I just didn't know....

I'm a cat person. I've always been a cat person. I will probably always be a cat person. But back in 1998, we adopted a border collie/Lab mix puppy to protect our chickens. The Dr. Doolittle movie with Eddie Murphy had just come out, and we named him Lucky, after the dog in the movie.

I was an at-home mom all those years. Lucky was my constant companion. He was always with me. Sometimes I would walk around the yard with a line of critters behind me: Lucky, a cat, a chicken, and a bunny. Lucky was always the leader.

We built fences at two houses for Lucky, because we wanted him to be able to run freely. But sometimes, he still found a way to get out. When he did, we'd walk on the outside and call him to figure out how he got out. When we moved to town, our neighbor told us he was getting out. It's a much bigger deal, a roaming dog in town, because the pound will pick them up. While Hubby went outside the fence to find the hole, I stood in the kitchen to see where Lucky went. Hubby called Lucky, Lucky ran for the hole, then looked back at the house where I was watching from the kitchen window. I could almost hear him thinking, “Oh crap, I'm busted!” He reluctantly walked to the hole in the fence, knowing full well his escape route would be eliminated. He was a smart dog and so sad.

When threatened by a roaming Dalmatian, Lucky guarded me.

When our chickens were threatened by a gopher, Lucky took it out, and laid it at the back door for me to find.

Once, when we lived in Hudson, I watched a skunk walk across our yard, as Lucky stayed quietly back by the house. He was a smart dog.

Lucky loved ice and wintergreen mints. If you had a drink with fresh ice, he would look at you longingly until you gave him a cube. He loved mint so much, he would come and smell your breath after brushing your teeth.

Lucky had heartworm treatment in 2006, which was the primary reason we adopted Libby. Because of what I saw him go through, and the fear that brought me, I will never do that again. Never.

Lucky could clean off a whole coffee table with his killer tail.

The daughter and I used to pretend to girl fight, slapping at each other and squealing, and Lucky would come get between us, barking and wagging his tail, and enjoying the game.

Lucky loved catching any bug that flew. Once he caught a cicada; when it buzzed he'd drop it, then pick it back up when it got quiet. He got several baby birds that fell out of their nests. If I could find them soon enough, all I had to say was “Drop it” and he would. He didn't want to hurt the birds, he just wanted to be with them.

Lucky had several nicknames: Moosey Mutt when he wanted in a lap, the Woofer because he'd woof 30 seconds after you let him out, and he spoke whale quite fluently.

When I threw my back out the first time, Lucky let me use him as a cane.

You could not kick a soccer ball past Lucky; he always blocked them.

Lucky loved the beach. The first time he went, he drank salt water, puked everywhere, and looked at me like it was my fault. He didn't drink it again, but he sure did love chasing seagulls.

Lucky could catch anything and ate everything we tossed to him. He won a blue ribbon at a dog fair for the “Dog that will eat anything.” He was the only dog that ate the baby carrot. His daughter is the same way.

Lucky caught the squirrels hubby shot out of our pecan tree in mid-air. Not a one ever hit the ground.

He never moved when I told him to stay, and got along with everybody and every animal he ever met.

If Lucky was barking, and I said, “Knock it off,” he would lay down and be as quiet as he could be.

I didn't know.

I didn't know it could be like this with a dog, that they really were man (and woman's) best friend. He was always there, always comforting, he was truly the best friend I ever had. I loved that dog like none I had ever loved before. I didn't know it could be like that with a dog.

Honestly, I didn't know.

I just didn't know.

I didn't know you could have that kind of relationship with a dog. It's completely different from cats. I can't even begin to explain it, and I am a person who lives with words and writes every single day. Lucky was everything you could imagine you'd want in a dog; smart, funny, and accommodating. He got along with chickens, ducks, cats, and even had a bunny living in his yard at one time. He was far more than just a pet.

He was great. I loved that dog more than I thought was humanly possible to love a pet.

Lucky was a part of my life for almost 14.5 years. He went to Rainbow Bridge on August 6, 2012. I am always going to miss him. There will never be another Lucky Dawg in my life; and that breaks my heart.

We still have two dogs, but they're not Lucky.

No dog will ever be Lucky.

So, time goes by.

Grief and I have been companions for many years, so I'm familiar with its behavior. Time doesn't heal a damn thing. Don't let anybody ever tell you time makes grief easier. You just get more used to having it in your life; the feelings of grief never go away. Obviously at 52 years of age, I'd been through the loss of a pet before. Compared to some of the deaths I've dealt with in life, like my son's, the death of a pet doesn't even register.

But it still hurt, and that surprised me. I'd see dogs with similar markings, or similar personalities, and it would hurt that it wasn't Lucky. I missed him SO bad.

I'm just not one of those people who get a new pet after one dies; it takes me awhile to assimilate loss. So after about a year, getting a new puppy began to creep into my awareness. Yes, we had two dogs already, but they weren't MY dog. You know what I mean? I'd rather adopt an older dog, but our Libby is boss dog, 8 years old, and has seizures. I knew from fostering other dogs, a puppy would be easier on her.

Ya'll know how Facebook is; any time someone has puppies or kittens, they post it trying to find them new homes. My particular set of friends are so incredibly animal-conscious. In a way, it's the magnet that drew us all together on Facebook. I keep stumbling over new friends that knew old friends, and it turned out we ALL knew each other, and every one of us loves animals.

So, I began to pay attention to other dogs again. There are almost always new pics of puppies on Facebook. Saw a little border collie mix that looked just like Lucky, but by the time I inquired, that puppy had been adopted. Lucky had only been 55-65 pounds; bigger than our surviving dogs, but not super huge. Hubby and I joke about the current fad of little dogs you can carry everywhere, and call them pretend dogs, so I even looked at Yorkies and Maltese and dachsunds. But in my heart, I really do love big dogs and missed my big dog hugs. I visited a lady with nine great danes, and gosh I loved those dogs, but I'd never pay for a pedigreed dog. I visited Pyrenees, and Danes, and collies and shepherds and Labs and golden retrievers. I visited the kill shelter here in Lufkin, as well as the dogs at the no-kill shelter.

I wasn't even actually intentionally looking for a dog; I was just seeing what went by, you know? The thought of a new dog just kind of floated through my mind, whenever I'd meet a new dog. I was thinking all along that when God wanted me to adopt another dog, the dog would present itself. It was kind of like looking for a husband; I'd see some that appealed to me, enjoy playing with them and loving on them, but they weren't MY dog. I guess it's a really good thing my husband found me—lol!

So, there's this lady (Pat) on Facebook. She and I share a mutual friend, but I didn't actually know Pat. She posted a pic of her “Baptist puppies” and our mutual friend shared it. Pat lives in Wells, and I thought, it's no big deal to just have a look. Pat is a rescuer and had rescued a full blooded female pit bull from a neighbor who kept it chained. Her son owned a full-blooded Lab. While Mama was being boarded at a vet, Mama was to be spayed. When Pat saw Mama and Daddy doing the hokey pokey, she called the vet, and turns out: they didn't realize they were supposed to spay Mama and so, there ya go.

Mama subsequently gave birth to the eleven Baptist puppies. Yes, ELEVEN. Pat had found homes for all but two of the puppies, both girls, which didn't matter to use because we spay/neuter all of our critters as soon as they're old enough. Daughter and I had made a road trip to deliver some goldfish (long story), and decided to meet Pat in Wells on the way home. Honestly, I was a little nervous about adopting a dog that was part pit, after all those terrible stories we hear about them. But in my personal opinion, it is the owner that makes a dog mean; dogs aren't born that way. For some odd reason, I felt compelled to visit these puppies. (And if you'll be patient, after my signature, I'll PS the explanation of the “Baptist” puppies.)

So, my daughter and I went out to visit the puppies on a Wednesday, when my hubby is home sleeping off his night shift. Pat and I met at the school in Wells, and she let this little black thing with practically no hair (a serious plus) out on the grass. The puppy paid little attention to us. She was more interested in exploring the grass and shrubs than us, but she wasn't resistant to being picked up and cuddled. Daughter and I liked it, just because it was a puppy, but I didn't get that---MAGNET---feeling. I didn't feel she was MY dog.

Daughter and I weren't going to adopt any puppy without Hubby meeting it as well, so the next day, we ran back out to Wells and met Pat at her house to visit the puppy again. Pat brought Mama in and she was so sweet, she was immediately submissive and you could tell she was a rescued dog. She would do anything to please the humans who helped her.

If you know me, you know I sit on the floor a lot, particularly with my critters or my grandies. Since I lost all the weight, it's just easier to sit on the floor than squat; 328 pounds destroyed my knees and I can't do that anymore. Gotta say though, it's a lot easier getting back up now. :-)

So, I sit down on Pat's floor, and that little dang puppy runs to me, climbs in my lap, and starts licking my face. Like her mom, her big old tail that is longer than she is just a-wagging, along with most of her back half.

Yeah, ya'll know where this goes from there, right? We took the dang puppy home and named her Lucy, a name I'd had in my mind for a long time as sort of a tribute to Lucky Dawg.

Just like us when Libby and Lucky had their puppies, Pat made it clear: If it doesn't work out with the puppy, bring it back. With our puppies, I even wrote up tips for dealing with puppies—lol. But, there was no way Pat's Baptist puppies were going to end up in a kill shelter. (Which, sadly, was proven by one inhumane adopter later.)

If you've ever had a puppy, you know, it is NOT easy, this growing a dog.

Lucy puddled everywhere, despite our efforts to take her out all the time. After slipping in a puppy puddle and popping something in my back, I was thinking, this is just NOT a good idea, I'm just too old to deal with this anymore. But we had this silly DUH moment, and realized if we left the back door open a bit, she'd go out to puddle! We were all like—-well, damn we're just stupid. She's already trained, she just couldn't get out! So, now, we leave the back door cracked (even in 20 degree weather), and we find very few puddles.

Lucy got her nickname early; she is the PITA Psycho Puppy (and if you're older like me and don't know what PITA stands for, it's “pain in the ass”). The reason we call her that is that she just does the funniest things. She loves wood, and picks up branches and brings them into the house to chew on. One night, she was crying because I had the door cracked, but it wasn't wide enough for her limb, and she wasn't big enough to push the door open—lol!!

She loves squeaky toys and as soon as she gets the squeaker out, she's done. Like our Libby did, she dissects stuffies, so we find little piles of stuffing all over the house. Between our backdoor and my room, which is where Lucy lives, there is now a trail of stuffies, limbs, crunched wood, chewed up pine cones, stuffie stuffing, and occasionally something odd she found in the back yard. At the moment, our house looks like a stuffy cemetery when you walk in.

Lucy is a complete and total wuss. If the other dogs start barking at something, Lucy runs and hides under my bed or in my lap. It's hilarious! When she's outside, she runs under one of our sheds; there's a video of it on Facebook if you really care enough to watch. She is rapidly approaching a time when she's not gonna fit under my bed. Last night, she was actually whimpering because she couldn't get under there; she's so funny, she put her legs under the bed and hid the rest of her under the covers. What a goober.....

She loves teasing the older dogs into play and has rejuvenated both of our older dogs; they can be dead asleep and she will coerce them into playing. The other day, I found Libby and Lucy on the back porch just rolling while they were embracing each other. Libby has NEVER allowed ANY dog to tower over her, it is a pet peeve with her, but she's letting Lucy roll over her, stand over her, tower over her. This is such an incredible thing, because I found out a couple of weeks ago, Lucy's dad weighs 100 lbs. Lucy has huge paws, appears to be on the path to be a REALLY big dog, and that big, she absolutely has to be able to get along with Libby. If she's going to be that big, I have to ensure that she won't hurt Libby, Girl, or any of our five cats, two of which are over 10 years old. Currently, Lucy has come to terms with each cat according to their personality; she just needs to remember that Squeaky's gonna claw the shit out of her at some point. The rest of the cats either ignore her or just give her kitty head butts.

Today, 1/28/14, Lucy is exactly three months old. So far, she has learned how to sit, is mostly potty trained, learning to wait until a human says it's OK to eat a treat, and not to walk on our plates when we are eating. (She still sneaks in under the big dogs to eat out of their bowls---it's hilarious!) She's learning from our other dogs that she is supposed to stay at the gate (so we can leave it open when we're bring groceries and stuff in), and she's not supposed to go past that invisible line and leave the yard.

After getting caught redhanded by Hubby sneaking under the fence, she's committed herself to protection of the house and yard, doing regular patrols with Libby, and not escaped again, but for the moment, we still keep the gap under the gate blocked, just in case she decides to have a romp.

When she picks up something she's not supposed to have, she hauls ass. I mean, there is no way I'm catching that dog when she takes off. And the funny part is, she is fully aware of what she's doing! She KNOWS she's picked up something that is taboo; it is very much a game with her.

She's a puppy, and sometimes, a TOTAL pain in the ass....

Then....

When she is tired she comes up behind me, and rests her head on my shoulder for comfort.

When I discipline her and say “bad dog”, she licks my nose.

When I fill up the dogs' bowls in the morning, she eats out of each bowl progressively as I fill them; such a goober.

I bought a crate for her to sleep in at night, but when I am tired and cold, she curls her body against mine, and I just can't bring myself put her in the crate. She conforms herself to the shape of my body, and lets me use her as a pillow to fall asleep. Unless you're an insomniac like me, you have no idea what a gift this is.

After a night when she sleeps with me, she hugs my head with her paws, and licks my face to wake me up when she needs out.

Although she has a submissive nature and doesn't like jumping on humans; she is reluctantly learning how to give Big Dog hugs.

She loves our cat, Bones, and lets Bones head butt her just like she does to the other dogs. Bonesy just never met a stranger, feline or canine.

While I am in the midst of my winter blues, wanting to barricade myself in the house, and not wanting to come out till spring, she jumps up on the bed, bringing me a mutilated stuffie, drops it in my lap, and waits expectantly for me to throw it: over and over and over. “Bring it” is something she's learning really well.

Lucky Dawg's collar still hangs on my bed. Lucy licks it every day; it is SO weird.

When my heart is sad over some awful news I've seen on TV or online, Lucy plops in my lap. It's gonna be a real issue if she reaches 100 lbs. but it is the sweetest and most comforting action anyone could offer.

Lucy does not judge me, find me wanting, or love me any less because of any of my human foibles.

So yeah, I'm a cat person. But Lucky Dawg and his gifts continue to pour into my life. Because before him, I just didn't know.

I just didn't know....

Love to all those who love me,

allison

P.S. The explanation for "Baptist puppies." Theres a old story about a little boy pulling a wagon of puppies saying free Baptist puppies ,the third day he started saying free pentcostal puppies a man said I thought they were Baptist puppies the little boy said they opened there eyes and saw the light. Pat's son used to tell that story little all the time so they became Baptist puppies,

That's the Job

A friend of mine shared a blog post on Facebook today from The Crumb Diaries at https://www.facebook.com/TheCrumbDiaries/posts/528766197213735 . It prompted this train of thought....

Our daughter, Jennifer, has Aspberger's Syndrome and Pervasive Developmental  Disorder. Although we knew Jen was a slower learner than her siblings, we didn't truly recognize a problem until we still could not understand her speech at age four.  By age six, she was steadily losing ground when compared to other children her age.  She had difficulty learning how to read, socializing with her peers, and communicating with anyone outside the family.  You know how you get an ear worm, a song that gets in your head and you sing it all day? Jen's ear worms went on for years: Jingle Bells for over two years, the first line of the national anthem for about a year and a half, and then Fur Elise lasted about 4 years.  At age 10, she still could not tie her shoes, count change, tell time. At 12-13, she was compelled to say the word "chicken" as soon as she walked in a room.  This later evolved to the word "butthead" and then "bumblebee".  Oh, there were so many things she hadn't learned that other children her age had mastered years before, and so many compulsive behaviors that she could not control. 

But along with her compulsions, we also recognized that Jennifer was a very bright child.  In school, she could barely speak or add 2+2, while at home with us, in her comfort zone, she made up songs and stories, created elaborate games, designed houses and clothing, and could draw just about anything she saw. She loved animals, and was a responsible pet owner, feeding and watering her animals.  She helped around the house and could perform any chore after a single explanation. She is much like me, a "question girl," curious about everything. She had no problems understanding any explanation or asking more questions to truly comprehend a situation.  

But in school, she was failing miserably. She had no friends, and was falling further and further behind academically. We had a dozen evaluations performed by a plethora of highly educated people who diagnosed her with mental retardation, ADD, major depressive disorder, social anxiety disorder and, it seemed, whatever diagnosis they favored that particular day.  My favorite? The school nurse who observed Jen in class for 15 minutes and diagnosed her with ADHD because Jen was doodling.

You cannot imagine the frustration when  the "experts" won't take the time to listen when you KNOW something is wrong with your child. Jen was locked in a prison created by her own mind. She was miserable, unhappy and sad, and we couldn't help her! It was a living nightmare. She was in 6th grade before the schools finally recognized there even was a problem and agreed to test her again. She was well into her teens before we finally found a counselor who took the time to observe her, gain Jennifer's trust, truly get to know Jen, and ask us the gazillion questions necessary to get a true diagnosis.

But once we figured out what was actually wrong, and how to deal with it. Jennifer's progress was absolutely magical! Summer before last, when she met my friend, Jess Plants, we had a moment similar to when Helen Keller connected the feel of water with the word "water." Jen met Jess and actually asked Jess a question directly. Not only was she speaking to a total stranger, she initiated a topic in the conversation! For a child who had been locked inside herself for so very long it was just----it was miraculous. Max and I both looked at each other with tears in our eyes. We knew then, we just KNEW, she was going to be OK.

Over the years, though we recognized Jen was different, we never made excuses for her. Why would we? But, oh my goodness---we fought MANY battles with those who belittled her and asked us questions like, “What is wrong with her? Is that child just stupid? Why don't you make her act right? Can't Jennifer just act normal for once? There's nothing wrong with that child, she's just lazy.”  Once, as I was getting Jen from school in third grade, I asked the teacher, "How is she doing?" In front of the whole class, the teacher responded, "She's fine, she's just slower than the rest of the class and weighs them down." To this day, I still want to slap that teacher. I was very proud of my self-restraint that day when I asked the teacher to join me for a moment in the hallway and made it very clear she would NOT talk about my child that way again with anyone but us. When a particular loved one started making derogatory statements about Jennifer's behavior in Jennifer's presence, we left their home and never left Jennifer alone with that person again. There were many times we fought this battle for our daughter, protecting her from malevolent attitudes that might destroy the self-esteem she fought so hard to attain.

Our general response when anyone asked was always just “What the hell is 'normal'? Jennifer's problems do not define her; they make her stronger. The very fact that she understands her issues, and has the ability to learn coping mechanisms proves that Jennifer is exactly what we always knew: a beautiful, generous, creative, smart, funny, loving person. She is our daughter. Just as with our sons, we have her back for the rest of our lives. We would lay down our lives for any of our children, without question or hesitation.

Jennifer is 21 now, and she still has rough times ahead. She must live with these issues the rest of her life. But she has come such a long way. She has friends and family who love and support her wholeheartedly.  She's not afraid to talk to people, crack a joke, to be herself, and have pride in herself JUST THE WAY SHE IS.

We never stop fighting for our children. There are no coffee breaks in parenting. It's not an issue for debate; it is what it is. We're parents. That's the job.

Gone Fishin'

Flawless blue sky

Sweltering heat

The slight breeze as

Light as a baby's exhalation

Cools and dries your sweaty self.

Hapless worm floating in the depths of

Green water reflecting green trees.

Orange flowers

White hot sun

The occasional drone of

Bass master motors racing

To their secret honey hole,

Drowsily enjoying the pleasure of the pause.

Random sudden twitches of your pole

Demanding your attention.

Discussions with your fishing buddy

Who has shared this journey for a lifetime.

Delighting in watching the magnificent

Tail splash of a bass on the chase.

Relishing the deceptively lazy serpentine swirl of

The long fin of a showy and aggressive grennel

Your fishing buddy has named “Bob.”

Appreciating the splendor of the essentially untouched

Natural world cradling and renewing your psyche

While simultaneously experiencing in your heart

All the joy and wonder, excitement and content.

So many gifts in this life

So little time for gratitude.

All is given to you.

Thanking my Support System

We're having a get-together this weekend to share our good news about hubby's new job with the friends who have been our support system over the past year. It got me to thinking, some people have gone above and beyond to help us, but sometimes it's just the little things that get you from day to day, that really blow my mind. And sometimes your friends don't even know they did it!

So, I have all these images from the past year flashing through my mind. No names, and in no particular order of importance, but the folks mentioned know who they are, and I thank you.

My tiny 70+-year-old neighbor walking across the street with a tower of items for our garage sale, and she and I (the shortest in the bunch) tipping over a huge rack of clothes—ROFL!

Our other neighbor from whom donated items kept appearing in the carport, and who backed his car down our street to help us pack up during a sudden rainstorm when we were in the middle of our garage sale, and is generally just always around when we're in crisis, and whose life is a demonstration of his faith. :-)

The friend I can call at any time, day or night, and she'll tell me what's wrong with my car, who loves my daughter as much as I do and opens her home to Jen, working at my side day after day reassuring me constantly, “It's gonna work!” and keeping me fed when I forgot to eat, and bringing food to my family after my dad died, including an awesome jumbalaya we all fought over.

My crazy artist friend who tells me, “You miss everything,” because he is trying so hard not to let everybody see his kind heart, drives me crazy sometimes because he is so serious, is reluctantly accepting of face squishes and bald head rubs, but for some reason, is always there when you least expect it with a hug, a funny, or help.

The artist friend who came to my dad's funeral, in the pouring rain, to help me feel better.

The friend who came running the night I broke my arm and sat for me for hours in the ER, for always being there, for her hugs when my dad died, and for always always understanding my mother/daughter issues.

Running into my friend at the eagle's nest and receiving the beautiful mosaic of our Lucky Dawg she created, which is now a permanent part of my life, where I can pet him every single day of the rest of my life.

The friend who showed up (uncalled) to provide us with more hangers after we ran out, lets me roam her flower shop taking gorgeous pictures whenever the mood hits me, sent me a doggy bone commemorative stone after Lucky Dawg died, picks up on-sale margueritas for us, and created not one but THREE beautiful arrangements for my father's funeral on a day's notice... and it was a Sunday! They were absolutely beautiful, and I will always save the ribbons she created.

All those strangers who came to my house and donated to total strangers (us) just to help out another human.

The boss who tolerated me through the property tax issues and let me keep my part-time job, and picked us up in Huntsville after we got stranded and could not for the life of her figure out why we were laughing so hard! Have a great night!

The friend from high school (which was 30+ years ago), who sent me the sweetest note after my breast biopsy, just because she cared.

My friends in Houston, people I've known twenty years or more and who I never get to see as much as I'd like, buying raffle tickets for our garage sale, buying jeans long distance and paying their own postage, and supporting us completely emotionally without judgment or criticism. All they ever asked me was, “What can I do?” Love like that is priceless.

The friend who took Jen to the movies and out to eat, and treated us to free guacamole (my favorite food, even though she made Jen a guacamole fan and now I have to fight her for it), brought us stacks and stacks of newspapers and bottled water for our sale, saved my Christmas present till after the first of the year, carrying it in her car all that time for me until we could get together then surprising me with it, who fed my family fried chicken after my dad died, carried photos to a sale in Houston to help me raise money for Christmas, and has just been there for everything.

The friend whose daughter my daughter calls her “BFF” who gave of herself openly and without hesitation to someone she barely knew just because another friend asked her to, and who tried to teach me just to “roll with it,” a very difficult lesson for me!

The man who tried to hire me as a 911 dispatcher, who cried with me when I was disqualified, and who kept checking on me for months afterward to see if I'd found another job.

The friend who held me and hugged me when a stranger handed me $200 and walked away before I could even say thank you, who shares my bizarre artistic bent, who was there the night of my dad's visitation, and who loves clocks. I never see a clock face without thinking of her kindness to me during a horribly stressful time.

The birding friend who never ever minds when I text him to figure out what I'm looking at, teaches me something new every time we talk, who gave me a new field guide when he knew I couldn't buy one, and shows up when I least expect it, just to say hey.

The “planing” friend who asks, every time he sees me, how my ribs feel, and if they're better AND let me wear his flight goggles. It was an incredible moment, feeling like I could fly.

The photography friend who ALWAYS outshoots me, tells me when my tail light's out (who knew it makes the blinker hyperactive? Not me!), taught me to always carry a flashlight, walks me through anything technical with incredible patience because he knows I haven't a clue what he's talking about, sends me Google earth directions so I don't get lost, loaned me a laptop when my old one was dying, and even went out to find my monopod for me after I fell and hurt myself at the eagles' nest. He and his wife are awesome people, and it's really good to know there are still folks like that out there in this tough world.

My friend “Pinky,” who texts me constantly when he's house-sitting to let me know how my critters are, loves goofy movie trivia and just hanging out in the carport, texts me about great B movies to Netflix, always makes me laugh, gives me giant bear hugs, and is absolutely priceless to me.

The friend who rescued Sammy from a Lake Rayburn campsite, and kept her in a safe place until I could get home to pick her up, instead of immediately carting her off to the shelter, and understood when I eventually had to take Sammy there after she terrorized our kitties.

My senior “planing” friends who let me tag around asking a million questions, taking picture after picture of them, and never ever treat me like a girl.

The city employees who flag me down and ask me how the eagles are doing every time I come out from the nest, even though they haven't even a clue what my name is; it always makes me smile that others love them so much.

The friend who, after an area "free" paper refused to run our ad, got the news about our garage sale put on the front page of our local paper, and who keeps using my pictures in her publication; it is an incredible honor.

The nature geeks who keep supporting my photograph obsession and my inundation of pictures Facebook, all those small compliments made many a day brighter for me during dark times.

The friends who love Elvis as much as I do and go feed him for me when I'm out of town.

The bird friend who helped me rescue baby ducks and didn't laugh at me for carrying them in my hoodie pouch like a kangaroo mama, and shared her rehab with me; she does what the rest of us who loves birds can't. I love her for that passion.

The friend who volunteers almost every single day at our local shelter, who called me with donations for the garage sale, and totally and completely understands that I can't do what she does because I would end up taking ALL the cats home.

My generous dog-loving friend who works as an anesthesia nurse and showed up before my breast biopsy, just to give me a hug.

The big guy in my life, who towers over me by over a foot, hugged my face the first time he saw me after my breast biopsy came back benign, is a few years my senior and retains his enthusiasm about life and spreads it wherever he goes, and is one of those rare spirits on the planet whose artistic creativity is as hyperactive as my own.

My 365 friends.... who shared SO much beauty with me over the past year; there were many days their beautiful images were all the beauty I could see in the world.

The friend who got it when I got a cast instead of a brace on my broken arm because the critter fur in the Velcro on the brace drives me bonkers—lol!

My friend with whom I laughed so hard the night Enterprise bailed on us, most folks would not have had nearly as much fun being stranded as she and I did, who is my mini-me, and totally and completely understands that shit happens.

My friend from HER childhood, who always supports me emotionally when I am hurting, who babysat my kids, whose heart is as big as Texas, and who I love beyond all human reason just because she's there. “Yeah, we're not gonna do that now.” :-)

My attorney friend who I very seldom get to see in person, but gives her services and advice freely, is always there when I'm at the depths of despair, is always discreet, and refuses any payment but artwork.

My bone-hunting friend who just gets me, can do things drawing that I only ever dreamed of, teaches because she loves it, listens to all my cuckoo art ideas, and relishes her geekitude (something that took me 30 years to accomplish). Even though she is 20 years my junior, we just connect on some strange level that clicks, and I will not give that up for ANYTHING.

My sweet Barbie friend, who is always dressed to the nines, speaks her mind without being hurtful, totally understands mother/daughter issues, thinks I'm the creative one, and just always makes me feel good.

My doggy loving friend who gave me medicine for my Lucky Dawg in his final days, because I could not afford to go to the vet, went completely overboard helping with our garage sale, is the negative to my positive and puts up with it, and never judges me.

Sometimes, without a word, a friend got me through the days when light was hard to find. It's like having small support beams under my life. Without those beams, I would have collapsed a long time ago. From the bottom of my heart to the heights of heaven, I just wanted to say thank you.

To all those I love who love me back,

allison

Growing Up in Sour Earth

“Look at that tree growing up there out of that grating. It gets no sun, and water only when it rains. It's growing out of sour earth. And it's strong because its hard struggle to live is making it strong. My children will be strong that way.” 

Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

If know you me personally or just follow my life’s adventures through Facebook, you know that I am a bubbly talkative extrovert, very hyper, and a little ditzy.  I’m not being self-deprecating; my mind just moves so quickly, my consciousness often has a delayed reaction to a previous tangent.

I’m blessed with a seemingly endless well of creativity, and have experimented with every medium available to me.  About five years ago, I started doing mixed media sculpture, and found my artistic home there. It no longer matters to me that others understand my work; it is what satisfies me. Typically, daily I take a couple of hundred pictures, write, and spend at least an hour outside at my favorite pond.  My sculpture, photography, writing, and that outside meditation keep me centered, and prevent my mind from implosion caused by my own unrelenting thunderstorms of thought. A creative mind like mine is dangerous when restricted; obsessing over irrelevant details that deadlock the thought process and entangle the emotions in triviality.

Despite my outward flighty presentation, emotionally, I am ridiculously strong, because I grew out of “sour earth.” My parents married because I was on the way, and divorced when I was four, by which time my two younger siblings had been born. It was emphatically impressed on me that my siblings were my responsibility, and if anything ever happened to them, it would be my fault.  This created an overwhelming sense of parental responsibility for my brother and sister that exists to this day.

All three of us experienced sexual and physical abuse during childhood, the details of which are unimportant here.  The abuse did not come from either of our biological parents.  The abuse is what life brought, we can’t go back and change it.

Abused children suffer through years of confusion over social issues. We seek definition of our self-worth from our outer world. It took all three of us years to come to terms with the abuse, and how it integrated into our personalities. Eventually, we became strong adults; but only after years of feeling inferior, self-degradation, denial, and finally acceptance that we cannot change our pasts. Once we figured that out, we all moved forward into true adulthood.

My body has been through more surgeries than many children born with severe handicaps.  My physicality and I seem to be constantly at odds, resulting in a klutziness that invades my whole persona. I’m the person who tosses a pen across the room as I’m gesturing through a conversation, spills a drink at least once a day, and wears her keyring through her fingers because otherwise, I’m picking them up every five minutes.  This body usually acquires a new Ace bandage, brace, or sling at least once a year. I had ovarian cancer in 1996, spinal meningitis in 2002, and esophagitis in 2009, all three of which tried to kill me.  I beat them all.

On the day after Christmas in 2003, I had gastric bypass surgery.  I weighed 328 pounds the day I went in for surgery, and now exist between 165-175 pounds. The burst of energy that accompanied the weight loss was completely unexpected to me. I was energetic before, but post-surgery, my energy exploded exponentially, and I began to seek more and more avenues to disperse it and satisfy my internal craving to create, to explore, to learn, and to be productive.

So you may read all this and think, “Oh, well, this all makes sense, no wonder she is a strong person.”  In truth, the one thing that strengthened me beyond normality is what happened to us on June 2, 1990.

Our young son, Aaron, had a seizure that night.  He stopped breathing, and as I was giving him mouth-to-mouth and Max was calling 911, his heart stopped beating under my hand. Paramedics came, our dog jumped through an open window barking at them, we were all screaming hysterically, they sent us out of the room, medical supplies flew in every direction, I don’t even know where our oldest son Travis was.....

The paramedics made us leave our home; told us to meet them at the hospital.  I never forgot walking to the car that night, seeing all of my neighbors standing there in those flashing red lights; their faces frozen in a simultaneous combination of fear, curiosity, and care. That whole night is frozen in my mind, even now, 22 years later.  The details never left me; I can close my eyes and see it all over again.  From the initial moment when I realized he was seizing till the moment the Life Flight helicopter took off, to arriving at Hermann and learning the black and dark prognosis the doctors gave us for Aaron’s future----this is a fixed point in my consciousness.

It took 28 minutes to restart Aaron’s heart, by which time he had significant brain damage. He was in PICU at Hermann Hospital in Houston for nine days. They ran all kinds of tests to diagnose which of his physical systems still worked.  They thought he could see, but not comprehend his vision. They decided he could hear, but not comprehend what he heard.  His involuntary systems stabilized; his blood pressure, heart, lungs, all still worked fine.  But, he had no muscle control; they kept him intubated because if they did not, his tongue would collapse into his throat, suffocating him. I remember thinking, “It’s OK; I can handle this, deaf and blind people survive all over the planet. It’s a different kind of motherhood, but I can handle it.”  I learned how to anoint his eyes so they did not dry out, feed him through a tube, and suction his saliva so he would not choke on it.  The first couple of days, when we approached Aaron’s bed and spoke to him, we saw a response in his blood pressure and knew he was still in there. But by the third day of his hospitalization, this was gone.

For nine days while Aaron was on life support, I felt God was holding his hand, just waiting for Aaron to be allowed to leave his physical vessel and step into heaven.  Because he had about 10% brain activity, we had to testify before an Ethics Committee for removal of his life support. On June 11, 1990, the tube was removed from his throat and Aaron went on to heaven to await our arrival.

Aaron’s death is the fire by which my subsequent personality is defined.  If you know me now, you know a very different person than that girl who existed before June 2, 1990.  I journaled every single day in the years after Aaron’s death. The first thing I wrote every day was “One Good Thing.”  I decided if I could find one good thing about every day, I would eventually find a reason to live.  Sometimes, my good thing was as basic as, “The sun was out today.” Those little nuggets of goodness were all that kept me going for a long time.

Eventually, of course, you just go on living.  It’s not like you really have a choice.  We had Travis to raise, we welcomed our daughter, Jennifer, two years after Aaron’s death, and we just kept on walking.  The weight of Aaron’s death never lightened, we just got used to carrying it.

I’ve often thought over the years,  “OK, God, losing Aaron was the worst thing that could ever happen. So, now we get a break, right?”  LOL!! Wrong assumption; adversity continues to intrude on our lives, and we continue to be tested.  But, I’m OK. I became a different person, survived, enjoy life and am grateful now for every second I get.  Now, you all know why my family is so very important to me. I missed time with Aaron, working long hours while my husband was the at-home daddy. I never want to miss another opportunity; these days, my philosophy is to say “yes” to any new experience. Any chance to be with my kids and grandkids, make a new friend,  experience a new event in the natural world, get to learn something new—anything that pushes the boundaries of  life, I accept with gratitude.

I’ve been told by friends that my optimism is overwhelming.  Now, you know why. It was a conscious decision to look for that one good thing.  Frankly, bitter and solitary would have been easier, but in my mind, it was a denial of the depth of love I felt for my son.  His life brought us such joy, I did not want his death to be futile. Turning away from the world minimalized his existence and our loss.

So, yes, I’m a strong person. I’m not bragging about it.  I sure as hell didn’t ask for any of this.  Life just is what it is.  But for those who may think that extroverted, ditzy, blonde exterior is the depth of me, maybe you can now understand the forces that guide me.  I’m not obligated to justify myself to anyone, but when close friends who knew all this previously give me admiration, I’m uncomfortable and feel obligated to explain the reasons to new friends.

I’m not a real private person, and I don’t seek attention, but for some reason, it just keeps coming and finding me.  Several events have brought my name before the general public this past year including rescuing a drowning kitty, writing about my favorite duck friend, and our recent and massive garage sale to pay our back taxes.  I don’t really care about the attention; I’m more concerned with doing the right thing for myself and my family.  I’m compelled to follow this path so I can be reunited with my son.

Without the “sour earth” of my childhood, I might have drowned in the depths of the emotional trials which have swirled through and around my life, tossing my heart around like a basketball, twisting my emotions until they are taut and at the breaking point.  That sour earth made me gave me a strong foundation; the continued tests just further toughen me.

In the end, I am more grateful for that sour earth than any other gift in my life but my children.  Without that sour earth, nothing that’s happened to me would have meaning, and I would not have the ability to learn from each situation that’s arisen. When we stop learning and growing, we die.

So, thank you again, Lord, for planting my seed in sour earth, and giving the me the capability to survive and still laugh about all of it!

For all those I love who love me back,
allison

Untitled Poetry 9-24-12

Your eyes impart your valuation of every person you meet.
Your appraisal hangs in dollar signs above their heads.
The only measure of your ruler
Which is warped beyond repair.

We are always a negative, a debit in your mind.
No words or actions could reimburse
To your satisfaction.
We don’t play the game you choose
Ranking by credit score the people we love.
So, you rank us as poor foolish souls.

Poor fools are we....
We give laughter more value than dollars.
Friends more worth than coins.

Craving the support you deny
Our hearts ache for your love,
For all you have lost
For all you have forsaken
For all those denied access to your heart.

Loneliness awaits your journey’s end,
Which you will relish
And present to outsiders as our abandonment.
But we recognize your true choice,
And know you only wish
You could been solitary sooner.

You will have your happiness...
In dollars
And revel blindly in your success
Until breath leaves your body.

Our greatest hope is then you comprehend
The honest depth of our loss
And genuine truth in our hearts
When we tried so hard to love you
Just for who you are
With complete disregard
For your bank account.

The Story Behind the Sale

It may seem cavalier, requesting help from my friends via Facebook about the financial problems we’re having now. In truth, I am really really scared.  Scared that the sale won’t be enough, scared that I won’t be able to make the tax payments, scared that I will let down my family. See, this is not the first time we’ve been here. After our son died in 1990 and Jen was born in 1992, I gave up a very good paying job to stay home with the kids and we let our house go.  Our kids were more important than the house, but we paid for that decision very dearly over the years. We worked very very hard to get the money to buy this house. Yeah, we could let it go or sell it now, but the truth is, there’s no place we could rent that wouldn’t be roughly the same price monthly as our mortgage.

This old house is nothing fancy, just a big old long 1950's style ranch house built in 1956, but we love it. After I’d lived here a month, I literally could not imagine living anywhere else.  This is HOME.

In June of 2007, after a series of catastrophic events, including a wreck that kept Max off work and on half-pay for 2 months, we filed for bankruptcy.  During our bankruptcy, which ended a year ago, our property taxes got way behind. We paid off every single dime we owed through that bankruptcy, with the exception of a few medical bills that the court dismissed, but there was not a single penny left over after each pay day.  Dissolution in bankruptcy was not an option, so for four years, we lived with them taking $1200 a month right off the top of our income. We lived hand-to-mouth for four long years; the least little mishap was financial disaster for us.

We paid off the bankruptcy a year early, still a point of pride with us.  But by the end, my van was in such poor condition, it was literally shedding parts as I went down the road and left puddles of transmission fluid every time I parked. Our Taurus had 100K+ miles on it; it was fine for me to use around town, but Max had to drive to Houston in it and so he got his new truck. We were fine paying that note.  I had a full-time job and we were making it and had even gotten to a point where we could put a little money back for a rainy day.  In fact, I recently had to order a credit report for a job, and you cannot imagine how satisfying it was to see OK every month we paid the truck note on time.  We made a down payment toward the property taxes and the county set us up with a payment plan.  We paid the down payment and one monthly payment; then at the end of December, I lost my job.

It wasn’t much of a job. It didn’t pay a whole lot and it wasn’t a real easy place to work, but it was a job, and I contributed to the household every week. There wasn’t a lot to put back to savings, but there was some, for the first time in four long years.  All of that is gone now. I wrote checks for the property tax payments every month, but I didn’t send them in because I knew those checks were going to bounce sky high. I walked through every day with this hanging over my head. Even at the height of a good time, like during our bi-annual art shows which I love, the thought would be in the back of my head, “I need to go take care of that. Maybe if I just take them $20 a month, they will accept that until we can make the full payments.”

But a kind of apathy takes you over when you enter a situation like this. If you, personally, have ever been in a disastrous financial place in your life, I know you understand. If you haven’t, God bless you. I wish I’d had the kind of life where there were no crises or drama or hospital stays or old worn out cars, but that was not the path God chose for me.

So, yes, I made a stupid mistake, and yes, it’s embarrassing and humiliating to admit that to everybody I know and their friends, but I did.  I admit it.  And now I’m trying to make good for my family, and I’m just blown away by  how my friends have come out of the woodwork to help, in ways I never imagined I even needed help. It’s not just about the money here; I just don’t want to let anybody down.  So, yeah, I’m scared of all of it...as well as incredibly grateful for the support I’ve been given by my friends. Because without that, my family will be homeless.

So, please pray for us, for resolution, for a successful fundraiser, and for my family to get a break.  I’m an impossibly optimistic person, and I know it’s all going to work out in the end.  But now, today?  I’m freaking terrified.

love to all those who love me,
allison