Surprises at my door ...

When the knock came at the door around noontime, I had no idea who could have come knocking. When I got to the door, the post lady was already walking back to her truck, having left two packages on the step. Packages? I'd ordered a few essential things recently, but they'd already come. I couldn't imagine what these might be.

I brought them inside. One was a priority mail package, and the handwriting tipped me off. It was from a very special friend, and contained something I desperately needed, but for which I had not asked. It was another mark of our friendship, and of a connection that continues to amaze and move me. I stood there for a moment, grateful for the presence in my life of such a friend, of a relationship that has endured for more than 45 years, which gives me both a sense of continuity and continually renews and refreshes my heart.

The larger package, light for its size, came with a printed label, and no return address. It was clearly in a re-used box. I had no idea what it might hold as I carefully cut through the packing tape.

Inside was a note, which, while it shed some light on the source, still did not fully prepare me for the contents I would find beneath the wadded packing paper. When I first saw this item, it was in a preview of items being auctioned to benefit Friends of Pets in Anchorage, Ak. I fell in love with it, but declined to bid on it due to some financial pressures. But there it was on the preview page, and though I would not be bidding for it, I kept going back to look at it over and over again, enchanted by its whimsy, and, of course, delighted that it depicted a crow.

While I know who sent this to me, I don't know specifically everyone who was involved. I am the co-owner of a computer mailing list, and a bunch of the folks on the list saw my comment on this item on Facebook, and got together and made pledges toward the winning bid for it. I'm moved and amazed that they did this, and I love this little piece of folkart.

I sat at the kitchen table for a long time, with the contents of these two surprise packages in front of me. I felt stunned. And humbled. And, oddly, a little guilty, as I almost always do when someone gives me something. I kept touching the gifts. I picked them up, and put them back down. I stroked them and turned them over in my hands. I wondered what I had done to deserve such unexpected and generous demonstrations of friendship. Further, I wondered if, in fact, I did deserve them at all.

My tea grew cold as I sat there. And while I sat there, Crow came over to me and interrupted my thoughts by poking her head under my hand. I looked down at her and saw again the age on her dear face, right alongside the always-present, and ageless brightness in her eye. She was not, as one might expect, asking for me to pet her and bestow my affection upon her. She was, as I knew, asking me to take a moment to make space to allow her to give me hers - her regard, her friendship, her joy in our relationship. My hand remained resting on her head while I lowered my face to hers so she could, as was her desire, lick me. It would crush her to have me deny her this frequent ritual. I have learned, whether I am busy or not, to take that moment she's requesting, that it isn't about her wanting something from me, but instead, about what she wants to give to me. I never occurs to me to ask if I deserve it. I simply accept it. It is resident in our regard for one another. It is something that she wants to do, maybe even needs to do, and clearly something that pleases her in the doing.

Once again it is Crow who leads me to a deeper understanding. As I cleared away the packing materials, and picked up my lovely surprises to put them in a safer place, the gratitude I felt was clean. Instead of asking why, I simply bow my head and am grateful for the kindness in people, and for the wonderful, always slightly surprising, gift of friendship in my life.

It's been wet ...

August brought us hurricane Irene, followed by tropical storm Lee, followed by the wettest September I can remember. Though I have nothing to complain about compared to what many suffered in the northeast, my backyard has been permanently recarved by water. I have a swale running through it, which became a stream, which remodeled my patio. The pictures are nowhere near as dramatic as it appeared in person, but whether you saw it in person or not, it's just water, water everywhere.
The plus side is that I haven't been able to mow the lawn without wrecking it permanently, so I haven't been mowing the lawn. In my life, having a legitimate excuse not to mow the lawn counts as a very good thing. You simply cannot run a lawnmower, let alone a garden tractor, over a lawn that looks like this. Yesiree, Bob, I am excused.

The downside is that stone retaining walls will only retain so much water. And probably won't stay standing too long if this keeps up.

The other downside is that I never had a problem with mosquitoes here, but I do now. And they're big. And hungry. Oh yeah. Very hungry.

The Crow's Thirteenth Birthday

Sometime in the middle of the night last night, Crow crossed the line between 12 and 13. Thirteen years ago, in the wee hours of the morning, I sat on the phone with Suzanne and got the play-by-play report while Otter gave birth to her second litter.
I was waiting for my new male dog to be born. First pup - a female. Second pup - a female, quite small, very black. Third pup - a female. Fourth pup - a female. So far, an easy delivery, all four black and tan, three very similar, one smaller and darker, all girls. "Ok, maybe Otter's not done. I'll go to bed," I said, "let Otter rest, but call me when my little boy is born, please."

Taken in December, 2010, Crow looks good for an old girl.
First thing the next morning, the phone rang, and before Suzanne could speak, I said, "All girls, right? That's ok. I can live with a baby girl. I think the little dark one is my Crow." Until that moment, I hadn't considered a girl, and I hadn't really thought of naming a dog Crow.

Nine days later, we arrived at the farm to meet my little girl for the first time. The minute I put my hands on her, I knew I had my dog. It was a "never look back" moment. She's been the most challenging companion I've ever had. There were times when I didn't think I"d survive her activity level, and there were certainly times when I knew for sure I wouldn't survive her intelligence. I often wondered if I was good enough to clear the bar she set. But I have never for a second doubted that we belonged together. She's stretched me, and taught me more than any other dog ever has. She's always known exactly who I am and, seeing all my warts, has always fully accepted me and and been tolerant of my flaws. She's led me to compromises and shown me that there's always a way to see things from the other side. Together, always together, we worked things out. She was my second husband's first puppy, and she taught him everything he could learn about raising a dog. She loved her "dad." And when he and I split up, she missed him keenly, but let me know that she was mine and I was hers, and if we missed him at all, we'd do it together, as we did everything else. She is my best friend, and my right arm, and my mirror, my critic and my biggest fan.


She's 13 now, and though still doing very well (better, in fact, than she was doing last year) she is clearly my little old lady dog now. Sometimes she sleeps so soundly, I have to put my hands on her to wake her. Though I can feel her heart beating and I can feel her breathing and know she's all right, the depth of her sleep grants me an unwelcome glimpse into some of the things that lay ahead for us as we travel the final years of her time here together. Then she wakes, and blinks, and sees the concern on my face, and looks at me like "What's the matter with you? What do you want? I was just sleeping!" And I tell her, "You're 13 now, and in all the years I've shared with dogs, of the German Shepherds, only Annie lived longer than you have, and then only by a couple of years, and you just don't understand. I want you with me for another 100 years. Or until one minute after I die. Whichever comes first."

And Crow stretches and yawns and says, "It is what it is, and we have what we have, and today is today. Now open the door."

Happy birthday, Baby Girl. I have never had a friend like you before. Today is today, you're right. Thank you for being with me. I love you with all my heart.

The Land of Flying Cows

I'm home again, from the land of flying cows,

where old dogs become young again,

where the sun is gold,

the mornings cold,
and where everything slows for me. It was a quick visit, just two nights and two full days. It's late now, and I'm finally ready to go to sleep. But I came home replenished, and able to count my blessings properly again. That's no small thing. It is, in fact, huge. It's what I've poking and picking at for most of this year. I needed to stop watching the clock of my life as the hands moved inexorably over the face of the year, to move into the moment and stay firmly rooted. She knows. And now I do, too. It was a good rest. I listened. When I do, Crow never leads me wrong.

FB Thoughts

I never thought I'd like sites like Facebook. Yet, when I stop to think about the friendships I've formed through the years through the evolution of the Internet, I really shouldn't be surprised that I have forged new relationships and rekindled old ones through Facebook. I signed on a few years ago because my friend Betsy at work said I should, casually shrugging and indicating because "it's fun." And initially, that's all it was, and I used it primarily to "poke" colleagues at work, and post oddly cryptic status lines that let others know I was there, alive and kicking. I tried to avoid blatant bids for sympathy if I was in a cranky mood, or venting too much aggravation - keeping in mind my own reaction to the status lines posted by others. And it was. Fun.

Like any other social networking tool, Facebook is just what you make it. I've found Tweeting to be something that doesn't really work well for me. MySpace felt like the Commons, a break room in my high school where kids gathered to snipe at one another or bury their noses in their own concerns. Neither of those spaces worked for me. Yet, as I reflect on my life as this moment, at who is in it, who is on my mind, the things I am doing with my time and energy, I find that Facebook has replaced the old Bitnet Relay in my life. It keeps me in touch with a wide number of peripheral acquaintances and casual friends. And it has allowed me to deepen friendships where I wish to, and make new ones when they resonate.

I am sitting here right now, sipping a last cup of coffee. It's snowing lightly outside - just flurries. And in a few minutes, I will rouse myself to get moving and get out of the house to make my way into NYC, where I will meet my real-life friend and possible cousin, Carolina. Carolina is from Guatemala. We may be related, or not. Who knows? We share a surname. I met Carolina when her sister, who shares my name (or at least a portion of it), Virginia Servent Palmieri, friended me during the early days of my having joined Facebook. Slowly, the net grew, and I added many of the Palmieris who live in Guatemala to my Friend List. I discovered a kindred soul in one of Carolina's cousins, Carmen, who also lives in Guatemala. Our life stories are eerily similar and our instant understanding of one another was stunning. And when I met Carolina in person for the first time last January, even though there are years between our ages, continents between our lives, and vast cultural differences, I made a real-life friend. The connection was instant and has only been deepened each time we have been together.

Me and Carolina, friends and presumed cousins, moments after first meeting in NYC
in January, 2010
I have some friends who malign things like Facebook and say they have no use for them. Interestingly, they have never so much as stopped by these sites to see what they're like, but believe they know what they're all about. They criticize me, and think I'm crazy for using it. I just shrug, knowing that I have also heard them criticize people who have strong opinions about them and their work without having taken the time to familiarize themselves with it. They are right: you can't judge a book by its cover. Just like the Internet itself, Facebook can be a door to misuse, as can anything else in life. It can also be a very pleasant place to stop by for a quick visit. Some people use it to play games. Others use it to broadcast news to a large number of people at one time. But for me? I use it, instead, to update myself on the comings and goings of a large number of people I care about. I've heard people say that they don't have time for it. Oddly, I use it as a time saver. I can tell in a moment if something important is going on with one of my friends, and then I am free to follow up on them with an e-mail or a phone call, or simply to wait for another update from them so I know what's happening. In an age when none of us have enough time to do all the things we'd like to do, when few of us can afford to travel the globe, where most of us can't (or don't) even make time to pick up a pen and drop a card in the mail to a friend in need, Facebook has served in an amazing capacity. It has broadened my horizons and expanded the scope of my world.

I have recently had lunch with a woman who was my best friend in kindergarten. I hadn't seen her in 40 years, and wasn't close friends with her after our earliest elementary years together, but I thoroughly enjoyed seeing her again, and was instantly aware of what drew us into friendship when we were 5 years old. Right now, I realize I haven't seen any activity from her since before Thanksgiving and I'm about to contact her to make sure everything's all right. Without Facebook, we would not likely have reconnected.

As I get ready to go have lunch with Carolina again, all I can say is, "Thanks, Bets. You're right. Facebook is fun."

Uncle Angelo

Angelo Salvatore Palmieri
January 29, 1924 - May 31, 2010
When I was a little girl, a very little girl, I was afraid of 2 things - dogs and men. Ok. Are you done laughing? It's true. A collie named Prince who lived down the street cured my fear of dogs. My fear of men, a fear I might have done well to keep to a greater degree than I have, simply faded with time. Exposure. Overkill. Growing up sandwiched between two brothers, one a year older, the other a year younger, probably helped. But at the beginning, men scared me. Except for my father. And his brother. From the very start, my Uncle Angelo was one of my favorite people.

My memories of him from when I was a very young girl are vignettes, as such memories from childhood tend to be. But they have stayed with me powerfully all my life. And even though he moved his family from NJ to Tennessee when I was 8 or 9 years old, he always remained a very solid figure in my life.

I remember one time I went somewhere in the car with only my father and my uncle. It was the 50s. No one had seat belts. Little children were not restricted to the back seat. My dad was driving. I rode in the front seat, a bench seat, nestled between my two favorite men, smelling the sweet, rich aroma of my uncle's pipe smoke, and feeling his arm around me. I don't remember where we were going, or why I was the only one with them - I must have been less than 3 at the time. I only remember feeling safe, crawling into Uncle Ange's lap, smelling his pipe tobacco and asking him to sing a silly little ditty which I believed to have been written just for him - "Angelina, Angelone-uh, 50 cents a water melone-uh." I was 3. It made me giggle. When you were around my dad and his brother, you giggled a lot if you were a little girl. If you were an adult, you were regularly reduced to laughter so hard that it made you hiccup. No one else stood a chance. They were impossibly funny together.

My uncle Angelo died Monday night. My father's brother, the man who held me on a short car ride when I was a toddler, who also held me and cried with me at the bedside when my father died is gone from this life. The only one left now from that generation is his wife, my Aunt Adele. I can barely conceive of the breadth of her loss. She has lost her best friend, and her partner. In 2006, I attended their 60th anniversary party. How do I even begin to get my mind around that?

This afternoon, I'll drop the dogs off at the kennel for a three night stay. Tomorrow morning, I'll head over to my brother's house. We'll fly down together to be with our aunt, our cousins and their children. We'll be at the visitation on Thursday night, and at the service on Friday morning. And by Friday night, I'll be home in my own bed again, looking forward to picking up the dogs on Saturday morning. All the ritual and ceremony that surrounds death will be done with. And we who are left to grieve will go on with the rest of our lives. I know they are always with us, those to whom we've had to say goodbye. Each of us builds a matrix of emotional constructs to understand it. For me these things will always be true - that a lilting descant will recall my mother; that I can never repair anything around my house without feeling my father's hand guiding me; that a steak sizzling on the grill will bring my friend Mike's booming voice to mind so clearly I will hear him; and that catching the scent of someone's pipe will forever, as it has always, make me feel safe in my uncle's arms.

I'm glad your struggles are done. Rest now. Mark and I will be with your children tomorrow, and we will all celebrate your life. I love you, Uncle Angelo. That's always been, and it will always be so.

My Funny Old Girl

When Crow was a puppy, she kept us moving. She had endless energy and creativity when it came to playtime. She carried far more fuel in her energy tanks than I could fit in mine, and at the end of a long day's work, when my tanks were empty, she was still running on full.

We had to compromise. As my husband at the time was wont to say I "don't do tired well." My patience and tolerance for constant motion were the biggest problems for me - not only forcing myself into motion beyond when I wanted to be, but dealing with the visual input of a constantly moving puppy were sure ways to push my buttons. At the end of the day, when I needed to sit with a book, with my knitting, with some television before bed, after Crow had been run with the older dogs, and had as much real, hard playtime as I could provide between getting home at 3:30 and the pre-bed wind-down time at 9:00 or 9:30 p.m., I would try to grab a little bit of quiet relaxation, and Crow would try to convince me that really, truly, honestly, she hadn't had enough to do, and she was going to implode if she didn't get more playtime. I would stand firm in my position that we were done for the day, because I felt really done and I really needed to be done.

Crow wasn't buying it. But she would accept that the big games were over. Still, she'd pace and pick things up and look for something we could do together that would be acceptable to me, too. Crow wasn't a puppy who could easily amuse herself. Once we got Hudson, I quickly identified the difference in the challenge of raising the two of them. Crow was all about "Will you play with this with me? Play with me!" Hudson's approach, much easier on my nerves, was "Can I play with this? Give me something I can play with."

So, at the end of the day, when I'd said I was done playing, Crow would accept that there'd be no more chasing the ball (a game she could play for hours.) But, she'd look around the room for something to do, and eventually, she'd bring me a tiny piece of plastic that she'd chewed off of a plastic water bottle, or an almond shell she'd stolen from the bottom of the parrot's cage, or even a scrap of paper she'd filched from the trash. She'd roll it around in her mouth and drop it on my knee. I quickly learned that yes, I could read, I could knit, I could even follow a movie if I just flicked the tiny piece of offering off my knee. She'd run and retrieve it, roll it around in her mouth, chew it a little more, break it up a bit, and select a successively smaller and smaller piece with which to continue the game. It was our compromise. It worked. And she was so cute, rolling those tiny pieces around in her mouth, finding them with her tongue so she could spit them out into my hand or ono my knee, that she often succeeded in truly engaging me once again in the game.

Well, Crow is now 12 years old. And we've long since found the levels of activity that work perfectly for both of us. It's Sunday morning. The sun is out. Hudson's out lying in it. He can see us through the screen door, and we can see him. It's his version of a perfect morning. They've been fed. I've had my Sunday breakfast. And I'm having my second mug of coffee while I watch the news and go through e-mail. And The Crow was curled up at my feet, since long ago, we discovered that the best part about living together is simply being together. She is always at my side, and always wants to be on the same side of the door where I am.

Just a few minutes ago, a dog nose poked my hand, and I looked up to see Crow, still so lovely to me, meeting my eyes, and clearly rolling something small around in her mouth. She dropped it onto my knee - an almond shell she brought down from the parrots' room yesterday afternoon. Her incomparable eyes were shining, asking me if I remembered the game. So I flicked it across the room for her, and she came back and dropped it into my hand so I could set it up on my knee and launch it for her once again.

Every now and then, the smallest thing reveals that it can hold the whole of something else within it - the scent of someone grilling meat on a late spring afternoon can recall in its entirety a day spent in the backyard of my childhood with extended family, aunts, uncles, cousins there; the feel of icy air on the skin can bring back the taste of hot chocolate in front of the fire, after an evening of ice-skating, and so on. Little snippets that hold people and places and things in place in my heart can unexpectedly open the whole vista of my life to me. And just now, nothing more than the feel of the end of Crow's muzzle in my cupped hand as I waited to receive the wet and ever-smaller bit of her chosen toy recalled her entire life for me.

My funny old girl. Sometimes you have driven me to distraction. Sometimes you've exhausted me and all of my resources. Initially, you often made me wonder if you were in the right home. But ultimately, you've always patiently worked until you found the compromise that would work for us. Maybe that should have been my job, but you turned out to be better at it than I was. That gentle muzzle-nuzzle that said this was your part, could I do mine? My funny old girl. We've been perfect together.