Off to College
My oldest daughter is about to head off for college. I get asked a lot, “are you just devastated?” or “oh, I’ll bet you’ll cry won’t you?” Up until a year ago, I’d have laughed both of those off with a rallying cry of “no way. I’m so excited for her. I’ll be happy for both of us.”
But sometime last year I ran into a friend at Starbucks, who I would have gauged to be as sensible a parent as myself. She was stirring her coffee, gazing into space. I said “Hi Robyn. What’s up?” She sighed, and said she’d just seen her son off to college after his winter break. I assumed my usual cheerfulness and inquired after where he was going, and how it was going. She slowly turned her gaze back to me, and said “it’s so hard to see him go.” We talked a bit and I learned that she had been as excited to have him have his college adventures as I am for my daughter, but the reality of his leaving home, and the reality of those emotions threw her for a loop. She was happy for him, but deeply touched by his absence. I thought a lot about that over the coming months.
As my own daughter’s senior year approached, i found myself in a delicate balance of joyful anticipation and respectful consideration. I knew that I couldn’t know how I’d feel when she actually had moved away, but I could pay close attention to this, her senior year and treasure it and be conscious of it. And that’s what I did.
This year has been great. We’ve done things together, just she and I, and she and her sister and I. I don’t beg her to stay home ever, as her achieving independence is exactly what she should be doing, but I make myself available to her whenever she wants to hang out. I am making a conscious effort to treasure this particular chapter of the book. After all, this is still part one; the part where she lives at home.
I am thrilled that she found a college that she’s excited about. I love that she’s ready to move on. Will I be sad? Of course. Will I cry. Most likely. Will I gaze into space while stirring my coffee at Starbucks after winter break is through? Who knows. But I do know that I am ready to read the next series of chapters in this book. And now, she’s writing it on her own. What fun.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
My 1st 4th of July, PacPal
Believe it or not, what sold me on Pacific Palisades, 15 years ago, wasn’t driving at sunset, seeing the Pacific on a pristine view day. It was driving down Sunset on the days preceding the 4th of July and seeing all the chairs set out on the curbs. We were looking for a home, and I’d thought I wanted to live in Westwood. It seemed more central, if a bit vehicularly dense. But our realtor told us what a village-like feeling “the Palisades” had, and that was appealing. The simple act of residents leaving their beach chairs on the curb for the local parade suggested a small town feeling unequalled in what I knew of Los Angeles. Equally small townish was reading the Palisadian Post “2 cents column” later and finding out what a controversy those chairs were. But it was what zinged me at first sight.
Our first year as residents, we did it all. Starting at about 8 a.m. we strolled down to the park with our 3-year old daughter Alice to catch the exciting race finishes. I could hear the announcer from the time we left our house up in the Alphabets. Festive bunting was strung across the finish line while sweaty, proud men, women and children in their race T-shirts crossed it to cheers and photoflashes. Quite the excitement.
After a patriotic brunch at home, (featuring my ubiquitous flag design cheese cake), our family and friends meandered down the car-and-carefree streets towards Sunset to watch the parade. I pictured the musical “The Music Man” where one by one, two by two, neighbors join the procession walking down the street. We found our chairs just where I’d parked them the day before. I’m a pretty strategic advanced thinker, so by the time the parade started at 2, our chairs were nicely positioned in the shade, to the relief and admiration of my guests. The kids were on the curb. They seemed to get a little thrill from darting out onto the big empty boulevard to drool over the street vendors’ wares. I later learned not to buy trumpets and silly string. Rookie mistake. Being rookies, we’d missed the parachute crew, but we figured, there’s always next year. And the year after that, and another year after that.
I was delighted to see our honorary mayor Anthony Hopkins riding in his convertible. Just as impressive were the tykes on bikes. Seeing those kids motivated me to teach Alice to ride. Years later, when we were part of the biking group ourselves, I heard her say, “Mom you’re embarrassing me” for the very first time. She was 9. She didn’t like my being loud and waving. Of course, that was only the first of many such declarations of embarrassment to come. I’ll always associate it with our 4th of July parade. But, It’s all good.
We returned home, waving our four-inch American flags, to recharge the batteries. Then around six, we headed out to the bluffs for a backyard BBQ at our new friends’ house. Eating is good on the 4th of July. (Maybe I should think about running in the race one year?)
I then parted company with hubby and child to bicycle to the high school and meet some other friends on the field for the fireworks. Alice, at the time, was frightened by the sound of fireworks, so Jeff offered to stay home with her. I naively thought I could find my friends easily. By the time I got there, all I could see was a blanket of people from the goal post to the far 30-yard line. That’s a lot of people. By some miracle, and not a cell phone, I spotted my group. We were enjoying the anticipation of being right under the fireworks display. I love fireworks. Growing up, as I did, five minutes from Disneyland, I was accustomed to seeing nightly summer fireworks from my bedroom window. I consider fireworks to be my own little personal connection with the fantastic.
Just as the lights were starting to dim, who showed up but Jeff and Alice! She had decided to try the fireworks after all. But after one boom, she slammed her little trembling body into my arms and begged to go home. Jeff gamely rode her home, on his bike no less, singing her favorite songs loudly and distractingly. He told me later that she was laughing as they neared home. (Of course, I was down on the field worrying that she’d be traumatized for life).
At the end of the fireworks show, I stood there, amongst the disassembling crowd, savoring the Mayberry feeling. These were all my new neighbors. And we’d just spent the whole day together. This was going to be good.
Our first year as residents, we did it all. Starting at about 8 a.m. we strolled down to the park with our 3-year old daughter Alice to catch the exciting race finishes. I could hear the announcer from the time we left our house up in the Alphabets. Festive bunting was strung across the finish line while sweaty, proud men, women and children in their race T-shirts crossed it to cheers and photoflashes. Quite the excitement.
After a patriotic brunch at home, (featuring my ubiquitous flag design cheese cake), our family and friends meandered down the car-and-carefree streets towards Sunset to watch the parade. I pictured the musical “The Music Man” where one by one, two by two, neighbors join the procession walking down the street. We found our chairs just where I’d parked them the day before. I’m a pretty strategic advanced thinker, so by the time the parade started at 2, our chairs were nicely positioned in the shade, to the relief and admiration of my guests. The kids were on the curb. They seemed to get a little thrill from darting out onto the big empty boulevard to drool over the street vendors’ wares. I later learned not to buy trumpets and silly string. Rookie mistake. Being rookies, we’d missed the parachute crew, but we figured, there’s always next year. And the year after that, and another year after that.
I was delighted to see our honorary mayor Anthony Hopkins riding in his convertible. Just as impressive were the tykes on bikes. Seeing those kids motivated me to teach Alice to ride. Years later, when we were part of the biking group ourselves, I heard her say, “Mom you’re embarrassing me” for the very first time. She was 9. She didn’t like my being loud and waving. Of course, that was only the first of many such declarations of embarrassment to come. I’ll always associate it with our 4th of July parade. But, It’s all good.
We returned home, waving our four-inch American flags, to recharge the batteries. Then around six, we headed out to the bluffs for a backyard BBQ at our new friends’ house. Eating is good on the 4th of July. (Maybe I should think about running in the race one year?)
I then parted company with hubby and child to bicycle to the high school and meet some other friends on the field for the fireworks. Alice, at the time, was frightened by the sound of fireworks, so Jeff offered to stay home with her. I naively thought I could find my friends easily. By the time I got there, all I could see was a blanket of people from the goal post to the far 30-yard line. That’s a lot of people. By some miracle, and not a cell phone, I spotted my group. We were enjoying the anticipation of being right under the fireworks display. I love fireworks. Growing up, as I did, five minutes from Disneyland, I was accustomed to seeing nightly summer fireworks from my bedroom window. I consider fireworks to be my own little personal connection with the fantastic.
Just as the lights were starting to dim, who showed up but Jeff and Alice! She had decided to try the fireworks after all. But after one boom, she slammed her little trembling body into my arms and begged to go home. Jeff gamely rode her home, on his bike no less, singing her favorite songs loudly and distractingly. He told me later that she was laughing as they neared home. (Of course, I was down on the field worrying that she’d be traumatized for life).
At the end of the fireworks show, I stood there, amongst the disassembling crowd, savoring the Mayberry feeling. These were all my new neighbors. And we’d just spent the whole day together. This was going to be good.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Hanukah By The Book
as printed by the Palisadian Post in December 2010
Hanukah by the Book
We had a tradition when I was growing up that we would get a present each night of Hanukah. My Mother would ask us if we wanted a big, small or medium present. Nothing was extravagant, just enough giving to last 8 nights, like the oil that spawned the holiday.
So, one night, (I think I was seven), after we’d lit the candles, I asked for a medium sized gift. I remember unwrapping my flattish package and turning it over to see that it was a book. I quickly announced with childish agony, “THIS ISN’T A PRESENT. IT’S A BOOK!”. Oh, what had I done? After I was informed that my response was both ungracious and rude, I was sent to my room for the remainder of the evening. I think there might have been some yelling involved.
What thoughts must have gone through my parents’ minds that night! “Oy vey Naomi, we’re raising an illiterate,” my Father must have said to my Mother. “We take her to bookstores everywhere, we have over 7,000 volumes of every genre on our bookshelves. We read every night after dinner. We had her read “Eloise” and “Winnie the Pooh” to us. She CAN read. What does this mean?” I don’t think my mother could have consoled him. It was a tragedy in the making!
In my room, I ruminated. What had I done? Was it really so wrong? I didn’t like reading. I liked playing and swimming and Barbies and,,,,, TV. I didn’t even like that all my family ever wanted to do was sit around and read. It made me crazy that my older sister would sit in the chair right in front of the TV and read and not watch. I couldn’t talk to her about what Dr. Kildare had just done to his patient. She wasn’t paying attention.
As Mom always did, after sending me to my room, she eventually came in to talk to me. I wasn’t too open to conversation. She calmly explained that even if I hadn’t liked the present, I should have thanked them anyway. To reject it so instantly was the zenith of impoliteness. “Why don’t we read it together” she suggested, “and then you can decide if you like it or not.” I recall not agreeing, but obviously, I heard her.
Well, here we are some 40+ years later and I’ve come to terms with it all. I finally read “Mr. Poppers Penguins.” (I realize many of you will gasp to think I wouldn’t want to read that particular classic) when my oldest daughter was in a production of it at Pali Elementary. It was cute; the play and the book.
And, what do I find now in my youngest daughter? Lean in and I’m going to whisper this, she doesn’t like to read. You know what? That’s ok. It kills a little bit, but what can you do? You can’t force someone to like what they don’t like when they don’t like it.
Eventually, I learned to love reading. It started with a love of biographies. (Probably because I’m so nosy). That evolved into historical fiction, drama and the rest. I think the only kind of book I still don’t like is science fiction. And so it might be with my daughter. I still buy her books, for Hanukah. And I expect her to be polite, even if she has no plans to read them. I don’t have 7000 volumes in my house, but I have a lot. And one of them is the 47 year old copy of “Mr. Poppers Penguins”.
Hanukah by the Book
We had a tradition when I was growing up that we would get a present each night of Hanukah. My Mother would ask us if we wanted a big, small or medium present. Nothing was extravagant, just enough giving to last 8 nights, like the oil that spawned the holiday.
So, one night, (I think I was seven), after we’d lit the candles, I asked for a medium sized gift. I remember unwrapping my flattish package and turning it over to see that it was a book. I quickly announced with childish agony, “THIS ISN’T A PRESENT. IT’S A BOOK!”. Oh, what had I done? After I was informed that my response was both ungracious and rude, I was sent to my room for the remainder of the evening. I think there might have been some yelling involved.
What thoughts must have gone through my parents’ minds that night! “Oy vey Naomi, we’re raising an illiterate,” my Father must have said to my Mother. “We take her to bookstores everywhere, we have over 7,000 volumes of every genre on our bookshelves. We read every night after dinner. We had her read “Eloise” and “Winnie the Pooh” to us. She CAN read. What does this mean?” I don’t think my mother could have consoled him. It was a tragedy in the making!
In my room, I ruminated. What had I done? Was it really so wrong? I didn’t like reading. I liked playing and swimming and Barbies and,,,,, TV. I didn’t even like that all my family ever wanted to do was sit around and read. It made me crazy that my older sister would sit in the chair right in front of the TV and read and not watch. I couldn’t talk to her about what Dr. Kildare had just done to his patient. She wasn’t paying attention.
As Mom always did, after sending me to my room, she eventually came in to talk to me. I wasn’t too open to conversation. She calmly explained that even if I hadn’t liked the present, I should have thanked them anyway. To reject it so instantly was the zenith of impoliteness. “Why don’t we read it together” she suggested, “and then you can decide if you like it or not.” I recall not agreeing, but obviously, I heard her.
Well, here we are some 40+ years later and I’ve come to terms with it all. I finally read “Mr. Poppers Penguins.” (I realize many of you will gasp to think I wouldn’t want to read that particular classic) when my oldest daughter was in a production of it at Pali Elementary. It was cute; the play and the book.
And, what do I find now in my youngest daughter? Lean in and I’m going to whisper this, she doesn’t like to read. You know what? That’s ok. It kills a little bit, but what can you do? You can’t force someone to like what they don’t like when they don’t like it.
Eventually, I learned to love reading. It started with a love of biographies. (Probably because I’m so nosy). That evolved into historical fiction, drama and the rest. I think the only kind of book I still don’t like is science fiction. And so it might be with my daughter. I still buy her books, for Hanukah. And I expect her to be polite, even if she has no plans to read them. I don’t have 7000 volumes in my house, but I have a lot. And one of them is the 47 year old copy of “Mr. Poppers Penguins”.
How the heck can you get into college?
As printed in the Palisadian Post in March 2011
College Today
If I was going to college today, I don’t know if I could get into college today. In the freshman profile of several top tier schools, over 90% admitted seem to come from the top 10% of their graduating classes. Where do the other 90% go I wonder?
When I was going to school, the goal was to get good grades (B or above) in college prep classes. The standards for the University of California system placed you in relatively good stead for just about any university in the country. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not so old that there were no additional criteria needed. We certainly did things that would “look good” on our college applications. I think I walked a 20K for the United Way. I also joined some clubs, ran for a few offices unopposed (thankfully I didn’t have to disclose that I never actually beat anyone else in the election), and played Yente in “Fiddler on the Roof”.
I never really thought about any of this until the first of my friends had her kids. Once they were of high school age, I started hearing about what it would take for this generation to get into college. She spouted a list of criteria. You can’t just play sports, you have to play varsity, can’t just be in the orchestra, you have to be first chair, can’t just be president of a club, you have to be president of the student body, can’t just have a 4.0, you have to have a 5.9 by way of advanced placement and honors classes. And it helps if you have a part time job, and volunteer to build houses while in a foreign language immersion program in either Central America or Africa.
Some years later, while standing in line to have blood drawn at my OB’s office, I heard two women discussing “the” school you just ‘had to” get into if you wanted to get into a decent high school or college. And they were talking about PRESCHOOL. Apparently their unborn 4 year olds were college prep before they were even in utero.
I don’t begrudge those high school kids who are either naturally Type A students, or severely ambitious achievers. It’s great to swim competitively, play tuba and get an altruistic thrill from reading to blind geriatrics. I just hope that those who are more moderately motivated can go to college too. There’s so much to be said for the slow, sure process of getting to know who you are, which has always been the hallmark of the high school experience. Frequently a class that isn’t an honors or AP class is still challenging. To honor that challenge, for that individual is worthy. Spending a Saturday afternoon reading a book that isn’t on the required reading list can be as bracing and eye opening as a more ambitious community service project. Practicing the art of photophraphing a friend and capturing that spontaneous instant is just as valid as having a piece in a juried show. And what teenager doesn’t grow from writing their own angst-ridden soliloquy even if they don’t perform it at the high school spring follies. If a teen grows in Brooklyn but the College Board doesn’t see it, did they still grow? Depth and introspection don’t always translate into “achievement”, but are valuable nonetheless.
Kids have their whole lives in front of them. Is it really necessary for them to know it all now? Isn’t that what college is about? For further discovery, advanced learning and preparation for a life of independence and accomplishment?
Meanwhile, I sit by the mailbox anxiously awaiting the old fashioned yea or nay letters. I know it’s futile. The responses will either be emailed directly to my applicant (and not her mother), or else the envelope will be too thick to read through. All the patience I thought I’d been perfecting these last 17 years is suddenly gone. Check back around April and we’ll see.
College Today
If I was going to college today, I don’t know if I could get into college today. In the freshman profile of several top tier schools, over 90% admitted seem to come from the top 10% of their graduating classes. Where do the other 90% go I wonder?
When I was going to school, the goal was to get good grades (B or above) in college prep classes. The standards for the University of California system placed you in relatively good stead for just about any university in the country. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not so old that there were no additional criteria needed. We certainly did things that would “look good” on our college applications. I think I walked a 20K for the United Way. I also joined some clubs, ran for a few offices unopposed (thankfully I didn’t have to disclose that I never actually beat anyone else in the election), and played Yente in “Fiddler on the Roof”.
I never really thought about any of this until the first of my friends had her kids. Once they were of high school age, I started hearing about what it would take for this generation to get into college. She spouted a list of criteria. You can’t just play sports, you have to play varsity, can’t just be in the orchestra, you have to be first chair, can’t just be president of a club, you have to be president of the student body, can’t just have a 4.0, you have to have a 5.9 by way of advanced placement and honors classes. And it helps if you have a part time job, and volunteer to build houses while in a foreign language immersion program in either Central America or Africa.
Some years later, while standing in line to have blood drawn at my OB’s office, I heard two women discussing “the” school you just ‘had to” get into if you wanted to get into a decent high school or college. And they were talking about PRESCHOOL. Apparently their unborn 4 year olds were college prep before they were even in utero.
I don’t begrudge those high school kids who are either naturally Type A students, or severely ambitious achievers. It’s great to swim competitively, play tuba and get an altruistic thrill from reading to blind geriatrics. I just hope that those who are more moderately motivated can go to college too. There’s so much to be said for the slow, sure process of getting to know who you are, which has always been the hallmark of the high school experience. Frequently a class that isn’t an honors or AP class is still challenging. To honor that challenge, for that individual is worthy. Spending a Saturday afternoon reading a book that isn’t on the required reading list can be as bracing and eye opening as a more ambitious community service project. Practicing the art of photophraphing a friend and capturing that spontaneous instant is just as valid as having a piece in a juried show. And what teenager doesn’t grow from writing their own angst-ridden soliloquy even if they don’t perform it at the high school spring follies. If a teen grows in Brooklyn but the College Board doesn’t see it, did they still grow? Depth and introspection don’t always translate into “achievement”, but are valuable nonetheless.
Kids have their whole lives in front of them. Is it really necessary for them to know it all now? Isn’t that what college is about? For further discovery, advanced learning and preparation for a life of independence and accomplishment?
Meanwhile, I sit by the mailbox anxiously awaiting the old fashioned yea or nay letters. I know it’s futile. The responses will either be emailed directly to my applicant (and not her mother), or else the envelope will be too thick to read through. All the patience I thought I’d been perfecting these last 17 years is suddenly gone. Check back around April and we’ll see.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Crush
CRUSH
When I was 14, I fell in love. Oh, it was slow to build, but it was steadfast and true. I met him at camp. He was 20. He was an adonis. Tan, tall, and charismatic. Our senses of humor meshed like strawberries and whipped cream. Tart and frothy. He said he liked how open I was to the experiences of friendship and novelty. I couldn’t articulate my likes, I just knew. We teamed up in sports, on beach days, and the mock Olympics. At the Saturday dances, he stood back in amazement as I displayed what I’d learned from the dancers on the Lloyd Thaxton Show. I think I felt admired for the very first time. We agreed to marry when I was 20, and he was 26.
When camp was over, we wrote letters. In those days it involved pen, paper, storytelling and a stamp. I was the envy of my camp buddies to be his regular correspondent. Even my older sister, who did everything better than I, was a little jealous. He told me that all the guys at his Harvard dorm lined up at his door whenever he got one of my letters. They were all dying to know the further adventures of me. He assumed I had dozens of suitors to choose from, but downplayed his own romantic life. But he told me when he had a cold, when his mustached froze after skiing, his decision to become a teacher. We were confidants.
I lamented as I maneuvered into high school that while of course I didn’t really think I’d marry David, I was sure I’d never find anyone else as perfect and amazing as him. Who could top him? I had plenty of crushes in high school, but I sort of watched the romantic scene from a distance. While outgoing on most fronts, I was shy on that one.
College came, a little more success on the boy front. But a piece of my heart was still heavily invested in David. His letters filled me with an invaluable sense of worth. He took the time to listen, to comment, to admire, to pinpoint my strengths and to pay attention. To an uncertain kid, that meant everything.
The letters dwindled down in the latter years, as I was in college and he was settling into life on the east coast as a high school teacher. I felt certain the kids in his class would be in for some awesome years, as he would encourage them to find their strengths, and discover great new things about their inner lives.
Finally, I got a card which sort of drew my crush to a close. The card announced that on August 1, 1976 (just 21 days shy of my 20th birthday) David would marry his beloved Christine on a cliff in Laguna Beach. Feeling my crush crushed, I slowly released the hold he’d held over me these wonderful 6 years. I sent a card to wish them well, and set my standards accordingly.
When I was 14, I fell in love. Oh, it was slow to build, but it was steadfast and true. I met him at camp. He was 20. He was an adonis. Tan, tall, and charismatic. Our senses of humor meshed like strawberries and whipped cream. Tart and frothy. He said he liked how open I was to the experiences of friendship and novelty. I couldn’t articulate my likes, I just knew. We teamed up in sports, on beach days, and the mock Olympics. At the Saturday dances, he stood back in amazement as I displayed what I’d learned from the dancers on the Lloyd Thaxton Show. I think I felt admired for the very first time. We agreed to marry when I was 20, and he was 26.
When camp was over, we wrote letters. In those days it involved pen, paper, storytelling and a stamp. I was the envy of my camp buddies to be his regular correspondent. Even my older sister, who did everything better than I, was a little jealous. He told me that all the guys at his Harvard dorm lined up at his door whenever he got one of my letters. They were all dying to know the further adventures of me. He assumed I had dozens of suitors to choose from, but downplayed his own romantic life. But he told me when he had a cold, when his mustached froze after skiing, his decision to become a teacher. We were confidants.
I lamented as I maneuvered into high school that while of course I didn’t really think I’d marry David, I was sure I’d never find anyone else as perfect and amazing as him. Who could top him? I had plenty of crushes in high school, but I sort of watched the romantic scene from a distance. While outgoing on most fronts, I was shy on that one.
College came, a little more success on the boy front. But a piece of my heart was still heavily invested in David. His letters filled me with an invaluable sense of worth. He took the time to listen, to comment, to admire, to pinpoint my strengths and to pay attention. To an uncertain kid, that meant everything.
The letters dwindled down in the latter years, as I was in college and he was settling into life on the east coast as a high school teacher. I felt certain the kids in his class would be in for some awesome years, as he would encourage them to find their strengths, and discover great new things about their inner lives.
Finally, I got a card which sort of drew my crush to a close. The card announced that on August 1, 1976 (just 21 days shy of my 20th birthday) David would marry his beloved Christine on a cliff in Laguna Beach. Feeling my crush crushed, I slowly released the hold he’d held over me these wonderful 6 years. I sent a card to wish them well, and set my standards accordingly.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
My version of THE CHRISTMAS SONG
Who roasts chestnuts on an open pit
Jack Daniels nipping at your throats
Annoying carols being sung by the kids
Why are they dressed like eskimos?
Everybody knows the turkey and the pumpkin pie
Help to make your stomach burn
Tiny tots with their fists full of junk
Will find it hard to stop their yearn
We all know regret is on it’s way
For all the drunk talk we’ve displayed
And every mother’s child is going to cry
To find out reindeer really don’t know how to fly
And so I’m offering this simple phrase
To each and every one of you
You’ve heard it before, and you’ll hear it again
Freaking Christmas, F you.
Jack Daniels nipping at your throats
Annoying carols being sung by the kids
Why are they dressed like eskimos?
Everybody knows the turkey and the pumpkin pie
Help to make your stomach burn
Tiny tots with their fists full of junk
Will find it hard to stop their yearn
We all know regret is on it’s way
For all the drunk talk we’ve displayed
And every mother’s child is going to cry
To find out reindeer really don’t know how to fly
And so I’m offering this simple phrase
To each and every one of you
You’ve heard it before, and you’ll hear it again
Freaking Christmas, F you.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Our New Dog
Our New Dog
Turns out we have a new dog. Hasn’t been 24 hours yet, but already it seems like the act of getting a new dog and bringing him into the house is symbolic for the state of things.
Let me explain.
Facebook Obsessive: I pretty much start my day with it. I love being connected to a greater world. Just as I wouldn’t like living in a house isolated from neighbors, I don’t like being disconnected from most of the wonderful souls I’ve met over my many years. So, having a sentence here, a quip there is deeply satisfying to me. Toward that end, I saw a posting from an old camp buddy (Leadership 71) about a dog who needed adopting. Dan has hinted that he might want another dog, and I have some notion that even Buffy the wonder dog might like a friend. So, I clicked on Shelley’s dog picture, saw the video and something just called out to me that this should be the one.
Spontaneity: Despite the fact that we had Taper tickets for 6:30 that evening, and the fact that the shelter housing the dog (just before executing it) was in Baldwin Park instead of Baldwin Hills (the difference of about 90 minutes driving time), and that it’s raining cats AND dogs, and that we’re going out of town this weekend, I had to go immediately to the shelter to see if this “Rocky” was still there. He could have been adopted already, but if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have much time left on his life clock. So, Milly and I bundled up, (she may learn to wear an appropriate rain coat someday), sloshed our way across the county and got to the shelter in time to save “Rocky”.
Determination: I wanted this dog. When we got to the shelter and walked down the row of cages, it sort of broke my heart to see all the unwanted dogs. For the shelter, I can at least say that the concrete floor was warm and toasty. At first, “Rocky” was too shy to come out of his cage to see us. But, he did. We went outside to the outdoor greeting pen, and while he still seemed shy and hesitant, he did let us pet him and talk to him, and he won our hearts.
Gut over Mind Chatter: I was going on impulse here. I was a little nervous. My head chatter went a little nuts: what will Buffy feel, is this too big a dog for me, can we really manage two, will it be ok if we go away for a couple days over Christmas, buffy is a perfect dog, what if this one isn’t, what if he seems nice now, but goes nuts on us, dan is great with dogs, but he’s gone during the day, will I really be able to handle what comes up, will Buffy be mad, or will she accept having a friend, other people manage two dogs just fine.
Positive over Doubt: On the ride home, Milly sat in the back with “Rocky”. She toweled him off, talked with him, held the leash as he stuck his nose out the window. The above mentioned chatter was still yakking away, but I was still determined to find out if this would work. Excitement prevailed over doom.
Reality: All evidence points to this will work. Despite the fact that much more of the rain is now in the house than out, and despite the fact that Buffy shows more protective possessiveness over her food than ever, despite the fact that this is a BIG dog, despite the fact that we can’t all agree over a name and have to tell Milly that she doesn’t get the final vote on that, and despite the fact that all the answers aren’t answered yet, I think it’s going to work out well.
The final feather in the cap, this dog seems to have imprinted on me like a lost baby goose who has laid eyes on me after his mother died. He follows me around everywhere. He seems smart enough to know how to put me at ease. He’s affectionate, respectful, mellow, and loving.
We’ll see what happens when the mailman shows up.
I’m leaning towards “Juneau.”
Ah, the saving of a dog.
Turns out we have a new dog. Hasn’t been 24 hours yet, but already it seems like the act of getting a new dog and bringing him into the house is symbolic for the state of things.
Let me explain.
Facebook Obsessive: I pretty much start my day with it. I love being connected to a greater world. Just as I wouldn’t like living in a house isolated from neighbors, I don’t like being disconnected from most of the wonderful souls I’ve met over my many years. So, having a sentence here, a quip there is deeply satisfying to me. Toward that end, I saw a posting from an old camp buddy (Leadership 71) about a dog who needed adopting. Dan has hinted that he might want another dog, and I have some notion that even Buffy the wonder dog might like a friend. So, I clicked on Shelley’s dog picture, saw the video and something just called out to me that this should be the one.
Spontaneity: Despite the fact that we had Taper tickets for 6:30 that evening, and the fact that the shelter housing the dog (just before executing it) was in Baldwin Park instead of Baldwin Hills (the difference of about 90 minutes driving time), and that it’s raining cats AND dogs, and that we’re going out of town this weekend, I had to go immediately to the shelter to see if this “Rocky” was still there. He could have been adopted already, but if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have much time left on his life clock. So, Milly and I bundled up, (she may learn to wear an appropriate rain coat someday), sloshed our way across the county and got to the shelter in time to save “Rocky”.
Determination: I wanted this dog. When we got to the shelter and walked down the row of cages, it sort of broke my heart to see all the unwanted dogs. For the shelter, I can at least say that the concrete floor was warm and toasty. At first, “Rocky” was too shy to come out of his cage to see us. But, he did. We went outside to the outdoor greeting pen, and while he still seemed shy and hesitant, he did let us pet him and talk to him, and he won our hearts.
Gut over Mind Chatter: I was going on impulse here. I was a little nervous. My head chatter went a little nuts: what will Buffy feel, is this too big a dog for me, can we really manage two, will it be ok if we go away for a couple days over Christmas, buffy is a perfect dog, what if this one isn’t, what if he seems nice now, but goes nuts on us, dan is great with dogs, but he’s gone during the day, will I really be able to handle what comes up, will Buffy be mad, or will she accept having a friend, other people manage two dogs just fine.
Positive over Doubt: On the ride home, Milly sat in the back with “Rocky”. She toweled him off, talked with him, held the leash as he stuck his nose out the window. The above mentioned chatter was still yakking away, but I was still determined to find out if this would work. Excitement prevailed over doom.
Reality: All evidence points to this will work. Despite the fact that much more of the rain is now in the house than out, and despite the fact that Buffy shows more protective possessiveness over her food than ever, despite the fact that this is a BIG dog, despite the fact that we can’t all agree over a name and have to tell Milly that she doesn’t get the final vote on that, and despite the fact that all the answers aren’t answered yet, I think it’s going to work out well.
The final feather in the cap, this dog seems to have imprinted on me like a lost baby goose who has laid eyes on me after his mother died. He follows me around everywhere. He seems smart enough to know how to put me at ease. He’s affectionate, respectful, mellow, and loving.
We’ll see what happens when the mailman shows up.
I’m leaning towards “Juneau.”
Ah, the saving of a dog.
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