of the ancient mariner

Well you only need the light when it's burning low

Only miss the sun when it starts to snow

Only know you love her when you let her go…

    

                         And you let her go.

***

1) remove any strainer/aerator attachment from faucet

2) sterilize the inside of spigot with a flame, rubbing alcohol or bleach

3) run the cold water full force for five minutes

4) put water sample into bottle without contaminating water or bottle by touching 

5) note date and time of water collection

6) take to or overnight express to water testing site within 24 hours

7) wait for results

***

I grew up within walking distance of Lake Michigan. I'd seen her many faces: ultramarine blue with pearly whitecaps, ice-jammed and snow covered, mirror-flat azure, gray and dark with ten foot crashing waves... As a child standing upon "the rocks" on Chicago's lakefront the water was so lucent the ripples of sand ten feet below the water were clearly visible. 

***

“Hey, did you hear that James has kidney cancer? He’s the tenth man from that same area to get kidney cancer. I’m thinking of getting water delivered from Culligan. I don’t know how much it costs, but I don’t think our water’s safe to drink.”

***

My husband pumps ethanol-laced gasoline into our car one frigid morning. I step inside  to purchase a pack of gum. Accepting change from the cashier a man turns to me and asks. "Did you come from the South?" It takes me a moment to figure out that he means the direction from which I've driven. He isn't asking me if I was born south of the Mason-Dixon line.

"No, but that's the direction we're headed. We're going to Clinton," I offer.

"So am I. There was a bad accident on the Argo Fay bridge this morning and the road is closed. You might want to take a different route. You can follow me. I'll get updates on the way."

We follow his corn-filled farming grain truck into Clinton, Iowa where he turns onto the road to ADM.  We head west.

***

A visiting student from Germany and I are chatting in my office which overlooks Lake Michigan. "Ranell," he laughs, "that is not a lake. If, on the clearest day, you cannot see what's on the other side, it is not a lake. That," he points at the water, "is an inland freshwater sea." And he's right, as that is how the Great Lake system is labeled on the U.S. EPA website.

***

ADM is Archer Daniels Midland and they have this bizarre-looking plant located on the Mississippi River. It's distinctive on a couple of counts. You cannot miss the scent and sight of it. Like the odor of a skunk, the smell that emanates from ADM is strong, offensive and distinctive. It smells, to me, like rancid meat might smell if you went ahead and seasoned it and cooked it. Once we were driving through another state, when I noticed that identical smell. I looked off over a cornfield to see an ADM plant.

ADM plants boast massive domes with huge pipes coming out and forming an x pattern. From there are seemingly endless lines of piping that curve, jut and join to any number of buildings and towers, many belching out smoke. The Clinton plant is about two miles in length.

My grandson and I used to build these elaborate "intergalactic manufacturing plants" in his basement. We'd utilize every toy he owned, including a pop-up tent. We'd employ every empty cardboard box, every leftover scrap of plastic or wood, the attachments to the family's vacuum cleaner, pots/pans and lids, you name it. We'd manufacture any manner of items, i.e., various plastic colored balls, which were figuratively "energy orbs" of different color-coordinated powers. Our plants were unusual looking conglomerates of anything and everything. I think of them whenever I pass ADM Clinton. Yup, that's what an ADM plant looks like, an imaginative 4-year-old's behemoth, smoke-spewing playground.

***

The EPA site states that the Great Lakes comprise about 84% of North America's surface fresh water and 21% of the world's supply of surface fresh water. Only the polar ice caps contain more fresh water.

***

One day we stop in Clinton for lunch. Adjacent to our booth is a large round table that seats 10. It's taken by a group of well-dressed employees sporting i.d. tags from ADM. They don't pay much attention to the white-haired senior couple sitting nearby.

Here are some of the snippets of their urgent conversation  "Iowa's cracking down" "allowable waste dumping"  "waterways" "discharge" "contaminated storm water" "nitrates"

***

I’m gonna soak up the sun

While it’s still free

I’m gonna soak up the sun
Before it goes out on me

                                                                      -Sheryl Crow and Jeff Trott

Known for his ineloquent flubs, the elder of the Chicago Daley-family mayors, Richard J. Daley, once delivered this heartfelt pitch:

     "…you see the sun coming up and you're fishing and then you look to the west and see the beautiful skyline of Chicago; you can't help but get a feeling that we live in a beautiful city. There's so much in life for free if only we appreciate it. And there's nuttin' as wholesome as a fish."

His message is similar to Sheryl Crow's message, look around you, it's yours for free, but appreciate it while you have it. The message is similar to communications from my native American ancestors, see it, use it, use all of it or leave it alone, appreciate it, respect it, when you utilize something- think of its  effect seven generations down, how it will impact your grandchildren's grandchildren...

***

Newsflash: More than a pound of highly toxic mercury was spilled at the Archer Daniels Midland plant in Clinton, Iowa, according to the Iowa Department of Natural Resources.

Newsflash: "We apologize and will use all available resources to take care of the river," said Paul Newton, Duke Energy president -- North Carolina.

Newsflash: Severe Drought has U. S. West Fearing the Worst. “California’s current water situation is not sustainable. We don’t use water well, we don’t manage it well and demand exceeds supply."

Newflash: Don't Drink the Water: West Virginia After the Chemical Spill

Newsflash: EPA Connects "Fracking" to Water Contamination

***

Ethanol production began as something that seemed like a good, almost wholesome idea. But, it actually offers no environmental benefit and takes more energy to make than obtainable by burning it. UC Berkeley geo-engineering professor Tad Patzek says, "…these are effects that impact the drinking water all over the Corn Belt…"

***

My husband and I drive from a bucolic rural area in America's heartland to Chicago every couple of weeks, to see and cuddle our new infant grandson. We also take advantage of this time to fill several five gallon containers with good, old safe Lake Michigan drinking and cooking water.

Water, water, every where,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, every where,

Nor any drop to drink.

Saving Time

I wanted to post this two days earlier but couldn't because my circadian clock is all messed up. Once I'm reminded that we are again switching our clocks, I start to fret about how the time change will affect me. No, not really. But, I just bet there are people who are sensitive enough for time changes to stress them out.

Time change doesn't affect me much anymore, as I'm retired now and my time is my own. I no longer punch a time clock. Actually, I never have literally punched a clock. But, even if you only figuratively "punch a time clock," when you are employed outside of your home, your work hours do not belong to you. Back then I tried to sell my time to the highest benevolent bidder. Once sold, my bidder could then bid me to do whatever I had contracted to do with my hours during that appointed time. My bidder could use my time to better the world. Or my bidder could just use my hours to fetch thorns for him and generally make his self-complicated life easier.

I once assisted a gifted, artistic, brilliant, and a tad bit eccentric priest at a Catholic university. One afternoon he rushed into my office, “Put your coat on, grab a scissors, oh, and maybe an envelope.” “What’s up?” I asked as he ushered me, hatless and gloveless to the elevator. “You’re going to pick some thorns. I saw some bushes with them on campus sometime back. Look over behind the Chapel.” It was windy, subzero and the Chapel overlooked a frozen Lake Michigan corner of the campus. “How many thorns do you need?” I asked over my shoulder as he directed me toward the brush. “About 200” he called out as he headed directly back to the warmth of his office to review his lecture notes.

***
The most common reason I've heard over the years as to why we utilize daylight saving time, and then don't utilize it again for months, is that it helps farmers. When we first relocated from the city to a rural farm area, I spoke to the farmer who, in his spare time, we employ to maintain/clean our furnace. When I asked him about "daylight savings time" he looked at me like I was an alien being from some distant galaxy. Then, he patiently explained that it made no difference to him, nor his cows, what hour the department of transportation attached to his day, he still had 19 hours of work to do in a 16-hour period. Period. The amount of daylight per 24 hours is not subject to human regulation. And thank goodness for that! Right? Can you imagine? Holy smokes!

The oversight of time zones was assigned to the Department of Transportation because time standards were first instituted by the railroad industry. Once I adapt to whichever time change we are in, I'm quite content. But still, my question to the DOT is: "Why the heck can't we just end the madness and pick one time and stick to it?"

"Because!" people tell me there are reasons. Like? Like, the university professor who said, "Do you want children waiting for the school bus in the dark!?" Or the earnest graduate student who urgently presses for the time change saving "tons of energy" by not having to use electricity and fossil fuels to light and heat our homes and offices during that precious hour.

The dog we are dog-sitting doesn't understand the change, so she'll be expecting dinner at her regular time. And she may, for a few days anyway, wake at her usual time. She won't get it, but she'll adjust. And discounting dogs and farm animals, what about people like the character Dustin Hoffman played in Rain Man? He'd be so distraught by a twice-per-year change in his routine, wouldn't he? Do we care? Well, I kind of care.

The human circadian clock is designed to gradually adjust over the course of a season, with sleep and wake times slowly changing in response to the varying intensity and length of sunlight. But that's not good enough for us. Twice per year we amp up or tone down the change to either lose or gain one hour of sleep – shifting our internal clocks much faster than nature intended.

I keep a radio-controlled "atomic" clock at my bedside.  My clock has a radio inside, which receives a signal that comes from Colorado, or somewhere, somewhere where an actual atomic clock is located. My clock, when the battery is fresh and working, always displays the correct time, down to the exact second. I never have to adjust it. When we transition from standard time to daylight saving time my clock "springs forward" one hour and when DST is finished it automatically "falls back" one hour. But humans and animals are not like my radio-controlled clock and we do not automatically change. Just ask any parent, who struggles to get their children to readjust their little internal human clocks. Might it be easier for schools to have seasonal winter and summer hours, like stores already utilize to accommodate holiday sales, then for everyone to change their clocks?

I'm not certain how much energy we save by employing a time-change. I think I read somewhere that it is negligible. Besides, there is already about an hour difference in sunrise on opposite ends of the time zone spectrums. So, for such areas, like the one near our former Chicago home, the state border, in this case Illinois/Indiana, is the cut-off. Many people who live near the state line commute between states in two different time zones. How are they saving energy?

We've dammed and rerouted rivers, we've man-made lakes, we level hills and bore through mountains. You can see how we might think we can control the flow of time. I love the quote, supposedly attributed to a native american, probably one of my wise ancestors, that goes something like this, "Only a white man would believe that you could cut a foot off the top of a blanket and sew it to the bottom of a blanket and thus have a longer blanket."

And the Oscar Goes to...

“Mom, can I go to the movies with my friends today?”

“Yes, if you take Ranell with you.”

My mother was a practical woman, and so it was as simple as that. It wasn’t necessary for her to ask my sister pertinent questions such as, “Which friends?” or “What movie?” She trusted that if I went along, there would be no shenanigans and, courtesy of me, Mom would get a fairly accurate accounting of the event and participants.

With only the slightest hesitation, my sister replied, “Sure, Mom. I’ll take her with me.”

It was the summer of 1962. I was ten years old, my sister was thirteen. In the neighborhood near the Catholic grammar school we attended was a small, balcony-less, movie theater, named for the street on which it was located. The Bryn Mawr had seating for just over 750 people. Nearer to our home was the magnificent Uptown Theater, which boasted 4,381 seats, a huge lobby featuring a pond stocked with giant goldfish and a ceiling that soared 140 feet high. Back then the Uptown ran “first-run,” double-feature films, while the Bryn Mawr featured single, second-run movies. The Uptown charged 50 cents and the Bryn Mawr only 25 cents, so for the bargain price of one dollar, my mother could rid herself of the two of us for the afternoon as 50 cents would buy each of us admission to the cinema, a 15 cent box of too-salty popcorn and and a ten cent waxed paper cup of soda pop with which to wash it down. 

It was a sunny day as my sister and I headed up Broadway on a one-mile walk that would take us from the worn and faded former grandeur of the Uptown neighborhood to the less grand, but newer, cleaner and safer neighborhood of Edgewater. As we neared Balmoral Avenue the instructions were laid out for me: “When I meet my girlfriends, you are on your own. You are to sit by yourself on the opposite side of the theater and not within five rows of my friends and me. I will meet you in front of Stoyas Pharmacy fifteen minutes after the show.”

I found a seat inside the dark, uncrowded theater. I sat on the right side, as you faced the screen, in row two or three. Just before I nestled down in my chair, I peeked around to see my sister and two other, soon to be high school freshmen, girls giggling together on the left side, about five rows back.

The theater darkened even more. I was reaching down for some popcorn, when I heard that whistle, that three-toned whistle that I remember to this day. It was a short tone, followed by a sustained tone, followed by another short tone. It was a call of some sort. It repeated twice more. The screen was still black. It got my attention and for the next 153 minutes I didn’t give a hoot that I’d a sister who’d just abandoned me in a movie theater.

***

Until that day I never cared for musicals. They were something my mother liked, not me. I found it absurdly unrealistic that people in a film would burst forth in song and dance. But, this was different. I found myself willingly suspending my disbelief and embracing the fantasy. Perhaps it was the realism of the theme.

After the attention-garnering whistle, there appears on the screen an abstract scribbling of sorts. It has a yellow background with a series of various small vertical black markings. The black abstract remains unchanged, but the background color gradually changes to orange. All the while, this hauntingly cool jazzy instrumental medley of music plays alongside. The background color goes from orange to red, to blood-red, to purple, to blue, to red again, to green, to orange, to green, to blue; and all the while the compilation of songs play, in tandem to the color sequences. These are songs I’ll, later in life, come to love. I hear bits of the tunes I'll soon know as “Tonight,” “Maria,” and some of faster paced Latino music. This prologue, I later discover, lasts 4.49 minutes, and even though the screen showed only subtle changes, I was rapt.

The music softens and the background returns to blue, the title of the movie slowly rises on the screen and the abstract lines evolve to become a city skyline.

The music softens and gives way to the sound of rhythmic snapping fingers. A directly  overhead aerial view of towering urban buildings come into focus. The drifting overhead shot changes, from views of harbors, roadways, and tall buildings. There are background city sounds. When the shot comes to the Empire State Building even I, as a 10-year-old, can recognize this landmark.

The shots zeroes in a bit and I see neighborhoods, some with stately homes, one with a beautiful domed building, then parking lots filled with automobiles. The camera focus is closer still as I  see an overhead shot of a divided playground area, with one area showing young men playing handball. Then the shot is closer still as you see a group of tough-looking young men idling, their backs up against the chain link fence of the very playground we’d seen overhead. The group, snapping their fingers in unison, looks out on the playground, as an errant handball bounces their way. A guy in the back, near the fence, grabs the ball on it’s bounce. A young man their age cautiously walks toward them, as if afraid to extend his hand to request the return of his ball. They stare the lad down before the group leader gestures to the tough guy to relinquish the ball. The young man takes the ball and quickly runs away.

The gang resumes snapping in unison and, with a sideway nod of his head, the leader beckons the group to follow him. They continue snapping fingers as they stride across the playground. A 7 or 8 year old girl sits in the center of their path, busily scrawling on her elaborate blacktop chalk drawing. The group walks around the perimeter of the girl’s art, respecting her space. She is clearly not an enemy.

The toughs walk directly toward some male kids playing basketball. In a midair pass, the toughs intercept the ball and spend a quick few seconds of shooting around. It’s apparent that, like the handball youth, these kids are in fear of the gang, and they do not protest. The gang returns the basketball, snickering in their domination and they continue out onto the street. Here they dance freely as it becomes apparent from the reactions of passersby that the gang owns the street.

At least until they run into a young, tough Puerto Rican man...

Whoa. I was captivated. This wasn’t my mother’s Meet Me in St. Louis musical...

I’m pretty sure I shed a tear at some point in this movie that was nominated for 11 Oscars, 10 of which it won, including Best Picture. And the epilogue was as cool as the prologue. It listed the credits as if they were graffiti written on the very walls, fences, doorways and signs, I'd just seen in the movie. The filmmakers thought of everything that could captivate and win over a 10-year-old kid, who'd previously eschewed musicals.

***

I met my sister as scheduled at Stoyas. We walked home in near silence, as I was deep in thought about the film. I’d already figured out that it was actually the retelling of Romeo and Juliet that Sr. Michaela had told us about. Finally, my sister broke the ice, “How’d you like the movie? It was good don’t you think?”

“Yes.” I smiled, looking her directly in the eye. “I liked it a lot.”

“You’re not going to tell Mom, are you?” she gulped with trepidation.

I was impervious. I’d sat through an adult movie in a theater all by myself. She couldn’t manipulate me anymore. I looked up at her again and smiled, “Of course not. After all, Sis, ‘womb to tomb,’ ‘birth to earth.’ ”

“Oh, Jeez! I’m in trouble,” she sighs.

The Man Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks

Lately most of my mornings are spent at a leisurely pace. While in the summer I might rush through my morning routine just to get one of those coveted early golf tee times, come winter I am free to sip my coffee and idle over my online New York Times subscription. I also check out articles from, not in any order, the Chicago Tribune, NPR, BBC, The Guardian U.K., The Huffington Post, The Wall Street Journal and The San Francisco Gate -because it has my favorite puzzle game, Jumble Jong.

On occasion a storyline or topic may catch my eye, so that I may read more than one version of it. For a few days now something been bothering me. What is that?, you ask. It is the response of a few of the NFL’s players and other personnel to Michael Sam's announcement that he is an "openly, proud gay man."

The words of Terrell Thomas, a NY Giants player in response:

This “…could be difficult for some people in NFL locker rooms to accept Sam because they aren’t sure how to act around an openly gay teammate. I think society is ready for it and  America’s ready for it, but I don’t think the NFL is.
...because when you’re going to war, you’re going to battle you have to believe in that person, you have to love that person like a brother.”

So? What? You can't love your gay brother on the battle field? I don't get it.

No one, least of all me, can speak to this issue with any more pragmatism than Dallas sportscaster, Dale Hansen did, so check out his blast on YouTube, if you haven't already seen it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VSsmqJ-dzs

At first I couldn't put my finger on what exactly was bugging me about this whole matter. Frank Bruni's (New York Times, Feb. 11, 2014) article Panic in the Locker Room! came the closest to helping me figure it out. (And by the way, I loved his, "woman-up" comment.)

When did the locker room become such a delicate ecosystem? Is it inhabited by athletes or orchids? And how is it that gladiators who don’t flinch when a 300-pound mountain of flesh in shoulder pads comes roaring toward them start to quiver at the thought of a homosexual under a nearby nozzle?

***

Why is that, I continued to wonder. Why is it that big, tough macho guys make such a big deal about gays? I couldn't count the whopping number of anti-gay lambastes I've heard in my 60+ year lifetime from males. Yet I could count on one hand any anti-lesbian reproaches from females. I can't  fathom female athletes fretting about sharing a locker room or team spirit with lesbian women and I'm pretty sure I've not heard of it in the media. Are men naturally more homophobic? If so, why?

Meanwhile, I pondered Terrell's words. What will have to happen to prepare, to ready the NFL for an openly gay teammate? Hello! Exactly what Michael Sam just did. The NFL is as ready today as it's ever going to be and Michael Sam has just given them the uncomfortable push that is needed. It won't be easy for Sam from here on out, (no pun) but if you've read his story, you'll know that Michael Sam's pretty well accustomed to won’t be easy.

“I just want to own my truth.”

These are the words of a brave young man.

***

Stadiums now feature state-of-the-art facilities, so NFL'ers can quit whining about being uncomfortable about walking around naked in front of an openly gay man. Cover yourself up if it bothers you. You are a paid professional. Focus on your job. Remember, football isn't supposed to be about comfort anyway.

So, what is eating at these big tough guys, (again, no pun). I finally figured it out. And it wasn't in any news or sports article that I read. There is a deeper reason that some men are so darned homophobic, and it doesn't have to do with their religious beliefs, as some would have you believe. It is because way deep down in their souls these guys realize that, when it comes to sex, most men can be coerced into just about anything, methinks.

Clap Along

Some people call it an epiphany. Oprah calls it your "Aha! moment," the moment you figure something out.

Back in the late 1950's, my older sister and I would fight over which television program to watch. My mother, her hands full with tending to an additional three-year-old and one-year-old, made a rule that my sister and I could each pick a half-hour show to view, while she prepared dinner. I would choose my program, probably something like Lassie or The Lone Ranger. My sister would say, "Oh, wonderful! That's my favorite, too." Annoyed, I would immediately get up and change the channel to something else, to which she would fawn even more. I'd run through the available 5 or 6 channel options with her making ever more specious comments until I'd found myself watching ABC's Evening News featuring John Daly. Then it hit me, "I've been duped." I turned to see the smug smile on my sister's face.

If you can't beat them… I began to watch her programs with a new eye. I notice an alluring edginess to the programs my sister favored, such as The Twilight Zone, 77 Sunset Strip or American Bandstand.

***

If you think about it, "American Bandstand" is kind of a forerunner to reality television, minus the scripting, that is. It was amusing to watch some of the white kids really let go and "dance like nobody's watching," even though everybody was watching. Plus it featured the first multiracial cast.

There was a portion of the show where they would play a new song and have a panel of three kids, of whom two would rate the record on this random 35-98 scale. The third kid would write down the ratings, add them, divide by two and come up with an average. I have this memory of a time when the host, Dick Clark, turned to the third kid and asked for the average and the boy replied, point blank, "84 and a half." The host did a double-take, stunned he said, "What? A half!? That can't be right." He turned to look out at his production staff and said, "That can't be right. Can it?" But, every kid watching knew the boy was right. After that kids stopped rounding it off when the divisible total was an odd number and giving a song a "? and a 1/2" rating became the new rage.

In addition to giving a numerical rating to the song, the contestants were asked what they liked or didn't like about the song. The comments were very basic. Like I said, they were unscripted back then. So, the infamous refrain became, "It has a nice beat and it's easy to dance to it."

***

Back in my young, before parenthood, days I had a subscription to Rolling Stone Magazine. I enjoy all kinds of music. On weekday mornings I might listen to the Eric and Kathy Show, partly so I can hear local news from my former hometown, Chicago. In the car, I prefer Coffee House on XMRadio which features acoustic music. In the afternoon I favor a local NPR station that plays classical music. In evenings, when preparing dinner I may go to a podcast program that does old-time jukebox blues.

I watched part of the Grammys recently, before I fell asleep, that is. That is where I saw this energetic young man, be-bopping all around the stage, wearing a huge Smokey Bear-type hat. I reserved judgment. After all, who am I to comment on what is possibly au courant? The young man's group won a grammy for Best Pop Duo/Group, I think? Anyway, I was moved by his humility when accepting his award. Humility is a nice virtue.

The very next day I hear Eric and Kathy talking about him. And now I had a name to go with the young man, Pharrell, Pharrell Williams. I didn't know much else about him, except that he is a singer/songwriter. Then they played a song performed by Pharrell, which he co-wrote. It's called "Happy." It's from the movie, Despicable Me 2, and it's an Oscar nominated tune for Best Original Song.

I listen to the upbeat lyrics, "… clap along if you feel like a room without a roof, clap along if you feel that happiness is the truth…" It has hints of swing band and early Motown and yet it retains a completely modern funkiness. The song just makes you feel, well…, for lack of a more appropriate word, happy, happy to the point of clapping.

I give it a 98 on the rate-a-record scale. It has an infectious beat and you can't help but dance to it like nobody's watching."

Red Rover, Red Rover, Let Timmy Come Over

The doorbell rings. We're not expecting anyone. It's the middle of winter, in a rural area, where many of our, already sparse, neighbors are off somewhere warm, "wintering."

It's Mike, our regular UPS delivery guy. Mike's a fair-haired, wiry and energetic fellow who has a perpetual smile on his face. He delivers to all the local businesses and you get the sense by his interactions with people that, like us, they can't help but like the guy.

I get a kick out of the fact that until the first snow falls in December, Mike will be dressed in the brown UPS summer outfit, of a short-sleeve shirt and shorts pants, no matter the cool outside temperature. I joke with him that I know winter has officially arrived when he finally sports long pants.

Mike's toting a large, heavy package. "You know the package has your name, but it has the wrong address. You might want to check on that."

My husband thanks Mike, hauls the package in, closes the door, turns to me and says, "Now what did you buy?"

"Me!? Nothing"... that I know of… my brain is scrambling as I put down my cup of tea, walk to the front door and glance at the package. I smugly say, "It's addressed to you, my friend."

"Well, I didn't order anything."

Then it hits me. "Wait! Didn't Notre Fille say she was going to ship dog food to us?"

***

We are dog sitting two dogs for six weeks. In addition to the food Notre Fille shipped to our home, she also sent herbal supplements for one dog and eye drops for the other.

One dog is "legally-blind." She can see shadows and forms in the bright daylight, but in dim light she often walks into doors and furniture. The other dog has "anxiety-induced irritable bowel syndrome." Oh, that I were making this up, but I am not.

Can you see the scrapes on her nose from walking into furniture?

We are not novices with canines, as my husband and I have had three different dogs over the years. A baying, pinheaded pocket beagle, who never quite figured out that it was dangerous to repeatedly chew through plugged-in electric cords. Next came the rat terrier, Ti-Ti-Mo, acquired when in-laws passed away. Except for her distrust of the mail delivery persons, which sent her into a complete frenzy, Ti-Ti-Mo was a pretty good dog. And while she never actually caught a rat, she did catch the occasional mouse that tried to move in with us come the cold weather. Lastly, we had our Cujo-like water spaniel, who was fine around the immediate family but had to be locked away when anyone else visited. It's been just over ten years since our last dog so, I looked online for some tips on dog-sitting:

The dog-sitting room should be light, airy, warm and dry. It should look nice and be comfortable for the dog. If you live in a cool climate, it is a good idea to have thick curtains and a rug or carpet. -Apparently the person writing this has never had a chewer, nor a non-barker who would scratch doors and shred drapes to signal she needs to go outside.

If you are planning on tending more than one dog at a time, the best idea is to place the dogs in separate dog crates at night - you don't want them to attack each other. -The only time the dogs fight is when the blind dog accidentally steps on the sleeping, anxiety-prone dog. 

Don't forget to have a fully stocked canine first aid kit. - Seriously? A canine first aid kit??

Have suitable grooming supplies. A bath area with a non-slip mat, a movable shower nozzle, and lots of dog shampoo, conditioner, sponges, rubber and wirehair brushes, nail clippers and towels. -It’s more like, ‘I’m going to watch your dog, feed your dog and let your dog out to eliminate and that about covers it. And while I'm at it, there will be no snuggling in bed with us.

Exercise the dog(s). Take the dogs on one or two long walks per day to keep them sane, healthy and happy. -I'm happy to report that we don't mind walking the dogs, but only because it keeps us sane, healthy and happy.

***

What happened to the "good old days?"

When my first grandchild was younger, I would tell him about the television shows I watched as a child. He got a laugh out my description of the show, Lassie. If you are young or a non-USA reader, Lassie was a long-running show about a boy and his dog. The boy, either Jeff or Timmy, depending on the season, would get into some kind of danger. Like falling off a cliff, falling in a river or getting stuck in an abandoned mine shaft or such. Lassie would then either save the boy's life all by herself, with a rope or plank of wood, or if that failed, she would run back to the farmhouse and get help. After the boy's rescue, the family would then hug the boy, give Lassie a biscuit, and caution the boy about avoiding, in the future, the peril into which he had placed himself and Lassie. I think the network thought this was a good lesson for children about safety matters. Campbell Soup was the sole sponsor for the show's 19 year run.

When my grand-dog dog, Maya, would bark, I could always get a smile out of my grandson by calling out, "What is it, girl? Is it Timmy? Where's Timmy? Is Timmy in trouble?"

June Lockhart, who played Timmy's mom, called the show, "...a fairy tale about people on a farm in which the dog solves all the problems in 22 minutes…"

You're right, June. It's a fairy tale.

***

It has been the 3rd fiercest winter on record where we live. We can barely walk the dogs a few dozen yards outside before they are picking up their paws in obvious distress. We tried those dog booties, but really the snow is so deep that it just seeps down into the boots. We bought some paw protection cream, but the dogs lick it right off. One dog likes it so much she will attempt to eat it right from the container.

Starting to pick up her frost-tender paws

You can't imagine my husband's delight when DirecTV offered us a timely free, week-long trial of DOGTV.

DOGTV provides television for dogs as a 24/7 digital TV channel with dog – friendly programing scientifically developed to provide the right company for dogs when left alone. Through years of research...  special content was created to meet specific attributes of a dog’s sense of vision and hearing and supports their natural behavior patterns. The result: a confident, happy dog, who’s less likely to develop stress, separation anxiety or other related problems.

Come on, you can't make stuff up much funnier than that.

Immediately my husband set up the DVR to record the week's worth of free shows. "What the heck does a dog know about whether it's a repeat show or not?" was his reasoning. I chuckled as it reminded me of back when hotels used to offer a free 10-minute teaser of porn, before they figured out that was all that most guys needed, and thus there was little hope of them actually purchasing the entire show.

Here are some of the DOGTV features:

morning relaxation -soothing, calming music, scenes of a child swinging, trees swaying - the music sounds not unlike human meditation tapes

playtime stimulation - scenes of balls bouncing, play sounds from humans and dogs

midday relaxation -more soothing, calming music, scenes of egrets and herons wading in water

afternoon stimulation - sounds of whistles, and other sporting dog sounds, I  glanced at the visual, it might have been a goose

evening relaxation... family stimulation... nighttime relaxation… - remember it's 24/7

dog stars - you can submit your own videos and possibly view your own precious pup on television and already I'm anticipating a reality dog show to appear at a future date

exposure - special sounds and visions to sensitize dogs to various stimuli. Might this work for anxiety-prone dogs with irritable bowel syndrome?

My husband records only the relaxation portions, oh and, dog stars, just in case. I'm sure someone needs that "stimulation" stuff, but not us.

Here are the dogs' reviews: The anxiety-prone dog could not be less interested. But, the blind dog seems to enjoy the music and whatever shadows she can see on the screen. In other words she has about as much interest as she does when watching Oprah's OWN channel.

Not Once! Not Even One Time!!

Oh, Sr. Beata, Sr. Beata… I can't  tell you the number of times that I think back to the lessons you taught me and how right you were. Okay, maybe you were a tad off on those constant warnings you delivered on the danger of the Russians infiltrating our country and turning us against our parents and religious beliefs, but after all no one can always bat 1.000.

***

My seventh grade Catholic school teacher, Sr. Beata, loved to give us heartfelt warnings on the dangers in the world. On one occasion she touched on the dangers of drugs. Sr. Beata delivered her lessons with dramatic passion, and nowhere was her passion more enlivened than when she was trying to save our souls. She was a small woman, older, I used to think. It's hard for a kid to gauge the age of a nun-in-full-habit, but back then, I took her for around 70+ years of age. I was shocked to meet her more than 22 years later when I was then married with children. She and I had both volunteered to assist a family with a profoundly disabled son. She was no longer in habit, times had changed that. I ran the math in my head. She should now be 92+. But, she looked exactly the same. Maybe there is something about living the good life.

This weekend I recalled Sr. Beata's lecture on the dangers of drugs. I could perfectly picture her, small in stature, standing before us. Her eyes widened, the pitch in her voice changing from whisper to a near shout as she raised an arthritic finger at us and wagged it before our eyes, "I warn you!..." Because of her full habit we couldn't see her neck, but I just bet the veins in her neck were bulging. "Heroin… euphoria… withdrawal..." were some of the words I heard that day. I don't remember much else, except that, as she finished, her face became somber and her voice again softened as she said, quietly but earnestly, "Young people, not much older than you, have died because of drug use. Nothing can be done to change that. It's too late for them. For to be an heroin addict is to be imprisoned until that prison eventually entombs you. But, you, you have a choice… Don't try it… NOT EVEN ONE TIME..."

I was flipping through the television channels one day, looking for something that could hold my interest for more than a nanosecond. I came across an episode of NCIS (I think). The staff's director's wife was talking to her children, pre-teens, who were preparing to go somewhere, maybe a party or something? As she kissed them and hugged them she asked, "How many times does it take for something to go wrong when it comes to drug use?" (I'm paraphrasing here, but it was something like that.) The kids rolled their eyes and said in unison, "One time, Mom." Like a drill sergeant she repeats louder, "How many?" They say again, "Just once." Again, even louder "How many?" "Once!" they yell back. She smiles, "Okay, you may go."

I wish every mother and father would warn their children in such manner, each and every time they leave their parents' watchful eye. I wish every kid had Sr. Beata in junior high. I wish Philip Seymour Hoffman and those too-many-to-count people from Pennsylvania, Kentucky, North Carolina, Nebraska, New Hampshire... who've died recently, had that NCIS mom and Sr. Beata in their lives.

***

"yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, she would not hear" 

***

It will cling to you like an obsessed lover... just waiting in the dark for that one weak moment…