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Monday, July 29, 2019

The Phroebe Chronicles - a doggy tale

   Beloved pets, like other family members, deserve to be eulogized. During the time I was seeing Jeff, he was also kind to my dog. I wrote to him often and thought he would enjoy letters from Phroebe as well.
*****
3 August, 2016  
   In 1994, I adopted a dog from a shelter and she was with me through fourteen and a half years. Phroebe and my grandson grew up together and she was very tolerant of his baby rough-housing. In 2005, I introduced my dog to my then boyfriend. She liked him so much, she wrote to him too. She was so crazy about him, furry little hussy even wrote that if I wasn't good to him, just let her know and she would *be his bitch.* When I retrieved the letters after our breakup, I found these. The return address read N.C.O.S. [Not Canine Obedience School]
*****
[To be read in best Jack Webb voice:] This is the city, Eldorado - City of Gold - golden fried chicken gizzards that is. My name's Phroebe, I'm a dog.
02 FEB 2006
Dear Uncle Jeff,
   I don't think Mommy knows I am writing you this letter, although she may wonder why I have a stamp stuck to the end of my nose. Those self-adhesive little boogers are a lot of trouble. It's a real bitch not having opposable thumbs.
   I took your advice and asked Mom why she's so cheap. Being an intelligent member of your species, I'm sure you are aware we canines possess keen auditory sensors and are very receptive. In fact, I can almost hear you thinking, "Little bitch talks just like her mother." Oh well - deal with it. Anyway, when I asked, she made some lame excuse about being *high maintenance:* Mom figured if she were going to be cruising 190 West two or three times a month, she'd better have a more reliable vehicle. Now she's driving a 2006 Taurus with less than 10,000 miles on it, but we've had to sacrifice gizzards for car payments. It's so unfair.
   I think Mom wanted to surprise you about the car but I have no qualms about spilling my little doggy guts.
   So I guess my junk-food consumption is on hold until Cloud invites me over again. Do you suppose that is what is meant by "A dog's life"? Don't get me wrong: Mom isn't all bad. I get a nosh now and then - kernel of popcorn, a grape, some scrambled egg, or a nice piece of gristle. So when Mom says her before-meal prayer, I say mine too. After all, God is dog spelled backward.
   And Uncle Jeff, I'm pretty sure Mom cashed that reality check you sent. You know, the one where you told her it wouldn't do her a damn' bit o' good to call Schlumberger. 'Course there's no telling how she'll spend it, but I'm gonna telepath pork rinds.

Your friend's dog,
Phroebe

p.s. Woof-woof. [That's for Cloud.]


03 MAR 2006
Dear Jeff,
   I'm dictating this letter to my secretary (Mom), who's had a couple of wine spritzers. However, since she is the original *NO SODA-BUYING BEE-OTCH,* they were made with vodka instead of lemon-lime carbonated beverage or seltzer.
   Anyway, I wanted to thank you for a wonderful time; it was really cool cruising the barrio and checking out the vatos. I also appreciate you trying to set Mom straight on the whole alternate sources of protein thing. She did give me some baked chicken, Sunday night. Maybe it's one of those "You say poTAYto, I say poTAHto" deals: I say grease *facilitates elimination* but she says fried stuff makes my poop slimy and lacking in form. Moms - go figure. You have one of your own so I'm sure you know what I mean But we love 'em, don't we?
   We were out walking a few days after you left and I saw an opportunity to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone: I could make polite conversation with one of my doggy buddies AND drop a not-so-subtle hint. So we're ambulating along the sidewalk and I see a pal of mine and I kinda brag on you, right? Very nonchalantly I say, "That Jeff is one gizzard-giving dude!" And just like that, Mom gets all snippy and says, "C'mon Baby Girl, I have to get back to work," and we go marching back to the apartment. What'd I say? Take  it from me, for a two-legged s.o.b. you're alright!
Your friend,
"Phrebes"
xxx
     (Here, I felt compelled to say something in my own defense: Well, I'm not saying I agree completely with everything Phroebe has alleged but I did have those two *spritzers* so we'll just let any difference of opinion slide. jbd)
04 APR 2006
   Gizzard Man, you have no idea how lucky you are Mom and a pair of scissors didn't get near your head: I've got your haircut on a bad hair day. I tried to escape but that woman just strong-armed me - kind of a reverse Jaws of Life thing - and started whacking hair off in great clumps!
   She musta felt guilty though: I'm still getting meat with every meal. Thanks Man.
   No doubt about it, you're the greatest.
Phroebe
***
   Jo Ann here: The correspondence ceased; about 15 months later, so did the relationship. When Phroebe died,  I wrote a eulogy.
Phroebe
Jan. 1993-Oct. 2008
   To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven; a time to be born and a time to die, a time to weep, a time to laugh, a time for gathering in and a time for letting go. (Ecclesiastes 3: 1-2a, 4a, 5a)

   I was not present at Phroebe's birth but I held her as she breathed her last. I wept for hours afterward and I know that I will do so again from time to time for the rest of my life. And yet I know I will laugh again. I gathered her into my arms to bring her home those many years ago and did so once more when it was time to let her go.
   Born some time around Jan. 1993, Phroebe came into my life June 4, 1994 when I adopted her from the San Angelo Humane Society pound. She made her last public appearance Oct. 4 at The Blessing of the Animals, celebrated at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Brady, on feast of St. Francis of Assisi. This blessing served as her Last Rites. (What can I tell you? My Roman Catholic roots run deep.) Phroebe died in my arms, Oct. 7, 2008. One of my co-workers told me it would be easier if I just said "goodbye" and let her go. This wasn't about doing what was easy, it was about doing what was right. Phroebe had been my loving and faithful companion for 14 years, four months and three days; she deserved to have me present when she died.
   I don't recall the exact day, but I was in Glennon Mays' veterinary clinic and some woman had a very sick animal that probably was not going to be made well. I knew at that moment that when the time came I would eulogize Phroebe. And why not? All of our beloved dead live in our memories and we share those memories with others who are near and dear to us so that the departed might not be lost in oblivion.
   Phroebe was a great dog and if I choose to believe that her spirit roams in the fields and halls of Valhalla (the Vikings seeming particularly fond of their hounds: I mean, even Hagar the Horrible has a dog) who is to say I am wrong? What makes anyone think there isn't a doggy heaven?
   Dogs, as we know, are descended from wolves, and though thoroughly domesticated, Phroebe evidenced that wolfish protectiveness that applies to one's cubs. She also had a wide streak of lupine playfulness and after enduring my grandson's youthful exuberance and heavy-handed attentions, she exacted her toll once he learned to walk and was [literally] on his feet - she'd bound against him and knock him onto his diaper-padded rear end and administer slobbery doggy kisses.
   I'll tell you another story about Phroebe's playfulness. We were visiting some friends in Indiana and had Skaar and Phroebe with us.  Now Skaar, though older and male, was about a third smaller. After chasing around for a while, Phroebe grabbed and mounted Skaar. He was bemused but definitely not amused and I'm not certain he ever totally forgave that affront to his dignity. (Though with Skaar, "dignity" was a relative term: but that's another story altogether.)
   My youngest sister, who in adulthood has become one of my best girlfriends, once inquired as to Phroebe's well being. I gushed, "Ooh, her is the goodest widdle girl (two-and-a-half to three syllables; g'year-rehl) in the whole world (also at least two syllables)." Lynn asked, "Why do we talk baby-talk to our pets but not to our kids?" I told her it was because we were not too concerned that the pets would pick up poor speech habits.
   I believe that "death with dignity" is the right of all living creatures. It had become obvious in the past several months that Phroebe was afflicted with a canine version of senile dementia - doggy Alzheimer's, if you will. She would stand in the kitchen, her hind legs trembling and if I'd had to guess at what was going through her mind, it may have been, "If I stand here long enough maybe I'll remember what to do next," or "If I just concentrate on standing, maybe I won't fall down." And, my gosh, the endless circles!
   Anyone who knows me understands that humor, though often dark and sometimes bordering on the demented, is my primary defense mechanism. Within 50 hours of the appointed time, I was taking Phroebe out for her pre-breakfast stroll and as I held the leash, I thought, "Dead dog walking... and flopping on the ground and rolling in the grass."
   The decision to let Phroebe "go gently into that good night" broke my heart, but so did seeing her so feeble and frail in mind as well as body.
   Come the day, we are T-minus 4 (hours) and counting. Sometime shortly after 4 a.m., I was wakened by Phroebe's soft whimper. I took her outside where she offered her ablutions upon the earth. Then the circles: not just three-times-'til-I-find-the-place, but "to poop or not to poop... wait, what was the question?" circles. We returned inside and I put her back to bed but within the hour we were up again. Six o'clock and I'm holding her on my lap while she eats breakfast. Then I look into her cataract-clouded eyes and know that I have made the right choice but it does not make the execution of that decision any easier. I wore patchouli that day; it was my sister Teri's signature scent and I figured it would help Phroebe sniff Teri out when she got to the other side. After getting dressed I set Phroebe's cage out on the back porch, offered my little girl one more drink of water and at 7:45 called my sister who would accompany me to Dr. Pace's. There Phroebe was weighed to make sure there was a sufficient dose of the lethal injection and minutes later she was at peace: no more running into things, stumbling about blindly, having to have her head placed into the water to get a drink. We took her to my sister's where I wrapped her in her burial shroud, (a tapestry vest done in sunflowers) and lovingly placed her into the grave prepared for her. No life should go unsung, so I chanted a Hebrew song of farewell and shoveled in enough dirt to cover her, then my sister took over.
   Si Dios quiere, I will love again. Whether man or beast, solo El Senor lo sabe.
   Some of you have already been through this wrenching experience and perhaps wondered if anyone shared your grief. Some have vowed "never again" and some will follow where the heart leads, even if it is to another hurt. While the heart feels, (pain or joy), one is alive. So mourn and dance, weep and laugh, embrace and let go - all in season.
Shalom.

Friday, July 19, 2019

July 2015

July 2019
   It has been amusing and even insightful, to go through old material; to update and edit. With all that's going on these days, going back in time offers a respite.
*****
1 July, 2015
   Here in United States, folks are gearing up for Fourth of July weekend: three days of fireworks, parades, barbecues, trips out of town, and get-togethers with family and friends. Certainly, one does not need an "occasion" to relax in presence of good company, and here at the apartments, a few of us will gather on back patio and fire up the grill. Surely, in back corner of refrigerator freezer is a hunk of dead animal, which will make a suitable "burnt offering."
   Stateside, many of us are rejoicing over passage of marriage equality and affordable healthcare, which I believe has people around the world smiling and nodding in a *there, there, that wasn't so bad was it?* sort of way. Oh, to be sure, there are plenteous naysayers - but they will always be there, and focus should be on things that are Right, not Wrong. So if you have a grumble, I shall turn a deaf ear.
   Two of my as-yet-unmet Facebook friends have proposed a Morning Happy Hour, as an alternative to over-abundance of mad, bad, and sad, news. It has been proposed that I serve as agent. My two primary queries were: 1) What are duties? and 2) Can they be handled remotely? Was informed 90% of manager/agent job would be supplying coffee, plus publicity, "And the pay is baskets of rolls and a percentage of whatever income we can generate through Kickstarter." My response was Kickstarter funds could go directly toward keeping them in coffee, but I would be glad to supply publicity in form of blog piece. Hence, this letter.
   It was fully acknowledged that entire operation would have to be done online, as we are all several miles apart, being in Michigan, Virginia, and North Carolina. My partners have met and we are hoping at some not too distant, but unspecified, date, to unleash our combined positivity on a world greatly in need.
   Shall keep this short, as we all have things that must be done - just wanted to touch base before weekend.
2 July 
   These "letters" have become a staple of my writing, and I hope they entertain you as much as they do me. Having lunch with high school companions recently, heard sentiments which warmed the cockles of my ink-stained heart, "I just love reading them. You should have been a writer." True, other than submissions to newspapers, my work has not received widespread publication.  In fact, have been blogging a bit over three years, and have yet to hit 15,000 page view mark. I remember another freelance columnist, now deceased, who said all he ever got paid were smiles and compliments, and he counted himself rich. Indeed, kind words are vastly rewarding.
*
   Some time ago, decided my *job title* should be Minister of Merriment, and I take pride in my "work." For the record, what I am "full of" is bonhomie. Though it can be depleted by negativity, sharing it with others causes it to expand, not shrink.
   As I woke this morning, contemplated Seven Deadly Sins. [What, doesn't everybody?] Knew a fellow who remembered them by mnemonic *plagues* except he spelled it P-L-A-G-G-E-S, for Pride, Lust, Anger, Greed, Gluttony, Envy, and Sloth. Personally, I replace "gluttony" with "usury."
   It has long been my contention that Greed is vilest of all, baddest of the bad, progenitor of all other sins. Certainly, it can be construed a factor in others: Pride is greed for recognition, Lust is greed for carnality, Anger can be a spewing forth of hatred when Greed is stymied, Envy is greed for what others have, Sloth is greed for idleness. Then there is my substitution of Usury, for Gluttony, for which I shall give my reasoning.
"Gluttony" generally relates to ingestion of vast quantities of comestibles, that indeed may bespeak a greed for food, to the point where need of others is denied. "Usury" relates to money, specifically "loan sharking;" the charge of ruinous interest. Those of you with credit cards know this to be true. Then of course, there are student loans. Seems more despicable than someone who bellies up to a buffet bar one too many times, but maybe that's just me.
   Not long ago, a comrade and I discussed "conspicuous consumerism:" spending money just because one CAN. There is no need, nor even, oftentimes, satisfaction of any particular desire. As my companion observed, those people may as well stand on a street corner and burn money. [To which my unvoiced response was, 'Except for city-wide burn ban.']
   Within hours of Letter 40 [no longer in existence, jbd], there was encouragement to embark on Project: Positivity - because the world is in desperate need of something uplifting. Yeah, yeah, I have heard it before, "Bad news sells." But guess what? It won't sell if people refuse to buy it. You have power in your hands - take it. No need to buy into hatred, divisiveness, and derision, you are better than that. Trust me, you are worthy. Go feel good - you deserve it; and I will gladly do what I can to help. [mirthfully yours]
9 July
   You are such a sweetheart, inquiring about my *social life* and well-being, which is one of the reasons I love you so. Alas, your question regarding a significant other must remain unanswered, as the role is unfilled. [Have that lovely 'casting couch' but no one to audition. Tsk-tsk.]
   So, will tell you of day trip to Put-in-Bay, Ohio - an island in Lake Erie. Tuesday began when I woke a few hours before alarm was to go off. Managed to doze a bit, then got up, dressed and breakfasted. Picked up ladies riding with me, went to meet bus.
   Bear in mind, had only signed up - after I was assured there would be no significant walking (arthritic knees you know) - so there would be enough people for travel agency to not cancel trip. As adage goes, "No good deed goes unpunished." At least we had decent weather.
   From bus, there was a goodly hike to ferry, then we were herded up steep narrow stairs. I saw a few people on opposite side remaining on lower level; kept muttering "Nobody said nothing about no blankety-blank steps!" Slow going, but I made it. During crossing, travel rep found me and apologized profusely, saying she would make sure I could remain on lower deck going back. If I had just been more assertive in first place, would have likely received due consideration: damn parochial school manners. Anyway, after twenty-odd minute crossing, disembarked. Golf cart transport was provided up incline to tram, and our group took a pleasant and informative one-hour tour around Put-in-Bay.
   One of sights was original schoolhouse, dating from 1800s, about size of an apartment living/dining room. Attached lean-to at rear, provided lodging for bachelor schoolteacher. There were perhaps a dozen students on island, but they were never all there together, having to work at family businesses of farming and fishing. We also learned wineries were once prominent, vineyards having covered ninety percent of the island. Only forty-two acres remain in production today, recent harsh winters and natural disasters having taken a toll.
   Then we were dropped off, given meal vouchers and tickets to board bus back to ferry, and turned loose for a few hours to mill about, dine, and spend money on over-priced touristy stuff. For people who ooh and aah over romanticism of getting away from it all, harsh realities of isolation do not usually factor into their visions of quaint island life. All they see is glamour of hustle-bustle happy tourists and *picture postcard* shops. Our guide told us Put-in-Bay now has resident doctor, for first time since 1930s, when last doctor met his demise, trying to aid someone in need of his services. I believe he broke through ice.
   Having lived in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, and spent some time on Sugar Island, am a bit familiar with island economy. Ferries run on schedules which are drastically limited by weather conditions and demand. Costs are of course affected by availability, which is controlled by different factors on an island, as opposed to mainland. Island winters can be cruel, cut off from the world, when waterways are frozen and ferry cannot cross. Many islands have at least one or two small planes available, but they are sometimes incapable of getting off ground.
   Some of my neighbors were in lobby when I finally got home and asked if I'd had a good time. Told them I was not sorry to have gone, but all things considered, would have rather spent the money on a new tattoo. (Signed, Island Girl)
14 July
   There will be somber notes in this missive, which may not be conducive to a night of peaceful rest - but perhaps you will not see it until morning anyway. It has been quite a day, and passage of time has seemed somewhat inconsistent, since last we communicated. I told you someone known to me had been injured and in hospital; good news is, by time you get around to reading this, release to outside world may well be a fait accompli - not a bad way to mark Bastille Day, n'est-ce pas?
   Because of how my thought processes function, this put me in mind of another captive, about whom I have recently heard, by name of Christopher Thomas Knight, born on December 7, 1965. In 2014, Michael Finkel submitted a story about Mr. Knight, titled The Strange & Curious Tale of the Last True Hermit. For the better part of three decades, this man had lived apart from other humans, in woods of central Maine. He survived by stealing, committing approximately forty robberies per year.
   We have all heard of, maybe even known, individuals who "fall through the cracks." In this flawed world, it cannot be stopped altogether, but as *safety net* social programs are increasingly curtailed and eliminated, it will happen more and more. Passing a few moments in conversation with an old family friend, wondered why some people cannot grasp that taking care of those persons incapable of providing all their own needs, is an investment in the well-being of all humanity, including themselves. Geez, people, stop thinking with your wallets, and use your senses.
   I do not know what fate ultimately befell Christopher Knight, but have not we all seen displaced persons? They are under bridges, in tent cities, in cars at the edges of large parking lots; sometimes there are whole families in these straits. They often move about furtively, to avoid detection which might break up family or result in prosecution. The gulf between those who have plenty and those who have less than enough is nothing short of unacceptable. Treating poverty like a crime, diminishes everyone. How is it some remain oblivious to that fact? It makes me weep.
   Cannot end on this note. Surely there must be some cheery news to impart? [*Thinkthink.*] Oh, I know! Orchard Terrace, apartment complex in which I reside, had annual potluck picnic, for which housing board furnished meat. It was much better attended than last year, which pleased staff and residents alike. Not surprisingly, everyone ate too much and there was plenty left over. There were five or six guests in attendance, which builds good community relations. One guest, who also takes part in Tecumseh Senior Center activities, introduced herself, and said her friend had liked the birthday letter I sent. It has been a pleasure to hear how much these have meant to recipients. One lady even wrote a letter for my birthday. Wasn't that sweet?
   Okay, think I can sleep well now. Last night, I had rumbling percussion of thunder, which worked into dreams as dark rolling waves off eastern seaboard. Wonder what awaits tonight?
15 July
   Have just come from Tecumseh Senior Center which, in conjunction with Cambrian - a geriatric residence, Tecumseh Place assisted living facility and Tecumseh District Library, hosted A Wee Bit of Scotland, featuring Michigan bagpiper Kim Johnson. Piper Johnson talked about her clothing, instruments, and history thereof, to an attentive crowd. In addition to participants of sponsoring entities, were members of the general public. Nearing conclusion of her program, Johnson asked if anyone would like to try airing up the pipes. One brave lassie, named Nadia, gave it a go and actually provided enough air for piper to play a measure of "Scotland the Brave." Everyone applauded the young lady's efforts and a representative of Fourth Estate interviewed her briefly.
*
   Arriving home, recalled letter sent out before going to lunch and began gathering my wits for this cyber missive. As mentioned in that pen and paper communique, had thoughts about society doing more to take care of marginalized individuals. Some folks feel uncomfortable in hands-on situations; either because previous encounters have been traumatic, or because of something in their "hard drive." I fully realize there is a 'lead a horse to water' aspect, but it is imperative "water" be available. Regarding those whose circumstances or choices put them outside polite society, would not kiosks of personal care items offer a solution? Toothbrushes, bars of soap with a washcloth, razors, incontinence pads, feminine hygiene products, razors, are all needed and could be dispensed unobtrusively. Persons who opt not to go to shelters, should not be forced into illegal or dangerous activities, to provide for themselves and/or loved ones. Donating products to individuals or to facilities are preferable to donating money to *name brand* organizations, because much of the money going ostensibly to charity, is used to pay some bigwig, instead of helping people in need. Many churches and civic organizations have pantry drives to collect sundry items. If you are in a position the throw money at a situation, do a little research first and make sure it lands where you think you are throwing it. [Author's Note: In past few years, I have seen a number of "Blessing Boxes," which address these needs. jbd]
*
   Because everything and everyone is ultimately connected, decided to also tell you about another story, encountered via Facebook. In 2013, trees in Melbourne, Australia were assigned email addresses, for purpose of reporting problems: branches on power lines, broken limbs, what have you. Whether on someone's whim, or out of need to communicate with another living, if not sentient (at least to human understanding), being, there started appearing correspondence of a conversational nature. The program promotes caring, pride in well-being of city's assets.
   It would be wonderful if we looked on all living being as global assets - not to be exploited, but nurtured, thereby improving the health of all. *What  if?* everyone were exposed from a young age, to music, art, other cultures, other languages; what if every person knew love and acceptance; what if everyone had clean water, enough food, a bed?
   I would invite you to do some random act of kindness within your means, abilities, comfort level: read newspaper to someone who has diminished sight, visit a nursing home, take a package of moist towelettes to a daycare center, write a letter to someone, or email a tree. Opportunities to be kind abound and costs are within most, if not all, budgets. Thoughts count, backing them up with action, is priceless.
17 July
   Friday night recap: Here I sit in recliner, lap-board propped against my knees, having opened living room window to evening breeze. Sunset has ushered in another Sabbath and I am sipping blueberry tea, while composing this missive. This has been an eventful week - and weekend shows promise of continued festivities. Have been invited to come throw a hunk of meat on the grill and hang out with neighbors. Sounds like a good time.
   Had late lunch in Saline this afternoon: my friend in Ann Arbor figured we could each drive to halfway point and I must confess, way home felt so much shorter. Saline also has a more varied population than Tecumseh, so their Busch's deli offered Mediterranean food, not available to me locally. Picked up wine and dark chocolate, so may have the ladies over some night.
   Elle asked what was new and exciting in my life, so told her about a couple blog posts which had racked up a couple hundred page views each. For me, that amounts to going viral. Told her it's kind of like getting a "turkey," three consecutive strikes, in Wii bowling: doing it is wonderful but I have no idea how to duplicate it.
   Glad to have received your letter and learned your significant other has not yet driven you completely round the bend. I understand moving is not an option, and pray you have the grace to ride out this *perfect storm,* as you call it. At least your basement didn't flood. [Just tossing in a little levity, darling.] Glad you enjoyed envelope made from tea box; figured it would amuse you, as you said you always think of me drinking a cup of tea.
   When I was leaving to go to Saline this afternoon, Old Man queried, "What's in Saline?" Did not answer, other than coquettish smile. This evening, he was in lobby again, and asked if I had behaved myself, and I hinted at being released on my own recognizance. Keep 'em guessing, don't ya know.
   I suppose I really should write a few more pen-and-paper letters, even to those who are disinclined to respond in kind. Would not want them to think receiving mail is totally dependent on reciprocity. That said, I am ever so glad of your faithful correspondence and it is fair to credit you with benefiting others, so Thank You. Shall wrap this up and get it sent off.
20 July
   This is the twenty-ninth of fifty-two Mondays, in the year 2015. I can tell you are astounded by this revelation. Would say that I am feeling a nameless melancholy, but I cannot pass that untruth by you, my trusted confidante, for I know precisely and all too well, what is bothering me. I miss my erstwhile lover. Actually, "lover" confers a significance that was never there; it was a dalliance and nothing more. Now it does not exist. Do not believe those who would tell you a person cannot miss something that was never there. One can long for the illusion, and that may be just as bad.
   Twice in past week, I have been called "prolific," with regard to volume of writing I produce. Of a person who asked what it is like to be prolific, I might well query, "What is it like to be married to same individual, for more than half one's life?" Marriage of great duration is a success that has eluded me. C'est la vie. I say that a lot anymore, but what else is there to say? Some ventures are eminently doable, while others strain the boundaries of credulity. Best to recognize the difference and move on.
   Recently enjoyed two episodes of great popularity, having two blog posts reach over two hundred views, within a day of being published. I used to email a link to several people. Unexpectedly, that device failed and had to be discarded. *Shameless self-promotion* has never been my strong suit, though it would come in handy. Maybe I will acquire more followers? Meanwhile, shall continue to write my little letters, hoping the tangible ones get answered and cyber ones get read. Realistic and simple. Probably not a recipe for fame and fortune, but I do not aspire to world domination: I would just like to amass a few hundred thousand page views. Is that too much to ask?
   When phrase "Je ne sais quoi" came to mind, the part of my brain given to word-play quipped, "Jenny say what?" Oh dear, what ARE you going to do with me? All I can hope is that you will continue to love me and put up with me - hopefully because you find me charming and amusing, rather than pitiable.
   Among the mundane tasks to be completed this afternoon, is writing a check to pay next six months of auto insurance. No use grousing; it must be done and that's all there is to it. Today's mail also brought a letter from Brother, which shall be read after supper, while sipping evening tea. Am looking forward to tomorrow, when I will have lunch with a couple of former schoolmates. That is pretty much all the news that's fit to print, so shall bid you adieu.
24 July
   Muy buenos dias; Today I am cruising, sans passport. This week has been the usual hustle-bustle - and then some. So much so, I woke with knowledge it is Friday, yet somehow believed it to be Tuesday. Oh yes, and I spoke French. Of course my lexicon contains words and phrases used by everyone: oui; s'il vous plait; je ne sais quoi; and a few others - but I am by no stretch of the imagination, "fluent." Anyway, believe the notion came from knowing a friend was listening to language recordings, hoping to learn subliminally.
  On Thursday - just yesterday(!) - Tecumseh Senior Center observed National Cruise Day. Kim Otto, center director, is just wonderful, devising ingenious activities, keeping area seniors young at heart. We were welcomed 'aboard' (cue "Love Boat" theme) and festivities began. Buffet line served chips and salsa, while bar supplied us with "mock-aritas" (no tequila). There were mariachis, five octogenarians who wanted to play before an audience,  prior to their performance at Lenawee County Fair, a week hence.
   After lunch, there was a piñata to be broken, and we played Mexican bingo. Piñatas are apparently not of the same durable construction as when I was a child, and one good swing with a plastic bat, brought this one down. 
   Mexican bingo evoked childhood memories, as it was part of numerous baby showers, attended with Mom, her relatives, and comadres. Players are given cards with sixteen different pictures, arranged in four rows of four. Caller uses a deck of cards, printed with various images: la dama (lady), el soldado (soldier), la sandia (watermelon), la muerte (death), el borracho (drunkard), and so on. Am uncertain how many images there are, but noticed there are now numbers in the upper left-hand corners, which probably make it easier to use the game as a learning tool. Prize for cover-all was a sombrero and four scratch-off lottery tickets. Three of us bingoed, played another round of regular bingo, and I won the showdown. Amount won is not enough to *keep me in the style to which I would like to become accustomed* but will cover price of a box of wine.
   Monthly Orchard Terrace bingo was Thursday evening, and I bingoed once. Must have expended my quota of bingo luck, for the day. Thinking of what all I could put in this letter, realized it was just this past Tuesday, when friends and I had gone out for Chinese food, and Wednesday when I started reading a sci-fi book about space colonies - extensive travels, indeed. Affordable "ticket" puts this within most budgets. 
29 July
   Do not know why I felt compelled to write, when it has only been a few hours since we parted company. Maybe just needed to share my thoughts with others and trusted you would not mind.
   Day started rather strangely, when I woke at four o'clock. Restless, could not go back to sleep, so by 5:30, was in the shower. Had not recalled any dream details and wondered if there would be any dreams to blog. While living in Texas, studying massage therapy, I found if I woke during the night, showered, and returned to bed, I had more vivid and memorable dreams. Such proved to be the case, on this occasion.
   Yesterday, at Tecumseh Senior Center, told my friend, with whom I usually ride on Mondays and Wednesdays, that I would drive separately, as I would be having lunch with you. The plan was to come in for Knitting Club and stay for Scrabble. You know the adage about best laid plans.
   So, after my "middle of the night" shower, I slept and dreamed, and did not wake until office assistant called at 9 A.M, asking if I was up and ready for maintenance man to reinstall cabinet. Oh, forgot to tell you: when I came home from center Monday, apartment did not look same as I had left it. Not only was kitchen dark, but cupboard drawer was on living room floor. Knew it was not robbery, as it was too orderly. Moments after I walked in, there was a knock on door; maintenance man there to tell me neighbor had reported a leak, which had been traced to faulty water heater in my apartment. There was a message on answering machine, which I had not yet heard, apprising me of situation. So, that's how Monday went.
   Tuesday was Wii bowling tournament at senior center, Tecumseh hosting Adrian. Of their eight team members who came over, only two have averages under 200. Our top guy has an average of 185, with most of us being in 140-160 range. All I can say is, thank goodness for handicaps. Everybody had fun and is looking forward to Tecumseh going to Adrian in August.
   That brings us to Wednesday, and I really enjoyed not only burger and beer, but two-hour visit. It was great hearing what is happening in your busy life and I am excited for you, over coming grandchild. When I got home from lunch, there was a message on answer machine from one of the neighbors, wanting to know if we were still on for burgers at VFW, this evening. I knew how much she was looking forward to it, so called her back and said sure. Had it fixed a bit differently, and skipped fries.
   Got back at 7:55 P.M, figuring I was in for the evening. Called another friend, having not seen him for over a week, concerned how he was holding up to heat and humidity. Asked if I wanted to go out for shortcake, I again gave affirmative response. It has been an eventful day.
   Thursday, will be going to Lenawee County Fair, to listen to dulcimer players, then will help out with sing-along to harmonica music - same group who played for our "Mexican Cruise."
   Sort of hoping Friday turns out to be a slow business day, with run-of-the-mill activities: Veggie Mobile and Wii bowling here at Orchard Terrace. Friday night is usually a night for playing cards, but it would not hurt my feelings in the least if I had to skip out on that, to spend some quality time with an out of town friend.
   That seems as good a place as any to wrap this up. Dropped a postcard to next-door neighbor in mail slot, on my return from having shortcake. Not much else to report.
***
May all your challenges be surmountable,
Jo Ann

Friday, July 12, 2019

Sauntering through summer

12 July, 2019 
Dear friend,
   Summer seemed to take its time coming to Michigan but is now well and truly arrived. Since sidewalks around my neighborhood are treacherously uneven, I load my walker and go to a nearby, a couple miles away. It is a delight to walk amid flora and fauna. There are occasionally goldfinches to be glimpsed, showing brightly contrasted to a bobbing head of thistle. Bunnies of varying size sit  unblinkingly still, or scamper down the path, like advance scouts. One morning, a rabbit scurried on the north side of the trail, as a small patch of red caught my right eye. At first, I mistook the brilliant glimpse for a male cardinal. Closing the distance between myself and what had caught my eye, I discerned the red came from sun shining through a small rabbit's thin ears.
   On two consecutive days, I viewed deer, in about the same area. One morning, a doe and fawn bounded across, traversing south to north. Next morning, I had just made my turnaround, when a head poked out of some shrubbery on north side of the path. My progress was observed for maybe as much as a full minute. Apparently I was not deemed threatening and the doe stepped out, two fawns in her wake. It seems late in the season for such "hatchlings." One can only hope there will be none born as late as September or October; lest they freeze.
   Moths, butterflies and wildflowers - both familiar and unfamiliar, add bountiful color, making exercise more enjoyable. Some of the abounding fauna is tiny, but not quite microscopic. There are biting flies, of course, and itty-bitty bugs, smaller than a match head. My stroll is often accompanied by a chorus of frogs, which inhabit a marshy pond, near west end of the section I walk. This particular stretch of blacktop is used by several people, whose ages span decades. One morning, I saw saw a young woman on roller-blades, pushing a stroller, and a couple bicyclists, who were [likely] in their seventies. I have received encouraging kudos and dare to hope my example may lead younger folks to hold me up to their parents. *You can do it; why, there's a lady out there every day, using a walker!* I know some people are embarrassed about looking "old." Age is no cause for shame - despite what a youth-obsessed culture may say. So, rock on with your bad self.
   Dew-washed raspberries and mulberries are a treat; sadly, my footing is no longer secure enough to go more than a few steps off the trail, in search of fruit. Some days, the wind is just right and floral fragrances waft toward me, delighting olfactory sensors. Sure, every now and then, one gets a whiff of something dead and detects a circling buzzard overhead: that's what nature is all about.
   As it is wont to do, reality intrudes on this idyll - but it doesn't disrupt me walk too often. In fact, in the seven weeks or so I've been using the trail, only one ambulance has been seen. There are definite advantages to living in a semi-rural hamlet. (I won't say that too loudly; some folks have delusions of grandeur. wink wink)
   The peaceful pace of retirement, has prompted me to share some of what I see, via illustrated envelopes. Recently, one was sent to my only canine correspondent. Andy is so special, I have a packet of stamps used for his letters: Scooby Doo.
 
Hope this brief missive, finds you well.
Yours truly,
Jo Ann

Thursday, July 11, 2019

Turn the page

It has been a decade since I learned the Ann Arbor News would cease daily publication. I was living in Brady, Texas and wanted to submit one of my articles to a publication in my home state. Ms. Laurel Champion, who was on staff at that time, emailed me [14 July, 2009] and told me the News' fate. Our correspondence is at the end of this essay.
*****
   One does not have to be personally acquainted with someone to grieve with them over their losses. After 174 years, the Ann Arbor News will close its doors July 23, 2009 and that is cause to mourn.
   In 1837, Michigan achieved statehood, front page news indeed. A century-and-a-half ago, this nation's president was assassinated; likely that too made The News' headlines.
   This publication has seen: the inception of Kellogg's Battle Creek plant; Detroit auto industry duds and successes; Motown superstars and flops. It has chronicled state, national and international spectacles, scandals, triumphs and tragedies. For 40 years, I lived less than an hour's drive from Ann Arbor but probably picked up a full paper less than a dozen times. Random pages were glimpsed if they happened to be used as packing material, insulating metal parts that came to Dad's shop for buffing. Dad still reads papers in bits and pieces, as long as he can hold the pages in his calloused hands. Like many, he refuses to navigate the "information superhighway" of cyberspace.
   Ann Arbor, as a city, will survive without a daily edition of The News but it will be a poorer existence. I do not know the significance of the July 23 end date. Perhaps one last Ann Arbor Art Fair and it will indeed be "all she wrote." Actually, there will be an online edition and there are plans to publish a "real" paper on a twice weekly basis. This compares to an elderly person entering an assisted living facility: it allows a modicum of dignity before the "final curtain."
   It is my hope that English language newspapers endure at least another 40-50 years; a  hope that is less than altruistic. Should the day come when I can retire and sit on my porch sipping a beverage, I want to have a newspaper to read while I do so. A newspaper whose comic strips make me laugh, whose crossword puzzles make me think, whose pages I can roll up to swat a pesky fly. When my life shall end, perhaps a newspaper will carry my obituary - which those who grieve my passing can cut out and put in their Bibles or scrapbooks.
   I hope the online edition is fruitful and fulfilling. As Spock would say, "Live long and prosper."
*

Laurel R. Champion lchampion@annarbornews.com

Jul 14, 2009, 5:17 PM
to Joeditor
Hi Jo Ann: Thanks so much for your kind and thoughtful letter. I am
forwarding it to our editor for review for publication. Take care, Laurel

 Ms. Champion,

 Some time ago I sent a proposed column to the letters department, as it
 was the only address I had at the time. I was then informed of the closing
 scheduled for July 23, 2009.

 Recently I watched the interview with Stefanie Murray and was heartened to
 learn that The News will continue with two printed editions per week.
 Encouraged, I have revised a letter previously sent to the editorial
 department of the Ann Arbor News and other publications. My name registers
 a mere blip on the journalistic radar. When that changes, I hope there is
 a printed publication to carry my work.
 Thank you, 
 JoAnn Dalgard
 602-B E. Commerce St.
 Brady, TX 76825
(325) 597-0154, (325) 456-4236
_____________________________________
NOTE: After this exchange, I had no further contact with either the News or Ms. Champion, so have no idea if my letter was published/seen. (jbd, July 2019)