Bob Marley & Me

The day after she was laid to rest, we went to clean out grandma's house. That was when I found the treasure. Not buried. Not hidden behind a painting or under the mattress, but unnoticed, like an unpolished diamond, in full sight. Even though it was encased in glass, it was one of those things that was easily over looked and undervalued.

Surveying it from all sides and angles, I was moved. Peering through the green slime and wrinkling my nose against the algae smell, I marveled. How had it survived, not only grandma's two year absence in the convalescent hospital, but the countless years before? Trying to be fair, I offered it to all the other family members first. I didn't want to be accused of being one of "those" relatives who fought over the possessions of the dead. No one was the least bit interested.

"You take it," they all said.

At the end of the day, I carefully packed up my inheritance. Once at home, I found just the right location for the display case. Gingerly removing the contents, I washed, cleaned, filled it with water and put everything back in place except the star of the show. With extra care, I polished the glass until it gleemed like a crystal ball.

Taking the final item, gently cocooned in a little mesh net, I set it inside the tank. I held my breath until it started to move. With a splish and a splash and a flip and a flash of tail, it was off. Jamming over the trees and under the castle. Jumping out of the water. Nestling into the sand. This was no ordinary gold fish. This was Bob Marley.





Oh, how I loved Bob Marley...as much as any dog I'd ever owned. He grew to be a symbol of grandmother's love for her family. He also grew quite large in size. To keep him from being lonely, I bought a couple more gold fish, Iggy and Ziggy, for company. Bob tolerated them for a while, but, one by one, he knocked them off. He liked being the only big fish in a small tank.

When he was about 10 years old, he started getting white spots on his gold, scaly skin. I thought he was sick with Ick, a fish disease. I gave him medicine but instead of clearing up, it spread all over his body. Turned out he wasn't ill, he was just so old his color changed from gold to a silvery white.

How old was Bob? I don't really know, but he was at least 12 years old when he swam off through the ethers to the other side. That's a long time on Earth for a fish. Bob Marley and grandma are together again, floating through the cosmos to a great reggae beat. Sometimes, late at night when the world is still and quiet, I can faintly hear them singing:

"Yeah, we're jamming, jamming
I wanna jam it with you
We're jamming, jamming
I'm jammed, I hope you're jamming too." --Bob Marley

The story of Bob Marley and Me is true. Visit here for other Magpie Tales.

Call Her Macaroni

My mother left me with an indelible legacy. During the last, semi-rational, years of her life, she abandoned all desire for her traditional Easter dinner celebration. I don't know why. Maybe her Alzheimer's, plaque-filled brain could no longer remember or prepare her original menus. Instead, she opted to commemorate Jesus's day with a smoker.

You all know that His resurrection is best commemorated by having the first barbecue of the year, don't you? No? Maybe it was just our family. She would call at least a month in advance to make sure we would all be there for the ritual. She made sure we new that this was a heap big deal. As her kids, we rolled our eyes and humored her child-like excitement.

But know, when Easter rolls around, like Pavlov's dog, my mouth starts watering for a grillin'. I'm getting all of my Peeps in a row for Sunday. The grill is washed and wire brushed. A big, brand new bag of briquettes stands at ready. No gas barbecue for this girl. I've got all of my Ingredient Soldiers gathered on the Field of Preparation.

I can hardly wait for Macaroni's tender little elbows to make their first appearance of the year. Potato, naked, awaits being dressed. Sweet Pickle is drawn, quartered and ready to be tossed into those two salads. Olive has found the most worthy child's fingers to adorn.

I can smell the dark, thick molasses and taste the sweet, brown sugared memories of my mother's dalliance with Baked Beans. Lettuce's leaves snap out a crisp fan dance as she entices Burger to lay down on her ruffled bed. Plump and rosy Tomato yearns for a menage-a-trois with Burger and Lettuce. Bun exposes her white, sesame seed, dimpled bottom to the sun. Egg's devilish behavior encourages Wiener to misbehave. You know how his, plumps-when-you-cook-'em, body begs to be slathered in mustard.

Soon, my spring time friends, we'll be reunited again! It's been a long, cold winter and I've missed you so. And mom, I finally get your excitement.

Happy birthday, mom. This Bun's for you...and Jesus.

Happy Easter, all and blessed be.

Family Traditions

The days have tipped and spilled over into March. Falling like cards in a never ending game of 52 Pick Up. You know, the card game where someone, like your brother, asks you if you want to play 52 Pick Up? You say YES and he throws all the cards to the ground. Then he tells you to pick them up. I wanted to kill my brother! Okay, maybe kill is too harsh a word, but I definitely considered some form of bodily injury as he leered and laughed at my indignant card gathering. Of course, that didn't stop me from finding an unsuspecting victim of my own as soon as possible.

Did get you get tricked into that game when you were a kid? It's one of those things you only fall for once. Unlike Snipe hunting. I think we fell for that one a couple of times before we figured out that my aunt and uncle were sucking down High Balls and having a great laugh at our expense. Who needs to spend money on entertainment when you have a few gullible, Gumby-brained kids you can send out on fools errands.


(A typical family scene at Our House)


Auntie Dot, we're bored. What can we do?


Hmm...clean your room? Wash the dishes? No? Okay...hows about going Snipe hunting?


What are Snipes, Auntie Dot?


Oh, they're these really rare albino worms that are worth a lot of money. You find yourself one of those and you can buy $5 worth of candy. Yeah, the good stuff like those Tootsie Rolls and Pixie Stix that you like.


Really?


Sure, kid! Here. You guys take these brown paper bags. Sneak, real quite like, over there to that tall grass by the swing set. Lie on your belly about 10 feet away and Army crawl closer. Open your bag and lay it on its side. Then you wait. Take these nails with you too. Lay them in front of the bags. The Snipes are attracted to them because they use them to build their house. That'll keep you busy for a while...I mean, it takes a long time to catch 'em so you have to be r-e-a-l patient. Every once in a while, you have to call them like this:

" Here, Snipe-Snipe. Here, Snipe-Snipe."

Hey, can you bring me and Uncle Red that bag of chips before you go hunting? No, not those... the B-B-Q ones. Thanks. Run a long now and don't come back till you catch one.

We could hear thier laughter as we tip toed out to the grass. They were so happy for us.


*************************************************************************************

Well, of course, we never caught a Snipe because it was a goose hunt, an impossible imaginary task. And what does this have to do with March? Not much, really. Except that at this point in my life, it feels as if the days fall endlessly to the ground. I am forever trying to pick them all up but I can't because they just keep falling. The spring that once seemed impossibly far away is almost here. And spring is the best time of year for Snipe hunting.

Oh, you don't know about Snipes? How about Pie Stretchers? Well, it's too early for pie stretching, that's best done in summer. Let me show you how to catch a Snipe.

A Smokin' Good Time!

I'm tired. Happy, but tired. We put on my nephew's wedding this weekend. My family is very talented and we can all pull together and work like a team of Clydesdale horses when it matters the most. In hosting the ceremony, we decorated, provided our own live and recorded music, hosted the bar, catered the food, and cleaned the hall.


The wedding was kind of East Meets West in style. The service was performed before a puja table by a western, non-denominational minister. Puja is a form of Hindu ceremonial worship that honors one or several gods. Other than the altar, the decor was western in theme and style. It truly reflected the couples beliefs and those of their guests which ranged from Evangelist to Hindu, carnivores to vegans, heterosexual to homosexual to lesbian, suburbanites to ashramites, northern hemisphere to southern hemisphere and those that dance to those that don't.


To respect the various diets in attendance, we served hummus and bruschetta with hearty, locally baked breads and crackers. Sweet fruits and salty cheeses spilled across cold, black marble slabs. Sliced strawberries and tangerine sections brightened a crisp, mixed green, winter salad, penne pasta dressed with pesto, sun-dried tomatoes and artichoke hearts, mouth watering, homemade spring rolls, and smoked chicken provided weight to the dinner.


Well, the chicken could have been more appropriately named Chicken Flambe after the Great Smoker Fire occurred. Oh, yeah! Up to that point, everything had been going so well and we were ahead of schedule. And then, during the champagne toast, we somehow lost a handle on the evening.


I was just about to announce that, after the final toast, we would begin serving dinner, when I was notified to stall another 30 minutes because of technical food difficulties. My other nephew and I kept asking if anyone wanted to speak and luck was with us. Most of the guests were chiropractors and chiropractic students who, after spending many hours in public speaking courses, turned out to be quite verbose. Becoming unsuspecting participants to our stall tactics, they embarked on a mission of one-upmanship that totally saved the evening. Instead of 30 minutes, it was nearly an hour and a half before we got the high sign to wrap it up.


How none of the guests noticed the large, raging smoker fire flaring against the night sky through the glass door, the fire extinguisher being nonchalantly carried out, the fortuitous removal of the propane tank from said smoker, and the steady, but curious, line of people carrying large, stainless steel pans of chicken through the building headed for the industrial ovens and further baking, is beyond me. When we tell you that you're gonna have a smokin' good time at our party, we can pretty much offer a guarantee.

Positive Infinity

My dad (L) with his best friend Al (R) holding me~1953

Photographs...hung in the ethers.

Me~1955

Some are happy.

Some are sad.

Some are in between.

I see that, even at a young age, my attitude showed. "What obstacle?"~ Ronda and Mark~1957

Stepping stones

Yep, I pretty much act the same way today. Me~1957

along the timeline

Me and my sistah, Tami-1967 (she doesn't think we look like each other, what do you think?)

of life

Sophomore, fall of 1968 proudly wearing the dress I made that summer. Sheesh! Need to wax those brows, girlie (we tweezed in those days).

leading from one to the

Senior, 1971. Hmmm, eyebrows are a little better but it was about this time that shaving or tweezing legs, axillary (arm pits) or anything went out of fashion. That fad didn't last long for me.

next.

By the Garden Gate

By the Garden Gate by Preston "Bud" Morris
Ronda and Mark

Reya, from After the Gold Puppy, was on a walk down Nostalgia Avenue a week or so ago. She invited us to post old photos of our own journey down that street. The blast of emotion that hit me upon opening the first of my many, many boxes of photos (no, they are not organized as I would like) smacked my gluteus maximus down hard into the seat of The Way Back Machine. It spun me into the past like a Whirling Dervish. For the next few posts I'll display photos and memories of my origins.

My father was a photographer. Out of the earliest files in my brain, flew images of him and his camera. Inseparable. The cameras changed over the years but he always seemed to stay the same. Calm. Quiet. Tall. Dark. Creative. Strong. Consistent. Reliable. A teacher. Yep, great qualities for a dad. Any dad. My dad.

In addition to his private photography business, he worked as a photo finisher in the days before 1-hour photo kiosks and digital photography. Sometimes he would take my brother and I to work with him. We always were excited and thought he was giving us a special day. But, in retrospect, my mom probably had to do something and he got stuck with us. Early in the morning, we would go to the retail store where he worked and pick up bags of film people had dropped off. Then we went around to other businesses around town that had film drop-offs. He always took us inside with him and proudly introduced us as he picked up unprocessed film and deposited the previous days finished photos.

With a box full of canvas, zippered bags and us in tow, he would take us to a little hamburger stand for lunch. Then we headed several miles out of town to the lab where he would develop all of those pictures. As we watched, he would open those zippered bags, dump out the little, metal, cylindrical tins with rubber caps holding spools of film. Into the dark room, with its special light that wouldn't ruin the film, we would go. He would open the tins, look at the negatives that looked like they were from a Reverse Bizarro World where light is dark and dark is light, and begin his magic alchemy.

I don't really remember what he did with the negatives, but some how he embedded the images from the negative film onto paper. Then with his magic trays of clear potion, he moved the pieces of paper from tray to tray with tongs. In the last tray, the paper started changing from plain white to, at first, faint, ghostly underwater images to, at last, exact replicas of living people and solid matter. Taking the photos out of the solution, he hung them by clips, on a long wire stretched across the room, to dry. The chemical smell of photo developer still makes me happy and is forever linked with my father.

Unbeknownst to us, he, apparently, had been submitting pictures to different contests and magazines over the years. While he was alive, the only affirmation of his work came from his family and local clients. He died in 1977 of a massive coronary. About 20 plus years after his death, my mother received a royalty check from the American Greeting Card Company for $125 for the top photo. It is called By the Garden Gate and is of me and my brother, Mark, at my Aunt Dot's house in Stockton, California.

We tried to find out what they were going to use his picture for, but never received a reply to our query. But, within a year after the check was received, all those mugs, cards and items featuring a little girl and a little boy, dressed in cute clothes, started appearing for sale. We'll never know for sure but, we think it was dad's photograph they used for their promotion.

I got a visit from dad on All Hallows. It was a very soft and gentle meeting. He just sat on the edge of my bed and looked at me for a while. Then he held out his hand and my mother joined him. They haven't been together for over 30 years. No words were spoken but, I could feel their love, strong and truer than ever. Just because people are gone doesn't mean they're not with us. Immortality is often far different than we think.

Preston "Bud" Morris, high school graduation picture, age 18

In the Moment

Our family will soon arrive from Minnesota. It has been nine years since my husband's older brother visited the left coast. Oh, we've been back to see them a number of times. We went to graduations. Attended the three weddings of my nieces. Celebrated the subsequent births of four nieces and nephews. All wonderful, happy events.

What caused my brother-in-law's lapse in return trips? I think it was the death of his mother. He hasn't been here since her funeral in the spring of 2000. It is easier to deny endings when you are not present.

What pushed the button for return to the homeland after 10 years? Perhaps the need to face the reality of death, the demise of the physical body. An older brother diagnosed and, successfully, treated for prostate cancer. A younger brother struck with a heart attack at 57. Both illnesses occurring within a couple of months of each other. A time for healing family scars.

I often admire animals. They have a brain. We have minds. There is a difference. We know what it means to our mortality when we are told that we have a fatal disease. All they know is the smell of a scent on the wind. Water to drink. Food to eat. They are in the moment with total unconcern for what is coming, good or bad. All in all, not such a bad existence, I think.

I'm looking forward to being in the moment with my family.

Wonder Flux

Photo: Alexgirl160 Photobucket



There is a lot going on in the Wonderland right now! Changes, rearranges, transformations, and shifts are occurring in many areas of the Queendom.

Communication will be sketchy for a couple of weeks. The Wonderland is still experiencing computer connectivity issues. Since getting a new computer and modem in April, I am still constantly trying to stay connected or re-connect to the Internet. The queen is experiencing a royal pain in the tukus. I have traced the problem to the fact that the modem the cable provider is using is not compatible with Windows Vista. After all the time I've spent with tech support, you would think they would fess up that the problem is on their end. This is obviously something of which they have to be aware. All they tell me is that my modem is getting their signal so there should be no problem. I say big problem if I am getting the boot and having to do system restores several times a day. If they would have told me this right up front, I could have just gone and bought my own modem instead of using the one they provide. So, the queen will be working out these complications while rolling a few heads.

Visitors are due to arrive in Wonderland on the first of July. My brother-in-law and his wife are coming out to the left coast. It has been nine years since their last visit. I will be changing my workplace the first of August. More on this later. I am in the midst of a whizz-bang cleaning and organizing binge. I am not sure what has come over me, but there are big changes on the wind.

I am having a Feng Shui moment. An ancient Chinese system, Feng Shui uses the laws of both Heaven (astronomy) and Earth (geography) to balance energies and promote positive qi, or good energy. And so it goes with my work environment, my home and yard, myself and my family. And the dogs better not stop in one spot for too long or they might end up with Mohawks. I am not very well educated in the art of Feng Shui so am going at it with more of an intent than strict adherence to the laws.

I have a correction on my last post, Lithia. It should have read that the Summer Solstice occurred in the Northern Hemisphere and the Winter Solstice occurred in the Southern Hemisphere. I have always believed it to be this way, but I went to a site to get the solstice time and it was stated as being in the Eastern and Western Hemispheres. I looked at a global map and it looked like it could be plausible. Thanks, Reya, for pointing out the error and allowing me the opportunity to correct the information.

For the next couple of weeks, I will be limping around Blog World as nimbly as possible. But as the Red Queen says to Alice, “it takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!”

Photo: Icequeen25_2007 Photobucket

The Vacation Hat (Theme Thursday...Vacation)

The Vacation Hat

Hey there, hi there, ho there! This is the Vacation Hat. What was once just bubble wrap, tape, and paper became so much more. In the doctor's office where I worked, we collected a wonderful group of people. We didn't have much money but we had great imaginations and even greater times. The tradition was that on the last day you worked before leaving on vacation, you had to wear the hat the entire day. It was an odd combination of celebration of your time off and punishment for dumping all of your unfinished work on others.

Over the years, the hat had many incarnations. We started using it for all kinds of celebrations. One man's trash is another man's treasure. What I treasure are the many happy memories held in this hat. I remember when Suzanna turned 30 years old. "Colette, wear this hat with pride. I know your mom did. Happy 21st!," proclaims the lavender Post-It note. Dr. Jamie's favorite sayings, which drove us crazy, are imbued in that hat. It was given as an employee award. And, conversely, it was used to identify, like a dunce cap, the office poop-stirrer du jour. Please note the phases of the moon illustrated by, well, the cottage cheese, moon-glute chart moving from waxing to full to waning. We were definitely students of anatomy. Oh yeah! The doctor made us so. By the time even the most short lived employee left our office, they were quite familiar with the glutes. We discussed, treated, and charged for more buns than are buttered on Thanksgiving Day.



Just like kids who have more fun with the cardboard box than the expensive gift inside, so it was for us. Until the day we left that office, we looked as forward to receiving that hat as we did to passing it on to the next poor chump. We valued this wacky, tacky, plastic Vacation Hat at the price of gold because it symbolized many years of friendship. For a time, we thought it lost. Its disappearance was the subject of many a baleful conversation. But, today, while cleaning the deepest, scariest reaches of my bedroom closet, I uncovered a small, beautifully decorated box that had been carefully tucked away. Upon opening the box, happiness filled my heart as I beheld the splendor of the Vacation Hat. And the ritual begins anew. To whom will it go next? The thing is is that if it is you, you will know that you are well loved.

Betty Lou "Unplugged" (Theme Thursday...Whoops)

Betty Lou Stratton, Nurse Graduate

August 17,1942 to September 1945

Nee Stratton, Betty Lou, arrived in this world at a location known as Hobson, Montana, in the early summer of 1924. She was the third of seven children. The family soon moved to Lewistown, Montana. Her friends and family were her world. They were all she knew or wanted. Her mother, Blanche, was steadfast in her determination that Betty Lou would not live her life toiling in stoop labor planting crops that would, all to often, wither and produce only tears of loss and frustration. She was determined that Betty Lou would have the opportunity to bear children who might not die for want of money and lack of care. She determined to send her away in the summer of '42.

Despite her protestations, at age 18, her familial homestead was left behind as she traveled to Los Angeles, California to live with her aunt Edna, a private care nurse. Betty Lou, crushed and heart broken, missed her family terribly. Frequent, salty remorse glistened on her cheeks. Her kindly, but stern, aunt enrolled her in nursing school. World War II had just begun and nurses were needed for the cause. Betty proved to have the gift of healing and excelled. Her studies kept her mind occupied and off of her loneliness. That and the movies. She loved going to the movies in Hollywood. She could get lost for hours living a life that was not hers. She graduated from nurses training just as the war ended in 1945. Patriotic, she was disappointed that she would not be sent out to serve the war effort and its wounded soldiers.

Betty Lou Stratton, Cadet Nurse

1943-1945

Since the war was over, she moved to Modesto, California to take her first nursing job at McPheeter's Hospital in December of 1945. It was there that she met her husband, Bill. They married and had two sons. Five years after the birth of her youngest son, the family moved again, further north this time, ending up in upper northern California. She cared for her family, raised her sons, and moved forward in her career. Eventually, she took a position as the head surgical nurse at the local county hospital. She was kindly and stern, like her aunt, with a mind meshed for details.

During her career, she witnessed many tragedies and traumas. She saw families make emotional, heart wrenching decisions to place members on life support all the while knowing, that they would have been better served by quiet, and ideally, painless expunging of their light. She began to understand, with certainty, what she wanted for her self--no heroic life saving measures.

As she aged, her health problems increased. A number of non-life-threatening surgeries ensued. Eventually, she suffered a heart attack. Although serious, she always managed to come back from these occurrences with renewed vigor and zest for life. She made sure her Advance Directive stating her health care wishes and Health Care Proxy forms were completed, signed, and on file with the hospital. Her appointed proxy knew of her profound wish--NO HEROIC LIFE SAVING MEASURES! Being a woman of detail, she left nothing to chance.

In the spring of 2000, she fell down on several occasions and her teeth fell out for no apparent reason. I mean, there had to be a reason, but it wasn't obvious. She was admitted into the hospital where, for the first time in her life, she did not keep her head-nurse-eagle-eye on the doctors, nurses, and staff. She was distracted. Her mind was on, she would say, more important matters. This time, she was aware that her hospitalization was different.

After a procedure on the evening of Easter Sunday, she failed. An intensivist was called to provide emergency interventions. At a critical juncture in her event, he was made aware of her Advance Directive. He told Betty Lou that if she wanted to live, he would have to intervene with life saving heroics. She was lucid enough at the time to tell him that she would agree, if only for a brief while, until it could be determined if her life could be sustained without long term support.

It was here her problem began. After their conversation, she fell into a deep, unreachable coma. She was no longer able to define what she meant by a "brief while." She continued to need tests, treatments, surgeries, and life support. Even with all of these being performed, she failed to thrive. After a few weeks, social services, the finance department and medical staff called the proxy to make a decision regarding Betty Lou's life: continue or desist. The proxy, taking all points under advisement along with her written and verbal commands, made the decision to discontinue life support and allow her to function, or not, of her own accord. It was believed that she would only live for a few hours after support was withdrawn.

The proxy, sad and dejected, left the hospital to make arrangements for her cremation and memorial...according to her very specific and detailed orders. The proxy's wife, at home waiting his return, answered the phone when it rang. It was a nurse from the hospital. She asked for the proxy and upon hearing he wasn't available, hurriedly stated that she had been in the last step of Betty Lou's disconnect. At that point, Betty rallied from her long coma. Startled, the nurse informed Betty Lou that her life support was being discontinued according to her wishes. She then asked her if this was what she wanted. Betty blinked indicating "no". NO, she shook her head. NO! The nurse told the proxy's wife she needed a verbal decision to cease the disconnect process. She asked what she should do. The proxy's wife, being in a situation of having to make a life or death decision, and hoping her husband would agree, yelled for the nurse to stop. She told her to re-initialize Betty Lou's support. Happily, the nurse, quickly and efficiently, set about doing as she was instructed.

WHOOPS! And I mean a BIG OL' W-H-O-O-P-S! Another person's life was almost taken, albeit by her own pen, it was still nearly forfeit. When the proxy arrived home 20 minutes later, his wife told him that the hospital had called. Resignedly, he dropped his head and stated that he knew. He told his wife that he had finally given the instructions to discontinue life support for Betty Lou according to her very specific instructions regarding no heroics in the last stages of her life. He told his wife that he had been out making her final arrangements. He stated that he knew that by the time he got home to pick her up to go up to the hospital for the last time, the hospital would call with notice of Betty Lou's death. His wife, with rushed panic, explained that what he didn't understand was that Betty had risen at the last possible minute to indicated this was not her wish. And that she, the proxy's wife, upon being asked to make the final decision on the end of life, had ordered the nurse to stop the process.

A whiter shade of pale surfaced as the blood drained from his face. Catching his breath, he told his wife he felt the flames of Hell licking on the heels of his near execution of her self-imposed death sentence. What a tricky business...this interpretation of the intricacies of another's life. Especially when the ego's desire for life was stronger than the intellect's ability to account. We rarely know what we truly want until that last instant is at hand.

After that incident, Betty Lou roused, kind of, for a day or two. She couldn't speak but she would nod. It was a mad yes-nod given in response to ALL questions. Do you want to live? Yes. Do you want water? Yes. Would you like a back rub? Yes. Would you like dirt in your IV? Yes. Is dog poop a great dessert? Yes. It was as if her mind was gone but a powerfully, small piece of her own sheer will that could not, nay, would not, let her pass on, was pulling the marionette's string. Finally, even the nodding stopped as she dropped back into her coma, never to return. The disconnect process was finally executed by her doctor on May 21, 2000.

Betty Lou was my mother-in-law. My husband was her proxy. We will never forget the biggest "whoops" of our life. EVER!

The Dog and the Robins

Miss B. B. La La


This is our B. B. girl. The B. B. stands for Butter Butt. We named her this because when she was a pup, she was the same color as butter and sugar when you cream them together. She is one of the sweetest dogs on this planet. The woman who pawned this fluffy snowball of a home-needing pup on us nine years ago, told us she thought she would be sweet because her mother was sweet. She also told us that the cream colored pup was a Chow-Australian Shepherd crossbreed. At least, she said, she knew for sure her mom was a Chow.

As B. B. grew, we didn't see either breed in her. Finally, we asked the pup's donor if she had a photo of the B. B.'s mama. Well, upon inspection of the photograph, the mother looked like she probably was part Chow. She certainly was furry enough. But Australian Shepard? Not a chance.
A few months earlier, the last of our other dogs, Jennifer, an actual Australian Shepherd, had crossed the Rainbow Bridge leading to dogie heaven. My husband's mother was in the hospital, very ill and not expected to live. We were sitting the bedside vigil, taking care of her affairs, and hosting visiting relatives. The last thing we needed to take on was a puppy. But who ever said that death leads one along the rational path.

Now, I hadn't told my husband I was bringing a puppy home because I didn't know that I was. The pup's donor just appeared at the doctor's office where I worked one Friday. She was a patient and knew we had just lost a dog. She walked up to me with this white puff of a pup and, despite my protestations, put her in my arms. That was that. I was taking the pup home with me.

I had to give a massage and had no choice but to take her in session with me. I set her on the floor. She cried non-stop. God Bless my dog loving patient who eventually, probably wanting peace and quiet, asked to hold the little whiner while I finished her massage. Within minutes, they were both asleep.

The day B. B. came to our house to live, I remember my visiting brother-in-law walking in the front door of our house. Upon seeing her, he asked what she was doing here. I told him that she would be living with us. He gave me the evil eye. Opposite of my brother-in-law, who questioned the canine's presence with raised brows, my husband said, oh, look! There's a puppy! He bent over, scooped her small body up and wrapped his great big arms around her. B. B. was accepted then and there. Immediately.

Did I mention how much I love my husband? He accepts every homeless critter I bring home with no more than a roll of his eyes. He rolls with me as well as on me. What more can you ask of a man. Out of all that sadness and sorrow of life's passing, we found new life. New hope. We found a bouncing, peeing, pooping reminder that life goes on.

She soon grew out of her gangly puppy stage to fluid dogdom. Now, B. B.'s sweetness is in direct proportion to her dimness. B. B. is not particularly gifted with intelligence quotient, IQ. We didn't realize it at first, but as we acquired other dogs forming our new pack, it became exceedingly clear. Don't get me wrong, I am not disparaging her lack of neurosynaptic activity. In fact, it is a trait for which we have come to have an affinity. A simple-minded dog is an easy dog to handle.

Nothing pointed that out more than when we got the black dog, Maaco the Crazed, pictured in the above header photo. That dog is SMART. Too flippin' smart. We have to have triple latched gates because he learned how to open one latch and then a second. So, up went number three. He figured out how to open doors with regular knobs by using his mouth. He slides the latch on his crate with his tongue and then flips it up. The list goes on, and on, and on, and on. In our book:

Dumb dogs = Easy.
Smart dogs = Pain in the Arse.

Miss B.B. La La is EASY. She also exudes as much fur as she does sweetness. A lot! At this time of year, with the seasons changing, spring is causing hair to abandon her body...in handfuls. She is fully blowing her coat. Wispy handfuls on the floor that move everywhere with movements and vernal breezes. We vacuum every day because of Miss La La.

Every year it is the same thing. Her free falling fur is so soft and abundant that I always thought it a shame there is nothing to use it for. A friend of mine, who has lots of different kinds of animals, learned how to spin and was actually spinning her animals hair into yarn for fabric weaving. We aren't that industrious. We just suck it up with the vacuum. Often.

A few years ago, we started noticing that, during April and May, the Robins would build nests under my next door neighbor's patio cover. They would leave Marvin's yard and fly over to our yard to collect bits of dried grass and mud. They would fly back across the fence with their treasures. One morning while looking out our kitchen window, we noticed a mama Robin swoop down and, with excited quickness, pick up something special in her beak. On the flight back to Marvin's, she stopped to rest atop the fence and proudly displayed her find. It was a nice, creamy, soft tuft of B.B. fur. During these months, the Robins collect her hair to soften the twigs of their babies nest. It has become an annual spring play to which we look forward to seeing.



Photo: froggirl030 Photobucket.com

If you ever had a chance to just sit and rub one of B. B.'s ears between your fingers, you'd know how softly the little nestlings will be swaddled in her fur. The sensation is calming...soothing...protecting. It is comforting to know that Mother Earth's Recycling Center never wastes one of her creations, no matter how insignificant it seems to us.

She completely utilizes every thing she makes down to the most minute detail. Her leaves that drop to the ground from the trees in the fall of the year, break down and become fertilizer for the soil. Her dinosaurs, buried en masse eons ago, become oil oozing tar pits of future petrol. Monogamous crows take the scavenged carcasses of carrion, hydrate them with water and return them to their nesting females for sustenance, water, and perpetuation of their species. I can not think of one thing the Mother creates for which she doesn't have some future purpose.

While Randy and I view all of B. B.'s discharged and fallen hair with dismay and janitorial resignation, the Mother sees the tufts as royal cocoons for the fledgling Robin babes. Sweet Life. Sweet Love. The sweet, absolute divine architecture of the Mother reigns supreme. All Hail the Mother, we have so much to learn.

My 50 Years of Friendship with Barbara

Barbara: 1950 Graduation Photo



My mother's birthday was Sunday, April 5. She would have been 76 years old with nearly a full head of brown hair. She died on Friday, September 7, 2007. Although we tried to stop it, she drifted away from us into the lost land of Alzheimer's. A short time after she crossed over, her best friend, Millie, sent myself and my brother and sister, Mark and Tami, a copy of this letter. I have edited the original only to make it cohesive for those who don't know our family.

My 50 Years of Friendship with Barbara

I first met Barbara in November of 1956 at a little restaurant called The Shack. It was a trailer that had been remodeled into a cafe with six stools and two booths. Bill and Reva Lakmann had purchased it that same year. Many years later, I married Bill after Reva's death. It was a family business and their sons worked after school doing prep work. A few others, including Barbara, worked the day and evening shifts.

In 1959, the City of Redding decided that they would not renew the business license as the trailer was not up to code. It was moved off the property and a new, larger building, with two rooms seating up to 60 people, was built. Barbara started working the night shift which started at 5:30 p.m. Barb always seemed to arrive late and by that time, The Shack would be busy with the dinner crowd. Bill would always be waiting and looking at the clock. At 5:40 or 5:45, brakes would squeal, a car door would slam, and Bill would say, "Barbara's here!" I worked some evenings with her but when the breakfast girl quit, I started working the a.m. shift. I missed working with Barb. But on my days off, I would go up at night, help her close and catch up on all the news.

In 1969, customers kept asking Bill when he was going to enlarge again and put in a lounge. On October 12, 1969, The Shack Lounge was officially opened and there was standing room only for three hours. It took off. It never stopped being a very popular "watering hole" for many.

The Shack became known for its famous Broasted Chicken and The Shackburger. It was a good place to work and employees stayed on the job for many years. Mark, Barbara's son, was also a cook there. There were customers from out of town and state that would always stop in to eat and visit with the waitresses, namely, Barbara. So many of them would wait to sit on her station. George Kutras came in every morning for breakfast and would only sit in Barbara's station, no matter how long he had to wait. There were so many others, it would take pages to name them all. She brought in so much business for The Shack and was a favorite with all. We worked there for 37 years.

The year 1977, brought a big change in our lives. Bill passed away in February and Bud, Barbara's husband, in August. There were so many similarities with our lives. She had four grandsons. I had four grandsons. Then, a few years later, she got her little girl, Kerriann. Mark went to Korea and brought her home. Barb was in seventh heaven. I never caught up with her on that one. I didn't get any little girls. Our mother's both passed away within a few months of each other. My mom in March and hers, Wilma, in July.

We had so much fun with our trips to Reno, Las Vegas, Hawaii and Stockton to visit with Barb's sister-in-law and her husband. When going to Reno, Barb would drive as far as Susanville and I would take it on into Reno. She didn't like driving in the cities.

She got me interested in doing ceramics and we spent many years making them. Barb was so talented and artistic. She went on to do so many beautiful stained glass pieces. She made beautiful windows for the front doors of Mark and Ronda's homes. And one year she made 12 hanging lamps and gave them as Christmas gifts.

In November of 1993, a friend, Tom Parker, called Barbara and I and said he knew of a good deal for us to get into. We were both a little leery of Tom's "good deals." He knew of a little restaurant in Anderson that was open only on weekends while the Jolly Giant Flea Market was open. We were both ready to leave the Shack. It was no fun working there anymore and business had dropped off. Bill's sons had to sell it in 1985 and the new owner was hard to work for. So, we took the big step and signed the papers on November 23, 1993. We opened for business at 6:00 a.m. on December 4, 1993. Barbara kept her job at The Shack until the 7Th of January 1994. She said she wanted to stay until then so Sue, the owner, would have to pay her the big Christmas bonus of $50. I had quit in December--no bonus for me!!!

Our business took off. I did the cooking and Barb took the orders and cashiered. We had lots of fun and soon needed some help. Mark came down and cooked for us sometimes and Tami's son, Jacob, worked for us too. We never got rich, but we never lost money either. In December 1994, we decided to get out of it and sold it to a customer. Barb missed having her weekends off and my mother, who was 97, needed more care. It was the right thing to do. We would have more time to play.

When we both left The Shack, Sue's remark to one of the customers was, "Now that Barbara and Millie are no longer here, maybe people will realize I'm the one that owns The Shack and not them." We got a good laugh out of that. We never knew we were so popular.

My memories of our Saturday night in December every year to bake our 32 fruitcakes and make 32 pecan rolls are ones I will always cherish. We both loved to bake. Four or five hours later, we would be all through--tired but happy. I still have many of her hand written recipes that I continue to bake but miss her being there doing it with me.

Barbara was more than just my friend--more like a sister. We watched each other's children grow up, get married and start their own families. I remember helping Barb with Ronda's beautiful backyard wedding with the sun shining brightly in our eyes. Even Bill came to the wedding, because it was Barb's family and he thought so much of her. He never did that for anyone else.

In all of our 50 years of friendship and all of the trips we took together, we never had an argument. We were too busy enjoying ourselves. I have so many good and fond memories too numerous to mention. I will always be thankful I was one of the very fortunate ones to have a friend like Barbara. I believe very few are so lucky.

Even when her illness was beginning and she had to give up driving, we still went out every Saturday for lunch. Her favorite was Applebee's Oriental Chicken Salad. I would pick her up and Tami and Brandon would always be there. Brandon usually doing some yard work and Tami, things in the house.

Weren't we all lucky to have her for a FRIEND, MOTHER AND GRANDMOTHER?

Barb, we'll have a lot to talk about, dear friend, when we get together again. In the meantime, know that I love you and all our good times. Neither you, nor they will ever be forgotten.

Millie


Millie at mom's memorial service

Millie became a great grandmother at the beginning of 2008 and mom, if she had lived, would have been one in September of 2008. How many of us have been blessed in having such a wonderful friendship for 50 years? How many of us will find a friend whose life parallels ours so closely? How many of us can say that we found a friend to love and share with so fully and freely? How many of you have a friend like that in your life?

Sometimes the soul mate we yearn to find is right before us and not, by necessity, of the opposite gender. A soul mate is not necessarily a mate. Thank you Millie.



Happy Birthday, Mom. We love and miss you.