Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Running Barefoot at Hatteras


There are no markers for how far you have gone or will go. The ground is an endless stretch of broken shells, sand and surf. The alpha rhythm of the waves rolling in and out like the earth breathing seems synched with your heart and lungs, blood pounding in your head. Every dune begins to look alike, each small parting between the sea oats the possible path back to your weathered beach house. Your sweat whisked away by the constant wind. How far, how far, how far--your thoughts-- skipping back and forth between the machine of your body and the tablet of the sky. Voices, snatches of songs, conversations now passed roll through your mind like railroad cars. Your feet the arches made stronger, mid foot fall foot fall foot fall. You can feel the sand absorbing your weight, muscle, fat, and bone. Arms pumping your torso seems to roll with your pelvis. You can feel the sockets of your hips bones rotating back and forth like the fulcrum of a pendulum. Your body knows when you have finished the first mile it stops complaining and settles in for the ride, breathing and pounding a steady rhythm. No pain.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

A second hand life

Well, yesterday, I finally grew up. At 10:43 am two men and a truck pulled into my driveway and delivered a large dining room table, six MATCHING chairs, and a leather arm chair. All of it---brand new. Yes, I actually picked it out, paid for it--outright (that was fun!-F@*K the credit card companies) and had it delivered. I had to wait nearly 72 hours before it arrived. An hour later, while sitting in my new arm chair, I felt a sort of sad feeling slowly move over me, like throwing out an old but soft pair of jeans with a giant hole in the seat or finally retiring your favorite running shoes. While my house did look nice and normal, I missed my collection of second hand chairs, my rag tag arm chair and our wonky table. One of our kitchen chairs belonged to my great grand mother; long ago one of my dogs used it for a chew toy. Another appeared in my house after I nursed an entire bottle of red wine and walked home. I think it was sitting on the side of the road with someone's garbage--at least that's what I "remember". Then there was the chair that my parents found at a yard sale to go with the desk they bought me as a child. I can still remember the green and red plaid seat with black stripes, a six-year old's dream. Our former table was purchased from my old dear friend Lee. He was moving back to North Carolina and could not take it with him. It was a steal for only $40.00 and it reminded me of our friendship that stretches back to junior high school. There was a circle burned into one end where someone set down a very hot pot. The other end slanted up ever so slightly. The arm chair that was replaced I found at stuff, it was ugly but so comfortable. My daughter laid in it every morning with "snuggle blanket" while I make breakfast. My new furniture does not have any stories yet.
All my dogs are second hand, even my husband was "used." Nearly all my clothes are second hand. Each of these things (no offense honey) is endowed with a story. The way it came into my life is unusual and meaningful. While my new furniture is lovely, there is no story, it came from a furniture store, and now it's here. My parents always bought second hand furniture. They call their pieces antiques. When I was growing up we always sat around this kitchen table that my father bought at a yard sale in Bangor, Maine. He bought it over a weekend and on Monday morning the fellow that sold it to him committed suicide with the business end of a gun. Those New Englanders, always the practical sort. Of course we kept the table anyway. My dresser is another yard sale find. My parents bought it and refinished it before I was born. It was always one of my favorite things. It still is, even though it is dying a slow and painful choking death as it overflows with pajamas and tee shirts. The drawers barely close. I just can't bring myself to get rid of it. I would feel like such a traitor. The drawers are still lined with the paper bags my mom cut with pinking shears almost four decades ago.
Hopefully my new furniture will quit seeming so shiny and alien in our home. As the years go on, I know I will treasure the lunch I had with my children at our new dining room table. I told them, "You two are the first people to ever eat at this table." I wonder if they will remember.

Friday, July 3, 2009

Lost Dogs

I love animals. I love to adopt animals. I am a recovering animal adoption addict. I am down to one old adopted love pillow dog and two ferrets. Life is simple, the house is clean, and our vet bills are reasonable. But... two nights ago I was coming home from the prison with my friend, another AAA member and we spotted a large white dog wandering along the side of the road. Our hearts started to flutter, we saw a golden opportunity to get our fix. We pulled over to the side of the road and immediately started to dig through my car for the leash I always keep in the car...just in case.
The dog was a Great Pyrenees. Clearly lost, clearly someone's sweet heart, covered from head to tail in burrs and mud. He was tired, in fact he could barely walk to the next house. We thought about loading him into the car. Unfortunately I not only keep an extra leash, I have wipes-in case I get dirty or freaked out about germs, food to snack on or keep the kids quiet, a change of clothes for those mornings where I dribble coffee, a set of running clothes-just in case I actually decide to run (they have been unused for at least 3 months) swim noodles because I a too lazy to put them away, boxes of books from the school to home and back to school circuit, and at least two tool boxes of art supplies-for the kids at Tate, the prison and other folks that are my students, and more than 10 used coffee/tea cups (shameless). Needless to say, there was no room. Not to mention the dog weighed over two hundred pounds. We decided to walk house to house to find the owner. Surely someone was desperately searching for this mammoth sweetheart. We finally ended up at Tom Dooley's the local ferrier. He had no idea who the dog belonged to. His son, Joe, the nicest kid ever, helped me hoist the dog into the back of a pick up and we brought him home. My husband looked at me when I walked up with the giant dog with eyes that said, "Honey, you have fallen off the wagon, I am so dissappointed." But he is a softy so we kept the dog overnight. I dutifully brought it to the vet the next day to see if he had a chip. Quickly the office filled with a buzz. The excitement built as they scanned him and indeed he was chipped. We called, the other end of the phone would surely connect with an owner who was crazy with worry. It was better than any reality television show. Everyone hoping for a tearful reunion. We waited and then the receptionist's face fell--the number was disconnected. Suddenly a new story emerged. Perhaps, I thought, this poor dog was abandoned. Maybe his owner was lying dead on a bike trail near our house and the dog was trying to find help for her. [Funny, in my mind it was a her]. Maybe he jumped out a car headed to Nevada and was trying to find his way back home to a victorian cottage in New Hampshire. The possibilities and drama would continue. I got a name and address from the receptionist and left the dog at the vet's office so if the owner was found she could claim the dog immediately. Obviously, there would still be a tearful reunion and I would be named a good samaritan. I took the name and address and googled them. Evidently the the owner had moved many times since adopting this gentle giant from the animal shelter. Currently she was living in Arkansas. A plot twist--This dog was clearly meant to be mine. To live at my house and be part of our family. The stars were crossed we were destined to be a couple. Dog and guardian. Side by side forever. My husband consented to "fostering" the dog. In my little AAA heart I knew that no one would ever want the dog as much as I did. Also he was old with no teeth, he seemed to have mild dementia, and a bad habit of peeing on things--perfect. I called this morning to arrange to have him groomed and begin our deep dog and gaurdian love affair. The receptionist told me the wonderful news, they found his owner. I honestly was crushed. Ahh, the roller coaster of Animal Adoption Addiction- a vicious cyle.

Dead Racoons and Cherry pie

We have the best neighbors; in the front quiet bird lovers with a great dog, to the side a family of Mormons, lovely people, behind us the most interesting couple... The male part of the couple, I will call him Bob, is a bit of a yard working recluse. Out of all of our neighbors they are the most like us, obviously the favorite. If he is out in the yard he is wearing earphones, the big yellow kind. When he talks it is like Winnie the Pooh. You have to concentrate on listening to him and take care not to interrupt. He invited us over last weekend to pick his cherries. An invitation we look forward to each summer. As we crossed the fence at the Hydrangea and passed his winged spindle tree (Burning bush)I noticed the sound of buzzing flies. There in a "have a heart" trap was a dead raccoon. Perhaps the same raccoon that has vandalized my bird feeders every night for at least three summers. I like to outsmart him. Sometimes I he tiptoed across the railing of our porch and swung the bird feeders to and fro like prayer wheels, spreading seeds into my flower beds and filing the cracks in our porch. I always liked that image. Now here he was a bloated corpse. Last week my bird loving neighbors let us know that they had spotted four baby raccoons-that he is actually a she is too much to think about. Bob said that he trapped her and then tried to give her food and water but she got angry at him. She died in the cage before he had a chance to relocate her. I can't imagine why that bloated corpse is still in his yard peppered with flies. We picked our cherries but all I could think to make was horror pie