When Did I Start Getting Older?

Okay, now I am not alone in this, but when did I start getting older?  Having to stop work due to a serious failed spinal operation I can so relate to the elderly, BUT.  I do feel older, due to said back, but I must admit, some people I know LOOK older by far (my opinion entirely, as they think the same of me!).  Have you ever run into someone on the street or in the store and not recognized them because they have aged?  Then they have the nerve to look at you and say, “What?  You  don’t you remember me?  I’m so and so, we graduated together, or we worked together…”  or whatever.  If it is a young person who has aged ten or fifteen years – forget recognizing them unless they re-introduce themselves.  That’s when the Time Monster hits you and… WHAMMMM!  Out of nowhere, the  future is today.  The future you really didn’t think was going to happen or maybe was going to happen a long time from now.  If it is someone you knew REALLY well, the shock is, oh so much deeper!

I remember hearing my “older” relatives saying, “You know, when you get older the time goes so much quicker, it just flies…”  Well flies is not the word for it!  It is space shuttle speed and for heaven’s sake, please  slow down!  When did this happen?  I noticed my contemporaries looking a bit aged, then I would take a quick glance in the mirror in the a.m. or p.m. (a very quick glance… and all the mirrors are antique and broken – I’m not much of a narcissist; just a women who likes antiques) and I’d think, dear God I am there too!  Or I may walk by a mirror in the store and think, okay, now, I know her, she’s older but… and “Oh my God, it’s ME!”  Yes, I did say it – “It’s me!”  I’m on that speeding train along with the rest!

At the  expense of sounding “old fashioned”, I must say, take this fast paced technological age, please.  I used to be excited by new technology but now I am exasperated by it.  My computer has become a source of frustration rather than awe.  I feel I can’t keep up with technology even if I were a marathon runner in software shoes.  I am embarrassed to say I have (had) a degree in computers (word processing) which now is simply in the “archives”.  As I type this my computerized alarm clock is going off  and I’m unable to change the alarm regardless of how many times I try. The time reads as military time and I have to ask my husband how to decipher it (granted I didn’t get the manual with this).  I yearn for a computer that is easy to use, and an alarm clock that simply does what I tell it.  I truly am sounding rather Amish, but simplicity is fast becoming my mantra and I don’t mean the “Bill Gates” type of simplicity.  I am a visual person.

Magazines herald the paperless home, sterile environment of speech activated appliances and technology.  I wonder what they would do when I begin swearing vehemently in the event of complications?  I confess wanting to dismantle the voice activated computers answering my every call for credit cards, insurance issues or bills as I shout into the phone my information only to have my husband shout back, “What?  What did you say?”.  As I repeat my information over the phone moving to another room, I hear, “Are you talking to me?  Why do you insist on talking to me from another room!  I can’t hear you”, or “You’ll have to speak up!”  Simultaneously, I hear through the phone, “I’m sorry that information does not register, you’ll have to call back.”  I am ashamed to say I was undoubtedly rude to a lady on the phone because I was sure she was a computer.  I still am unsure of whether she WAS human or not.

Women, we age faster and more obviously than men.  Let’s face it ladies, things aren’t quite what they used to be.  While men look more “distinguished” we look older. No, we don’t get that wonderful “patina” that men have; we get the varnished look and that’s if we’re lucky.  I think I first noticed my earrings were not going in like they should.   When it began to take me four minutes to get one earring in, I began to think – then to notice… my ear lobes had changed!  They weren’t the  tight smooth little things from the past; when did they become flaccid and disobedient when ordered to allow an earring  placed within?  That’s when it struck me – even the ear lobes age!  Dear God, what next?  I try not to think what next.  The hair is whiter, the skin drier (much drier!) and  the bones creakier ( a definite!).  I may be speaking entirely for me.  There may be svelte 50 year- olds running around out there with youthful figures and features, energy bursting out all over and feeling like they’re eighteen again… but that’s not me.

And that’s okay.  Aside from the back thing which is pretty bad, I’ve traded youth in for wisdom, creativity, empathy, acceptance, love, and gratitude.  Wisdom I honor from experience and faith, creativity in food, art and craft, empathy to all living things, acceptance of what I can not change, with  love to my most precious creations, i.e. my children and grandchildren. I gladly acknowledge gratitude for the gifts God has bestowed upon me without envy for what he hasn’t, and love to all, my friends, family, even enemies and God.  Each lesson placed upon me was one I would never have chosen for myself (I’m not a massachist)  but has honed me to become a better person than I would have been.  The lessons have been brutal at times, but I am a slow learner and must have needed those brutal kicks.  Then there are the unforgettable  lessons so beautiful I cry upon reflection.

Some people cry when they are in pain, when they suffer or when they are sad.  I cry when I see kindness or a kindness is shown to me that was unnecessary.  The pain and suffering is something I accept and take for granted;  I know no different.  It is the simple kindness, the gentle giving, the loving remark, that can bring tears to my eyes, and an ache to my heart.  For I know, that is what is rare and infrequent in our voyage through life.  A kind deed from someone is the double rainbow with an arrow at the end to pierce the heart with its poignancy and simplicity.  A morel in the woods – rare, treasured and precious.

I’ve gotten on the sentimental side of aging, I apologize, but we have some compensations to our years.  I don’t want to think of sitting in a nursing homes in the future with Led Zepplin playing as the  “music of our youth”.  I’ve always thought, how cruel to play sentimental songs of someone’s youth when they are locked away from those they have loved and lost.  When  it is our turn (the “baby boomers”), the artists of our youth i.e. Stones, Petty, Beatles, CCR,  Bob Dylan, or one of the many others, may just be what pushes us over the edge.  Mick is the one of the few who can get away with tight pants and singing rock and roll into the sixty-somethings; although Petty did do us proud at the Superbowl – classy. Still, not what I want to hear drooling in a wheel chair in my last years.

Is aging a landslide you unknowingly step on and shake your head at the bottom of it wondering what the hell happened and  how long have you been sliding?  Does it just creep up on you when you’re busy living your life, going about your business?  I’m not sure, but one  thing I do know, is we all get there – IF we’re lucky.  When we get there, we need to have more class, more style, grace, empathy, contrition, and wisdom than we had when we were young.  It is a journey and when I reach the end I want people who have known me to stand up and say I was there for them, a great friend, parent, spouse, the kind of person who inspired them to be better while  I was  here.  I hope for them to say I was there when they needed me and that they were glad to have known me.

So, when I glance in that mirror and notice an older me, it’s just a reminder how much hard work is ahead  with  less time to get it done – so GET TO IT!  Our report card for life, the final grade, is what our friends, family, and enemies think, pray and say about us as they kneel at the side of our coffin (or urn).  We don’t look like much at that point, but then our grade determines how great we’ll look afterward.

in memory of CL

Our Current Healthcare Dilemma

If you live in America, you are aware of the current healthcare dilemma.  Our new president wants to pass a healthcare plan to cover the uninsured.  In so doing, he will be underselling other healthcare plans. Current insurance companies are up-in-arms and Medicare recipients are afraid of dying from lack of medical care.  People currently covered by insurance and happy with their plans have good reason to be concerned, since they have the most to lose.  Some have precarious, serious medical conditions and fear any change, period.  Others are content with their medical plans and see no reason to change.  Even the uninsured are a bit nervous as to the quality of care they will receive when all is said and done.  Doctors are concerned about controls, salaries, and regulations.  It appears pharmaceutical companies are between the sheets with the politicians but they must be on edge.  The United States of America are united on this one front, everyone is troubled about a drastic change in healthcare.

Now, I should say everyone, that is, except Congress and Senators among our other dear representatives.  They have their own healthcare plan which we, the citizens, pay the majority of.  They have the Federal Employees Health Benefits Program the top tiered one.  In politician land there  is a multiple choice of plans, no waiting period, no precondition clauses,  only immediate coverage.   Decisions, decisions, just what plan to choose for themselves and their families.  No coverage is denied due to preconditions and coverage is effective immediately – no waiting period.

Do they need dental work?  Cosmetic dental work?  No problem! Eye coverage – even laser surgery if they don’t want to wear glasses.  Only the very best facilities and doctors for our hardworking “public servants”:   anywhere they choose to go.  I know hair plugs are included, and I wouldn’t doubt plastic surgery is also.  The botox keeps them from looking worried; I’m sure that is for our benefit just so we think everything is fine.  If a politician has cancer or heart disease, they aren’t worried about not being able to afford their medication or treatment.  This is a Utopia unknown among the masses.

What should we as a nation do?  This may be a novel idea, but why not grant all of us,  citizens of this great country, the same healthcare afforded by our politicians?  We are paying for it…  Why shouldn’t we also be treated equally when it comes to healthcare?  To play the devil’s advocate, if we can not have the healthcare plans offered our politicians, I believe they should have to take whatever they vote on for the uninsured masses.  What do you think?  The one thing no one has talked about is fairness, true fairness.  From Hillary and Bill to Barack and Michelle, let’s all be in this together.  Only when people are choosing for themselves is the choice the right one.  If these politicians who are drawing up these plans for us KNOW, without a doubt, they will be using the exact same plan for themselves and their families, how long do you think it would take them to finalize a healthcare package?  Don’t you think it would be the RIGHT plan when finished?  And if it needed tweaking, I’m sure they would see to it.

Another issue I have with our dilemma is the fact we are not treated as individuals.  In our Constitution we are treated as individuals with respect, rights and freedoms.  Reading it, we are filled with pride and say, hey, I want to be on board, include me, YES!  People need to feel this way with the healthcare reform before they jump on board.  We need to be included as individuals and not crunched as numbers or statistics or data.  It may be a good idea, but they are going about it all wrong.

For information on Healthcare for our Representatives check out:

http://public-healthcare-issues.suite101.com/article.cfm/health_care_for_the_us_congress

Fishing with George

Now, you have to know Vern.  If you have read previous postings, Vern is the Marine, the hunter of all creatures, the fisherman of all fish and the sports fanatic, especially when it comes to the Minnesota Vikings (but that’s another story).  Vern not only fishes, but fishes with a purpose, and that purpose is to catch fish – quickly – and efficiently.  No nonsense, no talking (see Bass Fishing “Plug”) very businesslike and deliberate.  In Vern’s mind, you go fishing to catch fish, period.   Now,  George, his buddy,  on the other hand, is laid back, doesn’t take fishing that seriously, and just wanted to try out his boat.  This is how their “fishing trip” went.

Plan was to meet at the Ilion Marina at 6:30 a.m., but George had to bring his wife to work and Vern was fishing off the shore when George showed up at 7:00 a.m.  Vern wastes no time.  Fishing is serious business, as our nephews, Mark and Steven will attest to when they forgot the worms fishing with Uncle Vern.  It wasn’t pretty. These men are now nearing fifty and you can still see the fear on their faces when they talk about it laughing sheepishly.

As George pulls up, both went to get George’s fishing tackle out of the truck.  While they were putting the equipment in the boat, Vern was surprised at the condition of George’s tackle; it looked like it had not been used in ten years.  George’s boat was permanently docked on the Ilion Marina in the canal  (George had his own spot between two boats, one being a house boat).  They took off the boat cover, got the boat ready and started the engine.  It was now 8:00 a.m.

Vern militarily wants to  be on the water by 5:00 a.m.  “Best fishing early in the morning!”  Vern would tell anyone casting about for tips.  George must have  had a dispensation with the 6:30 a.m. time  since he had just retired.  Vern pushed the boat off into the water  and the fishing trip began.

George said how the boat was tuned up and running fine, but that wasn’t quite true.   George would put the boat in neutral and kicked it in gear, put it in neutral and kicked it in gear, while trying to fish with Vern.  George became nervous about the boat engine.   The boat kicked in gear so HARD, George decided to slow it down.  When that didn’t work, he decided not to fish and just drive the boat.  That left Vern fishing.

Vern was standing on the edge of the boat and casting, then calling, “Okay George, move it up a bit!”  Well, the boat kicked so hard, more than once Vern came near to falling into the water.  And so  it continued, to the amusement of those on shore and to Vern’s fear and aggravation.   The canal is NOT the place you want to fall into with snapping turtles the size of garbage can lids and aggressive water snakes  bigger around than large hoses.  These images were flashing in Vern’s head as he lurched towards the murky water at every engine thrust.

Shouting to George over the engines:  Vern  yells, “There’s a nice spot on the shore…”  nodding his head towards the spot.  George would mosey over to the spot, slow it down, well, as slow as he could.   Vern threw out and reeled in once, barely twice, and they were past the spot.  It didn’t matter how fast he cast, George’s boat was faster.  It was quite the workout.  Vern began breathing hard and his shoulder began to ache.  He was actually sweating.  Fishing of this magnitude was never detailed in Bass Masters or Field & Stream which he religiously read.  He couldn’t recall in all of his 50 years of fishing ever fishing quite this fast – it was like Hank Parker in fast forward.  When he finally did hook into a fish,  obviously blind and deaf to the noises, loud gas engine, and shouting,  it was like fighting  against a current reeling it to the boat because George couldn’t stop.  The hapless fish sped along beside the boat hooked by a lure only to be tossed back into the water once again and obviously the laughing stock of all marine life nearby.

Noticing a guy on the shore working some plastics (rubber worming and such)  Vern shouted, “Hey!  Any luck?” Vern didn’t quite get the answer since they were out of hearing range as they chugged by.  Next, they came to a little cove – Vern shouts, “Hey, George, that looks like a good spot to fish!  Just take it in slow”.  It was real shallow and before they knew it, they were partially  beached. “Taking it in slow” wasn’t such a good  idea.

Vern asked, “Do you have any poles or oars to get us out?”  George produced a tiny paddle.  While Vern pushed with the paddle, George put it in reverse.   And he put it in reverse again, and again, until finally the boat lurched off the shoal.   Needless to say, the fishing was shot in the cove by then and the water muddied up.  That’s okay because George was already in motion.

On they mosyed down the canal, Vern casting ahead and reeling like a madman while George ran the boat without stopping.  A few fish were caught but a lot of fast casting and reeling made it an Olympic sport for stamina; not the relaxing fishing trip Vern had envisioned.  Vern asked, “George, have you ever thought about taking the boat out of the canal and  fishing the lakes?”

George, “Well, I paid a good price for keeping it on the canal and this way I don’t have to tow it and launch it somewhere else.  That’s funny you should say that, my son suggested taking it on a lake also”.

When they were done fishing, they had to bring the boat back and put it in the dock.  By now, the wind had picked up pretty good.  Driving it out was easy,  parallel parking it back between the two boats and with wind was not easy.  It took five or six tries until they finally got it in.   Docking was the success of the day.

Vern just gave me a look when he got home and I asked the proverbial question, “Well, did you catch anything?”  The look was a bit like the one Mark and Steven got when they forgot the worms.

Fishing with George was quite the experience.  Vern’s never been back fishing with George since.  He’s not sure George really wants to go fishing or just likes driving the boat… but it was one fishing trip Vern will never forget.

Dedicating My Garden

I dedicate my garden to women everywhere,  to all the women who give, love,  and sacrifice so much.  I dedicate my garden to those who are trapped, lost, abandoned, and abused, disabled, whether physically or mentally, temporarily or permanently.  My garden is dedicated to women who have survived and succeeded, overcome and conquered and those who accepted and learned.

As a young mother I found solace and peace in gardening.  My inherited flower beds were like nomads moving on my whims.  Some flowers were more than fifty years old and adding when I could, vegetables and herbs were incorporated into the mix.  Bouquets  filled my home and my daughters’  memories:  hostas, peonies, Stars of David, Jacob’s Ladder,  iris, old fashioned roses, lilacs, hydrangea, violets, poppies, lilies of the valley, among others.  I brought in ferns, trillium, wild ginger, bloodroot, myrtle, daisies, and Black-eyed Susans from the woods.  My girl friends  shared and we traded spreading perennials.   I frugally tended to my daughters and gardens.   Mistakes were made and horticultural lessons learned.  Rocks were chosen to line the beds and I always wanted to expand.

Gardens have an effect on other people.   Women especially are drawn to gardens.  One,  in particular, found consolation in the garden on east side dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, she a woman who suffered and loved greatly.  Poorly constructed, she stands in the forefront of her garden and the flowers next to her are always the first to bloom in the spring and the last to give in to the frost.

I learned more from my children than they ever learned from me and it is so with my garden.  The weeds  grow right along with the flowers, spring will always follow winter, be patient and nature will take its course, plants (and people) need light, water, warmth and nourishment; they give more than they receive, and death brings  with it new life.

Gardening is now a time for sharing and reflection.   My joy now has been to give my flowers to my daughters.  Seeing the delight and wonder  on their faces as the flowers return in the spring, watching them work the ground,  finding satisfaction in their labors, and fragrant rewards as birds and bees visit their yards to share in their yield is now “my” garden.  I will have a smaller, more meaningful version.

This is a time for reflection.

Circumstances change, and circumstances are temporary whether good or bad.  Pulling weeds and transplanting flowers, my thoughts turn to my life, my daughters and women everywhere.

Women everywhere have trials, sorrows, persecution, abuse, sufferings, and misery.  We are the caretakers even when we can no longer physically care for those we love.  We care for our loved ones with our prayers whatever our religion.  We can’t help ourselves when we cry, when we feel so deeply and when we love.  It is in our nature to defend, nurture and tend.  We work for the betterment of others.  We have been downtrodden, left behind, neglected, and misunderstood.  Around the world women are at the mercy of men; bearing children makes us vulnerable, not bearing them leaves us feeling empty.   We are expected to have the strength of ten men and yet not the rights of one.  We rarely unite or defend each other as a whole.  If we are disabled, life becomes that much harder but we become that much stronger.

My garden is a tribute to women who have suffered, loved, and survived.  In it they will find hope, faith, and strength.  They will see the beauty and wonder and be consoled or they may smell the fragrance and remember life still can be good.  It has  much to offer.

I believe women are the flowers in the garden of life.  I believe God will tend to us with the love and kindness we all deserve, if not in this world then in the next, as we tend to each other.

Turkey Hunting with George

Once Vern discovered turkey hunting, his trout fishing days were over.  The spring season was his favorite.  That’s when you can take a bearded bird, and yes, there are bearded hens, and you hunt sunrise until noon.  He has been at it for almost 30 years.  Not every hunter lives, breathes and eats turkey hunting, some are novices like his friend, George.

In Spring romance abounds for turkeys as well as all nature.  The males are out to collect females to mate with and strut their stuff by displaying their beautiful tail feathers loudly puffed out in a fan, dragging their wings, gobbling, and literally getting red in the face to win their ladies over.  Males will fight with each other using their spurs, size and intimidation tactics with the jakes (younger males) usually on the loosing side of the Toms (the older birds).  The hens may either be impressed or ignore these handsome fellows, but one thing is for sure, they will warn them if they see anything out of the ordinary.  Their hormones must be more in check than the male’s since they keep their heads about them.  Obviously, you don’t want to tick your lady off, since she may just let you get your head blown off.  This makes for a difficult hunt when you are in the woods trying to bag a bird with observant hens around.

Now, the gist of turkey hunting is to make the male turkeys i.e. gobblers or jakes, believe you, the hunter,  are a hen (female turkey),  in heat, in the woods, by the skilled use of  decoys, calls, and camouflage.   Turkeys have incredible eyesight which make them a deer’s best friend.  If the turkeys don’t see it, the deer’s keen sense of smell  will alert them to any danger in the woods.  There are box calls, diaphragms  (yes women, that’s what they call them)  slate and glass calls, yelpers, owl hooters, crow calls, etc.  As you can see, it is quite the art.

For a large gobbler, a man will gobble, purr, cluck, and rise at the crack of dawn.  He will actually shop, yes, voluntarily and happily, for the perfect outfit to camouflage his entire  body and his scent.  He will paint his face black and green.   He will sit for hours watching videos of other hunters bagging the most obscenely enormous birds and ecstasy of ecstasies,  accomplishing the “Grand Slam” bagging the Osceola, Rio Grand, Easterner, and Miriam.  These birds are from Southeast, Southwest, Northeast,  and Midwest respectively.  Vern lives, breathes and eats turkey hunting in the northeast the entire month of May when you can hunt from sun up until 12:00 noon.  Suffice it to say, Vern has gotten his share of birds.

Vern is a turkey hunting addict.  On his walls are turkey fans (made by him), a collection of  spurs strung on rawhide and turkey beards.  He even went so far as to keep the legs when our girls were young.  The girls ended up baiting each other with these turkey legs slipping them under the other’s  pillow before they climbed into bed only to have her sister find them and promising revenge after waking up the entire house with a scream.   Retaliation resulted with the injured party hanging them off the attic light which had a pull chain.   Ear piercing screams were heard throughout the house when the light was turned on with laughter following.  Having a man who hunts definitely livens up the home.

Not all turkey hunters are die hards, take George for instance, a novice.  Vern enjoys calling in Toms (adult male turkeys) for other hunters.  Now, his friend  George had never gotten a turkey.  George had never gone turkey hunting at this point, but relished the idea of the hunt and enjoyed talking with Vern about his many conquests;  so Vern invited George for a hunt.  George was very excited and the hunt was planned and executed.  Rather than use his own shot gun, Vern offered his, which had camo tape on it and had proved itself more than once.   He had turkey loads which were especially effective ammunition.  George would use the gun and Vern would simply call a bird in for him.  The day and time of the hunt was set.

George was on time at 4:30 a.m. coffee in hand as they set out for Vern’s favorite hunting spot.  Vern reminded George that this is a sport where you sit motionless, silent, and totally alert for any sign of wildlife especially a turkey.  Only your eyes would move under the mesh netting over your face.  Upon arriving Vern familiarized George with his gun and they proceeded up the steep hill to the top of the ridge to the flat plateau on top.

It was about 5:00 a.m. when they crested the hill.  The sun hadn’t quite risen, so Vern set George up against a tree in front of a logging road and then proceeded to set the decoy in the road quietly whispering that the birds usually roost in the side hill above where they were setting up.  Vern has been known to “put the turkeys to bed” the night before, paying attention to their roosting spot the day before the hunt.  He noticed George fidgeting, upon second look, the net meshing was up over his head.

“George!” Vern whispered loudly, George glanced over, and Vern motioned to put the netting down over his face.

“Allergies!” George whispered loudly, “Can’t breathe with that over my face!”  He sniffed loudly apparently quite stuffed up.   He proceeded to fidget and once the mosquito netting was up,  he was free game for the hundreds of hungry mosquitoes ready for breakfast.

Vern stationed himself 20 yards behind George and settled in with his calls.  When it started to break daylight he noticed George swatting at mosquitoes while still fidgeting, trying to get comfortable; every now and then, Vern would hear a loud sniffing.  Soon, a couple gobbles sounded on the hill and Vern proceeded to call in the birds using a mouth call (diaphragm), a little yelper and box call mixing up the purrs, putts, and cackles.  Glancing over at George,  Vern began to doubt the success of the hunt, all his vast knowledge he had relayed to his protege seemed lost on George.  If the turkeys didn’t spot him they would certainly hear him.

As luck would have it, the gobbles came closer and the volley of calls rallied back and forth. Three jakes (young male turkeys) came in together toward the decoy from  George’s blind side, they were thinking this was going to be their lucky day, upon hearing this hot to trot “hen” even though she didn’t look so grand.  George was  still was fidgeting, but listening intently, not yet seeing the birds.  Vern finally got his attention without spooking the birds, and pointed to the three jakes which were now 25 yards and closing in, in front of  George.  Vern sat quietly, not wanting to call anymore because the birds were now close enough and he waited for George to raise the gun and shoot.

The birds are still walking past the decoys at a mere 15 yards and George  hasn’t shot one of them or even  raised the gun.  Seconds pass, now they are 15 yards beyond the decoys and still no shot.  Finally, Vern removes the diaphragm from his mouth and says, “George shoot!”  George picks up the gun and aims at one of the jakes and fires.   Nice shot!  It went down!

They ran over to the downed bird and George could barely contain his excitement.  Vern heartily congratulated George then asked him, “George, why did you wait so long before you shot?    Any bearded bird is legal!”

George replied “Yes, but I didn’t see any beards hanging down.”

Vern said “All three had six inch beards ” as he held up the beard coming from the jake’s chest.

George broke out in a grin, ” I was looking at their heads not their chests!”   Both hunters had a great laugh over that and the  bird was carried triumphantly  down to the car.

There’s nothing quite like bagging your first turkey!  “They’ll never believe this at work!” crowed George explaining how he wanted a picture taken so he could put it in a frame at his workplace.  Upon arriving at Vern’s house, our daughter Janelle  happily snapped a few shots of both of them triumphantly posing with the bird.

At George’s house, Vern showed him how to dress out the bird and his  family was happy and excited for him.   It was unanimous that the bird tasted delicious and the hunt was a success.  The film however vanished, but the memories remain.

Jack

Jack

There’s always been something about Jack. After scouring the humane shelters and reading up on breeds of various dogs, I stumbled upon a box of puppies someone had graciously picked up at a garage sale, mother and all. There was something about the red and white pup who quietly sat looking at me with the white heart on his head while the others were chewing on my shoelaces and jumping on my feet. It must have been the heart or his telepathic message, “pick me, pick me, pick me…” Home we went together. I’m thinking, free, small, quiet, and can’t possibly shed that much. When he house trained for me within the hour I didn’t care if he shed a ton (and he did). If Jack had only one fault it would be that he shed like crazy. It’s a constant reminder of him wherever I’m at.   I’ve had other dogs, three to be exact, but none quite like him.

I got him right before I had serious spinal  sugery so I had some time to train him to obey commands, and do tricks.   He was a quick learner acing a trick within thirty minutes and loving it – always one to please. He was part beagle and part springer spaniel so walking on a leash with any grace was beyond him, scents drove him nuts.  My daughter Janelle got the brunt of this since she had to walk him the first six months, dutifully being pulled this way and that. We walked a lot for physical therapy and Jack was delighted. Janelle had the patience of a saint while her arms grew a bit longer. We finally tried a “gentle leader” and then a harness which worked the best by tightening at the chest if he pulled. He was bred to hunt and his nose was keen. He found my daughter, Jennifer’s  cockatiel three times when it got lost in the woods, and he was known to flush a partridge or two or prettily set up a point at a robin in the yard.  He had a vendetta against any squirrel in the yard or on the feeder and raced them to the spruce tree standing against the tree as if the next step was climbing it while the squirrel chattered loudly.  As he got older, the squirels had carte blanche and knew it.  Unless they caught his eye they had free run of the yard almost sauntering to the tree if spied.  Jack’s  senses in his ” golden” years  would have qualified him for spectacles and a hearing aid.

Jack’s decorum only slipped when he was very young.  But boy, he did slip.  The priest would visit me while I was still  pretty much at home and barely walking and we would sit and chat.  Usually, Jack would be great and hop up on the bed and sit behind my legs and sleep.  Well, not when Father Jim visited…  It was then he chose to confess his sins and shamelessly act out in detail his new found lust for a certain blanket  laid upon the floor.  Shamelessly, I must add, until Janelle, horrified and blushing would have to drag him and the blanket out of the room since he refused to let go. Having heard much worse in the confessional,  Father Jim, God bless his soul, acted like nothing was amiss, and the conversation would continue.

Jack was more than devoted;  he was attached to my legs and you might say he had radar.  He knew how I felt or any of my family at any time.  His consolation was timely and always well received.  I still get a bit annoyed when he  whines at me to lie down when I don’t feel well or have done too much.  He can be a nag at times but it is  out of love.  My daughters and grandsons he adores as well as the  neighbors.  I must say, he is a bit of a coward though for when we have walked together, I have had to protect him from dogs and a cat that came after him.  I’m honored to do so because he is a gentle soul who has so much to teach  about love, consideration, and kindness of heart.

My husband  kept saying, “he’s not going to get any bigger is he?” when Jack was a pup.

“No, no”, I would answer knowing he was not the dog lover I was.  However, Jack ended up to be about 55 pounds with short little legs and the sweetest face you ever saw.  His  expression could go from  regal to silly, to wise in a flash depending on circumstances.  He drew you in – you just wanted to hang out a bit with him.  My three sons-in-law were always busting his chops calling him “feminine”, or a “manatee” or “flash” (Jack only had one speed), but they all grew to love him.  He didn’t create the best impression on Ronny when my daughter brought Jack to his house when they were dating.  My daughter, Jenn, kept calling him “Pookies” out of love, but “Pookies” soon became “Pukies” to Ronnie when Jack got nervous with his new surroundings.  Where WAS his owner? He always was the sensitive type.  Try as he may, he is still living that one down.

Because of his size, I couldn’t walk him out on a leash in the winter since the spinal surgery didn’t go well and had to train him to go “potty” by himself and knock when he was done.  I thought ringing sleighbells on the door was a nice touch and attempted to teach him that method of asking to go out.  He preferred his own of just coming and telling me.  Our cat, however, observing the training of the dog, still rings the bells whenever she wants to go out.  She is too smart for her own good.   Jack was wonderful about house rules  until they  put a bike trail behind my house.  We live on a highway, so The Rules with Jack are more than strict  – they are unbending.  The bike path was another thing.  It went through “his” turf.  There was a leash law on the path but when he went out in the morning or evening he was always down checking it out.  Who had left their scent today? People were very understanding of the gentle white faced older dog.  I’ve had more than a few ask me about him if they haven’t seen him for a while to make sure he is okay.  I’ve never met some of them, but Jack had.   He just has that way about him.

He never hunted, but my husband who was always hunting game of every sort would  toss it down and Jack would respectfully sniff as a gentleman with a fine cigar, and savor every odor.  He would then station himself next to the game whether it be partridge, turkey, pheasant, deer or fish and “guard” it while we went in the house for the camera.  He got in on more than a few trophy shots.  We submitted his photo for the local newspaper’s pet calendar guarding a pheasant (the colors were gorgeous) and Jack was as proud as if he had caught it himself.  I added on my submission that he was not a “hunting dog”  but only appreciated the sport.  The picture got returned with the note that hunting photos are excluded from the  calendar.  It was their loss.

Now that he is a senior, the rules don’t apply and aren’t hard and fast.  Heeling means a leisurely walk along the path stopping at any arresting scents; when I tell him to “come”, I’m not sure if his hearing is poor or selective, but he is given the benefit of the doubt.  Tossing a treat usually means we find it together now, and riding in cars is heavenly when we can  get him up into the front seat.  We both need a good day for that one even though it is a Ford Focus.  His days of jumping into the back of the jeep are past but the rides are just as enjoyable.  I can’t help but think highly of the people I see driving with their dogs accompanying them.  Having been unable to ride in a car for three months myself and being left home on numerous occasions while the family drove off, there’s something to say about the considerate dog owner enriching his best friend’s day.

Yes, Jack is a breed apart.  He is the “poster child” of the humane shelter mongrels and a fine one at that.  People could only be so lucky to adopt a dog of his caliber.  What do you say about a dog who leaves such a lasting impression on people?  A life well lived, friends made, family treasured, nature studied, and a lasting impression on those he meets.  Hopefully, I can live up to Jack’s expectations.

Skunk Sequel

The Saga of the Skunk continues for any interested parties.  At last writing “Gardening with Wildlife Day 2″, I was foolishly determined to rescue a skunk trapped in a live trap by my husband, Vern, inches from our front porch.  Why are there are no volunteers coming forth, no DEC officers, no Pest Control?  I must admit, I used to have this shining image of the Department of Conservation and it is rapidly tarnishing.

Our little skunk is now digging frantically at the bottom of this wire cage.  The small hand occasionally grabbing at a flower stem as if reaching for something to pry its way out of there.  I am amazed at the concentration of this creature as I sneak up to spy on it from my front porch.  No, I am not bold, I think rather a fool, for when you are standing alone to do a task that no one else steps up to do, you have to question yourself.  I guess it was the little arm grabbing at my Bleeding Hearts (yes, he truly did)  that won me to his  case.  He never looked up, determined to make his escape.

Studying the top of the cage, I couldn’t make heads or tails on how it worked, how it released, or anything else.  I went inside and gave John a call, whose cage it was,  to find out how to release this skunk.  I had hoped to find a more sympathetic ally since John was a retired teacher.  John, upon hearing my story, admitted to trapping a skunk himself albeit in error, and had released it to head back to its’ den at the neighbors’  (I’m sure they were needing it back).  He very kindly offered to come and open the cage for me and I accepted.

Knowing we were at the mercy of whatever happened, and being Catholic, I did what any Catholic would do- threw some blessed sand over the cage of this poor creature.  It certainly couldn’t hurt and who knows?  The skunk never noticed a crazy woman tossing sand over him as he was too busy digging furiously tossing his own dirt into the air.

Over the hill came John in his Jeep.  This gallant gentleman came prepared:  rain suit, boots, gloves and a plastic bag with eye holes to cover his face in the event our skunk decided to release his scent.  I had a raincoat on, bandanna, boots, and a gray sheet to go over the cage…

We crept quietly up to the cage and John opened the latch on the top.  The skunk simply waited patiently and then exited quietly and quickly back under our porch and to his den.  We breathed a sigh of relief and backed away.

“They can really be a nuisance, digging holes all over the place.  He may even dig into your foundation”, says John removing his skunk gear.  “This really didn’t solve your problem,” he observed.  I agreed, but asked him to sound positive when Vern would call him that night to converse about the encounter.

“I really don’t want the skunk killed, if at all possible.”  John just had a small smile when I said that so I was hoping he’d sway the opposition just enough to keep the skunk safe.  Then again, he could be thinking I’m a bit crazy.

Wikipedia notes “To have a skunk around is not necessarily a bad thing, skunks are placid, retiring and non-aggressive. They try very hard not to get in trouble. They eat mostly insects, many of which are pests so they are beneficial to have around. In winter and spring they may eat mice…  They will not spray in or near their homes if they can avoid it either.”  (perhaps explaining why we were fortunate not to have been sprayed.)   “… They are primarily nocturnal and usually solitary – except when mothers are raising their babies. They are active throughout the year, but in northern areas, they spend the coldest parts of the winter in their dens.”  It goes on to describe how to evict a skunk which sounds all but impossible.  You need to be a mason and architect (extremely QUICK one too) while the skunk is out meandering.  And should you inadvertently enclose a skunk, there will be spraying for sure.  Ammonia-soaked rags near or inside the burrow may drive  him out or may piss him off.  They are not sure on that one as it could go either way.  Mothballs are another option, but of course you need to go into or near the den to place them there.  “Oh, excuse me skunk let me know when you leave so I can send a ‘moth ball eviction notice’ your way”.  It doesn’t quite sound like an option.  Warnings abound on many measures with the words  odor defense” and “undesired outcomes” following.

The local Humane Society supposedly provides traps to catch skunks and accordingly to Wikipedia the Humane Society will pick up this cage and release the skunk into the wild.  The Humane Society must not be aware of the laws of the DEC that state you may not release the animal off your own property. I highly doubt our local Humane Society would be offering services of that sort since they will not venture out to pick up a stray cat.   Wikipedia also suggests letting the wild animals get away “on their own”.  Yes, that would be ideal but we cohabit so well,  that this skunk sees no reason to leave.

Well, fodder for future reference.  Everything will depend on what Vern decides to do and what I can coerce him into.   I tried to pick up the cage to remove it, but it was filled so full of dirt I couldn’t lift it.  There could be worse things than a skunk in my flower garden.  I survived, John survived unscathed and so did the skunk.

Shortly after John left, my son-in-law showed up on his motorcycle, Janelle’s husband, another gallant gentleman.  “Well, where’s the skunk?” he asked as he looked into the empty cage.

“The man whose cage it is and I released it and it went back under the porch” I replied.

“You didn’t kill it?” he questioned.

“No, and I don’t want it killed.”

He thought for a moment and then said as he started his bike “Well, you’ll have to name it then.”

Petals.  The skunk’s name will be Petals.  You can’t possibly kill a skunk with a name like Petals.

Gardening with Wildlife Day 2

Did I mention the little critters under our front porch were not woodchucks?

My husband, unaware of my ungracious comments regarding the celery and peanut butter he left in the live trap, added two wild apples he found while delivering mail last night (frugal man that he is sparing no expense at the baiting of the trap).

Now, there’s nothing like waking up to the loading of a gun in the morning:  hearing it being cocked and the sound of a bullet being dropped first on the floor and then in the chamber…  THAT will get you up and out of bed.  My first thought is, he has a woodchuck in the live trap.  “What are you doing?”  I ask.  Well, darling husband, a.k.a. Vern has checked the “live trap” only to find that he has trapped not a woodchuck, but a skunk!  Now, Vern is not one who is cool under pressure.  If something frightens him, he usually kills it, hunter that he is.  Did I mention it is a “LIVE” TRAP?

I am not a morning person (putting it mildly); however, the first words out of my mouth were in the skunk’s defense reminding him it was a “Live Trap” to trap “Live Animals” and RELEASE them back into nature.  I quickly hit the button on the coffee maker so I would make a better case for the hapless skunk I viewed through the window.  The poor fellow was digging a bit trying to figure out what happened and understand why he was stuck in a metal cage when all he wanted was an apple.  I KNOW it couldn’t have been the disgusting celery and peanut butter.

Now, Vern, when faced with a serious problem or a threat only thinks of immediate disposal of said threat (he is a former Marine).  I quickly made it my job to keep this skunk alive by stating he would stink to high heaven if shot.  “Oh, no,” says Vern, “A bullet to the head and he’ll be gone, he won’t know what hit him.”

“And if you are wrong,” I said, “We will be smelling him for months, not to mention it is your friend, John’s live trap and you could ruin it.”

That caused him to pause; I was getting somewhere.  Thank God the coffee was done.  I quickly grabbed a cup and suggested the DEC be called to take said skunk away and bring back the empty trap.  This was met with a blank stare from him.  Coffee taking hold, I remembered how well they dealt with the rattlesnake threat we had (see “Snakes and the DEC” and Snakes and the DEC Day 2″).  I still have the snake somewhere in my yard and now I am picturing  this skunk a permanent fixture in the front yard still caged and pissed off (literally).  I quickly turned on the computer and told him to call as I searched for sites offering options of releasing trapped skunks.

What I gathered from the sits is NOT to trap one in the first place, BUT if you do, toss a blanket over the cage (he will not spray what he can not see) and placate him/her with marshmellows.  I guess they have a sweet tooth; it sounds like a pajama party to me.

As I’m telling this to Vern he is thinking about throwing the blanket over the cage all right but then drowning the poor skunk in the canal after tying off the cage – retrieving the cage and disposing of his body.  I sit dumbfounded reminding myself never to be at his mercy and gulp down another coffee ordering him to call the DEC emergency phone number.  He reluctantly calls as he is getting ready to go out the door to work.  Of course you can only LEAVE A MESSAGE AT THE EMERGENCY number .  He then looks at me and says, “Oh great, they will see that we were the ones reporting a rattlesnake in our yard.  I’m sure they will rush right down.”

As he drives off, I check on the skunk now sleeping peacefully in the cage:  the cage which Vern has aet RIGHT NEXT TO THE PORCH.  Unless the cage was ON the porch it couldn’t be any closer.  On coming back into the house, I notice a note on the table.   He must have thought I was going to sleep through the gunshot.   Vern is famous for his “notes”, and this one read, “Babes,  it was a skunk!!!  Took care of it.  Set trap again tonight (if more) Let me know how you make out with Janelle, see you later.”  I now imagine hearing a gun SHOT upon awakening with an odor following to blot out all odors.

I am supposed to leave with my daughter at 9:00 a.m. ;  let’s hope the DEC comes through.  The last thing I see on the computer screen is “Never try to shoot a skunk, you will smell it for months.”

At 8:30 a.m., I finally get a hold of the DEC, namely, Conservation Officer Ralph Weitzel.   I purposely did not give my name so he wouldn’t connect me to the rattlesnake.  Mr. Weitzel was not so helpful.  “Well,” he says, “You have to put a bag or blanket over the cage and then you can bring the skunk to water and drown it.”  He must have been a Marine also.

“I do not want to kill this skunk, ” I repeated again, “I only want to release it into the wild.”  I was told that I could only release said skunk on property that I owned.   I own three quarters of an acre.  I really don’t think Pepe Le Pew would have a problem finding his way back home.

“Oh, and the cage needs to be tagged with the owners name and address on it!”  Mr. Weitzel informed me.  Now, THAT’s a helpful bit of information right there.   The skunk will know who to sue for holding him against his will.  I asked if they assisted with any of these matters.  Of course they didn’t.  However, I’m sure they would be happy to fine me if I  break any of these laws.  No, we WON’T come and remove the rattlesnake from your yard.  Yes, we WILL fine you if you shoot it.  No, we WON’T assist you with a skunk in a live trap.  Yes, we WILL fine you if you release it off your property.  Why don’t they just ask for donations?  I’m getting off the subject.

I’m still waiting for a “professional” from Pest Control to call me back as my daughter Janelle,  stops by to pick me  up for our trip to Saratoga Springs.  She is on a deadline to be there by 11:00 a.m.  Relieved, the call came in from Pest Control.  They would be happy to assist, and no they do not relocate animals, they euthanize them.  Thanks, but no thanks,   I’ll keep trying.

On viewing the sleeping skunk and listening to my compromising situation, Janelle disappointedly leaves without me and I disappointedly watch her go.  This is not what I imagined my “fun day” would consist of.

I hear a squealing noise and on checking the cage, I see the skunk biting at the wire and trying to use his little hands to dig his way out.  It breaks my heart to see it;  maybe I’ll try to help him myself…

Gardening with Wildlife

Now that the gardening season in Central New York is up and running, almost at the finishing line I might add, we have wildlife to contend with. I, myself, have a live trap just outside my front porch in the hopes of capturing an entire family of woodchucks who have decided to cohabit under my front porch. This is way too close to my garden for my taste and theirs,  at less than 100 yards. My dear husband has set it up with, and I must admit at my suggestion, celery and peanut butter.

Now, I love to cook and prepare food even it it is for a  woodchuck. I would have picked out the freshest stalks of celery from the heart and lavishly spread lots of Jiffy right down the middle. My husband, on the other hand, is quite frugal and not one to share food. Upon checking to see if we had a woodchuck trapped inside this afternoon, I was met with something that looked like the part of the celery I would have discarded and barely any peanut butter, at least not that I could see. No wonder there was no chuck in the trap. They must be disgusted and dismayed thinking we had begun composting (with less than desirable produce). Back to square one. Our garden is still alive but only at the chuck’s mercy and whim. I think the “appetizer” in the cage may push them over the edge to devour in earnest.
I have an uncle, Ray,  who prides himself on his garden. His tomato plants are his pride and joy as is his apple orchard. He is now driving to various village officials to get permission to shoot a deer who has chewed his prized tomato plants into bonsai trees. As of today, he has not been allowed permission to shoot the offender but the neighbors are privy to various expletives as this same deer is heard munching on his apple crop. Rumor has it, he is in the market for a pellet gun and cries a lot.
Now my husband’s friend, John, is the height of garden deportment. Walking through his vegetables and flowers you would believe you were in the Botanical Gardens. The man is immaculate about his plants. Not a blade of grass or weed is to be seen and insects, unless beneficial, are dealt with immediately and severely.  (John lent us the live trap.)  John is now desolate over the fact that his raspberries have yielded a pathetic few and his tomato plants are covered in blight.  The birds have eaten more of his blueberries than he has and rendered his netting useless.
Then there is my dad who is a die hard gardener. The man is loosing his sight but not his sense of humor and persists in planting half an acre of potatoes, and easily one-quarter acre of garden on the other side of the house. Everything but his root crops have been demolished by the deer this year. Where you once heard, “Oh, here is that beautiful doe! She is coming into the yard!” You now hear, “Damn! There’s that doe again! What is she coming back for, there’s nothing left for her to eat!” I wouldn’t say there’s nothing left; last year she dug up the beets.
My poor neighbor Andrea,  is new at gardening and has done exceedingly well in spite of having a five year old who insists on digging up her plants behind her and picking things to eat before they should be picked. She has been hit hard early on with a chipmunk. I should say, there are eye witnesses of a chipmunk but he has not actually been caught in the act. Her pepper plants were sawed off a couple inches up and peppers were carried off. Herbs meant to deter garden pests were chewed thoroughly. Now, she has a most ferocious dog, Bear, small, but very ferocious. You would think she would take out this rodent since she has been known to kill woodchucks – this I observed first hand. But for some unknown reason, squirrels and chipmunks can walk in front of her nose and she has no interest. I have not seen my neighbor out gardening since the pepper incident. I think she lost heart. I’ve considered borrowing Bear for the woodchucks, but I’m afraid of her.
The weather has been some of the worst we have ever seen in Upstate NY: cold, hail storms, record breaking cold temperatures, and rain, rain, rain… I think all the variants are beating us down.  The wildlife really do not need to add to the mix.
My youngest daughter, Janelle and her husband Steven, have a garden on the top of a hill/mountain. The wind blows 30 mph on a mild day which deters the bugs, the ground is 99 percent shale, which deters the woodchucks, and the deer and turkeys are always pursued by coyotes so they don’t have too much time to stop and munch on their plants (although my son-in-law is morose about a special apple tree they managed to devour on the run). Also, the kids are young, strong, and a better match against the elements and creatures: Survival of the fittest you might say.   I imagine we will be getting care packages from them.
Speaking for us “seasoned” gardeners this is not the time to be asking for wildlife donations.

Bass Fishing “Plugs”

If someone were to ask me what one of my favorite hobbies is I would have to say fishing. My forays into this sport as a child were less than spectacular since stream fishing with inadequate tackle usually yielded an unlucky chub, if I was successful, which was RARELY. My shamefully largest fish was one I stole from a large black water snake and turned out to be a sucker (WHO was the sucker?). I still am daunted by stream fishing as I tag behind Vern upstream and he fishes the holes ahead of me.   Eventually, I end up in the  creek  on my bottom slipping on some moss or a slippery rock I’ve had the misfortune to trust.  So, with wet clothes I trudge on doggedly baiting my own hooks praying I will never be reincarnated as a night crawler or trout worm. I think that is what spurned me to fly fish:  my pity for the hapless worms.

I felt real joy in releasing the worms who survived the trip into my garden only to get yelled at because they will “keep in the fridge…” NOT what I want to see when I open MY refrigerator door and so I bore the blame and consoled myself that the “escapees” would somehow assuage my guilt for their peers’ demise. I have never accomplished much fly fishing either, but that is another story…
My love of bass fishing began the moment I stepped into the boat… My husband always took off fishing with his “fishing buddies” and I would help clean the fish up ignorant of what I was missing, but with three small babies it wasn’t exactly on my To Do List. They would come to the house before they headed out:  Pasta Joe, Dave Fisher, Uncle Carl, Joe Norwich, you can’t make up these names… and many more.  They fished for salmon, trout, walleye, lake  trout, bass…  if it was there, it was landed and made a meal of. My first term paper in college was “How to Fillet a Salmon”, I think the professor thought I was putting him on until he read it. It was so thorough, he had to give me an A and his only question was what is a “belly fin”? Duh.

My girls loved fresh salmon and so  I filleted it myself to  know EXACTLY what they were eating. I learned how to smoke it too which delighted me.  Yep, tied up those little bunches of salmon eggs in panty hose (the bait for salmon fishing)… red caviar never held any mistique for me.   But anyways, when the girls were all in school, Vern finally took ME bass fishing. I wasn’t much help with the boat but I helped with what I could. I always had the impression he had more fun with the guys, but I didn’t care;  I was on the water with a pole in my hand and a lure to cast. Vern is short on temper and all business when it comes to fishing and he yells a lot. I quickly became adept at getting snags out of trees, weeds and tying my own swivels, lures and hooks became second nature. I enjoyed looking at every little thing around me. The great blue herons, ducks, beaver, geese, deer, waterlilies, stars, sunsets…

I could go on and on and I guess I did because Vern said that “Women talk more when they are fishing then men do in a week. It just isn’t natural”. I guess you are supposed to be really quiet, hook the fish, reel like hell, toss it in the cooler and cast out quickly for the next one. Nope, not me. I play the fish enjoying every second I have him on the line whether he is diving into a weed bed, breaking water, or swimming to the boat, it is a dance of skill to me. The skill being more on the side of the bass with me simply responding to his movements, tip up, and line taut feeling his fleeting movements through the pole.  God,  I hate nets. Why they don’t have a net that is unable to become enmeshed with the lure’s barbs is beyond me. We have had more arguments about using the net;  it just has to FEEL the hostility I have for it. I don’t even want it near me in the boat but I am resigned to using it.  I have got it almost down pat to avoid snares and snags, holding the bass to the top of the net once it is in and quickly removing the lure before it gets caught in the webbing. I try never to hurt the fish whether it is a walleye, pickeral or bass or sunfish. I guess I don’t get real excited when I hook into a fish big or not or land one.  I am humbled more with a sense of honor and gratitude that I have caught this beautiful specimen. A bass is truly beautiful, large mouth or small mouth.  Every shade of green in his environment is apparent in the scales on his body; the eyes are large and luminescent; there is the most amazing mother of pearl with a touch of blush on his belly; the fins are lightly speckled and slightly transparent. In the sun, the fish is irridescent, a real gem.  If you caress one when you gently  release it, it will stay in your hand mesmerized, perhaps unbelieving at his good luck at being released. I believe a bass gives one of the best fights pound for pound; he is the “Joe Lewis” of game fish and I’m never disappointed in the match. I always feel grateful and fortunate to be able to fish whether I catch anything or not. It is a timeless sport people throughout the ages have survived on and relished. I am honored to be among them.