A Middle-Aged Neighborhood

With a young and energetic dog in our midst again, I have forced myself back into a regular walking routine. I became lazy over the past few years. My exercise buddy Raven, our senior dog, had surgery on her leg at about the same time my middle-aged motivation began to wane. Good exercise aside, walking Tonka has also given me a chance to become reacquainted with our little corner of suburbia.

Built in the 1950s, the neighborhood where we live is also middle-aged. Here you find small brick ranch homes situated one after the other on a predictable grid. The developers chose typical suburban street names, one area using only the letter “C” (Cedar, Cherry, Concord, Crescent) and another named after colleges (Auburn, Baylor, Princeton, Rutgers).

When my parents moved from New Jersey to Colorado in 1958, we bunked for a few months in my uncle’s basement just one block east of here. That isn't the reason I chose this area. Instead, a mixed bag of issues related to selling my townhouse and purchasing a single-family home all seemed to converge in this one place.

One of my preferences was to live in an older, established neighborhood. I was ready for some space to dig in and get my hands dirty and boy, did they ever get dirty. A former rental, this house had been neglected for quite some time but I could tell it had good bones. Over the past 14 years it has been transformed from one of the neighborhood dregs to a place that shines with pride of ownership. My early jaunts up and down these suburban streets provided inspiration for home improvement and decorating ideas, as well as guidance about what not to do.

For instance, there is a home a few blocks from here with trim painted a lively Pepto-Bismol pink. Another house sports an ample front porch constructed in thick, beefy craftsman style, not exactly a good match for a mid-century modern brick ranch but otherwise nicely done. At the bottom of the hill someone added a second story over a small, enclosed carport. It looks as if a narrow trailer dropped right out of the sky and landed neatly on top. They painted the second story a mustard color to boot, just in case you didn’t notice the unusual architecture all by itself.

Up near the school live the Denver Broncos fans, complete with “Broncos Fan Parking Only” signs, blue and orange artificial flowers planted in the pots, and a blue lighthouse bedecked with the Broncos logo. A few blocks west a series of separate houses display first an extensive collection of cheerful garden gnomes, then plastic deer cavorting in the yard, then snarling cement lions guarding a front entrance, and finally a flock of pink flamingos looking hopelessly lost and thirsty in this city on the high plains.

We also have more than our fair share of foreclosed homes. You can tell right off, knee-high vegetation in the yard, legal notices stuck to the windows, a sad story behind each door.

Then there is the mystery house, unkempt, curtains perpetually drawn, weeds growing defiantly in an all-rock front yard designed to suppress weeds. On the roof is a large cross, illuminated with white Christmas lights, and three trumpeting angels next to a hand painted wooden sign proclaiming, in blood red paint, “I AM COM…” The final section of wood seems to have broken off but the message is still clear. For me, the house evokes a Stephen King story, Carrie.

My brother and his family live in one of the newer suburbs south of Denver, a community with restrictive covenants. The homes are beautiful, the yards immaculate, but there is a sameness, a planned, safe, boring repetition to it all. Maybe someday I too will choose such a lifestyle. For now, I prefer to dwell among the thirsty flamingos, the Carrie house, and the second story addition that fell from the sky. All these places are interesting in their own way. Together they help define the collective character of our middle-aged neighborhood.

A Haunting Tale

In 1998, my eldest brother Rich was diagnosed with cancer. At the same time, my mother’s health began to take a turn for the worse. She had suffered health problems for quite some time and this particular year she became even more helpless. Dad tried his darnedest to care for her as long as he could. Rich died in late August, less than six weeks before my mother’s death in early October.

My brother Ted and I worried so much about dad. Losing a child is something no parent expects or should ever have to go through, no matter the age. The loss of his wife compounded dad’s agony. She had been his rock, his home, for the better part of his life. Ted and I later revealed that we both secretly felt it would not be much longer until dad joined his beloved wife and son.

Dad had never lived alone. He moved from his parents’ home, to the Civilian Conservation Corps, to his first marriage with Rich’s mother, to the Army infantry in the Philippines during World War II, to a painful divorce and back home with his parents who helped raise his son, then later to his second marriage with my mother. Now he was left to wander an empty house. Dad found the silence, the loneliness, and the profound grief to be overwhelming at times.

Then one day, dad told us a story. It was the middle of the night and as typical, he was reading a book. Mom’s room was next door, a small private room where she kept a desk and an antique maple twin bed. You know the kind, with heavy iron bed rails and four wooden slats spaced evenly apart to support the box spring and mattress. Well that night dad heard a loud “bang” coming from mom’s room. He instinctively called out to the dark house: “Loretta, is that you?”

The next morning dad discovered that one of the slats had fallen out of mom’s bed, as they often did. But in the past this only happened when someone sat on the bed, or possibly when the bed’s occupant turned over while sleeping. Dad was convinced mom had returned.

Over the next several months, he related stories of his experiences in the house. Once he was whittling in the basement when he was sure someone stood right behind him, watching his work. Another time he swore he heard voices. He repeatedly sensed at least one and sometimes two presences in the house. “Makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up,” he told me. At first he was frightened, then he began to engage in one-sided conversations with the visitors. Was there anyone in the house with dad? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter one bit. Real or imagined, dad was comforted by the idea of his wife and son returning to him. He lived another six years, all alone in that house, during which time he spoke to mom and Rich frequently. He was absolutely convinced of their presence.

A few months before dad died, he passed out while shopping at the grocery store. The paramedics took him to the emergency room and I was called to his side. Dad always hated hospitals and had no use for all the fussing and carrying on that occurred in those places. The emergency room doctor said she would be willing to discharge him, provided there would be someone at home with him that night. Dad replied without hesitation: “My wife is there!” Although I knew there was no physical presence in the house, as the doctor expected, I said nothing. My mother’s spiritual presence was good enough for dad; it got him released.

One of my family duties, something mom and I shared in years past, was the responsibility of caring for family graves. After mom died, I visited Fort Logan National Cemetery regularly to bring flowers and decorations. At that cemetery are buried my grandfather, an uncle, my brother, my mother, and now my father too. Before dad died, whenever I visited mom’s grave I talked to her, often blubbering away as I conveyed stories of the events in our lives, both good and bad. Like dad, I believed her spirit was right there with me. Yet not once since dad has been gone have I felt that presence at the cemetery, or anywhere else for that matter. Once they were reunited, I’m certain they left this Earth together. Their grave is now simply a marker to help remind us of the love that has moved from the suburbs of Denver, all the way to the stars.

Introductions

For ten lovely years, Raven has had the good life. She was found as a stray somewhere in Adams County, Colorado, and wound up in county dog prison. A rescue group plucked her from the animal shelter. They told me she was huddled in the corner of her cage, nose to the corner, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone. She apparently had been abused. So they took her to a foster home, gave her some basic obedience skills, but mostly helped build her confidence. By the time I adopted her, she was still scared but a wonderful dog with loads of potential.

It was rough going at first. She dug craters in my flower gardens, and demonstrated an amazing skill for snatching hapless sparrows from the birdbath, leaving their bodies for me to dispose. She also took out a few squirrels that had dropped their guard in pursuit of fallen apples from the tree. I had never lived with a dog that had such a wild streak; it was definitely a challenge. On the plus side, she was the best exercise buddy I ever had, smart, independent, easy to please. After the first six months passed, I realized that I had fallen hopelessly in love with another furry creature, something I was hesitant to do after losing my sweet little Bandit, Raven’s predecessor.

Raven and I lived alone for a year before I met Dave. Much to my delight, Raven shared my love for him. When he was coming over to pick me up for a date I would say, "Where's Dave?" and she would run to the front door to await his arrival. Thank goodness his relationship with her was as good as our own, since I needed someone who could also bond with my beloved pet.

Now Raven is an old lady dog. She struggles with health problems and chances are she will not live more than a year. I have been dreading her loss more than any other. Despite all the craziness during the first couple of years we lived together, or perhaps because of it, she has wiggled her way deeper into my heart than any other dog has managed to go. So I began pestering Dave to get a second dog, in hopes that would help ease the pain when Raven leaves us. He finally agreed.

Enter Tonka, a two-year old rescue found on the eastern plains of Colorado near Lamar. The woman who fostered him said a ditch rider discovered Tonka. The poor dog was thin and covered with fleas. But he was smart, willing to learn, and so eager to please. They turned Tonka over to the Colorado Correctional Industries K-9 Companion Program, where prison inmates train dogs in basic obedience skills. Knowing we wanted to adopt from this particular program, we made arrangements to meet three dogs that seemed to have what we were looking for. In the end, Tonka won our affection.

Introducing these two was my biggest worry. The first few days were difficult as they jockeyed to establish a pecking order. Raven snapped at Tonka every time he came anywhere near. She was not at all amused by this little interloper, with boundless energy and no idea of established protocol in her house. Eventually the tension eased and it turns out she kind of likes the little fellow. We are still not sure who leads in the pecking order. Some days it seems to be Raven, other days I’m positive it’s Tonka.

The transition will be difficult as we take on the long process of helping Tonka adapt to a forever home. It is obvious to me now that adding a second dog will do nothing to keep my heart from breaking when Raven crosses the rainbow bridge. Whenever I think of it, my eyes fill with tears. The best I can hope for is that Tonka will be willing to sit close while I grieve. But what I have learned since he came to us is that my heart has plenty of room for more than one dog. I’ve also learned how much I admire the spirit of these animals whose lives began so badly. That spirit should be a lesson for us all.

The Little Red Truck

a short story written in 1998

Every morning you could find her pacing the streets, up and down, across and back, softly treading the pavement and listening to the early sounds of the day--a bird waking up the babies in its nest, or an errant alarm clock sounding warnings to its sleeping bedside neighbor. She smiled to herself at the thought of a groaning, grumpy person fumbling in the half-light of dawn to find the big snooze button that would interrupt the tortuous sounds signaling another day. She had already been up long before the sun, long before the birds, even before her own alarm clock was jolted from its own digital slumber.

Only one of the morning sounds did she dread, that of newspapers flung through the air, crashing and sliding to their rest somewhere in the driveways or near the front doors of the houses she had already passed. The paper delivery man. Here he comes. The rushing sound of a truck engine speeding up behind her made her wince. Would he throw it in front of her this time, or in back of her? A sudden whoosh of paper slicing the air not more than a foot shy of the back of her head answered the question. She heard the driver cackle as he drove on to the next house, tapping the brake of his little red truck briefly, left arm jutting out the window, then on to the next, and the next, and the next. But this time, the truck's rear lights blinked at her slowly... quickly... slowly... as if in morse code. "That was odd," she said out loud and to no one in particular.

The next morning she started earlier. It promised to be a hot day, and she preferred to walk in the cool shadows of the dawn. Along the third street of her journey, she spied the little red truck parked alongside a creepy, dank, unfriendly looking house. This must be where he lives, the evil newspaper delivery guy. She patted the truck on its hood and said softly, "You poor thing." Continuing up the sidewalk, fingers tracing along its side, suddenly the bed of the truck lifted and plopped itself in front of her, not allowing her to pass. I'm losing my mind, she thought!

Her eyes held shut tightly, she backed up--slowly guiding herself along the smooth silky surface of the truck, returning to its front, where she opened her eyes and looked. Again, it was parked properly, all four tires on the street as before. She squatted in front of the grill, peered deeply into one headlight, then the other.

Then the truck spoke, the front grills separating and moving in a manner similar to a person's lips. "Please lady, I know you understand me. Please can you help me find another life? I'm a young truck. I have so much power, so much potential. All I do is drive up and down the wrong side of the street with this goofball, or occasionally to the liquor store or McDonald's or Arby's or Burger King and back. I want to do something more meaningful. You're the only one who can help me."

She found herself five minutes later, stunned, sitting on the asphalt, legs stretched out in front of her, staring at the now-silent truck.

Her dreams that night were fitful, but oddly enough one dream mapped out for her a different route for her walk. She was pleased to venture out in a different direction the next day, fearful of another encounter with the mysterious truck. Halfway through the walk, she again found her way blocked by another little red truck, whose owner had parked it partially in the street, partially on the tiny sidewalk. This truck was different through: much older, banged up and dented everywhere, covered in dirt, one tire nearly bald and almost flat, squeezed against the curb and suffering.

"Boy, what happened to you?" she mentioned as she passed. The truck wheezed and coughed in black smoke its reply, "Oh please help me. I can't take it any more. He just keeps making me work and work and work. I pull vehicles out of the mud and snow drifts. I carry refrigerators and washers and dryers all over town. Every time someone moves, I have to help carry their smelly heavy old junk in 17 consecutive loads from point A to point B. Then in the summer, he loads me up with new sod or sand and gravel or lava rock or endless bags of crushed aluminum cans. I'm old and tired. I want to retire and sit in a driveway somewhere. I know you can hear me. Please nice lady?"

She sat on the curb, head in hands, wondering how difficult it might be to locate the phone number of the State Hospital for the Insane.

That night her dreams brought her a recipe. She awoke, ready to hit the streets earlier than ever before.

First, she traipsed over to the canal, where she cut off long stalks from the willow bushes with her trusty little pocket knife, sat down and pulled off the leaves one by one, then twisted the naked branches into a wreath that fit the crown of her head perfectly. Next was a short journey to the children's park, and with a few quick slashes and a little digging she obtained the blue plastic bridle from a kid's spring-loaded bouncy horse. And finally, she visited a graveled parking lot, where she pocketed 17 small, smooth, round river rocks.

Her odd conglomeration of possessions in tow, she made her way to the old red truck. The headlights came on when she arrived, dim but blinking with all the excitement of a little old man who had just spied a brand new Sports Illustrated magazine on a park bench.

She bent down near the grill, whispered a secret message to the truck, placed the willow crown on her head and slipped the plastic bridle onto the truck's front bumper. Her hands waved in a circle above her head, once, twice, three times, then she turned and hurried away.

Good, she was early enough! Again she whispered her secret magical words to the pretty brand new little red truck, crown of willows still intact on her head, and laid out the rocks one at a time in the shape of a triangle in front of the truck. Waving her hands, she exclaimed "One two three!" and closed her eyes for exactly three minutes.

When she opened her eyes, the rocks were gone. The shiny new truck sat silently in front of her, a blue plastic bridle stuck on its bumper. She went home and slept all day long, not dreaming once.

The next morning on her walk, she heard the delivery truck behind her. Swooshhhh, thwaapppp, shoooshhhhh went the newspapers sliding into home plate.

The pretty little red truck barreled up behind her, but she didn't stop or flinch this time. It sputtered, coughed, belched out a bit of black smoke and came to a rest behind her. She heard the driver cursing, turning the engine, and was almost certain there was the sound of a old man's giggle from inside the truck's deepest parts. She reached the end of the block, and turned the corner safely without a newspaper landing anywhere near her. The truck rattled on, lurching, belching, giggling.

Later that day, she came upon the old truck, heaving, pulling, RPMs sounding wildly as it struggled to remove a beige Pontiac that apparently made a right turn instead of a left and landed, embarrassed, smack dab in a muddy ditch. She watched and cheered silently until the car emerged safely. She winked at the grungy old truck, with the heart and soul of a brand new shiny little red truck, and went on her merry way. She heard a little toot from its horn. It sounded so happy, and so was she.

-- The End --

Dazed and Confused: An Obit

March 17, 2042
The Denver Post

Debbie / Deb / Deborah (take your pick, she answered to anything) grew up as a bewildered little girl, famous in a family full of obsessive-compulsive talkers as the one who "wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful." Over time she learned to cuss a blue streak. In fact, "shit" was her favorite curse word.

As a freshman in high school, Debbie found herself in a beginning typing class with her perfect, personable, straight-A-student older brother. This marked the first time in her life she discovered something she could do that her brother simply could not manage. A light bulb went off, and thus sprang forth Deb's illustrious career as a word processor, secretary, administrative assistant or office manager... pretty much any kind of job where it was vitally important that you crank out shit on a keyboard, and do it fast. Oh yeah, 112 wpm, no errors. You heard right.

In 1976, while cruising 16th Street in downtown Denver, Deb met and fell in love with a shaggy-haired salmon and crab fisherman from Alaska. This handsome young man with the exotic far-away life promised to love her forever, but instead broke her heart into a million tiny pieces. She then embarked on a years-long mission to determine how many other men she could lure into treating her even more badly than her first love. Not surprisingly, it was a rousing success. During those years, Deb enjoyed plenty of rum-n-Cokes with tequila shots, dug smoking pot while eating Doritos with M&Ms on the side, and especially loved dancing to music by Donna Summer, the Bee Gees, and Earth Wind & Fire. (Hey, it was the seventies.)

Growing weary of life in the fast lane, she eventually chose the grown-up approach to life and bought a townhome while simultaneously adopting an emotionally unstable, hairy black puppy. Along the way--in between typing faster and faster and moving into the corps of elite PC drones--Deb traded up to a sorry looking fixer-upper home and adopted another nutty, hairy black dog, seemingly cementing her future as a lonely spinster surrounded by quirky dogs and loads of dog hair.

In her mid-forties, a calm, quiet man from the internet appeared in her life, a fellow with freckles and strawberry blonde hair who didn't treat her badly and really liked her dog. This turn of events left her confused, bewildered, even frightened a little bit. So she married him, and they lived out the rest of their lives lovingly pestering one another while traveling, adopting more dogs (each one nuttier than the last), and purchasing one last fixer-upper home.

Deborah Ann enjoyed reading, loved to write silly stories and poetry, and spent much time contemplating the "what-ifs" of a dazed and confused life. After much consideration, she finally set an important goal for her golden years: to outlive her father, who died four days shy of his 85th birthday.

Born during a blizzard on March 1, Debbie died on a warm, sunny day, March 14, aged 85 years and 14 days. Her last words were rumored to be, "Holy shit, I did it."