MORE MISS MOLLY

                                              

So I’m talking the other day to a friend of mine, about dogs and our relationships with our dogs. You see he too has allowed a dog to be the boss in his house. There is something about the face of a Labrador, when they sit there looking at you out of the top of those eyes and wagging that bushy long tail, ever so slightly, that makes you say “Oh I don’t give a crap. Do what you want to do, just don’t eat my shoelaces anymore.” The fact that my friend and I are both single men and don’t have spouse’s to please, may have had a hand in this newfound freedom for our dogs.

I remember that spring day when Molly first came into my life and how I vowed that for the first time in my long, dog filled life; this one wasn’t going to get the upper hand with me. That I, the original dog whisperer, was a disciplinarian too and this dog was going to toe the line in my house. I was going to show her who was in charge here and people were going to say when they saw us, “What a well behaved dog Mike. I wish my dog was like that.”

The first thing I did was establish well-defined boundaries that were carved in stone. The dog would stay in the kitchen, where I had a tile floor that was easier to deal with those little messes puppies make. Bladder control is non-existence in a puppy you know. Come to think of it it’s becoming a problem with someone else but back to the story. Call their name; they wag their tail and pee. Stamp your foot or slam the door they pee. It comes with the territory. So with the aid of a baby gate she was confined and that went well for a couple of days. Then I realized I didn’t want to spend all of my life in the kitchen and she didn’t want to spend any of her life away from me, so a new rule was made. She could be in with me but she had to stay off the furniture and sleep in her kennel. Then a revision to that revision came along and she could be on the couch but not on any other furniture. After all she just wanted to lay her head in my lap and bond a little, what’s wrong with that? Then another revision came along and she could get on any of the furniture but just in the four-season porch, where I generally hang out, but not on the living room furniture or on my bed. Bed you say? Oh yes, she was now sleeping beside my bed because revision C had got her out of her kennel. Not sure where we are with the revisions anymore but right now—you guessed it—she’s sleeping with me and I’m not sure which is my side of the bed anymore. If the kennel was bigger I would---- oh never mind.

My daughter say’s that sleeping with a dog is unhealthy. I disagree. My dog is as healthy as any dog I have ever had, so that shoots that theory down. She asked me, “what about the smell Dad”. I told her Molly would get used to it. She may be the only dog who ever slept in my bed with me but I have to admit that may have had something to do with the fact that where she now sleeps, that space was filled by a woman for many years. This was a woman, who unequivocally stated that there was no room in our bed, for animals that licked their butts and shook their ears all night. Well, at least Molly doesn’t snore, so chalk up one for the home team. Life is good.

MOONLIGHT

I came home late from a trip to the cities the other night. Stopping at my mailbox and leaving the truck, the clouds suddenly parted and I was bathed in the light of a full harvest moon. The light shone down on the road as if I was personally being spotlighted by the heavens above me, turning the whole scene into something both mystical and magical. The clouds overhead reflected the sun’s refracting light off their billowing spires surrounding the moon as it glowed down between them, as if it was peeking between fluffy mounds of cotton.

There are times in life when the setting is just too perfect to turn your back on and leave behind. Instead, you are mesmerized and you want to bath in it and soak it up. It’s a time when you feel the pull—the connection—between the celestial world and the one you’re living in. A time when the setting you’re drinking in brings back memories of another time and another place, fifty some years ago, on a moonlit lake when you first met her. For some time now you have been reminded that you have advocates in those heavens above, where that light is coming from, because she and other loved ones are up there; and you’re down here looking up and this picture goes far beyond a moonlit night, on a lonely country road, in the afterglow of another day. I stood there for some time because something in that beam of light made me feel as if we were together again.

I left the road and stepped into the dark forest alongside of it. The woods at night can be a curious place—so different from the day. It’s as if the trees and the bushes have clumped together for protection; not against the menacing beasts we have grown to fear, but against darkness itself. Tonight, however, seems different. There are, here and there sprinkled amongst the woods in tiny clearings, little moonlit islands of emptiness. Throughout the forest floor they lay like tiny illuminated altars in the darkened cathedral of nature. It’s a place made for lovers and dreamers to come to—and to turn the hourglass of time and existence on its side and to, at least for a while, make the world stand still. Oscar Wilde said, “A dreamer is one who can find his way by moonlight and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

Then, without warning, a dark shadow came over this tranquil place as the moon disappeared behind the clouds. Once again the woods were cold and forbidding and seemed to reek of danger. The bright altars that had been so inviting in the forest clearings went dark, and everything seemed to be impenetrable. Hastily, I made my way back to the road that had been, only minutes before, a ribbon of moonlight; now virtually indistinguishable from the woods, except for the hard surface underneath. In the inky darkness, my truck was just a black hulk. My stairway to heaven was extinguished and it seemed as if the last light the world had to offer me had just gone out.

A LETTER TO MY SON

To my readers. I want to share with you a letter I wrote to my son on his fiftieth birthday. I want to share it, hoping it brings you memories and thoughts of your children and what they mean to you. It seems odd that people who are middle aged and have grown families of their own, are still being referred to as kids; but they will always be our kids won’t they?                                                                                                           

So, today my son is fifty years old. I remember so well the night he was born, and how proud I was to have a son and to be a dad. I remember the dreams I had for him as he grew up and went out into the world. My biggest dream was not that he would be rich or famous, but that he would be a good man, father and husband, and that he and I would always be close. Also, that I would not be proud of him just that night, in that hospital, but all the days of my life, and that he would always be there, as my son, until the day I died. Today I say, “Job well done, my son, and you’ve only just begun.” I am sure that somewhere in heaven, your mother is sharing my pride.

Somewhere, back in the dark recesses of my foggy mind, I remember teaching you how to ride your bike without training wheels, and praying you wouldn’t get hurt; how to throw a baseball—and yes, right through the neighbor’s garage window; and that pinewood derby car we made together in scouts, that came in last in the competition, and how disappointed you were. That was the day I realized that coming in first wasn’t important, but building that car together with you was. I hoped you would grow up to realize that, too.

I remember your baseball games, football games, and the fishing trips we took; I remember your graduation from college and how proud I was because you had made it; but sad because I knew it was time for you to go out into the world; I foolishly didn’t want you to forget your mother and I. I say “foolishly” because it wasn’t the end, but just another corner in life that we turned. I remember how nice you looked in your first cop’s uniform, and prayed you would be safe, but mostly, that you would just be a good officer and never have to take a life, but rather, save a few. I remember your wedding and the birth of each of your children. The home you built yourself, and how hard you worked on it; forty some years of deer hunting together. I remember the day your mom died and how you left that afternoon to be alone. I wanted to be with you then, but knew you weren’t alone, and He and you were just sorting out the details because you are a Christian man.

Yes, son, we’ve come a long way, and hopefully, we have a long way to go. I no longer worry about what kind of a man you’re going to be because you have proven, over and over again, what kind of a man you are and nothing there needs to be changed. One thing has changed, however, and that’s all the advice I used to give you, wanted or not. I now realize that we’ve made a switch in this respect—and I am now going to you for advice. This isn’t just a symbol of love, but a symbol of respect for a man who has nothing left to prove to me. Happy Birthday, son!

A MORE SUBTLE LIFE

                                             

I was privileged to meet some of my neighbor’s friends the other day. The reason I wanted to write about these people is that they were not people we get to meet and talk with very often. At least I don’t. Their lifestyle dictates being quiet, reclusive and respectful of others. You see, these people were from Illinois and they are Amish. I think, for a lot of us, we feel that the sort of lifestyle these people choose to live would be boring and mundane, and we ask “why?” But what I found out was, “why” and just the opposite.

I often write about the changes that have come to our world over the years. I write about how distant we have become from each other in a fast-paced world full of drugs, alcohol, loosening morals and disrespect for each other. Of kids married to video games and x-boxes, living in a make-believe world of fast action and violence; movies and television—filled with sex and violence and life in the fast lane. Big changes that are so hard for those of us who didn’t grow up with them to accept, and sometimes we wonder what happened to us and where it’s all going to end.

The Amish try as hard as we do to not let their young people follow the maddening crowd, but I think they are far more serious about it, and better at fighting it, than we are. They have two big reasons for this on their side. First of all, respect for their elders and others is not a recommendation to their children as they grow up, it is an essential rule. For those who don’t comply, there are consequences. I was told from an early age in my life that “rules without consequences are just advice.” I guess this just proves my parents’ point on that. Secondly, they have a deep and abiding faith in their God and they are serious about their children having that faith, too. 

I talked to my daughter last night, after meeting the Amish, and told her of my experience. She lives in the country, with her family, outside of a small Wisconsin town. She said, “Dad, I envy them. I wish I could turn back the clock and be more like them. I would love for my children to be raised like that. I can teach my kids right from wrong, and I do. But they’re in school now, and peer pressure is becoming a problem. Bad things have always existed, and I know that, but there used to be definitive lines between good and bad and it’s just not true anymore. Society is fast erasing those lines and lumping them all together.”

As my daughter alluded to, it’s hard to turn back the clocks of time. I guess, in one sense, the Amish just never went there in the first place because they sensed what would happen. We’re like addicts that have gotten used to a freer lifestyle, and now we’re hooked and there is little chance of turning back. Think of selling your F150 and buying a horse. Some call what we have done to society “progress” and in most cases I have to agree, but with progress comes unintended side effects. Greed and selfishness are not progress, though, and they take us to a lot of places we shouldn’t be. We find this out too often—too late—too much. In the “Prayer of Serenity” we ask God for the wisdom to know the difference. I think we already have that wisdom. We’re just not using it as well as the Amish do.

THE LAST DANCE OF THE SUMMER WIND

                                         

I see so many people at our lake this time of the year, taking that last sentimental and somewhat traditional ride around the pond, before they put the pontoon or boat away for the winter. Summer up here is such a delightful season and it seems to quite magically strip off a few years from all of us, if only in perception and if only for a few short months. Friends, relatives and neighbors reconnect and gather to eat and drink and just enjoy the ambience with you, on the heels of the summer wind. But all to soon the nights grow long and colder and old Mother Nature starts to slowly button up this little corner of the world we live in. “Turn down the lights,” she’s saying to us, the party’s over. With the diminishing of the suns heat in the high afternoon and the subsequent shorter days, she does just that. So now we wait for our turn again, while the other half of the world gets their turn at summer. We expect to be a little sad in fall but were not without hope of the coming spring.

It starts innocently enough. Here and there a tawny yellow leaf floats lazily to earth. It may be subtle at first and go unnoticed but before long it will become a crescendo of leaves, striped away by autumn breezes, leaving the trees standing naked, while offering us glimpses into the deep woods we haven’t seen for a while. It seems we love our trees until the leaves fall and then we whisper silently to them; “please come back to us and try again.” I believe that every writer worth his or her salt has been inspired and tried at one time or another to do justice, composing some kind of a written description of fall but sadly most of us fall short of accomplishing it as the sights and feelings often defy description. The animals of the forests are sporting new and thicker coats now as they scurry about filling their larders and finding new shelters. Overhead the birds who once soared on the summer winds are making their plans to fly the coop on the remnants of it as they point their heads toward the setting sun. Before long we too will retreat to our shelters, warm and safe from winters icy blasts.

For me and for many of us older people, we now realize more fully that our future is measured in years and not decades, as the reality of what is happening in our lives bites just a little bit harder in fall. The days of “there are lots more where that came from,” now seen more like a fervent hope and are not anchored in any kind of certainty. We have for some time seen and felt so many subtle bodily hints like aching joints, dimming vision and foggy memories and the not so subtle ones too; like the laying to rest of friends and family who have fallen before us. People that we took for granted for far to long that became second nature to us over the years. We sometimes used to wonder how we could ever live without them and now like it or not, were getting the chance to find out. Life does go on though and in the words of the song maker. “When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame, we don’t have time for the waiting game.”

Maybe old blue eyes said it best it best when he sang. “So the summer winds have come and gone. And guess who sighs his lullabies through nights that never end. My fickle friend. The summer wind.”