You Can’t Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

 

Losing a library item aggravates me.  Not only for the simple fact that the item must be paid for, but because I know “it”, the illusive cause of frustration, has to be, must be, somewhere.  Inanimate objects do not metamorphose into animated rebellious minions.   I know this even though that subject, minions – loyal servants to a powerful being, who are recruited in a plot to take over the world, is the theme of the lost DVD. 

Several defensive thoughts came to mind when I read the library email notice informing me that there was no disc in the returned plastic case. No DVD?  I had watched from my car as my grandson opened the metal door and dropped it into the return bin.  I had put the DVD inside the container myself … hadn’t I? Yes, of course I had.

Outside the neighbor’s dog barked pulling me away from the computer.   At the front door, his entire body quivering in anticipation, was George on his daily round for a doggie treat.  I am not proud that at that moment, I considered the black French bulldog and the vindication “the dog ate my homework” came to mind.  Going to the library and blaming the dog – this was not my dog – even if I had a dog, the fact that the idea popped into consciousness was unsettling.   Really Susan?  I offered the treat to the sweet little furry visitor and followed this action with the admonition, “Now, go home George.”  As I shut the door, I recalled that once my grandson’s dog literally ate his homework.  And, telling his teacher did not save him.  What was up with these childish thoughts?  There are no library police. 

Even though from time to time I revert to illogical reasoning, there are certain truths that living has made clear.  The Velveteen Rabbit did not become real.  If I kiss a frog, it will not croak into a prince.   There are not vampires that bite.  (Yes, there are people who would like to suck the blood out of me, but that is another story.)  And, a DVD does not walk away.

There is a magic mirror in grandma”dom” (dom as in kingdom not as in dumber and dumber).  And this sage reflection told me that I would find the movie if I slowed down and retraced the trail of the DVD.

 Okay, forget the slowdown part, my search was frantic.  A where the hell did it go kind of search ensued.   First, I pummeled through the car, the trunk, under the seats… yes, I mean thrashed, a definitive neurotic kind of searching.  In my mind’s eye, I could see the disc being put into the plastic holder.  The case must’ve opened when dropped into the bin.  That was it; the movie was loose in the bottom of the outdoor return receptacle. 

Back at the library, I am proud to report that wisdom of age did keep my behavior in check.  By my age, the basket of miscalculations and personal screw-ups is overflowing.  (My culprit cup runneth over is clearly an understatement.)  So, at the checkout/return counter, I politely asked if perhaps the DVD was discovered loose in the outdoor receptacle.  Why no, if it was, we would have seen it.  I refrained from asking to check the bin myself.  (Yes, I wanted to.)  I did scrutinize the movie section, this effort produced two DVD’s.  Perhaps the Shelver put my DVD in the wrong case?  Why I thought that a duplicate case with the same title could miraculously store the lost disc is beyond explanation. 

“We would not have put two discs in the same container,” the desk assistant politely clarified.

Still she unlocked the cases and showed me (with a little more flourish than I deemed necessary) that I was wrong.  As she clicked the plastic shut, she kindly suggested that perhaps my grandson had slipped it under the couch because he wanted to watch it again?  That had happened to her … or so she said.  Or, could it have been put away with my personal DVD’s?  I was getting annoyed with this happiness and kindness.   Surely, she was not suggesting that my grandchild would hide the DVD?  I shared that I had looked everywhere.  She continued explaining very sweetly that if I could not find the DVD the cost was $22. 

“If I find it cheaper on Amazon, could I purchase and donate to the library?” 

For a variety of reasons, the answer to this was: No. 

Okay, I’m admitting that $22 was enough to make me pause. What is the cut-off mark?  If she had said $9.99 or $12.55?   If those amounts had been uttered, would I have pulled out my change purse?  At any rate, $22 was enough to inspire me to renew the lost item.  I handed her the empty case.  “Oh, no.  We can’t take a case with nothing in it.  You have to keep that.”  She slid it back toward me.  “The movie needs to be returned in it.”

Back at home, I was like a dog on a bone (or homework), I would not let the loss go.  $22.00 was twenty rentals from the RedBox, an eyebrow wax, lunch out with friends, a fairly decent bottle of wine.  For me, there was a lot at stake including my integrity as a former librarian – which I did not admit to the counter clerk.  And, I should be applauded for biting my tongue when she declared the impossibility of cataloguing a cheaper item found on Amazon.  Yes, of course an item can be processed by hand entry … whatever, I was well behaved and kept the information to myself.

Oh, please! I scolded myself … it is only a movie, but an obsessive compulsive nature had over taken grandma wisdom like a past lover or a straightjacket … hmmm, interesting comparison.    I re-searched the car, the DVD collection at home, and the couch sporadically throughout that day until the setting sun enhanced the horizon with a copper glow. 

Finally, I resolved to pay the money.  I did deliberate if I could make installments … a couple of bucks a week would lessen the mistake.  Or would it draw it out?  Enough foolishness; just add this to the blunder pile and move on.   Losing a DVD does not even nudge the measurement needle in comparison to other personal slip-ups.  Get over yourself and pay. 

On my “To Do List” stop at library was noted.

I slept well.

This morning, I was folding a blanket that I had swaddled around me while watching Lady Hawk – a movie in which the characters did metamorph - when a glint of silver shimmered beneath edge of the couch.  This gleaming curve contrasted against the carpet bringing me to my knees to retrieve.  Are you kidding me?  I was sure that I had looked in that same place at least five times. 

Okay, I give.  Bite me Baby!  Let me kiss a frog.  Yes, a stuffed rabbit lives in my hometown. 
And, that she, is going to the library this morning for her $22.00 refund.

Surely, a certain sweet, little minion would not have slipped the DVD under the couch?  Hmmm.  

As I adjusted the driver’s side mirror, the image of George lifting his back leg on my rear tire stopped me from starting the car.  This is how I am repaid for your daily treat?

I opened the car door.  “Go home George!”  He vigorously shook his muscular rump and scurried away.

As I watched him leap to the safety of his own yard, and truly he hops like a jack rabbit, I had to consider my $22.  Is it too early to buy a bottle of wine? 

Here is a final grandma truth:  It is definitely five o’clock somewhere!

The Perks of being a Grandmother

Monday is Scrabble day.  My grandson and I hole up for a couple of hours at a local coffee shop for serious word competition.  Well, perhaps I’m overstating … friendly, word building is a more accurate description. 

After setting up the board, we went to the counter.  The owner smiled, “Hi, ready for your game?  You two want the usual?  Hot Chocolate with marshmallows?” (He’s got us down.  We are what you would call:  regulars.) 

Scrabble between us began this past fall and, as I said, I made sure my grandson knew that vocabulary building is the intent.  During the first couple months he played open dictionary – this variant, dictionary use, was my idea and I thought using it would keep him on a level playing field. I recall those first few games me saying: Let’s not worry about who wins.  We’ll go for improving our personal score each week.  Deal? 

I thought he agreed.  Me, I babbled away in a kindly fashion about how fun it would be to play for the joy of making words and improving.  I went as far to discuss with him sportsmanship, like if he drew a challenging combination of letters.  In fact, in the beginning games, we strategized together instead of staring blankly at a rack of lackluster tiles, for example: iiiiooe – boo hiss.

About 30 minutes into this past Monday’s game, an employee stops by our table, chatting us up a bit.  Who’s winning?  Every week, someone asks that question:  Who is winning?  Why does everything have to be about winning?

I humbly adjusted my halo, “Oh we play to improve our vocabulary … the score doesn’t matter.”  I offered a smile.  How could anyone expect a twelve year old to beat an ole Scrabble fan like me? 

Glancing over at Jax, I noticed he was studying his letters not even aware that a question was asked.  And, he was taking a long time with his play. 

“Do you want me to look at your letters?”  I asked sweetly.

“No, I want to figure it out myself.”

“Well, remember, you can use the dictionary if you want.”

“No, I’m okay.” 

He reorganized the tiles several times on his rack.  Stopped, then bit his upper lip suppressing a smile.   He gleefully contained his excitement, then  looked at me, smiled full out and plunked down the word:  perkish.  The “k” covered a double letter, the “h” on a triple word and also joined to the word “ut” at the right angle forming “hut” – yes, another triple word.  And, since he used all seven letters, a 50 point bonus was allowed. 

Arrgh … my back straightened.

“Perkish?  Is that a word … perkish?”  I was  taken back at the play.

“Well, if you are perky then can’t you be sort of perky?” We locked eyeballs, “That would be perkish,” he stated in a matter of fact tone.

I grabbed the dictionary.  Yes, I know we are playing for fun but … what kind of derivative of perky is that? 

Here is the answer to that question:  perkish is not in Webster’s nor Oxford Dictionaries (I know this because later that evening, I looked it up at home – and, yes, I recognize what this act states about me; don’t remind me) BUT, it is in the Scrabble Dictionary.  And, according to Scrabble, a person can be sort of perky.   

I added up his score: 131 points.  I added it again … are you kidding me?  131 points.  I also lost my next turn for questioning the move and being proved wrong.

“Well, Grandma,” he smiled, “at least you improved your vocabulary.”

“You are so not using a dictionary for help ever again,” I mumbled as I earnestly scrutinized my next play.

“I didn’t use the dictionary,” he said quietly as he pulled seven letters from the black felt bag. 

His final score:  414.  Yes, 414!

Vocabulary be damned. (The halo is not remotely near me and likely never has been.)  Yes, the Susan guidelines have officially changed.  Monday’s game will no longer be “sort of” anything to do with me demurely correcting folks who ask about the score. 

Oh, I forgot to mention that the coffee shop also serves beer and wine … could become my new “regular” order.  Hmm, I’ll have to remember that: “regular” is a seven letter word.  I could place the “g” on a triple letter space and the "r" on a triple word square,  and receive the 50 point bonus. A perkish move, wouldn’t you say?

(A final note:  I have had to hit the ignore key six times when spell checking this article.)

Zebra Stripes on a Winter Morning

The birds that feed from my railing are the only color to contrast against this bleak, brittle cold day.  The 5 inch Black-capped Chickadees are first, followed by Blue Jays, Cardinals, Finches, Sparrows and Doves.  One of my favorites is the Red-bellied Woodpecker.  It is the female that I most often spot.  Although, only approximately 9 inches in size, she is a stunner to view in her zebra stripped cape that extends from her neck with a sassy white rump slightly exposed beneath.  From beak to the back of his neck, the male is crowned in scarlet, orange feathers.  She, on the other hand, is distinguished because she has a subtle, gray crown proceeding the red that covers the nape of her neck.  Both have a tan breast with a tinge of red on the underbelly.

I do not often view the male.  Does he say:  “Hey, Susan’s feeding.  Fly down there and get me a seed, will ya?”  Or, does she get the sunflower offering only for herself saying:  “Go get your own seed!”

Doesn’t matter to me why she visits.  Each morning I look for her because, to my tastes, she outshines the other winter birds.  She is smart too; takes her seed off the rail quickly and flies back to her tree.  “Quurrrr …. Quurrr; chimp, chimp”; no lollygagging around.  She does not trust humans and that is as it should be if you are a bird. 

I wonder at the nature of the tiny Chickadee that feed right from the palm.  Not the Red-bellied Woodpecker, nor the Blue Jay nor the Mourning Dove will eat from the human hand.  Well, at least not mine.

Pileated

After a rain, through the kaleidoscope of greens lit by solar beams, a flash of red and gray caused me to pick up the binoculars.  They are shy birds but seated in the screened in porch, I was allowed to be an observer.
Whack!   Whack!  Slowly, I tracked the sound, and focused the lens. 

Ah, there he was. 

Wood chip by wood chip, a gray bill sporting a red mustache chiseled out an impressive, oval opening in a decayed tree trunk.  In between each strike, the Woodpecker drew back his neck then pulled forward with his feet.  That action produced a powerful thunk. 

He followed the tunnels made by carpenter ants and larvae:  Whack! 

 “He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah …” I hummed that dark consolation to the devoured beetle larvae. The bird continued to hammer into the heartwood hurling large shards of wood that gathered at the base of the tree in a pile. His drumming against the hollow shaft declared his territory and also, attracted the attention of a nearby female.  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

She laughed: Dah, Dah Dah!  Nasal yelps followed. Unlike the flame crested male, her scarlet crown was set back and although minus the red mustache, the female was as grand as he.

In flight, the sun caught the glinting white edge of her wings.  The spectacular vision kept me in a musical mood:  “Come on Baby, light my fire.” Crown feathers raised and her wings remained spread. Together, both birds clung to the tree and flamboyantly performed a rhythmic bobbing courtship.  The door was open.  So, she examined the future nest, climbed inside, and continued the work from within. 

For five weeks they worked together. And, after the extensive foraging and drilling, a home for the season was created.  Next spring, after the miracle of four white eggs, the couple will do it all again leaving this nest for squatters, birds or small mammals unable to do such excavation.

The female incubated the eggs by day and the red mustached male at night for about 16 days, awaiting the little beaks that would greedily demand regurgitated insects … most often carpenter ants. 

I set the binoculars down after a morning of observation.  Perhaps, luck and timing would give me a gift.  Hidden behind the screen of the little cabin in the woods,  I had a vision of witnessing first flight. 

A week after I heard high pitched screeches from the nest, I woke to a crack.   

Taking no time for shoes, I flew out the door.  But, the hunter was gone as death always is.

The scream stuck in my chest as a pajama clad me, knelt on damp moss next to the sticky, bloodied wings.  Above in the nest, not ready to fly, fledglings encasing arrhythmic frantic beats, squeaked.  Squeak, squeak.

His mate was loud.  She fussed and made whinny calls from a tree nearby.  I backed away from the scene. 

The sky darkened to a purple/ blue paper mache.  She was going to stick with him forever; I

understood that … and now, dust to dust; that's Biblical, am I correct?  Dust to dust and that is that.

Slip Slidin' Away (Simon and Garfunkel)

I’ve spent two hours cleaning off the trampoline.  A ridiculous amount of time to exhaust on such a project but I deemed doing the work necessary when I looked out the window this morning and observed a sagging mat.  After tromping through a foot and a half of snow, I discovered that under the accumulated white stuff on the jumping mat there was a layer of frozen ice.  This had to be removed especially with the prediction of six more inches by evening.

Ever try to stand on an icy trampoline and broom it off?  The title to a Simon and Garfunkel song came to mind: “Slip Slidin’ Away”.  When taking a break from this slippery job, I lay on my back observing and feeling the snow feather down from an opaque gray sky. 

  

(Interruption for a grammar lesson:  In present tense I lie on the trampoline but in the past tense lie becomes lay – no wonder folks get confused and Bob Dylan did not get it right - But in his defense Lie Lady Lie just doesn't sound right.)  

The flurry reminded me of ashes from a past bonfire, debris of different sizes lifting to the sky only to scatter down all over me.  On the trampoline in the cold daylight, the flakes were large, some small; all steadily landing on my eyelashes, nose and tongue.  Soon these gentle ice flakes turned to minuscule icy spears.  I felt like Gulliver being lanced by the inhabitants of Lilliput.  I remembered the illustration of Gulliver, the prisoner, with his hair and appendages tied to the ground.  The continuous barrage of stinging frozen javelins lasted about five minutes before turning into a consistent downpour of large, white flakes.

 If I remembered correctly, Jonathan Swift presented the main character as gullible.  Contemplating that thought while whiteness gathered in the folds of my coat, I had to admit that I have been that character in life.  Sometimes losing the “I” in the “we” and I am often not sure who the “I” (that is me) is.  Will I know when I am she? 

Later, I continued to reflect while cracking the icy layer into chunks before sliding slabs over to the opening in the net and tossing them to the ground.  The remaining snow was shoved off the mat with a push broom while I hummed Paul Simon’s tune, Slip Slidin’ Away.  I want to know I am wiser; I’m not sure nature cares.  And if Swift is right, I’ve been born corrupt and I too will slip slid away.

What Makes Sense?

Recently I listened to a heated discussion.  One person retorted: That does not make sense!  I had to smile, not with disrespect for the other point of view but instead for the calamity of different experiences that allow people to emphatically believe that they are right.  I weary of those who pontificate without offering open thought and a listening ear to what may be another set of facts.

After listening to this persons diatribe, I calmly asked:  Did you choose your parents?  Who amongst us has picked the culture that we were born in to?  There is so much that we are unable to evaluate because we do not know.  We have not had the other experience.

I am finally finishing the book Catherine The Great by Robert K. Massie.  A fact that is poignant for me during this reading is that if a human was born a serf, you had no control over life.  Notta.  For example, if  born in late 1700's to a person who worked the mines then you belonged to the mining operation and were sold and traded as if you were a shovel.  That was it.

Yesterday, I enjoyed the movie Philomena and again realized the luck of birth.  Much of what happens is the luck or bad luck of time and place that a person is born into.  This is a movie, so I am not making a case for the storyline, I freely admit that I do not know the historical facts, but I am saying that often people are in situations that are a reality of birth.   In this movie a young Irish girl (1950's) was sent to a convent because she was pregnant out of wedlock. Her father dumped her there and never looked back.  After giving birth, she worked in servitude for four years to pay back her debt to the convent for housing her and her babe who was, according to the movie, taken from her and sold to an adopting American couple.

There was a line in the movie, although arrogant, that made me laugh.  The BBC journalist who was helping the elder Irish woman find her adult child remarked about the woman he was helping: “I’ve finally seen firsthand what a lifetime’s diet of Reader’s Digest, the Daily Mail and romantic fiction can do to a person’s brain.”  An insult.  I am ashamed to admit that I feel this way when someone is screaming their point to get it across to me as if I am dim witted because I cannot agree with them.  Do folks really think that raising the volume of their discourse makes their point clear?  Do they not realize that there ARE experts who argue on either side of most issues.  Why scream your point?

When I am trying to make sense, I frequently use the word "sense" as a noun indicating a personal awareness at a single moment in time.  I cannot make a claim that judges nor offers wise or reasonable advice to the understanding of another person.  More often in my writing, I may have a feeling that something is the case.  From that feeling,  I evaluate from my perspective. That's it ... a perspective.

 I have difficulty with people who state their opinion as if they are Moses (from the Biblical story) carving the Ten Commandments in stone.  In my recent political discussion, I could not help but ask: Have you considered that there are brilliant minds on both sides of this issue? And, there were no scholars present during this argumentative discussion.   I wonder why the other people taking part in this band wagon conversation could not appreciate that none of us know what we do not know.  There are negative reactions to forcing an edict on a group and that, quite frankly,  does not make sense.

New Year

I experience an emotional slump upon the end of work that I enjoyed and found mentally challenging.  A shadow darkens my existence and demands a respectful acknowledgement from me on what has been lost.  Lost in the sense of ended – effort completed.  I’ve been told that I should rejoice because “it” happened.  The cause of past joy, although gone, was worthy.  

Boo hiss.  

For me, disorder and chaos are always a part of finishing a life chapter.  Yes, of course, I am sensitive that history is integral to propel me forward as necessary as the prevailing conditions.  This does not make me feel better.  When I have enthusiastically offered full attention to a project that has stopped, the words:  j’ai fini (as the French would say) evoke a vacant dip in my psyche.  This let down is mild in comparison to the loss of a relationship, not even close, but is noteworthy to me because I have learned that I must encounter the  dull sensation of missing an activity that I enjoyed before I can move on to create.

When I was younger, and naive, I thought it was possible to organize life like colorful packages complete with a bow on top. I have found that I do not believe in closure.  Instead, at each ending, there is a sadness that aggravates me enough to push me to learn something new.  The past boxes are not neatly stacked but ruptured, spilling into the next moment, week and year. Nothing is pure.  All fresh endeavors become a complicated weave of rough, smooth and innovative textures making loss a prerequisite to joy and both emotions are important before having the energy to face what becomes new.