a two day trip, I'm afraid I will have to wind up this entry. My visits to my father have been dictated by a very loose schedule (mine) and it's been of no particular consequence if I arrive 7 hours late. This time, however, I need to help him change the Fentanyl patch which delivers a steady narcotic to ease his pain. His macular degeneration makes the simplest tasks monumentally difficult, and believe me, whoever designed the patch and its packaging is a little out of the visual impairment loop.

I will apologize in advance for the absence of blogs over the next few days; I am about to enter The Land that Technology Forgot and will not have access to a computer. A cordless phone and an answering machine are about the only devices which date Dad's house past 1977. He has been making some noise about getting a flat screen TV to "enjoy whatever time I have left". I'll keep you posted on that saga.

So "Road Joan" is about to give "Packing Joan" a kick in the keister and get the next carnival started. Well, she better do it soon-I feel another hat coming on.

Photo: After mom passed away and I went through the closets and closets of clothing, I began to pay irreverant homage to her by photographing Grace in her outfits. I can imagine Mom looking at this photo and saying, "That hat is a real gasser."

Death of a Salesman

2009-09-25T12:03:00.000-07:00

Would you buy a used car from this man? Hard to believe, but at one time a lot of people did. After retiring from his career of 43 years, my father took a part time job at a local used car lot. He had spent the bulk of his adult life at the helm of a company that customized heavy machinery and dealt with the headaches of specialized production. The idea of "it is what it is" had a certain allure for him; if the car wasn't what the customer wanted, they could look at something else or look elsewhere. His no-nonsense regular guy approach had a certain appeal at the lot; many of his customers repeated their business time and again. It also didn't hurt that he really knew what he was talking about.

My dad left high school 3 weeks short of graduation. " A 36 Plymouth was more important." he said when I asked him why. He returned from the war and went to work for a construction empire with a heavy equipment division. Initially a mechanic, his knowledge and work ethic came to the attention of the company's president. The next stop was the sales department and from there he worked his way up to vice-president. A high school dropout taken under the wing of a construction magnate - you don't hear too many stories like that these days.

My brother and I heard "I'm going to throw in the towel" so often that we would chant it at the dinner table. We couldn't possibly understand how hard he worked to deal with the production aspects of the job as well as the revolving door of shiny new talent came and went. He outlasted most of them and had to clean up their inevitable messes when they left. But he stuck it out and provided us with a comfortable life. We weren't rich, but I was spoiled enough to be the only one in the neighborhood with a unicycle, stilts and a pogo stick. Yeah, you're envisioning the kid you hated-and you're pretty much on target.

All his years of hard work did not save my father from the ravages and trials of old age. My mother developed dementia and spent the last two years of her life in a nursing home. Six months after she went into the facility, my dad's macular degeneration took a turn for the worse, making it necessary to take himself off the road. Never a mass transit guy, he figured out the bus schedule and made his way to visit my mother even in the worst of conditions. She passed away over two years ago, when fluid around her heart took her in a mercifully short three day period. He knew she was in a better place, but he's never completely recovered from the loss.

He has since weathered the decline of his eyesight, spinal stenosis and a prostate biopsy revealing the presence of prostate cancer. Several months ago a CT scan and an MRI revealed a mass in his left chest. His physician and a consulted oncologist have diagnosed a malignancy, possibly non-small cell lung cancer. Not wanting to undergo an invasive biopsy and subsequent treatment, my father has opted to let the disease take its course. His pain is at times incredibly intense and he is often overcome with emotion. We have enlisted the help of hospice and I am doing my best to deal with the situation from a distance. My brother and I are tag-teaming in an effort to keep him in his home as long as possible. It's a little tricky, but at least it's only a 3 hour car ride and not a plane ride.

We're doing our best to take it a day at a time. I'm a newbie to this cancer game and I'm finding out how much of a straight line it isn't. Yesterday he was in agony from the pain of a sleepless night. This morning he was talking about making French toast. How many obituaries have you read that mention a "brief battle with cancer" or a "extended illness"? You never know what goes on between those words until you walk the walk. I'm sure I'll have done a lot more walking before this is over. It's a good thing I'm in decent shape.

Hair Brain

2009-09-24T10:17:00.000-07:00

I may not be Paris Hilton or J-Lo, but I have a team. Okay, so maybe I don't have a stylist to chase after stray hairs or monitor my wardrobe choices, but I do have people. From the crazy endocrinologist to the clerk who checks out my groceries, they all provide a support system for my so-called life and keep me amused in the process.

Today I'd like to shine the spotlight on one of the most important members of my team- my hairdresser. Call me superficial, but we all know the power of a great hairstyle. Donald Trump's infamous pile of dragged wisps come to mind; they haven't affected his financial status, but they have attracted their share of attention. And I've always questioned Martha Stewart's coiffure, although she has been looking better since she did her stint in the pen.

We've all been the victim of a bad haircut at some point in our lives. Nearly fifteen years ago, I moved from New York City to Dutchess County, New York. For several months, I continued to drive two hours to have my hair done by an upper-East side hairdresser I had come to trust. I then sported 23 inch long tresses punctuated by startlingly straight bangs. The overall effect of the cut combined with a too-dark shade of brown was that of a grade school Elvira. Very scary, boys and girls.

There's little room for error when it comes to straight bangs. One misstep can lead to serious questions about your IQ. My hairdresser made one such mistake in the form of a "notch" in the center of my forehead. When I questioned it, he smoothed it down and made some sort of glib comment about it growing back. I drove upstate with my notch, questioning my commitment to this man. The next day I went to work at a local restaurant and provided my co-workers with no shortage of entertainment. By night's end, I had been dubbed "Nell", the wild child portrayed by Jodie Foster in the film of the same name. Unbelievably, I even had a customer ask me what I called my hairdo. It never fails, when something is bothering me, someone is bound to pick up on it. I'm not terribly religious, but it is at these moments that I believe in a higher power. Or some giant freckle-faced bully at the controls of the pinball machine of life. Whatever the case, I am one easy joke butt.

A wisecracking waitress who was having her share of fun at my expense, was momentarily kind enough to suggest that I see her hairdresser. I took her advice, and started a relationship with my hairdresser that has lasted 14 years. I'd change gynecologists before I let someone else touch my hair. Now there's an endorsement for the window of a beauty shop.

Lori Ann Gannon Fracasse is the owner of the Gallery Salon in Poughkeepsie. She is incredibly driven, smart and funny. Just the kind of lunatic you want on your team. When I first encountered Lori, she was working at a well-known day spa. She has since opened her own beautiful salon and staffed it with a wonderful collection of stylists and assistants able to handle any type of hair you can throw at them. The Gallery is polished yet not pretentious. The cast of characters is warm and welcoming and there is always a healthy amount of laughter in the air. Most important are the great haircuts that keep walking out the door.

The mother of two terrific young girls, Lori runs her business and home with a fun-loving yet disciplined attitude. She is not afraid to take the bull by the horns (or the hair). She is devoted to her customers and they to her. On my most recent visit, I spoke with a client who told me how her husband suggested a trip to the salon while she was recovering from surgery and the loss of her father. Her eyes teared as she told me how Lori took such incredible care of her and how much better she felt after being pampered. Such is the power of a great haircut. I guess it's not such a superficial thing after all.

Photo: Lori Gannon Fracasse with client Linda Schmidt

Good Medicine

2009-09-21T12:46:00.000-07:00

I don't know too many people who look forward to a trip to their veterinarian's office. But then they've never been to see my vet. Barbara is funny, hip, and often irreverant; some folks might consider her an acquired taste. I, however, revel in her humor and marvel at her unflappable nature. She can handle them all- from the craziest of cat ladies to the stalwart backwoods hunter. Sometimes grace shows up in the darndest places.

Don't get me wrong- this woman really cares. When my 5 year-old Golden Retriever Emma became sick, Barbara suspected she had a spleen tumor and wanted to do surgery right away. I agreed, and left my beautiful dog as they inserted the intravenous needle into her leg. About an hour and a half later, I received a phone call from Barbara that Emma's liver was gone. She cried as she told me of the advanced cancer and apologized for her tears, saying that she wasn't prepared to see it in such a young dog. Emma never woke up.

Two days later I had Gracie. Even though I had Bonnie, a terrier mix, I so missed Emma and her golden dispostion. An ad in a local Pennysaver led me to a breeder who had two pups left for sale and I went to "take a look". Well, you know how that worked out.

A few months after her second birthday, Gracie had her first seizure. Barbara was with me every step of the way as we waited to see if another would follow or if it was an isolated incident. Two weeks later, she had three seizures, seven hours apart. Two weeks after that, she had a cluster of five, four hours apart. We decided to put her on phenobarbitol and she has had only one seizure in the last five years. An increase in her medication has kept her seizure-free for the last year or so. We always have our paws crossed, and know that they could start up at any time. To quote Barbara, "You know, medicine is not an exact science... don't you hate that?"

After losing Emma so suddenly, Barbara knew I was a little gun shy and paranoid. She never let me feed into my fears, however. When Gracie's seizures started, Barbara said, "You can handle this. You've been through worse." Simple words, yet I refer to them often these days.

Thanks, Barbara.

2009-09-20T11:41:00.000-07:00

Oops- our website is www.toobluemusic.com. I forgot my .com in the previous post. I have a feeling that won't be the last thing I forget today.

Over and out.

I'm With the Band

2009-09-20T10:55:00.000-07:00

Got a late start today. It's the dog's fault. It's always the dog's fault. She was in no hurry to pull herself out of bed this morning and I took my cues from her. I've always been an easy mark for peer pressure.

I had a gig last night with my bluegrass band "Too Blue". Since banjos are mentioned in the subtitle of this blog, I may as well come clean and admit that I do play one. In public. As a matter of fact, it's been just about 14 years since I was introduced to a great flatpicking guitarist and songwriter named Betsy Rome by Ben Freed, a mutual friend and terrific banjo player. He felt we had a lot in common musically and he was right- we've been a musical team since 1995 and along the way added Michael Sassano on mandolin and Jamie Doris on bass. We have a great time playing together and actually enjoy hanging out with each other after the music stops. Believe me, that's not always the case with a band; we're pretty lucky and we know it. After all, none of us are getting rich so if it ain't fun, there's no point in doing it. And you can quote me on that. Or not.

We played at the Westchester Bluegrass Club, a monthly event produced by fellow musician Mike Burns. On the third Saturday of the month, a featured band plays a set at 9:00 while the audience members get to jam at 7:00 and take part in an open mike at 8:00. It's a great way to get everyone involved and it puts a lot of knowledgable and supportive people in the audience. Last night was no exception. Our crowd was enthusiastic and responsive and made it so much fun to play. And you know my stand on having fun.

Of course, there is a price to pay for having said fun and that would be a lazy beginning to this particular Sunday. It's not the dog's fault after all. She wasn't the one out whooping it up with her band. At least not that I know of...

Please visit http://www.toobluemusic.com/ to see our schedule and to hear soundbites of our music.

Night Owl

2009-09-18T22:50:00.000-07:00

I'm tired. Tired of playing the game. Ain't it a fwiggin' shame? I'm so... let's face it. Everything below the waist is... KAPUT! Lily von Schtupp (Madeleine Kahn) in "Blazing Saddles"

I should be tired. It's almost 2 a.m. and a 9:30 Pilates class comes mighty early for us vampires.

Forget about the feet over the head thing on top of a wine buzz. Yep- I gave in to the call of the wine opener as I was editing some photos. No major harm done, but Mary Poppins may not show up at the gym tomorrow morning.

Today pretty much came and went and managed to go down as middle of the road. Walked the dog, took some photographs, worked out and sat down in front of the computer. No records set, but not bad overall.

And so, instead of straining to squeeze some wit out of September 18, I think I'll take Grace out one last time and attempt to get some beauty rest. I have to think of that poor soul on the mat next to me in Pilates after all...

Goodnight.

Doing It With Grace

2009-09-17T19:44:00.000-07:00

In an episode of "Seinfeld", Elaine is looking for a new job. During one of the interviews she is told that she has no grace nor has she any chance of acquiring it. You simply have it. Or you don't.

Or you have a dog named Grace.

That would be me.

Gracie and I have been together about seven years now, and are celebrating our fiftieth birthdays together. "A fifty year old dog?", you shriek. Rest assured that she is not a treasured carcass preserved in formaldehyde, guarding the foot of my bed. My absence of a dedicated life leaves me the time to find such useful information as a canine/human age conversion chart on the Internet. Gracie's age (7 in November) and her weight (she is a 65 pound Golden Retriever) put her at 50 in human years. Sure, buy the premise, buy the movie. I do it every time I get on the elliptical trainer and have complete confidence that I've burned 500 calories when the machine says so. I turned 50 a few weeks ago and an internet chart says my dog will do the same in a few months. It may not be gospel, but I love a coincidence.

I will do my best to avoid weepy sentimentality in this blog, although I do get a little verklempt when I imagine life without Grace. She is a butthead, a bonehead and just about any other head that conjures up the image of a fun loving, "in the moment" goofball.

As I begin my second 50 years, I can't promise that my life will always be an incredibly interesting one, but I do keep myself generally amused and will try to do the same in this blog.

Gracie and I welcome you to come along for the ride.