Second puppyhood

When doctors removed the pin in my mini Lab, Asta’s leg (that’s her with me in my sidebar), it did more than relieve what must have been incredible pain, it also apparently unleashed her second puppyhood. She seems happier, livelier and eager to play.

Once her activity restrictions were relaxed a little, all she wanted to do was wrassle with Big Sis Hershey and chase squirrels. (She couldn’t get far on her leash, but she wanted to run.)

From her initial homecoming, I tried to find her toys to enjoy. She’d have none of it. Asta was even timid about taking treats from us. But, now… apparently she has puppy stuff to make up, time lost while injured and attempting to heal. Without the burden of pain, she is free to do all those things she missed out doing.

Like chewing on things she shouldn’t.

You’d think, with all that I’ve done to improve her quality of life, of all the love I’ve heaped on her, she’d leave my stuff alone. And, it’s not like the menfolk don’t leave out tempting, gnaw-worthy paraphernalia.

Saturday, after my photo hike, while sitting on the couch downloading and editing my pix, Asta was peacefully asleep on her bed in the living room. Or so I thought. Looking up from my laptop, I see that she is actually busy destroying my shoe. My favorite, most comfortable pair of Rainbow sandals. Those lovely leather phenoms that mold to your foot, and have a lifetime materials guarantee.

I don’t expect “stupid dog” falls into the “normal wear” caveat.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have toys for the specific purpose of chewing, or even less beloved shoes…

You might also think, that the menfolk would be sympathetic. Apparently I was wrong about that too. I’m going to rub  beef bouillon on their shoes.

Makes a house a home

Tired clapboard siding
Weary brick and mortar
Love, a home sustains

Haiku Friday is hosted by Lou at LouCeeL

Movie extra

There are days when I feel like an extra in the grand production of life. Non-speaking talent slaving away for scale without so much as a mention in the ending credits. The only evidence of my existence is a meager line identifying me as “50-something Mom #1.”

Submitted to Skywatch Friday, Season 6: Episode 45

*Photo venue: shot from Navy Pier, Chicago, IL

Chasing ghosts

We spent most of the day pulling weeds from the tiny gravesite.

The child buried there was only three when he died, and only this first name, and birth and death dates were etched on the crude stone.

His very existance seemed to be a secret, and I was determined to shine a light on the secret, to make sure people rememebered him.

“Things had been much better when he had been hidden.”

Rising from his spot near the small headstone, Mason brushed the dirt off his hands.

“You can’t honestly believe that,” I stayed on the ground, my hands full of weeds. “He wasn’t an orphan. He had family who wondered what happened to him.”

“He was a bastard,” Mason’s vehemence was unexpected.

“That certainly wasn’t his fault,” I stuffed the offending dandelions in a trash bag. “Why are you so angry?”

Mason shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “He caused a lot of problems in my family.”

I stood, picking up the full bag. The grave site, once obscured by weeds and underbrush, was now cleared. The stone was free of lichen, and the name finally visible.

“He didn’t do anything, he was little more than a baby when he died.” I stepped close to Mason, forcing him to look at me. “If you want to be angry at someone, be angry at the right person.”

He just shook his head again.

“Seems to me that you can’t bring yourself to place blame where it belongs.” I handed him the bag of weeds. “Just say it. Say that your mother had an affair, had a baby, and that baby died.”

“You’re out of line.” He grabbed the bag, and tossed it across the lawn.

“You can’t be mad at a little kid for being born, you can’t blame him for your parent’s divorce, and you can’t blame him for anything that came from that break up.” I jabbed a finger in his chest with each bullet point. “He had grandparents who loved him, aunts and uncles who mourned him, and a half-brother  - you – who should have been allowed to know him.”

He grabbed my hand to stop any continued stabbing.

“You don’t know anything.”

“I think you have that wrong,” I pulled my hand out of his grasp. “I know that he also had a half-sister. A sister who remembers him, and loved him.”

Mason stepped away from me, as if slapped.

“He was my brother too, and for a few short years, he lived with my family,” I was enjoying too much the wash of emotions playing across Mason’s face. “When he died, my dad and I moved away. We lost track of his grave site. Now, I’ve found him, with your help. I guess I should thank you.”

Mason stumbled back, tripping over the stone.

“Oh, relax, Mason.” I smiled down at him, lying on the ground in shock. “We share a brother, but we aren’t related in any way. We’ve done nothing… inappropriate.”

Inspired by Douglas Adam’s “The Long Dark Tea-time of the Soul” – “Things had been much better when he had been hidden.“

Week 20: Inspired by “orphan“

This end up

The others were making her do this. Said it was time, well past time. As if there was a time limit on grief. That after a set number of days, or weeks, months or even years, you could turn off the sadness like a light switch. A simple click and all sorrow and pain is gone, and your life can resume undisturbed.

It wasn’t like that. Nothing could take away that pain. Packing up all his belongings, wiping away all evidence of his life, could never erase his memory either.

They said they would help sort through everything with her, but they didn’t know what to do with any of it. They wanted to donate it, just give it away like so much junk. They might as well throw it all in black trash bags and dump it at the curb for the garbage trucks to haul off.

No, she would give his memories the respect they deserved.

Shutting the door behind her, she locked it so the others would leave her in peace. Boxes and wrapping tissue were laid out on the bed. A step stool stood in one corner so she could reach all the treasures lined up just so along the plate rail that encircled the room.

The desk where she worked was barren, bereft of textbooks and college rule paper. One by one she carefully packed academic trophies and certificates, tiny figurines of baseball bears and Christmas snow globes, photographs of happier days, and heirloom toy trucks. Each act deliberate, meticulous in its economy of motion. Slowly turning them over in her hands, imagining they were still warm from his touch.

As she placed each item in a box, reliving precious snippets of a glorious life, it was like burying him anew.

The last boxed filled, she unlocked the bedroom door and walked out. Leaving a life unfulfilled, packed away in four cardboard cartons.

A mother should never outlive her child.

The Trifecta challenge this week is: Deliberate [adj. \di-ˈlib-rət\] 3: slow, unhurried, and steady as though allowing time for decision on each individual action involved

Week 77

The content of their character

While my fam was in Greensboro, NC for our daughter’s graduation, we visited the  F.W. Woolworth’s lunch counter downtown at the corner of Elm and February One streets where we could order a complete turkey dinner for 65¢ or a slice of apple pie for 15¢.

The store closed for business in 1993, but the significance of that particular diner was that on Feb. 1, 1960, four, 17-year-old college freshmen from North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University began the first peaceful, sit-in protest against segregation, a movement that eventually swept the nation.

Franklin McCain, Ezell Blair, Joseph McNeil and David Richmond sat at the counter, marked for “Whites Only” and tried to order lunch. Refused access, they returned to the store again the next day and were again denied service.

Soon other students from other colleges joined them. Working in shifts, they continued their protest until the end of their school year. To keep the movement going over the summer, students from a local black high school joined the sit-in until late July, when the store manager finally agreed to serve black customers.

Today, that F.W. Woolworth store is home to the International Civil Rights Center and Museum.

As we toured the facility, we were reminded of the people who were the front line soldiers in the war against segregation and oppression. So many of them children. So many of them died, or were victims of violence and death threats.

In 1960, Ruby Bridges, a six-year-old New Orleans first-grader, was one of the first black children to attend an all-white elementary school. U.S Marshalls escorted her to class because of death threats against her and her family. She was SIX.

Emmitt Till, a 14-year-old Chicago teen visiting his grandmother in Mississippi during the summer of 1955, was brutally murdered for allegedly talking to a white woman. His injuries from being beaten, blinded, shot, hung and drown, were so heinous, he was unrecognizable. When his mother was advised to have a closed-casket service, she refused. Instead, she said she wanted the world to see how vicious his death was.

Down one hallway of the museum, there was a wall of mug shots, more than 1,200 random photos of people arrested for protesting against segregation – white, black, men, women, young, old – all charged with various crimes because they believed that “all men were created equal.”

Walking through the center, with my children, was a very emotional experience. I was horrified, embarrassed, shamed, guilt-ridden, and moved to tears.

I thought of the mother’s of these early activists. I thought of the mixture of numbing fear, crushing grief, and overwhelming pride they must have felt. I could not bear losing one of my children through that sort of senseless violence. I don’t know how these mothers survived their heartbreak.

I’m not a perfect parent, but I have tried to raise my children without prejudice. I’ve tried to instill in them the belief that we are all one world, one people, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexual orientation.

I have great hope and expectations for their generation. That through them, we can finally get this right. That the only time they will hear about violations of civil rights is while taking a tour at a historic museum.

Submitted as part of Shell’s “Pour Your Heart Out” at Things I Can’t Say.

This week’s Studio30 Plus prompt is “Mom,” and/or “Sprinkler.”

Long overdue

I’ve known you for nearly thirty years, but what you did before we met affects me deeply and continues to impact my life everyday. I know that you weren’t thinking specifically of me then, still I feel that I need to say this, “Thank you, for the man you raised to be an amazing husband and father.”

Prompt #17: Share about a special mother in your life.