Fatherly Foliage

The year my father died was the same year my brother turned fifty. Although dad was always generous with his grandkids, he was a bit stingy with me and my brothers most of our adult lives. Dad figured we should fend for ourselves; he did not want to encourage any lingering parental dependency.

That changed as he grew older.

My brother's family planned a surprise birthday party for Ted's fiftieth. Dad--who never was much for parties unless they were happening at his house--declined the party invitation. Instead, he asked me to deliver a birthday gift: a card with an envelope containing five one-hundred dollar bills. When Ted opened it, he was so surprised.

The weekend before my birthday, less than two months later, I was at dad's house helping with a few chores when he handed me an envelope with the words "Happy-Birthday-Debbie" penciled on the front (dashes between words was dad's signature way of writing). In it I found five one-hundred dollar bills.

I protested, thinking it was too much money to lavish on someone having an ordinary birthday, especially coming from a parent living on a tiny fixed income. I suggested he wait, maybe another two years when I turned fifty. Dad gave his typical response, "I don't think I'll be around that long."

For years, everyone in our family had listened to dad anticipate his demise, which by his reckoning was sure to occur at any moment. In his fifties and early sixties, dad repeated his wish to achieve one last milestone: collect his first Social Security check. Once that occurred, he could promptly expire a happy, fulfilled man. Sure enough, he did collect that first check, followed by more than twenty years of continued benefits.

Dad insisted I take the money as a birthday gift. A few weeks later, he was gone.

So I used some of that birthday money to plant a tree in his memory. We had already discussed replacing the back yard apple tree we recently removed. Now the tree-planting served a higher purpose.

A maple tree is what I had in mind, and we found a lovely specimen at my favorite plant paradise, Paulino Gardens. The tree we chose was a Deborah Norway Maple, a perfect fit!

That tree was no more than ten feet tall, splindy but healthy. In seven years' time it has spread and grown into a beautiful shade tree that I adore.

Following dad's death, my sweet neighbor gave me another gift of remembrance, a beautiful yellow rosebush. That bush is planted near the maple tree, next to a commemorative stone where the yellow rose petals land after the blooms are finished showing off.

Surrounding the rosebush are clumps of purple irises, the offspring of a plant that once lived in mom's garden. Dad gave me the iris tubers when I first bought my home seventeen years ago. They spread like wildfire and brighten up several gardens each spring.

This year the irises were exceptionally pretty and fragrant. The rosebush is covered with bright yellow blooms that give off a sweet licorice scent. And the maple tree has grown so big and strong, a family of birds christened it with a brand new nest in the upper branches.

I am so grateful to have inherited my father's green thumb, as well as his love for plants and gardening. It has served me well.

Thanks, dad.

Olympic Dog Napping

Sabbatical

East Butte at Pawnee Buttes, Colorado

Having a bit of trouble engaging my brain in writing exercises at the moment, so I'm calling it a "sabbatical" (because that sounds so fancy, doesn't it?).

Should anyone stop by, I hope you will take the time to read some of my journals. Thanks for visiting.

Canine Joy

Tonka and Daisy
at the Arkansas River near Nathrop, Colorado
September 2011

Personal Holiday

HHS Graduation Day, May 29, 1975
(photo courtesy of George Scott)

After graduating high school in May 1975, my parents allowed me one last slacker summer before I began a lifetime of work. That year I spent the months of June and July doing, well, pretty much nothing. It was great.

Then along came August, time to knuckle down. It didn’t take long to find a job. Soon I was hired part-time at Diners Club in the microfilm department, making a whopping $2.10 per hour.

Not long after I was promoted into a full-time position researching stray payments, those checks with little or no identification, to determine whose account would be credited. At this point my pay spiked to $2.30 per hour. I was rich!

A couple of months later, I transferred into the word processing center. Three of us were isolated in a small glass-enclosed soundproof room with our mag card machines. Do you remember those? Mag card machines were basically a souped-up version of the IBM Selectric typewriter, with the capability of storing your work on a magnetic card until you were ready to let the words fly. All you had to do was press a button and voila! the machine would replay all of your keystrokes. We really fancied ourselves on the cutting edge of technology.

The majority of our work consisted of sending out thousands of form letters, mainly credit card application rejections. I was determined to be the most prolific word processor in the history of word processors (a new profession, granted, so probably an easy “A”). In this position we sometimes spent an entire day doing nothing but typing names and addresses, over and over and over. Occasionally we were slowed down by bizarre handwriting or by an applicant who failed to include their ZIP code on their application. Now you'd have to stop, pull down the big ZIP code directory stored above your desk, and look up the address.

Sometimes the addresses weren't in the big book. When that happened, we were told to use the general ZIP code for the applicant's city. Over time, we started to memorize those general codes. “What’s Minneapolis?” one person would shout above the racket. “55401,” another would reply. To be honest, sometimes we just wanted to keep the rhythm going and didn’t even bother to look up the address. Because you’d no sooner turn around and there would be another stack of a thousand rejected applications, ready for a letter.

The company was located miles away at the Denver Tech Center, quite a distance from the northern suburbs. I didn't mind. I enjoyed driving, and back then a commute through metro Denver was not the nightmare it is today. I loved the freedom and the responsibility, and especially loved having enough income to buy my very own car: an avocado green Chevelle with loads of horsepower.

In 1975, Interstate 225—which skirts the eastern edge of the metro area—was still under construction. It ended at South Yosemite, a few exits shy of its goal. I would avoid the Valley Highway traffic and sneak out from I-270 to I-70 and then onto I-225. Once I discovered this “back way” to the Denver Tech Center, I loved my commute.

The Denver Tech Center began its life in the early 1970s. Diners Club headquarters was located in a low brick building on the southern tip of the DTC, a little bit north of Orchard Road. I often sat outside at lunchtime, and remember seeing nothing but prairie as far south as the bluffs rising alongside the highway on the northern edge of Douglas County. This scenic area, where once a thriving cattle ranch existed, has since been transformed into a suburban sea of homes. And the last time I was in the DTC, I could no longer find that old building. I'm sure it's there somewhere, dwarfed by the glimmering high rise buildings.

Anyway, this rather meandering story began as a way to commemorate my favorite holiday, a personal holiday of sorts. You see, my job at Diners Club had few perks, but one thing that stood out was what I considered the best benefit offered to employees: a bonus holiday in celebration of your birthday. This proved to be quite a revelation for me.

After that, no matter where I worked, my birthday tradition has been to take the day off. Oh sure, I'll admit a few times I may have called in "sick" (cough, sniffle, cough) but mostly I have been up front with my employers and told them, listen, I just don't want to work on my birthday. Most have been agreeable.

And now, thirty-six-and-a-half years later, today is no exception. I’ve grown quite tired of working but am still grateful for another personal holiday. So thank you, Diners Club, for the annual inspiration.

Hmmm, what shall I do this year?

Traffic Jam

Tonka frequently hogs the doggy door, especially when it's rainy or cold and snowy (he's a sissy about going outside in bad weather). Daisy loves the snow but she's usually the one stuck in back.

This morning she seemed unfazed by the traffic jam. More often she will either nip at his legs or pace around behind him whining loudly until his butt moves out of the way, at least enough for her to squeeze through.

Sometimes I think he does this just to bug her...

Senses

Three-thirty in the morning, my bleary eyes open slightly. Behind the blinds is a soft yellowish-white muted light, as if a lantern were glowing just there, beyond the darkness, inviting me to come see.

Snow, lots of it. This storm is expected to be a doozy. We’ll see.

I peer outside and marvel at the silent scene before me. The wind is blowing--not the destructive, gale force winds we huddled through over the past month--but enough wind to make the snow swirl silently from the eaves, performing a mesmerizing snow-dance in the air before settling atop the drifts below. Silence is my companion here in the light/dark of the night/morning, where the stormy darkness is illuminated by reflected city lights on thick clouds, busily pelting out a miniature blizzard.

Only three days ago it was warm, sunny, breezy--partly spring. I walked the park trail near work, after hooking myself up to an artificial source of music in hopes of drowning out the industrial city sounds surrounding this little pocket park.

It didn’t work, at least not entirely. My feet thumped on the sidewalk with a cadence to match the tune blaring between my ears: “Everybody’s talkin’ at me, can’t hear a word they’re saying…” and here comes a person walking straight toward me. I smile and keep walking past, faster now. Crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch, is that really a sound I hear above the music? Or is it merely the sensation of gravel beneath my feet, having left the hard cement for the more natural feel of rhythmic walking on the unfinished portion of the trail.

The two ponds are still frozen in the center. A pair of geese squat on the thin ice, sleeping. Two squirrels run clickety-clack up the side of a huge cottonwood tree, one chasing the other ever upward with repeated chattering noises, so loud that the squirrel noises infiltrate the earbuds, providing a high-pitched backdrop to the next tune: "American woman, stay away from me..." Are those squirrels fighting or courting, I wonder silently to myself.

Off in the distance across the southern pond I spy a couple with a shepherd dog walking toward a single fellow, trying in vain to control an unruly puppy. The dogs greet, jump, sniff, then tangle one another in leashes, spinning and yipping with delight. Yes, I can hear this as well, above the chords strumming behind the words inside. “Well I keep on thinkin’ ‘bout you, Sister Golden Hair surprise…” come the words in my head but what my ears really latch onto is the sound of dogs laughing, joyful creatures caught up in exactly that split second of warmth and camaraderie and a right-now moment that is even more perfect than the last. Oh to be a dog.

My nose is running and I clear my throat, having reached the section of trail where the walk turns head-on into the breeze. It seems more bracing, stronger than it was on the first turn around the twin ponds. The coolness hits my face; my hair swirls about this way and that. I reach to brush it aside, latch it behind my ears, but it swipes my face again and again and again.

I return to the present moment, in front of the window, and find myself twirling a chunk of tousled hair between my fingers as I watch the snow dance around then down, down, down.

"How much snow so far?" he asks from behind me.

"About a foot."

Square Pizza

The finished product

Square Pizza is a New Year's Eve Thompson family tradition, which my mom started years ago. She made only cheese pizza--no extra toppings--but I have changed it over the years to suit my own taste.

As kids, on New Year's Eve we were so excited at the prospect of being legally allowed to stay up past our normal bedtime. Dad would play his records and sing along as best he could (if he couldn't remember the words, he would just make them up). Occasionally he would swoop into the kitchen and try to entice mom into an impromptu dance. Sometimes she played along, other times she would respond with a terse: "Dick, for God's sake I'm trying to cook here!"

Later mom would let us have a drink, a Sloe Gin Fizz. This consisted of a very large plastic cup filled with 7-Up, mixed with a teeny tiny capful of sloe gin. Boy did we ever feel grown up.

Close to midnight we would assemble at the front door. Sometimes the weather was awful and we would abandon our outdoor celebrations in favor of indoor noisemaking. Mostly I recall evenings with biting cold and not much in the way of snow. Coats and hats and gloves would be donned over our pajamas, snowboots if necessary. Then my brother and I would jostle and push each other to be the first out the door. You see, the winner would be the lucky one who got to sit in the driver's seat of our white 1966 Plymouth Fury and honk the horn. The loser was stuck banging on the pots and pans mom had selected for their unique tonal quality.

Mom had this obnoxious cowbell. She didn't like going outside in the cold weather, so she usually hung out the front door clanging that thing endlessly.

After having one too many beers and singing one too many songs, dad was typically fast asleep on the couch long before midnight.

Nowadays the New Year arrives without much fanfare. We are early risers and go to bed equally early. Sometimes I'll get up at midnight to watch our crazy neighbors shoot off those ever-present fireworks.

Welcome 2012. Please be kind and please, cut us a little slack. We could sure use it. Thank you.

To make your very own Square Pizza, you'll need:

• 2 packages of pizza crust mix (6.5 oz.)
• 1 jar of pizza sauce (14 oz.)
• about 40-50 pepperonis
• one large green pepper, chopped
• 1 8-oz. package of Italian Four Cheese Blend, or similar grated cheese

Spray a rectangle cookie sheet with cooking spray. The size I use is 16"x10" and about 1.5" deep. I prefer to make my Square Pizza in a deep dish variety, that's why I use two pizza crust mixes.

Prepare the pizza crust mix according to package directions. When it is in a nice round ball, drizzle about a tbsp. of cooking oil over the top and roll the ball in the oil. Cover the mixing bowl and leave it on top of the oven for about 5-10 minutes while the oven is heating up.

Before

Knead the dough a bit and then spread it out, making sure to pull the crust up on all four sides of the pan. Pour on the pizza sauce. Add the pepperoni and green pepper (or whatever toppings you choose). Cover the entire pie with cheese.

Bake at 425 degrees for 25 minutes. Let the pie cool about 5 minutes before cutting. Makes about 8 pieces.

Note: even though the pan is not "square" the slices usually are...

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!