Lost and Found - Heartache, Hope, and a Little Dog

When my daughter was born, I darkly mused that that our dog, Ellie, would be the thing that would teach my daughter about death. The pup recently turned four and the baby three months, so assuming that Ellie lived an average life, Lucy should be well into grade school before we were faced with saying goodbye to our dog.

Dog is Love

As my wife and I drifted to sleep last night, we pondered the affections of our droopy eyed hound. My wife mused,

"Do you think she actually loves me? You know, can dogs actually love humans?"


Love. Comin' at you!

"Sure. Look at that face - those lurching eyebrows and doleful peepers. Looks like love to me." I said this with my own eyelids drifting to their nocturnal rest.

"Yeah, but do dogs have the ability to love?"

"I believe so...at some level. Cats, on the other hand, I'm not so sure. Hobbes, for instance, has no ability to love in his body. Only loathing." *

A thoughtful silence settled over us. I began to nod off, while my wife deliberated.

"Why are dogs and cats so different?"

"What kind of question is that?! Why are...giraffes and orangutans so different?!" Sleep was not in my immediate future.

"Yeah, but cats and dogs live in houses together."

"So do people and mice! And they're very different. On second thought, you know what? They're actually not. Genomically, mice and humans have many similarities. That's why scientists grow human ears on the backs of mice - and mice on the backs of human ears. You should see the rodent growing out of my ear!"

 

Ear, meet Mouse. Mouse, Ear.



"They do not! Wait, they do? That is disgusting...why would they grow a human ear on the back of a poor little mouse?"

I don't know! For people who have no ears. You know...ear transplants or something."

With that, we finally settled into a blissful rest.

Thank you science, for settling the question of "Do dogs have the ability to love?"

*Hobbes is the cat with which we currently share residence. This arrangement is against my will and better judgement, but I tolerate his presence.
I wish he would return the favor, but alas, he does not.

Love is a Many Splendid Thing

Love.

The word gets thrown around with reckless abandon.

"I love cheese pizza!"

"I love my Grammy and Pappy!"

"I love Justin Bieber!"

I love to throw up in my mouth when I hear that last one. The Ancient Greeks had three words to define the varying emotions we try to encapsulate with this one, lackadaisical noun. Or verb. Whatever.

Love, Love? (Paltrow and Wilson, Royal Tenenbaums)

When you type the word into any given online dictionary, you'll get dozens of definitions ranging from infatuation to tennis. mix these definitions up, splash them into the majority of pop culture, and it's no wonder that the majority of the world is thoroughly verklempt over the concept of love.

As I sit here in this shopping mall food court, you may think that I am going to definitively determine a universal term for love.

I am not.


Top 10 Things I love

This is a list of things that I love. Some are what you might call familial or brotherly love, some are passionate or creative love, and yes, one is romantic love. So here's to love:


Coffee - As potentially unhealthy as it may be, I love drinking thick, black, dregs of coffee. I like my coffee like I like my guard gorillas --  black and strong. I've adopted a couple of different stigmas for drinking coffee. The first comes from working with farmers, where adding a deluge of milk and sugar to coffee is weak and often not available. Drink it quick, drink it black, and get back to work.

The other comes from working in the boutique coffee industry. Coffee snobs love to look down their pointy proboscis', through their jet black sludge, and dash diminutive daggers at anyone affecting the purest form of caffeinated bliss. Don't sugar your coffee. So in order to get through both the physical and mental rigors of 4am shifts at Starbucks, I learned to love the raw, unadulterated goodness of black coffee.

This is definitely a passion love, similar to "cheese pizza" love.


Bourbon Whiskey - It may be folly, or at least liver cringing, but I truly love bourbon. This love comes with a healthy dose of knowledge and experience with the caramel colored beverage. Just as some people can nose a glass of wine and pick up notes of pear or chrysanthemum, I truly enjoy identifying the nuanced goodness of a good glass of well-made bourbon whiskey. Best imbibed neat, or with a single cube to give it a slight chill, I love good bourbon because of the implicit emotion attached of sharing the beverage with good friends. That is the emotional root of my piety towards Kentucky-made Whiskey.

Again, another "cheese pizza" love. But so much better than cheese pizza.

Grandpa Leroy and I, discussing family history...I think.

My heritage - I know that everyone hopes that they've got some piece of important history hiding in the branches of their family tree -- The inventor of the mousetrap, survivors of the Russian Gulag, or the man who coined the phrase "Psych!". But in the end, most of us come from ordinary people.

And that's what I love. Mundane stories of the hard-working, rough-edged, common folks that contributed to my deoxyribonucleic acid make me proud of where I came from. Whether it be the stories from fifty years ago or the taller tales of Austrian nobility, I am fascinated by the culture from which I am created.

This love is born out of filial piety. Mark it in the "Grammy and Pappy" category.


Music - I really tried to come up with a way to narrow this one down. Good music? Too subjective. Music that has deeper meaning than pop-trash that graces the airwaves of most top 40 stations? Two dismissive. I will admit that many of the older artists I love are complete sellouts. I love to groove to Prince, even though I'm fairly certain that much of his music has no deeper meaning, only sexual allusions and Crayola colors.

Sometimes you cannot turn away some music, based solely on its genre, instrumentation, or artist. Music speaks to you in different way at different times, and can have amazing affect on people. Watching my wife learn about the scientific and prescriptive uses of music in therapy astounds me again and again as I see an even greater application for the art form that touches my soul like no other.

Music. Score one more for the "Cheese Pizza" love.

Richard Harrod and I, enjoying the outdoors at Ol' MC

Outside - The early vestiges of each season catch me by surprise like the sight of an old friend after years of distance. Each seasonal change has an invigorating scent that permeates every pore of my body. If you were to ask me to name my favorite season, I would name each for its own unique reason.

Ever since I was a child, I've loved being in nature. On my grandfathers farm, at Boy Scout Camp, and even at college -- I've felt the most at home out of doors.

This is another one of those great appreciation loves...a big, all natural, "Cheese Pizza" love.


Brian - Brian Wilcoxon is my best friend. As potentially emasculating as it may sound, I love Brian. The one man who truly thinks on the same level as me -- on every level. Brian and I are in-sync on many things -- our love of learning, creative passions, and boy bands.

I've had friends come and go, fade and resurface. I do not begrudge any of them for our current status. But Brian's a friendship I truly cherish. (This does not mean I don't love my other friends. Brian simply hits the top of the chart.)

My love for Brian falls in the "Grammy and Pappy" category. Brotherly love is next to familial love in my book.


Knowledge - "Knowledge is power". "Knowing is half the battle". "The more you know." Damn, I love knowledge. Learning is one of the most enjoyable things I have ever done. As nerd-tastic as that sounds, It's true. I don't care what the subject, I just am smitten with acquiring more knowledge. Book-smarts or street-smarts, it matters not. I am a consumer for the information of the world. Because with the correct knowledge, I believe that you can achieve almost anything. I know that sounds sappy, but it's true.

Another "cheese pizza" love. Or more aptly put, an "everything pizza" kind of love.


My parents - I will admit that they drive me crazy sometimes. I don't always understand them either. But my mother and father are pretty awesome, if you think about it.

This category falls into a similar vein as "My heritage", but is closer to home. I am continually seeing traits in myself, both positive and negative, and finding similar attributes in my parents. The whole concept is fascinating to me. In some ways I am completely like my parents, in others, it's a complete 180. Regardless of the specifics, I truly appreciate everything my mother and father have done to make me the man I am today.

Although they may resent the title, they fall into the category of "Grammy and Pappy" love.


Eleanor - This little dog is friggin' adorable! She has more character than any other pet I've ever owned. She is the biggest sass ever packed into an over-sized wiener dog, yet I feel a deep affection for my dog. More than I remember feeling for any of my previous dogs, cats, or turtles.

When she army-crawls across the floor to see me, howls a hound-dog greeting as I come in the front door, or discusses the conflicts in the middle-east in her low-warbled growl, I melt. Against all gumption, I love this dog.

Definitely a familial, "Grammy and Pappy" love for my pooch.

The love of my life

Annie - What can I say about this woman? It is nye impossible to come up with words that get even close to the emotions that well up in my soul when I think of her. My best friend, my biggest fan, and my truest critic, all in one beautiful, amazing, scintillating body. She is everything I need, and everything I want. She tells me when I am being ridiculous, and begs me to be more insane.

My wife is perfect. Objectively perfect.


Because of that, she is definitely a "Justin Bieber" kind of love. The only difference is that she wont fade away in a few years.

Finding Inspiration in Altercation

I have now started four different posts in the last week. They are all in various forms of completed, yet I am completely incapable of finishing a single one.

This may be writers-block. It may be Seasonal Affect Syndrome. It may be my own mental degradation leading to an eventual psychotic break down where I lose all ability to think function or use punctuation whatsoever

But I doubt it.

This is a basic mind-over-matter situation. Or is it matter-over-mind? My mind is saying,

“No! Your ideas suck. Your abilities suck, Your ability to drive and automobile sucks!”

Even when the universe is against me, I am determined to prove myself wrong.

When the World is Against You, Drive a Big Truck

I got home today a little before 6pm. Annie had class late, so I was excited to change out of my dress digs, leash up Ellie for a brisk walk in the frigid night air, and then settle in for some literary grunt work. I pulled into the lot, trekked up to my second level apartment, and expected to find a little dog, anxiously awaiting my arrival in the kitchen, where I'd left her. I fumbled for the keys, turned the lock, and flipped the switch in the kitchen. As I looked around the room, I found my dog nowhere in sight. I did, however, find the barricade blocking her into the kitchen pushed open. My dog was laying comfortably on my bed.

What a rascal.

After our walk, I decided that it was time for a new gate for the kitchen doorway. I loaded the pooch into the truck, and headed to the store. What was supposed to be a quick trip to Walmart ended with no baby gate. They had ultra-amazing, state-of-the-art, laser-sighted baby gates. They had extra-tall gates for your behemoth babies. But they had no regular old safety gates – the wooden kind that slides back and forth along the notched wood and inevitably gets stuck two inches short of the length you want it to be. So I left Walmart empty handed.

On the way back to the apartment, I pondered where else I might get a gate. I could always go across town to the other Walmart, or Target or Kmart or any of the other department stores in town. As I was weighing those options, I saw Walgreens up ahead. Now there's a novel idea. Walgreens has a bit of everything. They may just have what I'm looking for.

I pulled in and put the truck in park. Commanding Ellie to stay, I dismounted, and headed into the store. Moments later, I exited, sans gate. I clambered back into the truck, resolving to find my dog gate another day. I had writing to do, so I needed to get home. I glanced over my shoulder and began backing out of the spot, cranking the steering wheel to the right. Suddenly I felt a jolt through my system as the truck impacted something behind me. I slammed on the brake, threw the transmission into park, and jumped out to assess the situation.

As I rounded the back of the truck, I was met by a frantic woman pacing back and forth as if bouncing off of imaginary walls.

“I can't believe this! I can't believe this! I know I should have gotten the rental insurance. My car's in the shop, so this is a rental...It's not even mine! I can't believe this!”

As I looked the two cars over, I found the truck unscathed. The back bumper of the woman's Dodge Charger however, did not fare so well. The rear driver side corner was shattered where it had made contact with the truck. She'd pulled her car back into the space she was back from, allowing room to walk between the vehicles. In an effort to calm her down, I said,

“Well, it seems as though we both are at fault here...seeming as though we were both backing out at the same time. There isn't any damage on my vehicle, so I'll leave it up to you – do you want to call the police, exchange insurance?”

She opted for all of the above. I called 911 and explained the situation. Then we sat in our vehicles and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I could feel my writing time disappearing as I sat, listening to underground musicians on Iowa Public Radio. The longer I waited, the more irritated I got. Irritated at the police for their tardiness. Irritated at the woman for not seeing my truck. Irritated at the dog for breaking out of the kitchen, prompting this whole endeavor in the first place. I was just irritated in general.

To Swerve and Protect

Finally the police arrived. I hopped out and approached the car. Upon request, I began proffering up the details of the incident. As I began explaining how we were both backing up and collided, the woman from the car piped up,

“Hey wait a second. No, no, no. That ain't how it happened.” I was just parked here, and he backed into me. I hadn't moved from my spot.”

The irritation that had been simmering in me flashed into unbridled aggression as I processed what she was attempting. The two sides of my brain grappled between my desire to explode in a flourish of epithets about the low-lifed, underhanded, nefarious nature of her snake like words and the more logical side that realized a public outburst such as the one I wanted to perform would lead to more serious police involvement. In the split second I took to weigh my options, the public servant in the car before me interjected,

“It doesn't matter what happened. Your on private property, so we will not be determining fault. Give me your insurance cards and licenses and I'll issue an exchange of information report.”

I was relieved that the officer had stepped in to quell the brewing discourse. But I was also terribly agog. I could not believe that this woman was trying to pin this thing on me! I went back to my car and sat, broiling in the frigid night air. I cranked the heater of the truck, and stared at the red car in my rear-view mirror. As I sat and went over the details again and again in my mind, I began analyzing the scene from every angle, every perspective. I would be damned if this woman tries to throw me under the bus on this. It was her fault for not looking before backing out of the space!

Eventually the officer came to my truck, gave me the report, and wished me luck with the insurance companies.

I finally staggered into my apartment around 8:30pm. After three wasted hours of gate-less gallivanting, I'd made it home. I didn't even feel like writing. Curse you, powers that be! You've sucked all the desire to create from my body! I just wanted to watch syndicated Seinfeld while dissolving into my lumpy futon. Against all desire, I opened my computer.

As I sat, exhausted, staring at the blank screen of my computer, I tried to write. I opened all of the half written blogs that had been swirling around my brain. I typed a word here, a paragraph there. But I had nothing. The universe had sucked me into another doldrum of creative drought. But then I realized it. In stopping me from writing, the universe failed to realize that it'd given me something better. It gave me fodder.

It was hard at first, convincing my brain, rusted with exhaustion, to began cranking again. But as I slogged through the first few paragraphs, it became easier. And soon enough, I'd retold the whole story.

So next time you get writers-block, for God's sake, stay in the house. It's much safer that way.

Battle With the Biddy - Grandmas and Groundrules

Opal Mills is a cantankerous octogenarian who's inhabited the apartment below mine since at least the Reagan administration. As far as I can tell, the building has been remodeled around her existence multiple times over, fusing her decor, noises, and even her smell into the very soul of the brick and timber that make up the walls of the structure.

Long before I met Opal, before I'd even moved into apartment 5, her presence bellowed at me in alpha-numeric form. Pulling up to the parking lot, a small metal sign was planted in the frozen ground. On the aluminum was reflective vinyl, coldly pronouncing,

RESERVED FOR APARTMENT 4. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED.

There were no other signs in the lot. No similar reservations for units 3, 5, or 6. Only this singular privileged position. As I approached the building, I noticed a lone piece of lawn furniture sitting next to the door. Upon closer inspection, I found an address label applied neatly to the top of the chair. It was the type of label you receive complimentary for donating to the World Wildlife Fund or the Salesian Missions. Next to an ambiguous floral pattern, in Times New Roman, was a name, address, and phone number. The label shared an apartment number with the aluminum placard. The name?

OPAL MILLS

Knit Like a Grandma, Swear like a Sailor

We inspected the apartment, approved of the ambiance, and signed the lease. In conversation with our landlord, I mentioned the peculiar tendencies of our sub-level neighbor to label everything in sight. He replied with a sigh.

“Yeah, she has trouble walking, so she insists that no one park in that spot. She only leaves the apartment a couple times a week, but I wouldn't worry about it. She can't enforce the sign. But if possible, try to park somewhere else. I've explained to her that she can't have people towed, but she keeps tryin' anyway.”

I shrugged, made a mental note to comply, and began unloading boxes.

A few weeks later, I pulled into the lot. It was around seven at night, and I had to leave again early in the morning, so I parked in the spot directly in front of the sidewalk. The sign met my license plate, ringing dully as I walked briskly toward the brick building. As I entered the building and began my ascent to domestic reprieve, my ears were greeted with a sound to which I was unaccustomed. From somewhere above me, a cadence of profanity flowed from a geriatric mouth. The denunciation flowed with a lyrical coarseness, like Mrs. Miller in a meat grinder. I rounded the corner on the first landing, and realized that the flurry of epithets was coming from apartment 4. The door was ajar, held fast by the three inch security chain moored to the frame. As I glanced through the crack, I saw faded linoleum and yellow pleather chairs. Beyond the chairs, I saw a crouched frame, leaning on a matte gray walker for support. From the stooped body that inhabited apartment 4 came more slurs and insults than I've heard in any barroom or mechanics shop.

“Goddammitsonsofbitchesthinktheycanparkinmyspotfuckingsignisthereplainasmother-fuckingdaycan'ttheydamnwellreadI'mgonnacallthepoliceifthatcarsstillthereinthemorning...”

The voice trailed off as I continued up the stairs to my door. I glanced warily out the window off and on for the next few hours, but saw no tow-truck arrive. In the morning, I was relieved to find my car in the exact same place I'd found it.

Smells Like Teen Spirit, Circa 1947

Over the course of the seasons, I came to know Opal through other interactions. Crossing her path on the way out the door, I'd find her sitting in her self-claimed and labeled chair. She'd wail from her chair,

“Don't let that door latch! Prop it open, like I had it. If you don't, I'll never get back in. I'll be out here all night. I can't handle that door on my own, you know. I fell the other week – It almost did me in! I can't handle much more of that...”

I'd prop the door and be on my way. I never really knew what to say to the woman's distressful tales. I'd smile, gesture to the door, and murmur something about having a good day. One day, I met her in the hallway, on the way down for a morning walk with Ellie. She bemoaned the presence of the boisterous canine with exacerbated emotion,

“Oh no! I can't handle falling down again! Don't let him jump on me, I'll topple right over! I just need to get to my apartment. No, you go ahead and go, I'll hold on here. Don't try to help, you just go on...”

Her voice kept going as I hurried out the door. While I was certainly sensitive to her fears of falling, it seemed a little extreme to be that shaken by a dog. Ellie wasn't even jumping.

Just a few month ago, I pulled into the driveway to find another car in the coveted Apartment 4 space. I knew I'd hear her venomous cursing as I passed her door, as I'd heard so many times before. As I made my way to the first landing, I was greeted, not by an auditory assault, but by an olfactory offensive.

Opal's door was thrown wide. I could see her entire kitchen, resplendent with nicknacks, inspirational plaques from the seventies, and her bent skeleton in the doorway. The smell that wafted from her dwelling was a mixture of several odors. Some of them were once intended for pleasure, but all had since turned, creating a rancid combination of baby powder, eau de Phyllis Diller, and a scent that can only be described as coming from a shut-in that owns too many cats. Not only had Opal not been out for a few days, evidently she had not opened a window since the Armstrong walked on the moon.

She locked eyes with me on the stairs. Her drawn-on eyebrows sat motionless, frozen in a raised position, looking slightly frightened, but also inquisitive. I wondered if she'd chosen that emotional expression when applying the faux-brows, or if it'd happened incidentally. Perhaps she'd painted them on for The Price is Right, and now was committed to this eternal surprise. Her skin seemed as if it'd been draped loosely over her structure, after sitting in a heap for ages. The crevasses of her wrinkles mirrored that of a piece of abandoned fruit in the autumnal sun. It melted away from her hands and arms, appearing to be dripping from her body as we spoke.

“Do you know who's red car that is? My daughter is coming to pick me up, but I can't make it past that sidewalk! I fell once earlier this year. If I fall again, I'm done for! You need to figure out who's car that is! I'll have it towed...”

“I don't know whose car that is. I'm sorry, I can't help. I think you could probably get around the car...I know you need to get by, maybe they'll move soon. Sorry again...” This time I trailed off as I continued up the stairs to my domicile.

While empathetic toward the elderly woman, I was also slightly miffed at her brazen sense of entitlement. She must think that simply because she has trouble getting around, no one should ever park in that spot. When someone does park in that spot, she expects everyone to drop what they are doing, call the President of the United States of America, and declare a national state of emergency. Not only that, but she also feels the need to share more details about her life than ever necessary in an attempt to draw empathy and action.

I am sure that I sound like an insensitive jerk, but, in my opinion, she is completely overstepping her bounds. If she'd created a sign that stated,

TEN MINUTE PARKING. PLEASE KEEP THIS SPACE FREE FOR LOADING AND UNLOADING ONLY.

or

PLEASE REFRAIN FROM PARKING BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8AM AND 6PM.

I could live with the concession of not parking in the spot. But there is no reason that I should have to park down the street rather than in my parking lot. I refuse to acquiesce to her heinous demands. It's the principle of the matter.

Equal Opportunity Parking

One day I had parked in the taboo space overnight, fully intending to remove my car before 8am. In my mind, there was no way that this woman would be leaving the building before me. For good measure, I stopped my car a few feet from the sidewalk, allowing ample room for the most feeble of pedestrians.

When I strolled out the door, treading briskly toward my car, I was enraged by what I saw. Someone, in an attempt to send a message, had taken the sign, and placed it haphazardly on my windshield. The act was simple, but I was furious that someone would take a metal sign and chance damaging my car, to convey a senseless and unfounded message. Irritated by the gesture, I flung the sign across the yard. For good measure, I jerked the post that normally housed the sign from its home beside the sidewalk, and pitched it into the yard as well. Enough was enough. I was not going to stand the nonsense any longer.

I am not overly protective of my vehicles. I do not spend hours polishing the paint of my Toyota. I rarely even have my car washed. But that is my prerogative, and that does not give anyone else the right to abuse my transportation.

A few weeks later, the sign had been returned to its home. But this time, a new message was on the aluminum placard. Two sheets of loose-leaf, wide-ruled paper, were taped to the sign with sepia masking tape. The rag-tag message was scrawled in black marker, bubble letters shaded carelessly to drive home the message:

PLEASE DO NOT BLOCK THE SIDEWALK. THANK YOU.

And that is all it took. A simply 'thank you'. I haven't had the slightest desire to park there since the advent of the new sign. I've even parked on the road, a block away from my building, rather than taking that spot. A little compromise and appreciation goes a long way.

I cannot say that I handled this situation the most admirable way possible, but it's hard to confront a woman who is four times your age, especially when she's cursing like Bobby Knight on April 5^th. But in the end, I learned a great deal about respect, compromise, and giving. Now, when I am stopped dead by the pungent presence of Opal, I pause, listen to her, and offer some suggestions to help relieve her anxiety. My consolations generally fall on deaf ears, but when you're talking to someone that old, it's to be expected.

The names in this essay have been changed to protect the curmudgeonly. No old ladies were harmed in the making of this post.

A Natural Selection

I love going back home. I especially love taking my dog, a two year old Basset Hound, to my grandfathers farm. Although she is a hunting dog by breed, Ellie has long since left her tracking skills with her more aggressive forebears.

On a weekend in Lee county a few weeks ago, Ellie and I were staying at my grandparents. We got in late Friday night and, after a late night snack with my mothers parents, we retired to one of the now spare bedrooms. The room has lovingly been deemed “the boys room” as it once belonged to my uncles. With its wood-paneled walls, olive green carpet, and NFL curtains that may include the 70's expansion teams, this room remains virtually untouched from the days that my uncles slept in it.

One of the best things about going home? The blackness of the night. Once the switch is flicked, the room is pitched into inky darkness. I slept deeper than I'd slept in months that night. The next morning, I rose early and dressed. Ellie was already awake and stared at me with mild interest as I threw a pair of old shoes on and bundled against the impending November air. I attached Ellie's leash, and out the door we went.

When we are in a new place, Ellie will normally proceed with her nose to the ground, fervently exploring every scent that wisps by her whiskers. It's a tedious way to proceed, dashing forward four feet, then slamming to a halt as she smells the remnant odor of some ground squirrel or field mouse. I dropped the leash to prevent the jerking stops and starts of the little hound, and began to plug in my mp3 player. In our normal morning routine, I listen to NPR podcasts while Ellie does her business. Just as I was scrolling to find the next episode of All Things Considered, I looked up to find Ellie in a dead sprint across my grandfather's gravel lot.

The burst of energy sent her brown ears flapping in the breeze. Her leash skittered across the drive, trying desperately to catch up to the little dog's fiercely pounding paws. She ran across the drive way, past the old summer kitchen, the barn, the grain bins, the hog shed, and into the barren field at the bottom of this hill. At this point, I assumed she would pause and renew her exploration. Ellie is not what you'd consider a long distance runner. She's more of a long distance eater.

But the feisty little hound didn't slow when she reached the black topsoil of the field. She gave chase through the silage and crashed into the underbrush at the bottom of the hill. When I caught up to her I found her sniffing intensely through the prairie grass that grows along the creek that cuts the property down the middle.

I stood there panting as she sniffed and explored. As my heart rate returned to normal, I looked around. Over my left shoulder, the sun was sending shards of light through naked trees. The steam from my mouth was cold and wet as it dissipated into the cold, dry atmosphere. I crunched through the weeds, following my dog as she tracked some mythical creature in her mind.

As we trekked about the creek's floodplain, Ellie stopped short. Before I realized what she was doing, she began rubbing her ears, face, and neck in the brush. I was curious as to what she was doing, and caught up with her, only to find that she'd found a steaming pile of raccoon poop, and was circling the dung, rubbing her body on the surrounding ground. Every so often she'd stop and lift her nose to the sky, trying to pick up on the smell she was inundating herself with, but after a few moments, she'd go back to rubbing.

I soon realized that my dog, the domesticated diva of Davenport, was using deep bred instincts in an attempt to track this animal! Hounds are bred for their elastic faces and ears, as the folds in their skin trap the scent they are tracking, making them more likely to find their mark. Although Ellie had had no formal training, she new that this was what she was supposed to do!

My dog is a genius.

25 is the New Dead

I'm getting old.

Now before you laugh, roll your eyes, or otherwise scoff at this admission, read those words again. Do not associate any sort of subjective tone, judgment, or analysis to the phrase.

It's true, isn't it?

I've recently become aware of a curious phenomenon. For over 25 years now, I've been getting older. While I was busy running, jumping, and playing, I was getting older. Cruising in my hand-me-down jalopy, I was changing. During that four year edification stint at Monmouth College, time was silently wreaking havoc on me; and now, through quantitative analysis, I've come to the conclusion that I have in fact been aging this whole time.

In the Eye of the Beholder

If she's a couch potato, does that make her a "Russet" Hound?

The realization came a few nights ago. Annie had turned in for the night, Ellie had given up on me and curled into a little ball beside me as I toiled away, recording a new piece of music. After a few hours of editing, I had finished the work and played it back for review.

As I listened to the music play back, I closed my eyes and rested my head in my hands. I allowed my body to disconnect from the world as my mind honed in on the details of the music, scanning for errors and discrepancies. As the song finished, I awoke from my physical dormancy. I blinked away the spots of light, my eyes struggling to adjust to the computer screen.

As I stared, my eyes refused to hone in on the information before me. I blinked, telescoping my head closer to the screen, then back out again. Eventually my vision returned to a semblance of its former accuracy, but even the next morning, my eyes were ever so slightly out of focus. I own a pair of low prescription reading glasses and have been wearing them with much greater regularity since.

I wish this case of macular degeneration was the only evidence I had of my own impending mortality, but as I look back at the last few years, there is more data supporting this hypothesis.

Back to the Future

This quarter century carapace of mine has long since departed from the posh life. It's been drug through more than its fair share of auto accidents, camping trips, sleepless nights, and chronic illnesses. Until recently, I can honestly say that my body has bounced back from everything it's been dealt; but since I've graduated college, something has changed.

My back hurts. I'm going to admit right up front that after long hours building theater sets, working out, or heavy lifting, I can feel it in my back. During the month of October, I was in a musical where I had to do some fairly strenuous gyration in stiletto heels (don't ask) and, about halfway through the production's five week run, my back was on fire. It was not only physically painful, it was also hard on my ego as I limped around like a senior citizen at bingo night.

Good Night Sweetheart

The nail in the coffin of my youth and vitality is the fact that the age of all-nighters has come and gone. In college, I could remain alert and youthful into the wee hours of the morning, for work or for play. Anymore, my body bids the world adieu after 11pm, whether I agree or not. The term “Hitting a brick wall” has never been as apt a description as when I am trying to work on a project and I pass that demarcation zone. It doesn't matter what I'm doing, where I'm at, but I am ready to be horizontal and unconscious.

In college, I once spent almost 60 consecutive hours awake, lucid, and producing meaningful content that resulted in A's and B's in multiple courses. I remember social occasions ending with a few friends fervently discussing nothing in particular while the sun rose over our cigars and whatever beer remained in the cases at our feet. I remember sitting up all night at Boy Scout camp, watching over Honor Society candidates, with nothing but a crackling fire to keep me company as I communed with the trees around me.

Once, a few hours of sleep could fuel me for days. Now, I contemplate sleeping over my lunch break.

25 is the New Dead

I am not complaining. I am not interested in hearing any “Just wait til you're my age...” remarks, so save them for your grandkids.

Everyone expects to hear groans and complaints about aches, pains, indigestion, and incontinence from those who have reached the venerable middle ages. It's as if you are deemed an invalid if you mention a hangnail before reaching 40. But as I've transitioned into adulthood, I've seen a large number of people in similar situations, lamenting the sudden lost virility of their youth.

Am I saying that I need a walker? By no means. Ask my wife – I have been claiming that I'll live to see my 125^th birthday for a while now. I have every intention of reaching that destination, with all my wits about me, pants unsoiled.

What I am saying is that I've learned how I need to pace myself. I believe I can do anything I put my mind to, but I cannot do everything at once. When I worked at my grandfathers baler implement, there was a phrase we used for an old piece of machinery that had been poorly cared for:

“Rode hard and put away wet.”

The key to becoming a renaissance man may be to master one thing before moving on to the next. For the betterment of myself, as well as the longevity of my carcass.

Easier said than done.

Hot Pants and Common Sense

When I walk my dog in the mornings, I rarely see anyone on the street. I pass the brick cottages and neatly trimmed lawns, my inquisitive Basset Hound in one hand, a plastic bag in the other. We groggily meander the sidewalks, sniffing out traces of squirrels and Taco Bell wrappers. Listening to podcasts syndicated by NPR and PRI, Ellie and I generally make our way back to the apartment without event or catastrophe. Sometimes we encounter a stray dog, or a child on their way to school, but for the most part, it's a solitary journey.

This morning we saw something worth noting. It wasn't so much an interaction as it was an observation.

The White Mile

As we exited the apartment this morning, we were blasted with the frigid wind of a twelve degree morning. Ellie dove into the snow, painting it yellow as she relieved herself in the three inch powder. We then began our trot down the alley. Our brisk pace was not due to any love of exercise, but rather a vain effort to keep from turning into living ice sculptures.

As we rounded the block, we jogged passed a house that bore signs of life. On the concrete front porch of this two story brick bungalow, a frumpy woman, mid 30's, stood stoically smoking a cigarette. The woman in and of herself was not notable, except for her chosen wardrobe.

Hot Pants in the Cold Dawn

Her head was covered with a nondescript stocking cap ('toque' for the Canadians out there – or a 'tousle cap' if you are my grandfather). She had an over-sized ski jacket on that draped over her shoulders and overshadowed her mittened hands as she tried to light the tobacco stick. 

The woman's bottom half was clad in naught but a pair of hot pants. No shoes, socks, or slippers. No jeans, snow-pants, or even pajama bottoms. It seems that her need to ingest that cigarette had overwhelmed her desire to avoid frostbite. I realize addictions are fierce masters, but I always assumed that pants would take priority over cigarettes. 

I may be making some unfair assumptions. Perhaps, in her rush to put on her down jacket, gloves, and a hat, she left her pants sitting on the floor of her bedroom. Right next to her common sense.

I tried not to stare as she stood in the doorway of her home, seemingly not phased by the biting cold. Hopefully the incredulous look on my face was masked by my own teeth chattering.

The Smoker's Motto

I've always wondered about a smokers audacious ability to brave any weather for their cigarette. It's commendable, that dedication. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these smokers from the swift completion of their addicted vices.

But most have the common sense to put on pants before inhaling. Maybe there should be a new warning on cigarette cartons:

Warning: Excessive use of cigarettes can lead to a loss of common sense. And pants. It will eventually lead to frostbite, if the first two conditions occur.

This is what I take away from this naked legged woman from the suburban tundra:

Smoke. Smoke whatever you want. Smoke wherever you want. Smoke with whomever you want. Just wear pants while doing it. For everyone's sake.

What I learned this Thanksgiving

Over the last week, Annie and I traveled hundreds of miles to celebrate the holiday of food, football, and family multiple times over.

As we gorged ourselves again and again with turkey, cranberries, potatoes, and stuffing, I took some time to reflect on the season and observe some peculiarities of this national holiday. 

When it hurts, stop eating

Our Cajun masterpiece

At every meal, I thoroughly enjoyed the food that was prepared. At Annie's mothers house, we started the meal with a delicious crab bisque. At my Aunt's, we had an apple stuffing that was out of this world. At our own apartment, Annie and I made a Cajun spiced turkey that was a huge success at our “Friendsgiving”. I had corn casserole and potatoes of every make, model, and variety. I drank champagne, mulled wine, and an amazing elderberry wine that is made near my hometown. Every place we went, they pulled out all the stops to offer the most impressive cornucopia of Thanksgiving splendor.

I tried everything. I ate more in the past week than I'd eaten the entire month prior. I shoveled in carbs like a Labrador, not realizing I was full until pangs of pain radiated through my stomach, into my chest and up through my arm. It wasn't a heart attack. It was a stomach attack.

This is where the Taoist's have it figured out. The Tao Te Ching explains a principle known as the middle way, which has a very practical application here. 

I enjoyed the food immensely. But, just as I experienced extreme pleasure by overeating, I also multiplied the discomfort that came later. If I'd practiced moderation from the beginning, my initial joy may not have been as extreme, but neither would my anguish. Everything is good in moderation. Well, maybe not everything – Meth, for example. And terrorists. But most everything else.

Even the most well trained dogs don't do what they're told every time

Annie's parents have a German Shepherd named Stella. She is incredibly well trained and mild mannered, even when the excitement of a family gathering is afoot.

Annie and I have Ellie, a Basset Hound who knows how to do the basic commands...when she feels so inclined. But in front of Annie's family, many of whom think that Ellie is a trouble maker and spoiled, she is almost always obstinate. We try so hard to show them that Ellie is a good dog, capable of taking orders and being peaceful, but when this miniature hound gets in front of people, she goes from over-sized wiener dog to giant ham.

The instigator

On Thursday night, Annie's grandmother warmed up a bit of left over turkey for a late night snack. She took her plate of poultry to the living room, sitting it on the coffee table before turning to retrieve her brandy from the kitchen. With grandma less than two steps away from the meaty morsels, Ellie sprang into action. She revved her stumpy legs into a gallop and, in one fluid motion, slid her lower jaw across the plate, raking up half of grandma's turkey. As a fish slides down the gullet of a Pelican, that turkey vanished into her canine maw in one gulp.

I wish I could've reprimanded my pooch for the bird-napping, but I was rolling on the floor at that point. Grandma didn't think it was so funny.

People, like dogs, also fail to be on their best behavior. I am notorious for letting my Iowa charm get the best of me, especially when I'm supposed to be making a good example for Annie's family. Using a ham fisted fork to stab my meat like a Neanderthal, spilling my beverage all over the table linens, or chewing ostensibly loud, pausing only to add a cud filled remark into the conversation - these are but a few of the faux pas of which I've been guilty.

I try. I really do, but like any son-in-law, mishap finds its way to me, every time.

Root for your team, even if your in-laws are against them

I am not a huge football fan. It is my theory that in elementary school, you are either forced into a favorite team by your family, or you arbitrarily select a team based on a mascot, affinity towards a city, or a trading card you got from a box of Raisin Bran.

My team has always been the New England Patriots. Since I was in about second grade – before they achieved infamy as one of the most successful teams in the NFL – I've loved the Patriots. I do not know why exactly, but I think it may have been my love for American revolutionary history.

The Patriots played the Detroit Lions on Thursday. Most of the rest of the men in the house were anti-Patriots, on principle. We watched the game in gross fixation on the television, yelling out things that only some of us understood. I'd add in comments like

“Good yardage!”

“Come on! Break through that line!”

I'm not sure I knew specifically what I was talking about when I said those things, but it fit nicely with the general chatter of the room. The Patriots won the game, and in the end, I had the pride of knowing that not only did my team withstand the jeers of it's opponents, I too withstood the ribbing of my in-laws about my team selection. I may receive even more heckling in years to come, but at least I will stand by my team.

Family may not always be fun, but it's better to tolerate them than to not have them around at all

Sometimes family can be aggravating. Sometime you'd rather they never come back. Some are never satisfied, no matter the hospitality you lay out before them. Others cannot overcome a grudge that has been held for far too long. Others still spin such tales of self indulgent boastfulness that you'd like to slap them back to last Tuesday.

But in the end, it wouldn't be a holiday without them. You'd miss the whine of the irritating children. The passive aggressive comments of one who is never satisfied with your accomplishments or aspirations. The cousin who is always competing with you for superiority.

All of that filial drudgery is worth it, when you are allowed one moment of true joy. Like when you see your two month old niece for the first time – even though you and her mother, your sister, haven't seen each other in almost a year.

That is what Thanksgiving is all about.

A day in the Laundry

 

Doing laundry has always been an exercise in futility for me. I am not good at laundering. Have had no formal training in the craft. As a 25 year old male, I am currently residing in a quaint a one bed room apartment, cozily tucked in with my lovely wife, Annie and persnickety basset hound, Ellie. 

Ellie and Annie

This minuscule complex does not have adequate laundry facilities, so I am often lugging my soiled unmentionables to the local laundromat.

For those of you who have not been blessed with the public laundry experience, you are unfortunate, as this is a ripe forum for studying the social habits of your fellow human, as well as pondering your own perceptions of reality. This may be due to the extended amount of time spent sitting idle, or the extreme hours in which I do my laundry, but my mind always seems to stray to questions of a more metaphysical nature during the spin cycle.

It all begins as I lug my laundry bags into the florescent dinginess of the drab facility. I throw open lids of three or four adjacent wash-o-matics, and do my best to remember the formulaic bifurcations of hot versus cold, dark versus light, delicates, sweaters, permanent press, polyester, socks, suits, and all the rest. Erratically, I race the rushing water of the machines to get the articles into the appropriate bins before the agitating cycles begin. Myself slightly agitated, yet content that my clothing is on its way to downy fresh status, I sit down and begin the wait. 23 minutes of contemplation before we tumble dry on medium heat for another contemplative half hour.

As I sit in one of the uncomfortable plastic lawn chairs that are scattered about the laundromat, I become aware of my fellow washers. The facility is not full, but has seven or eight other patrons scattered about, sorting, washing, folding, and waiting.

Unintentionally, these people beg me to define them. We do not speak, rarely make eye contact, unless it is to beg forgiveness for squeezing by one another in the narrow aisles between machines. But there are stories to be heard. In what they wear, in their gait. In their ethnicity, and the items they clean. It is as if they want to share their stories, and do so with every method and manner feasible, all but actual vocalization. They are leaking out the stories of their lives in every action they take, and every decision they do or don't make. Each nuance gives another clue to their existence. Each item pulled from a laundry bag is an epiphany. A woman answers her phone, another piece of the person is revealed. Every reprimand to a child gives an insight into a new world. Within a few moments, a patchwork story is revealed.

On one particular day at my particular laundromat, there were the following characters:

The college girl.
The young professional.
The woman with
Three children running.
The disheveled old man.

Each has their own relationships with the other characters, each has their own narrative. Granted, it is a narrative that I have gleaned from the surface contact I've made with these people, but from the information they've proffered, what other conclusion could I arrive at?

And then there is me. In my observation of the other inhabitants of the world, I neglected to consider my own presence. If I was reviewing these, was there any reason that I myself would be safe from the same judgments? I had been prejudicial in my assumptions of these launderers, and now realized that the same preconceived notions could very well be put upon my own inadvertent communications.

I began to realign my perceptions of my fellow washers, adjusting the reality I thought I'd defined so succinctly.

And so again I watched, and waited. Then I began to see a new narrative unfold:

The woman with
The disheveled old man.
The girl in her twenties.
The young person folding someone's business professional attire.
Three children running.

The relationships I'd assumed were not as they'd first seemed. The lives of these strange entities were not as they'd first appeared. Their stories morphed and interweaved as they skirted the laundry baskets and hemmed the edges of my own life. They finished their folding, drew up the drawstrings of laundry bags, and walked out of the fluorescence of this world we shared for a few brief hours. With their freshly washed garments, the people exited into the oblivion beyond the reality I'd presupposed within those washing machine walls.

In my reality, this was their reality. These people did not exist outside the four walls of the laundromat. If they thought about it, I'm sure I wouldn't be any more substantial away from the rinse cycles of those machines. Outside the big glass windows, none of us existed in the others' minds.

My dryer buzzes. I take my warm, freshly cleaned unmentionables and follow my laundromat life into the oblivion of my fellow launderers' minds.