We seem to be binge-puzzling around here these days. Tie o’ the Day keeps getting in the way of my work and pushing pieces off the table, but its design caught my eye today. Note to self: Wear a bow tie, not a necktie, when putting together jigsaw puzzles.
We recovered from the difficult PENCILS puzzle. Yes, Suzanne still thinks she put in the final piece. Let’s keep it that way as long as we can. I set out the pieces for a new puzzle, which is currently providing both of us with some always-welcome levity. The puzzle’s title is simply, POOPING DOGS. See it for yourself. So far, the pooping dogs we’ve assembled are doing what they’re doing quite tastefully.
I did assure Suzanne that I have no intention of buying the other puzzles in the same series, like POOPING CHIHUAHUA or HUMPING CHIHUAHUAS. I have at least a little class. She was very excited to know prime won’t be delivering them to our house.
Folks, the very fact that I ordered this puzzle is evidence enough that Suzanne deserves a medal or a trophy, or both. How she puts up with me, I will never know.
A few days ago, I checked in with myself. I was feeling kinda crabby, so I figured it was time to seriously ponder how blessed I really am. I started counting my blessings, and I discovered I have so many blessings that I had to take a few days off from writing TIE O’ THE DAY posts, because I have never counted that high before and it made me dizzy. That is I— discombobulated by my wealth of blessings.
My list o’ blessings begins with my mom, Big Helen. These photos were taken on my front porch in Delta. Mom would walk across the property line between us to porch. “Porch” is a verb too. Mom would sit and rule the world from the Porch at least a couple of times a day, weather permitting. Porching with Mom was a blessing of time well spent. I learned so much about her and her perspectives on her own life, as well as her take on the world. I hope she likes what she learned about me.
We told stories, joked, passed along nice gossip, and laughed. Once, we laughed so loudly and animatedly, a UPS truck stopped in my driveway. The driver— who we didn’t know— got out to ask if Mom needed help. “I sure do need help,” she said while laughing even harder, then she invited him to porch with us. Of course, the concerned UPS dude had packages to deliver, so he opted out of our invitation to porch. But he left with a bigly smile on his face.
Everyone was welcome on the Porch. A few people were officially invited to sit with us there, and they all declared their visit to be the best porching they’d ever done. They all left laughing.
The last year Mom lived in her house happened to be the last year I owned my Delta house. I was in Delta most of that year, on Mom duty. I had become the official designated driver for Mom and Peggy for their daily drinking (Pepsi) and driving. The old girls gradually became less interested in going on their routine leisurely drives around the county, so the three of us did most of our daily drinking on the porch. Two or three months before I sold my house, Mom wasn’t able to porch with us most days, so it was just Peggy and I on the porch. Porching alone with Peggy is one of my magical blessings too. We laughed, cried, and learned a lot about each other. Peggy told me things about the history of Hinckley that I’m sure Hinckley would rather I not know.
Head Bow Ties o’ the Day are brought to you by the one and only Grace Anne. She turned 8 months old this week, and she’s a stunner. If I could rock the head bow ties like Gracie, I would always wear one. But I’ve got a hat head, not a bow head.
For your added viewing pleasure, this post includes my fave Daddy-Gracie photo so far. Bishop Travis was a good sport about the fact that Bishopette Collette grabbed the camera and took the picture BEFORE rescuing him with the burp rag. I’m glad they have their priorities straight. The world would be poorer in spirit without this snapshot.
Tie o’ the Day is just plain gorgeous as it clashes sublimely with one of my paisley shirts. They both clash with my Suzanne-crocheted Hat o’ the Day. She’s been on a binge with crocheting hats lately. I counted over a dozen she created over the X-mas holidays. I can’t decide which I like the most, so I’m wearing them all once, then we’ll donate them.
But back to asparagus… Most of you know my hometown— Delta, UT. Many readers are not familiar with it at all. Delta was kind of a truer-to-life version of Mayberry. For the most part, we all knew each other. I lived in a terrific neighborhood, on the wrong side of the tracks, just inside the city limits. My dad’s parents lived next door to us, and Dad’s bee warehouse was behind their house. Farm country started literally across the street to the west of our home. That meant a canal full of irrigation water was also literally across that same street. And a dirt ditch canal meant loads of asparagus.
Every neighborhood has its share of grouchy folk, and mine was no exception. I was on the canal bank picking asparagus one fine summer day, when I heard an ominous voice: “Don’t you steal my asparagus!” It was not God’s voice, although it shook me to the core. It was one of our crabby, old lady neighbors who seemed to think that everything in her not-too-good eyesight was hers just because she lived closest to the ditch. I’ll just call her Mrs. Canal. Off, I ran the whole forty yards to Dad’s bee warehouse, leaving a trail of scared asparagus falling behind me. Yes, even the asparagus was scared.
Through the fog of bees in the honey extracting room, I regaled Dad with my latest exploit. He was sympathetic. He had grown up there, right across the street from Mrs. Canal. I asked him how old Mrs. Canal was. He pondered, then said, “All I can tell you is that she was at least a hundred years old when I was a boy.” That was Dad’s way of saying I’d better just be polite, and leave that area unpicked until Mrs. Canal gives up the ghost, then I could have at it.
I started picking the asparagus where Mrs. Canal couldn’t possibly see me, and it killed me to leave “her” asparagus growing there on the canal bank. Year after year, she never picked it, so it just grew spindly and went to seed. What a waste.
Bow Tie o’ the Day and I have been playing with both the new and old computers today. Suzanne transferred my old computer’s contents to the new computer last night, and I’ve been comparing various files to make sure everything made it to the new machine. So far, so good. No problems. And the new machine is quick, I tell ya.
This photo shows my computer’s desktop screen, which is a picture of one of my fave summer meals Mom made for me: asparagus and pickled asparagus. Mom planned to make me creamed asparagus over toast too, but it was July— and way too hot to eat creamed anything. Still, it would’ve made an even better photo.
As a kid, I spent a great deal of my summer on my bike, prowling the county’s ditch banks for asparagus for Mom to cook. It kept me out of trouble, and it generally kept me on her good side. I lost track of time one day, and when the sun went down I found myself and my bike out on the ditch banks of Sugarville. There were no cell phones back then, of course. And I was so young I didn’t know I knew anyone who actually lived in Sugarville, so instead of knocking on some “stranger’s” door and asking to use their phone, I hauled my butt back into Delta as fast as my cowboy boots could push the pedals. Darkness falls fast in the desert.
My bike basket brimmed with perfectly fat asparagus. I was sure the ton of asparagus would save me from Mom and Dad being miffed at me for being AWOL all day and after dark. It did not.
When things were settling down in the Ron and Helen Wright household that night, Dad said I should think of my asparagus hunting as deer hunting. I should think smart. He said, “You can hunt asparagus anywhere you’re not trespassing. You just have to tell us which direction you’re going, so we know where to find the carcass when you don’t come home.” Message received.
I chose a “wrapped gifts” theme Bow Tie o’ the Day to wear on Christmas Day. We didn’t do much but puzzle on Christmas Day, with the exception of joining Suzanne’s family at her parents’ house. Every year, Suzanne’s dad reads the family a Christmas story of his choosing, and tops it off by reading about Christ’s birth from the Bible. I look forward to it. Suzanne’s family is bigly and semi-boisterous and fun. I do miss being around Mom at Christmas though. (And not just for her food.) She tells me over and over she’s grateful to Suzanne’s parents for taking such good care of me. I’m grateful for it too. Now, that’s a gift!
Rowan wore his new haircut over to our place after we were finished at Suzanne’s parents. Skitter loves him, although Rowan’s male voice used to petrify her. You know Skitter loves you when she positions herself near you, then pretends to stretch and— nonchalantly and by calculated accident— puts her front paws on your arm or leg, as she’s doing with Rowan in the photo. She ever so softly and discreetly paws her way into your heart. But don’t look directly into her eyes, or she’ll shake her way to one of her crates. The Skit says, “It’s so hard to be loved.”
As was requested after this morning’s post, I’ve included here three pix of Rowan’s BEFORE hairs. His hair is thick and beauteous, so I don’t have a preference about its length. I am liking his short cut now, cuz it’s what he’s got. If it’s clean and not covering his handsome mug, I’m good with whatever.
We had a post-Christmas breakfast with Rowan at Vertical Diner, a vegan diner around the corner from his apartment in SLC. I wore my “ugly sweater” Bow Tie o’ the Day for the occasion. We see Rowan rarely since he slaves away many hours at his barista job and is student-ing at the U of U. He is 22, so his social life is a top priority, as well— as it should be. I think I’d be a bit worried about him if he spent all his spare time with us.
Note that Rowan cut off his flowing locks of head hairs last week. He’s donating the leftover 14-inch braids to an organization that makes wigs for chemo patients. Rowan’s heart has always been in the fight for those who struggle.
I threw on my ELF ON THE SHELF Bow Tie o’ the Day and headed to Bishop Travis’ and Bishopette Collette’s abode on the way to their ward Christmas program yesterday. Let me just say this: I saw many shades of Grace Anne I had not seen before. And let me add that the wee sprite was constipated.
Until yesterday, I had never even heard Gracie cry. I heard her cry more than once yesterday, and her Sacrament Meeting cries made me hark back to the days of designated cry rooms. Church architectural designs change. But, in my opinion, the need for cry rooms in churches is for time and all eternity.
At church, Gracie wasn’t content in the lap of any of the five adults in our group. She could not settle down and just hang, as is her usual attitude. When I’ve been around her previously, she has been chill, chill, and chill again. However, yesterday, she was acting her age, both at home and at church. Constipation can do that when you’ve only been on the planet for 7 months. Or 55 years.
The absolute best photo o’ the day of Grace is the one I couldn’t snap. During one of my turns trying to mellow out Gracie at church, I noticed she was the perfect size to sit on the saddle of my Saddle Purse, which I had with me. I sat her on the saddle, and— with the bows on her shoes— it was the perfect-est scene for a post picture. I knew I wouldn’t see Gracie after church, so if I wanted to take the picture, I would have to take it then and there. She might be too bigly to sit on the Saddle Purse next time I see her.
I cannot express to you how difficult it was for me to resist taking the best. photo. ever. for TIE O’ THE DAY. But it was during Sacrament Meeting, so I figured the takin’ o’ pictures wasn’t quite right. I just lifted Gracie off my Saddle Purse and onto my lap. I sat there in the chapel, wishing for a few minutes that I wasn’t a respectful person, so I could take pix.
And then Gracie squirmed around and cried out. In fact, she screamed her cries, and Bishopette Collette had to take her out of the chapel. It was like Gracie was trying to be her own evil twin. She was still the cutest baby in the world.
In this photo, Skitter and I are modeling two versions of the same Tie o’ the Day theme: Christmas lights in reindeer antlers. Although she might appear to be, Skitter was not traumatized by posing in this photo with me. I promise. She’s always a good sport when I say to her, “Skitter, we need to do a TIE O’ THE DAY thing.” She doesn’t run away and hide or get extra-shaky when I get in TIE mode with her.
Six years ago this week, this little scaredy dog let our fam-damily adopt her. She’s a rescue dog, and she had been through a hellish puppyhood before we brought her into our home to be treated like the Queen o’ All Mutts. We are guessing she was about 1 when we got her, which makes her 7 now. We don’t know from what breed she hails. Our best guess is that she is part Chihuahua and part Whippet, so we say she is a Whippet-huahua. If you ever get the chance to watch her run, you will see all-out “Whippet woosh” in her speed.
I almost named her Bambi because she looked like a fawn when we first saw her at the rescue, especially when she curled up. But she was skittish to the core. Hence, her name had to be Skitter. I’ve written posts remarking that Skitter vibrates when she’s out in the world, and she honestly does. As time goes on, she vibrates at a lower level of vibration. Sometimes her vibration is invisible to anyone who isn’t me or Suzanne. I’ve been asked, “How can Skitter be happy if she’s always afraid of everything?” My reply: “Well, she only vibrates around people, places, things, and ideas. Other than that, she’s fearless.” Seriously, she is a happy dog. She knows she is loved and safe. She expresses a range of moods beyond fear. We do, however, realize her skittishness will never completely go away. Unfortunately, whatever abuse she suffered as a puppy is a part of who she is.
We think Skitter has adjusted relatively well. She loves to jump in the car when I say, “Let’s go for a ride,” but she shakes the entire time we drive anywhere— including to Delta. She loves visiting Mom. She hardly vibrates at all anymore when we spend time at Millard Care and Rehab. When Skitter’s sitting on Mom’s bed there, she doesn’t shake.
When we walk to the mailbox, Skitter doesn’t vibrate anymore, but she still keeps her tail between her legs. I’ve taught her how to howl when Suzanne gets home from work. Even though her own howling noises startle her, you can tell Skitter’s proud of herself for knowing how and when to do it.
I admire Skitter. She doesn’t let her fears keep her in her crate all day. Despite the abuse she suffered before we familied her, she’s still willing to trust that we’ve got her skinny canine back. She knows it’s a crazy world. She knows it can be a mean world. Still, she faces each day with oodles of hope and wonder. Sometimes I think she’s better at being a grown-up than I am.
Dad went to the bigly coyote hunt in the sky on December 4, 2007. We laid him deep in his Delta dirt four days later, on December 8. And a week after that, on the evening of December 15, a bunch of our family donned our pajamas for a ride on the Polar Express, in Heber. My oldest sister, Betty (Mercedes, to me), and her eternal hubby, Kent, had planned the family Polar Express ride long before Dad’s death. It was to be a humongous family celebration of their 40th wedding anniversary. And so it was. Our grieving family was very much in need of something to celebrate. Train Bow Tie o’ the Day honors that healing outing.
This is one of the dearest photos I snapped on our Polar Express adventure. In the photo, Betty is clearly listening to Mom’s deep sorrow about Dad’s passing. Mom was now alone in a way not even a large, loud family could completely fill. Betty comforted Mom. And I have no doubt Mom comforted Betty. Grief is an awkward, homely thing. But it provides an opportunity for us to create beautiful responses to those who ache. In this way, sorrow can be transformed into beauty. I see such beauty here.
