The Year of the (crazy) Dog

Family photo at Pawnee Buttes.
The Good Dog joined right in. The Crazy Dog, not so much.

In terms of the Chinese Zodiac, 2011 was actually the Year of the Rabbit. We don’t have a rabbit, but we do have two dogs: The Good Dog, and The Crazy Dog.

Tonka was thrilled to learn he had been elevated in status to The Good Dog, a title previously held by sweet Raven.

Soon after we brought Daisy home from the Longmont Humane Society, Tonka was promoted to good dog status and Daisy quickly earned her nickname, Crazy Daisy.

Yes, she’s crazy. Afraid of her own shadow and terrified of people (with the exception of Dave’s sister Barb), Daisy eats bark chips, runs headlong through the house, uses the furniture as a springboard to pounce here and there, crawls under Tonka’s belly, and flings Nylabones willy-nilly into the air. She is also a sweet, cuddly little thing and quite the novelty out in the world.

Wherever we take Daisy, people stop us with a puzzled grin and ask, “What kind of dog is that?” (cattle dog/corgi with a side of hound-dog DNA thrown in just for fun… in other words, a mutt). Because she is so darned cute, everyone wants to meet her. Daisy will have none of it. She either backs away, big round eyes darting left and right while plotting an escape route, or she hides behind one of us for safety. Fortunately, she trusts us completely and loves Tonka with all her might. We know nothing of her history but think she may have been kept locked up for most of her young life. The first few months she lived with us, it was obvious the world outside was completely foreign to her, filled with frightening sounds and danger everywhere. Slowly but surely, she is being transformed into a deliriously happy little dog.

In other news – following an MRI where she was squished into a teeny-tiny tube and forced to listen to sappy soft rock music on gigantic headphones – Debbie finally learned the cause of her chronic back pain and sciatica, then was told that spinal surgery was the best option for relief. After much second-guessing and indulging in a host of irrational fears, she decided to go through with the surgery. It was successful and five months later, she is feeling better with some minor lingering pain.

In the weeks following surgery, Dave took on a new role as home health care aide. He has also become quite the respectable househusband and doggy daycare provider. His continued job searches brought forth a flurry of interviews in spring and fall; still no offers. We remain hopeful.

Much time was spent on the road this year, with three visits to Salida, road trips along the Front Range, dog park adventures, and plenty of doctor appointments. The dogs joined us as often as possible, where Daisy discovered her new favorite thing, riding on the center console.



Ever the trooper, Dave added yet another duty to his expanding job description: Driving Miss Debbie, and Driving Miss Daisy.   J

Merry Christmas * Happy New Year * Peace on Earth

Debbie and Dave
Tonka and Daisy

(from our Christmas newsletter)

First Love

It must have been sometime in late 1975. Barely out of high school, a friend and I were drawn to cruising in downtown Denver.

At the time I had a Mustang, a pretty little car. My friend owned a Camaro. Between the two of us we had lots of fun making the rounds.

Then one weekend I met Bob, a handsome fellow in an orange-and-black muscle car, a Chevelle. After some initial flirting across lanes of traffic, we finally pulled into a parking lot and took the time to get acquainted.

We were inseparable after that.

A year older than me, Bob was from Kodiak, Alaska. His parents sent him to Denver to attend the Denver Automotive and Diesel College, so he could learn engine maintenance in anticipation of taking over the family fishing business: mostly crab, salmon, and halibut.

We grew close very quickly. Then at the end of spring semester in 1976, he returned to Alaska.

Bob left his beloved car with me. We parted with hugs and kisses and promises, and Bob suggested I visit Kodiak later that summer. His parents were eager to meet me, and I was eager to learn more about what might potentially be my new home.

And such a wonderful visit it was! Bob took me all over the island and introduced me to some of the wildness that is Alaska.

There were places on the island where you had to stop and look both ways before crossing a dirt airstrip. Ridge top bunkers installed during World War II remained, silent sentinels looking out to sea, still watching for a Japanese invasion. The beaches were filled with black volcanic sand that formed soft round rocks around sea fossils.

Bob showed me rivers filled with spawning salmon, and taught me about his business. The time we spent together seemed to have “future” written all over it. But did it, really?

In re-reading the letters Bob sent before my visit, the tone seems soft, romantic, filled with repeated proclamations of love, tales of his daydreams about us, and his hopes for the future.

After I returned home, the letters became more matter-of-fact, less about romance and more about providing me with detailed instructions on the care and feeding of one super-hot Chevelle.

The story ends just as you might imagine. Eventually we broke up, although I never really understood why. Bob returned to Denver for his Chevelle (quite possibly his real love) and went back to Alaska.

And I mourned the loss of my first love.

This journal was spurred by a writing prompt: Found, by San Diego Momma. Thank you for the inspiration!

A Table in Time

From a letter I wrote to my nephew, Clark

Thought I’d write a note with a little history about this table. I’m happy to give it to you so that it stays in our family. You seem like the logical person to have it next, too!

Do you remember that Cork and Kathy Snyder lived behind us? Mom and Kathy took me to visit Kathy’s grandmother at their family farmhouse. It was located at the corner of 112th and Riverdale Road, real close to where you lived when you were a little boy. The farmhouse is still there, although they sold it and the land years ago.

I don’t know what year we got it but it must have been the early 1960s, I was just a little girl. Behind the farmhouse was a separate garage and in there was this desk. They were using it for potting plants. Seems like I recall it being painted black or maybe brown, but I could be wrong about that. The drawer was off to the side, it did not have drawer pulls and the brackets to hold the drawer in place had been broken.

Mom really loved the look of the table, even though it was painted and she didn’t know what was underneath. After we brought it home, she painted it barn red (the color of the shake shingles on the house, probably with leftover outside paint!). Dad put in some boards to hold up the drawer and then he added the drawer pulls. He used that colonial variety to keep the drawer from being pushed too far back.

The table was usually in the basement bedroom, right underneath that little window between mom’s drapery room and the bedroom. By the way, don’t you just love the quirkiness in that house, I mean really… who puts a window in between a utility room and a bedroom? Oh wait, I know, my parents!

Your dad used the desk for years, for assembling and painting his model airplanes, plus any other painting projects he worked on. Soon the top was covered with little marks of different colors, yellow and blues and whites, from when his painting went astray.

Then sometime in the early 1970s, mom discovered a furniture refinishing company. It was in the strip mall at 88th and York. She had lots of furniture pieces that needed some work and the guy who owned it gave her a good deal. She decided to have this desk dipped and stripped.

When we all saw the desk, we could not believe how beautiful it was! That quarter-sawn oak is so lovely, who would ever paint over it? But I guess that was common years ago, to paint over fine wood. Sad, if you ask me.

I have always loved this desk, especially with its imperfections and because it reminds me of special times in my life. Mom loved it too, and your dad as well. I know they both would be happy that it’s going to be in your hands.

Stuffed

This picture of my husband Dave was on the front page of the Rocky Mountain News, the day after Thanksgiving (about 1962).

Dave's dad was an editor at the paper.

Word Cloud

A word cloud based on my journal: A Mother's Touch.

Happy birthday mom!

Scared of the Dark

There was a nightlight in the little room with pale pink walls. Plugged into the east wall, I insisted that it be turned on each night after mom lovingly tucked me in, always with a sweet hug and kiss goodnight.

“I don’t get you,” she once told me. “When we go camping in the mountains, sleep in a tent, where wild animals roam around in the dark and you can’t see your hands in front of your face, there--of all places--you fall asleep instantly!” She could not understand why her little girl had such a phobia in the safety of her own home, when she was not scared of the dark out in the wilderness.

Before an extra bedroom was built in the basement, my brother and I shared that little pink room. Well, it wasn’t pink at the time, more a turquoise color as I recall. We had bunk beds in a cute colonial style, the kind you could take apart and make into separate beds if needed. When the basement bedroom was complete, the bunk beds came apart. Ted got his own room: The Middle Bedroom.

That’s how they were known, much like in Goldilocks: The Little Bedroom, The Big Bedroom, and The Middle Bedroom, which was located straight down the hallway from the living room.

My nightlight was on that night, but as usual the shadows cast eerie shapes here and there. The wind was blowing. I listened to the metal threshold plate on the front door screaming in the wind, a frightening sound peculiar to our house.

When I could take no more, I crept into The Middle Bedroom and woke my brother. “Can I sleep with you?” Ever the protector, he always agreed.

Now, I don’t know why he had his bed facing straight out the door and down the hallway. I would never have set it up that way, much too spooky. I sandwiched myself between my brother and the wall, and promptly fell asleep.

Later, after midnight, we both woke to hear the hardwood floors creaking and groaning. Soft footsteps. A sound near the front door. What’s that? It was unspoken but we shared those silent words. Two little heads popped up from the pillow, eyes big as saucers, peering into the darkness down the hall.

And then, just then, we saw a figure in white gliding across the end of the hallway from right to left. Our hearts began pounding in our chests.

Another noise quickly followed, that of a chair being kicked, its legs scraping across the wooden floor, followed immediately by the thundering low, loud sounds of the bass keys on the upright piano.

“Dammit!” The kitchen light flicked on, followed by muttered words and the sound of a match.

This was no ordinary ghost. It was mom, pacing in the middle of the night, checking to make sure the front door was locked, indulging in a bit of late night worrying over one last cigarette. She had tripped over grampa's chair near the kitchen entrance and slammed her hand into the piano keys.

Phew. We were safe. At least for one more night…

The inspiration for this story came from a writing prompt: Spooky Story, by San Diego Momma. Thanks for the idea!

Anniversary Tribute

Today is our ninth anniversary. Dave and I were both late bloomers, we met in mid-life and each married for the first time at age 45.

Similar in many ways yet complete opposites in others--the sensitive, romantic dreamer and the sensible, logical science guy--we are a good match. He has been especially kind to me this year, helping me prepare for and then recover from surgery. His recent unemployment has been stressful at times but turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Dave was right here with me when I needed him most, and was my very favorite nurse during this entire experience.

I never knew you could love someone the way I love Dave. So this video is my tribute to my one true love.

I Can't Read

Throw the ball already!

Scenes from a Surgical Ward

Apparently every hospital patient is treated to a pair of non-skid socks. I did not realize I'd be given such lovely footwear. You might not know this about me (few people do) but I was quite the sock queen in my younger years. I owned multi-colored toe socks and loved to buy socks with strange color combinations: ruffles, stripes, polka dots, any crazy pattern to suit my many sock moods. One night I even won a "Most Unusual Socks" contest at a local bar where I was celebrating with my brother, his wife, and a few friends. I don't remember what I won, maybe a free drink? Winning the contest was memorable, the reward was not.

Anyway, I was happy to get my neon yellow MediChoice® hospital socks. I loved the color and found them to be the most fashionable of the hospital garments I was required to wear. They were accompanied by a tired old gown with ties in the back, and a pair of white surgical compression hose that squeezed my legs so tight I nearly fainted, plus they looked like something you might find underneath the skirt of an 1890s spinster school marm. By those standards, my yellow socks made me look downright stylish.

Well, that is if you don't count the huge stitching on the ankle announcing my sock size: "XX – LARGE" which reminded me of renting roller skates or bowling shoes with a gigantic number on the heel that displayed your shoe size for everyone to see. Being a big, tall girl, mine was always a much larger number than all the other petite darlings at the roller rink or bowling alley.

But I digress...

In the recovery room, I had a very cool nurse who probably had a name but due to my drug-induced state I could not possibly tell you what it was. She was inspecting the enormous scar on my lower back when I asked her whether I looked like Frankenstein back there. Her reply? "Oh no honey, we use super glue now!" Of course I thought she was just making this up and told her so, but apparently she was totally telling the truth. No stitches, no staples, just some weird kind of surgical-grade Gorilla Glue holding my skin together. I was hoping they didn't keep duct tape in the surgery room, too. That would freak me out.

The surgical center had all private rooms and I got some pretty nice digs, including a walker in a hot rust-red color. The nurses and aides made a point of telling me that I scored the best room: the one with the red walker. Everyone else on the ward was stuck with your basic silver metal walker. Lucky me!

Eight hours after surgery I was ready to take my first walk. Mollie, the day nurse, tied up the back of my lovely gown. Before we ventured from the room, she assured me that all was quite discreet and there was no hint of my backside hanging out. Mollie held tightly to my gown as I plodded along, much like a baby taking their first steps in mom and dad's living room. At that moment, I was so grateful for my non-skid neon yellow socks.

You spend a lot of time in bed at the hospital and it's really not much fun. One of the nurse aides, Stuart, helped me get out of bed later on. I wanted to watch TV sitting up so I could feel like a normal person. It's not easy getting out of bed and into a chair when you're attached to a multitude of tubes and lines. Stuart carefully guided me to the chair, and we giggled about how if someone walked by, they might think we were engaged in a slow-motion ballroom dance.

The night nurse, Hans, was a fun fellow. One of his primary duties was to ensure that all of us made it through the night with minimal agony. Much of his evening was spent assisting my next-door neighbor, Charlie, who was in a horrible amount of pain. I felt so bad for Charlie after I heard Hans tell him that he couldn't have more pain medication for another 25 minutes, did he think he could manage that long? Then there was the elderly woman two doors down calling out in the middle of the night, "Hello? Hello?" with no response, then she began crying. I wanted so badly to get up, go straight to her room, hold her hand and comfort her. But I simply could not move.

Have you ever noticed that doctors and nurses have this fixation with numbers? In the hospital, it drove me crazy when they insisted you assign an identifying number to your level of pain. For instance, 1 = You're ready to shout out a James Brown version of "I Feel Good!" 10 = Well, honestly I never want to know what 10 feels like. Hans visited my room regularly with his rolling computer stand to check on me. "How are you doing? Do you hurt?" Well, yeah, Hans, actually I do hurt. A lot. "Give me a number," he'd say. Umm, 6, maybe 7? What kind of drugs do I get for a 7? It all seemed so silly, so subjective.

Then came my second night on the ward. I wanted to sleep on my side, not my back, so the aides accommodated my request with lots of pillows and shuffling about to get me in just the right position. Later I awoke in agonizing pain. All I wanted, a simple thing really, was to turn over onto my back, and discovered it could not be done. I pulled and tugged at the pillows, and attempted to move the mechanical bed but pushed all the wrong buttons. It was then I realized my lovely yellow socks were dangling off the foot of the bed. Now, I'm not good at asking for help, never have been. But obviously it was time to hit the buzzer.

Along came Cliff, the night aide. When Cliff asked what I needed, I burst into tears, like a little girl lost in a great big department store who couldn't find her mommy. And that's what I really wanted to tell him, I need my mommy! Through the sniffling and blubbering I managed to explain my predicament and tell him also that I was in a great deal of pain. "When was the last time you had meds?" he asked. I struggled to remember but decided it was about seven hours ago.

Hans showed up soon after, surprised to find me crying. "My Deb is in pain?" he asked, incredulous. I had worked so hard to be a low-maintenance, easy-to-care-for patient so that the nurses and aides had extra time for the patients who really needed them. "Tell me your number right now," Hans asked. Without hesitation, I told him it was a good, solid 8, maybe even flirting with 9. Hans administered the most wonderful drugs ever and the pain subsided quickly. He and Cliff moved me into a more comfortable position, then asked me questions like, "Do you want the light on or off?" or "Should I leave the door open?" -- questions that seem nearly impossible to answer after a heaping dose of pain medication.

But what I want to say more than anything is that these people are angels. In spite of the cheerful disposition I maintained during my stay, I spent a rough two days in that hospital and many of the other people on my floor were in much worse shape. The nurses and aides did their level best to make sure that our experiences were as good as they could possibly be, given our circumstances. They were our heroes. So if you know someone who is a nurse or nurse aide, be sure to give them an extra thank-you from me. I'm sure they don't hear it nearly often enough.

Oh, and I got to keep my neon yellow socks. I love them and had them on the other night, just because my toes were kind of cold. They keep me from slipping on our hardwood floors. I wish they had given me more than one pair. You know what, I just might wear them the next time I go out dancing! (which probably won't be for a while yet...)

Balloon-a-rama

Two weeks ago, shortly after my surgery, a sweet co-worker sent me an Edible Arrangements as a get well gift. It was filled with strawberries and red grapes, plus plenty of chocolate-covered strawberries, apples, and even some flower-shaped pineapple slices dipped in chocolate. What a treat! Attached to the bouquet of fruit was a brightly-colored "Get Well" balloon.

After the typical flurry of activity over the doorbell and associated worries about strangers approaching the castle, the dogs then became intrigued not with the food, but with the rather unorthodox object attached: that crazy balloon, which bobbed and weaved and spun around unnaturally.

Tonka sounded the first alarm soon after the Edible Arrangement was placed on the dining room table. Hackles immediately began to rise along the ridge of his back and he began growling at the cheerful helium interloper. He moved carefully behind the object and sniffed, inspected, sniffed, then commenced with barking. Loudly. Repeatedly. The balloon didn't care, it had landed in a fun location where the ceiling fans kept it perpetually in motion. It was happy there, dogs be damned.

Daisy, ever the coward, let Tonka take the lead in ensuring our safety. She did sneak a peek or two at the balloon but mostly cowered behind the recliner, just in case. You never know when one of these things might explode, after all. Daisy managed to let out a few half-hearted barks in support of Tonka's efforts. Eventually we could no longer stand the commotion. We untied the balloon and let it find a high point behind the pantry door, then commenced with the eating of chocolate-covered fruit.

The next day, Dave decided to bring the balloon back out where it could serve its rightful purpose: to cheer me up. He tied it to the back of a dining room chair where it looked gloriously happy and fulfilled. For nearly two weeks, it bobbed and weaved with the breezes coming in through the window, and later in the day it spun in circles, performing a cheerful dance accompanied by the whirring of the ceiling fans and the air conditioning vent located just underneath the window. Later a new bouquet of flowers that perfectly matched the balloon's colorful exterior arrived to share this prime location, directly across from my favorite chair. By now the dogs had grown bored with the balloon; it had become nothing more than an additional piece of furniture.

Until yesterday.

Slowly over time the balloon grew flatter. Just like we all do, as time takes its toll on our outer layers, its skin was no longer tight, it drooped and sagged a bit more with each passing day. Then on Saturday morning we woke to find the balloon resting, weary and exhausted, against that beautiful bouquet of flowers, nearing its death throes.

With this turn of events, the balloon again drew the interest of Tonka and Daisy. What the heck is wrong with that thing? they wondered. Tonka approached the balloon carefully, cautiously, as it was no longer in its lofty perch and was now bobbing wearily into his territory, which posed a problem. The rest of the tale unfolds in the video attached below.

We finally decided to put the balloon out of its misery with a quick poke in the belly. Its job was done; the cheerful design made me happy each time I glanced its way, I am getting well, and the poor, sad balloon needn't be harassed by our crazy dogs any longer.

Surgical Interlude

This weekend Dave and I took the dogs on a drive to our favorite little mountain town, Salida. The weather was hot, the sun was bright, and the river was full of happy people enjoying a dip in the icy rushing waters of the Arkansas River.

For me the trip was much like those last few days of summer before school, a last getaway, a chance to enjoy yourself before the hard work begins anew. Because tomorrow we will rise early in the morning and head to the Denver neurosurgical center where I will undergo spinal fusion surgery.

Over the past six months, I've learned that many people know someone who has gone through this surgery. For the most part, with a few exceptions, the patients have been pleased with the results and had positive outcomes. I am hoping for the same.

When I was first told this might be the last option available to relieve years worth of pain, several somewhat legitimate but irrational fears crossed my mind. What if I don't survive the operation? What if I'm paralyzed? I do understand that my fears have little basis in fact. After all, that's what makes them irrational, isn't it? Nevertheless, I indulged them anyway.

Here's why: My family does not have a good track record in terms of longevity. Two of my closest uncles were lost at age 47 and 53. A cousin died at the young age of 52. My eldest brother passed away shortly after his 55th birthday. In secret, I've long told myself that if I could just get through my fifties, I'd be home free. Then along came this problem and it was decision time. What to do?

Dave reminds me that I do not share the same health and lifestyle issues as my uncles, my cousin, or even my brother. Thankfully Dave is more rational and logical than me. Since he gives more credence to science than emotional arguments and--unlike me--is not prone to overly dramatic interpretations of fact, he is usually able to talk me down from the high ledges I seek when I'm afraid.

So off we go as I begin this surgical interlude in my life, a challenging time between the first act--in which I suffered more than was really necessary--and the future scenes yet to be written.

The past few months have put a dent in my journaling. An unpleasant running commentary has taken control of my thoughts and virtually silenced the writer within. However, my inner wordsmith assures me that once the softly lilting intermission music has ended, she stands at the ready, poised to write the second act. And she is prepared to write scenes for an actor not at all in pain.

Stay tuned…

Up Close and Personal

Just found this picture of our sweet boy Tonka. Dave took it a few months ago but this is the first I'd seen it. How I love this dog! He has such an expressive face and a clever, intense border collie mind. Looking into those eyes makes me want to discover what he's thinking. Talk to me, Tonka.

Tribute to a Friend

Her name was Carol, although at first I knew her only as "Lark" -- a pseudonym she created to conceal her identity online. I met Carol exploring an early version of social networking on AOL. We both shared a passion for computers and were intrigued by this brave new digital world still in its infancy. Carol served as an online mentor to me and we became fast friends. Eventually we decided to meet in real life.

In the southwest suburbs, Carol lived in a small tri-level home she and her husband purchased long ago. Don died at a young age, only 46, leaving her a widow at an equally young age. Their only child, a son, chose a difficult road; he drifted in and out of her life occasionally.

One of the sweetest, most kind and deferential people I have ever met, Carol was not one to put herself in the limelight. She felt more comfortable in the role of counselor, offering common sense advice, lending a sympathetic ear, or providing solace and empathy.

During a difficult year of my life, after losing both my brother and mother, Carol took me under her wing and became a comforting source of support. She confided in me a familiar set of tragedies: the loss of her mother at an early age, plus the dual sorrow of dealing with the unexpected death of her husband on the heels of losing her sister and only sibling to cancer.

Our deepest, most profound conversations took place in her hot tub on the back porch, Celtic music playing in the background, sipping exotic drinks whipped up in a kitchen whose cabinets were painted a lively shade of lime green. Carol was fascinated with European and Celtic culture, extraterrestrials, pagan rituals, and the Druids. She had a special affinity for the natural world.

I enjoyed spending time with Carol, strolling through her gardens, feeding pea pods to her lop-eared rabbit, watching her fingers work a giant loom in the dining room, admiring her latest silk flower creations, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the near-feral cat that moved in constant stealth mode throughout the house.

Carol was thrilled when I met Dave. She found him quite handsome and felt we were well-suited, a good match. As often happens with a new relationship, I spent more time with Dave and less with Carol. In the meantime her life had changed dramatically; she discovered that like her sister, she too had cancer.

Not wanting to burden her friends with the news, a long time passed before she told any of us. The cancer progressed quickly, leaving her partially paralyzed. After a brief stay in a rehabilitation center she returned home; her sister-in-law moved in to help Carol during the last months of her life.

Carol was too weak to visit or talk on the phone as the end neared. I called to wish her happy birthday a week before she died but never had the chance to speak with her. She came to me in a dream about the same time she left this world. Not long after I heard the news that she was gone. According to her wishes, no memorial service was planned, just a small gathering of friends to share stories and raise a toast.

When I first saw her grave marker, I was surprised to see her birth date etched in stone: the nineteenth of August. All those years I believed her birthday was the ninth of August. How silly I felt right then, knowing I called her every year on the wrong day! Still, I smiled to myself. How very like Carol to not correct me, sparing me any embarrassment.

Dear Carol, although you are missed, I want you to know that my memory is long and remains fairly accurate. I'm sharing one of your glamour shots in this journal. I know you felt they were frivolous and extravagant, but I always thought you looked beautiful in them. They captured an essence that maybe you could never see in yourself.

When someone talks about Las Vegas, I'm reminded of our fun-filled whirlwind visit that Memorial Day weekend so many years ago. When I hear the song of a meadowlark, see pictures of Stonehenge, read about crop circles, or listen to Celtic music, I think of you.

Thank you for being such a good friend. Most of all, thank you for sharing your generous heart with so many. I miss you...

Channeling my Mother

A few weeks ago I was clearing up the evening dishes. Distracted by conversation and news coverage, I let the hot water run a bit too long and nearly scalded my hands under the steaming faucet. Without hesitation I hollered out a saying: "Hot! Burn the baby!" then started to laugh.

There I was, channeling my mother again.

When we were little, that was mom's phrase to warn us about hot surfaces or boiling water. "Hot! Burn the baby!" was her way of teaching us to use caution around the stove, coffeepots, toasters, or a sink or bathtub filled with hot water. Even when we were older, she would continue to remind us of impending burns with the same phrase.

Mom used a heaping portion of idioms and colloquialisms in her daily life, with a side order of old wives' tales thrown in for good measure. These phrases were a natural part of her language; she had a saying suitable for nearly every occasion or circumstance.

As I began piecing together this journal, I discovered that I remembered much of the vernacular--some I use to this day--but had lost track of the more obscure bits and pieces that were standard fare in the colorful and interesting expressions used by my family. A quick internet search helped refresh my memory. Some of my all-time favorites are contained in this story.

One of mom's least favorite family members earned the nickname, Old Fuddy-Duddy. I can't imagine why she was like that, except possibly she was one of those people who seemed to get up on the wrong side of the bed nearly every day. However, you wouldn't dare tell the old fuddy-duddy what you really thought of her, because that would surely go over like a lead balloon.

Our neighbors who brought home a color television long before anyone else could afford one were living high on the hog, no doubt due to the fact that the husband had lucked into a new job where he was In Like Flynn. With a seemingly frivolous display of new wealth, the wife was frequently spotted in town all dolled up, prancing around like she was Astor's Pet Horse.

Mom wanted to make sure all of us were careful not to bite off more than we could chew. Apparently dad didn't need to worry about that particular problem because he had a cast iron stomach. Not long after finishing a meal, dad was likely to doze off... sometimes in the midst of a large family gathering. Word has it that he loved to nap so much he was capable of falling asleep on a picket fence.

My oldest brother Rich was often accused of making up cock and bull stories to explain his violation of curfews and other parental rules. Sometimes those stories were wildly fantastic scenarios that included everything but the kitchen sink. Fortunately, they were usually sufficient for him to get off Scot-free.

No one ever worried that middle brother Ted, the most responsible and studious of the bunch, would ever put all his eggs in one basket or lose his head. As such, he was voted most likely to go from rags to riches in his lifetime. Ted could usually be found toiling over his homework or art projects and never wavered from his goals, well, at least not until the cows came home.

Because of my proclivity to question everything and remain skeptical after otherwise acceptable explanations had been presented, mom had long ago dubbed me her Doubting Thomas. In my teenage years she warned against my tendency to go through life with a chip on my shoulder and pointed out that I was guilty of wearing my heart on my sleeve, a problem that plagues me to this day.

In winter, mom would lecture me about leaving the house with wet hair; you're just asking to get sick, she would say with a cluck of her tongue. But should that dry winter air make my palms itch, turns out there was a fifty-fifty chance some money might be coming my way. Unfortunately, I could never seem to remember which palm signified money in and which meant money out.

Many times I heard I was the spitting image of my mother in her younger years. I never could see it until I started getting a bit long in the tooth myself. One thing we do share is our housekeeping philosophy: If you don't have time for a thorough cleaning, just give the house a lick and a promise.

This past winter, Dave and I were at our favorite brewpub enjoying a drink at the bar. All day long my nose had been itching like crazy. As I sat there scratching the tip of my nose, I told Dave that according to my mother, this meant I was about to kiss a fool. Right then Dave leaned over and gave me a great big smooch. I can't remember if my nose stopped itching but I can report that my heart swelled in my chest.

Now, it's entirely possible that I'm pulling your leg about some of these situations. Because although I may remember the lingo, I don't always recall specific instances when they were used.

I bet most people have similar memories. What are your favorites?

Tonka vs. Mr. Ribbits

Tonka has become a little bit obsessed with the motion-activated frog I brought home from work.

On the other hand, Daisy is totally confused and unsure why Tonka seems to lose his mind over something so incredibly annoying.

So tomorrow, Mr. Ribbits is going back to the office, where he may resume his lazy days of peace and solitude.

And then Tonka can get some rest.

The Color of Pain

Kutsuu--the Japanese symbol for pain

Recently my youngest niece took a nasty spill while snowboarding. The Ski Patrol evacuated her from the mountain to a nearby medical center where they determined she had suffered from badly torn ligaments, an injury that will require reconstructive knee surgery. Julie is a resilient and strong young woman; I have no doubt that she will be a trooper throughout her surgery and therapy, and that she will soon find her way back to the sport she loves.

When I heard of Julie's accident, it took me back to an April evening thirty-three years ago when my life changed. Barely 21, I was on my way to meet a friend for a night of dancing when something went terribly wrong. I had some sort of mysterious seizure while driving, and plowed my beautiful new chocolate-brown Camaro right into a tree.

To this day I have no memory of the accident. It took me several months to even remember the events that preceded my ill-fated trip to the local disco parlor. I regained consciousness in the hospital where I found myself hooked up to multiple tubes, a white gauze turban wrapped around my head, ice packs and bandages on my legs and arms, a pair of hand-wringing parents right by my side.

I must have looked quite a sight but insisted I was fine because it didn't hurt all that much. Morphine, I was told, was keeping the pain at bay. Still, since I felt almost no pain, it couldn't be that bad, right? It was then I was told about the damage my body had endured.

The impact had thrown me forward so that the steering column was thrust into the center of my chest, breaking several ribs. My head broke the windshield and I sustained multiple cuts on my skull, an eyelid, and down one cheek. The ashtray sliced my knee open, requiring nearly 100 stitches. Both my right leg and arm were twisted horribly as my body was then propelled backwards, like a blonde Crash Test Dummy, until it landed in an unnatural position between the bucket seats.

No, I was not wearing a seat belt and yes, I realize I would not have been hurt so badly had I done so. Not only was this in the days before mandatory seat belt usage laws, but I was also 21 and as often happens, thought myself invincible.

After three days in the hospital's intensive care unit, I was moved to a regular room. The morphine was taken away and at last I had to face the pain, a sensation with a hue I can only describe as bright, hot, searing red.

My broken ribs produced the worst misery, aggravated and prolonged by the use of crutches. Eventually, slowly, my body began to heal and I was walking again. But I never felt as though I walked correctly, and my back has never been right. Over the years, each new tinge of pain and odd sensation has been absorbed and made part of my new reality. It may take a few weeks to adapt and then on you go, pushing ever forward.

Once many years ago, a massage therapist told me, "Pain must be a beautiful thing, because we have so much of it in our lives." Maybe she was right, I don't know. Personally I could do quite nicely if I were to lose a big chunk of the pain I have acquired since that dark April night.

A new pain arrived on the scene a few years ago and I finally met my match. After acupuncture and chiropractic treatments, physical and massage therapy, and even electronic nerve stimulation, this is one affliction I find myself incapable of incorporating into my world.

Its color is every bit as bright red as the color of pain I remember experiencing in that hospital room long ago. So I have chosen to undergo a radical elective surgery this summer, hoping that it will provide relief.

Pain, the old saying goes, toughens the soul. What I've decided, however, is that I believe my soul is already tough enough.

Say Hello to Daisy

Our newest family member is Daisy, a cattle dog/corgi mix. We adopted her from the Longmont Humane Society.

She's about 4 years old, a sweet little girl but scared of her own shadow!

She loves Tonka a whole bunch and, well, Tonka is still trying to decide if he loves her (not when she steals his favorite toys, that's for sure!).

They are getting along really well so far.

Stay tuned...

In Like a Lion

Let's talk about the weather.

Do you remember having discussions about the weather when you were young? I certainly don't. My parents did, all the time. Now I'm not sure if this is more a function of aging, or if weather-related topics are a passion for some people more than others.

I’ve heard that in distant times the weather was thought to be an easy topic of conversation because it was not at all controversial, a subject you could discuss without fear of inciting rage or riots, acceptable even for delicate feminine sensibilities.

The British people are often accused of having an obsession with weather. Since I seem to have a newfound fascination with weather, I’m guessing some dormant Anglo gene has finally bubbled to the surface. Or maybe it’s nothing more than a deep longing to become a meteorologist.

I'll even admit to enjoying The Weather Channel. I love the maps and charts, and sometimes there’s nothing better than watching a weather reporter share a live story from the scene of Mother Nature’s latest upheaval.

Weather delights abound here in Colorado. I find myself awestruck by the swirling clouds above us, and marvel at the clash of weather events that cause a typical storm cloud to turn a sickly grayish-green color before unleashing a tornado. You might even relish a rare but delightful clap of thundersnow, or be amused by tiny pellets of graupel—a wintry mix of snowflakes that freeze into a softer, squishy version of hail. And winter trees painted a shade of antique white with hoarfrost are incredibly beautiful, magical, bordering on divine.

Yet for the past week what I find rattling around in my head, like so many leaves scattered by a strong March wind, is my own birthday weather tradition sparked by an old English proverb:

If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb.

Edging closer to the end of our shortest month, I look forward wistfully to the forecast for my birthday. Will there be snow? Will it be a warm day? Will this year's birthday come in like a lion, or a lamb?

On Friday, the first day of March 1957, a terrible blizzard roared along the eastern seaboard. Uncle Ted, mom's older brother and a Merchant Marine, was in port and staying with our family. When mom went into labor, Uncle Ted called my father at work to report the news, then headed outside to begin shoveling. And shoveling. And shoveling.

Uncle Ted was panicked. Dad was taking too long getting home and the snow kept falling. He was scared to death, stranded during a blizzard with a woman about to give birth, terrified of being called upon to help with the delivery. What a sight: a tall, strapping, swaggering sailor working up a lather of sweat shoveling wet, heavy snow from the back staircase, down the narrow side walkway, all the way out to the street.

Dad finally arrived, pulled up to the curb and wouldn't you know it? He missed the sidewalk by a few feet. Uncle Ted was furious! Here he had worked frantically to make sure mom had a clear pathway to the car, and she ended up having to step in a snowdrift.

All was well. I was born in the hospital, as planned, and Uncle Ted stayed home to care for my brothers. The next day he visited a niece fresh from the heavens, the first time he had seen a newborn. It was then he confided to his sister that although everyone says men are the stronger sex, after seeing firsthand what a woman could bring into this world he no longer believed that to be true.

Most of my Colorado birthdays seem to have been temperate, seasonal days, with a healthy dose of nasty storms thrown into the mix. Yet sometimes when I recall the blizzard story, I project my thoughts forward and imagine the day I will leave this wonderful place I call home. A warm, sunny, beautiful, mild day it will be, because I am absolutely convinced that I will go...

...out like a lamb.

So each and every boy and girl
Should watch as March comes in;
We'll know the way the month might end
If we know the way it begins.

A Dry Spell

Can't think of a single thing to write about. Well, that's not exactly true. I have thought of a few things but the topics were either pretty boring or completely unworkable. Guess you could say it's been a dry spell for me. Or maybe just the winter doldrums. Or possibly some middle-age thingy. So I've decided instead to share some random pictures, on the off chance someone stops by.

Tonka wasn't very excited about the Super Bowl.

Wonder what kind of resources an extraterrestrial might require?

Found these dolls among my childhood things.
Spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out what they were called.
Answer = Kola Kiddles: Luscious Lime, Olivia Orange, Greta Grape

It's been snowing a lot lately. And it's way too cold. Dave does a good job shoveling.

Here's my family. The stick-figure version, that is.

These trees look like they're hugging.

I miss Raven...

That's all for now. Soon as I can think of something interesting to write about, I'll be back...

Urban Orphan

In southern Colorado is a county named Huerfano, a word that means "orphan" in Spanish. About sixty miles north of the New Mexico border off I-25, you can't miss the county's namesake: Huerfano Butte. This lone volcanic plug lies east of the highway among scattered sagebrush and yucca plants. It seems lonely, lost on the prairie, far removed from the lofty peaks to the west.

Another 150 miles north of Huerfano Butte, a busy, bustling street cuts through the heart of downtown Denver. Broadway is home to our finest old hotel and is one block distant from the city's tallest building. As Denver grew, a good number of its original buildings fell victim to progress, demolished to make way for skyscrapers and modern edifices. But there remain many historical places mixed in among the sterile, gleaming towers of glass.

One such place sits near the corner of 20th and Broadway--busy street in front, light rail train station at the rear, three diminutive stories dwarfed by towering luxury condominiums--an urban orphan far removed from its contemporaries.

Using a configuration common at the time, the exterior walls were designed to make best use of space on a wedge-shaped lot. Looking at the building from the rear it seems unremarkable, plain, with three square sides. But standing at the northwest corner, the triangular walls appear much like the pointed end of a large slice of architectural pie.

It may not have a fascinating background chronicled in newspaper archives. Its facade is not likely to be featured in the western history photographic collection at the Denver Public Library. Yet 1980 Broadway has a past I cannot forget.

Some time after my family moved to the Denver area, my grandfather followed to be near his youngest daughter and son. For a while in the early sixties he lived at 1980 Broadway, where we visited him from time to time. A trip to downtown Denver from our quiet suburb was always an adventure. I remember peering out the car window as we passed buildings no more than four or five stories, inconceivable heights to a little girl used to living in a small ranch-style home.

Even now I can close my eyes and be transported back in time to the boarding house where grampa lived.

Through the front door is the lobby and a dark, smoky sitting area with decrepit furniture, upright piano shoved against the staircase wall. The steep staircase heads straight up one side of the building. Grampa's apartment is at the very top of that dark, forbidding stairwell.

Such a tiny living space! The first thing you see is the sofa bed, then a small table and chair in the corner. Turn left into the tiniest kitchen you could ever imagine, and through another doorway is a bathroom with windows that open onto the most incredible part of his apartment: a fire escape!

My brother and I loved to crawl out the window to that fire escape. Mom and dad would visit with grampa while we indulged ourselves in imaginary New York City-type scenarios on the tiny metal balcony, the likes of which we had never seen before.

Grampa came to live with us before he died. Mom told me that he missed his apartment and the city, where he could walk several blocks to Civic Center Park, meet up with other elderly city dwellers, and talk about the old days while playing checkers.

I'm not sure how this particular building managed to survive Denver's march ever forward and upward. Now it hosts a Budget Rent a Car office, where this week we stopped to visit. The two young women working at the counter were friendly and interested to hear stories about a brief period in the building's history. They told us the upstairs rooms are sealed off, unused and in disrepair. We peered up the dark staircase and saw a mess of cracked, peeling plaster and rickety stairs.

Then came the best part of the day. "Did anyone ever tell you if the building is haunted?" one woman asked. She said that one day she was alone but felt a hand on her shoulder. Another time she witnessed her office chair spinning on its own. Both women have discovered cabinet doors in the back office hanging wide open not long after they were closed.

Whether or not you believe in ghosts as I do, the stories are fun to hear. So I told them my grampa's name, Evan, and said next time something happens... and on the off chance it is him... just say hello.

Now when I pass the building, it won't seem so much like an orphan.

Another New Year

We had a nice, quiet New Year's Eve. Friday was the beginning of a much-needed ten-day vacation for me. Dave has been laughing at my countdown of days until freedom. "One more day!" came the sing-song melody on Thursday morning. That night a perfect glass of wine greeted my arrival home from work.

We celebrated the New Year early Friday afternoon with a drink at our favorite local pub. While we were there, Moscow rang in the New Year so we raised a quick toast. Still many hours remained until 2011 came winging around the globe and bumped right up against Mountain Time.

For dinner I made mom's famous "Square Pizza" -- a Thompson family New Year's Eve tradition from way back when. I have modified the pizza to suit my own taste; Dave can hardly wait until the New Year rolls around again to get this special treat.

This is the before picture...

... and here is the finished product, piping hot from the oven.

Because it was cold and I was bored, I posted these pictures on Facebook. Well, I have to tell you, the pizza pictures garnered more comments than any others in my rather extensive library! I suppose all my friends were in similar situations, home and tucked in warm and snuggly for the night, celebrating in a more virtual fashion. Or maybe they just thought that pizza looked lip-smackin' good!

I lapsed into a peaceful slumber around 9 PM. Dave and Tonka were both fast asleep before me. At midnight we all woke to the sound of fireworks. Several of our neighbors just love fireworks. Really, it's almost ridiculous, you might be treated to fireworks on any random day. They are out there right now, shooting off a few extras. Still, I could not believe they were at it for nearly a half hour in that sub-zero weather!

New Year's Day is time to put away the holiday decorations and reclaim the house. Tonka has been through this Christmas decoration chaos once before. Last year he became obsessed with our two stuffed Rudolphs; he even knows the name "Rudolph." We say, "Where's Rudolph?" and Tonka snaps to attention, staring intently in that border collie way at Little Rudolph, smiling down from his lofty perch on the mantelpiece. Big Rudolph was hidden in a corner this year so he didn't get nearly as much of Tonka's attention. But today Tonka managed to get up close and personal (very personal) with Little Rudolph:

Hey! There's that terrorist reindeer!

Maybe I should just be nice. Hello, Rudolph. Hmm, no response.

Let's try a sniff and... I'm getting nothing here either. What's up with this guy?

Oh no! They've joined forces! What to do?

Note to Tonka: The reindeer are safely tucked away in the attic. You can relax now.

Welcome 2011, I'm looking forward to a bigger, better, brighter tomorrow!