How Do The Birds Still Sing?

I had been procrastinating on this visit for, well…years. It was Miss Cookie, my friend of eons and more, who came for a short visit that prompted me to rip off the band-aid so to speak. There was never going to be a good time. There was never going to be a time where my head would be in the “right” place to receive the horror without profound effect on my heart.  Of course there wouldn’t be…

Oddly enough, even the weather knew.  It was almost bone-chilling cold.  The skies above our nation’s capital were a somber gray, not a hint of blue to be seen.  In fact, spits of rain threatened to turn into sloppy snowflakes later in the day.

As we waited on the metro platform Miss Cookie posed the question yet again:  “Are you sure you want to go there?  After all, I’m just here to see you…no need to do any touristy stuff.”

“I lived here for more than fourteen years and never went and now that I am back in the area I cannot put it off any longer,” was my reply.  “I don’t know why…I just feel It’s necessary, especially with what just happened.”

Miss Cookie nods in silent understanding.  The attack and murder of Jewish worshipers at The Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh had happened just a few weeks before.

After a small hiccup on our metro journey into downtown we disembarked at The Smithsonian metro. It took a moment to get our bearings before we headed in the direction of our purpose.  Bundled cozily enough against the cold it would only be a short walk…eight minutes or so.  Our pace was quick though in hindsight I should have slowed to a stroll ….taken my time…but that meant delaying the inevitable.  I cannot procrastinate any longer on this.  I was not about to turn around no matter how tempting it would be.

And then, there we were.  Standing in front on the one museum that I’d avoided for years…

The Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor, Nobel Peace Prize recipient, and author of some 57 books, including Night which describes his experience as a prisoner in both the Auschwitz and Buchenwald concentration camps said:

“Better than one heart be broken a thousand times in the retelling, if it means  that a thousand other hearts need not be broken at all.”

This museum, and many others like it…as well as countless books and movies about the Holocaust…all are an integral part in this constant, necessary retelling.  The reason is painfully obvious…

“A destruction, an annihilation that only man can provoke, only man can prevent.” ~ Elie Wiesel

And so, our self-guided visit began with a docent whose parents were survivors of the calculated annihilation that would take more than six million souls.  She told us her brief story while a group of us queued-up in the elevator that would take us to the fourth floor (in keeping with the chronological timeline, it’s recommended to start at the top floor and work down).  Just before getting on the elevator folks were directed to pick up an “identification card” from a large bookshelf containing hundreds upon hundreds of cards.  Each card told the story of a real person who lived during the Holocaust.  My card told the story of Monique, who thankfully survived the Holocaust.  She and her parents were among the lucky ones; they emigrated to the U.S. in 1950.  I will admit to breathing a heavy sigh of relief that the card I held told of a “happy” ending.

Miss Cookie and I would spend over three hours in the museum.  At first, I was peeved that what seemed like hoards of school kids were at the museum.  I’ve been to countless museums where groups of school kids behaved less than desirably.  In most cases they would be loud, obnoxious and, well….generally rude.  But this time I was truly moved by the hush of every young soul that toured the memorial.  There were times as we moved from one brutal image to another…or one exhibit on to the next…that you could hear a feather drop. The air was thick with a sobering reverence to be sure.

As we wound our way through each floor my heart, of course, grew heavier and heavier.  The exhibit of thousands of pairs of shoes worn by those souls who were exterminated made my stomach turn.  Though only a moment, it seemed like hours that I leaned against the wall staring at those shoes.  Every fiber in my being struggled to process what was left of the unimaginable horror some seven decades ago in the deliberately staged, and undeniably veritable scene of personal effects just inches away from me…

Shoes.  Shoes survived the horror. 

There are loonies (yes, absurdly idiotic folks) who firmly believe that the Holocaust did NOT happen.  Their minds are firm: There was no coordinated, systematic genocide of more than two thirds of European Jews, or their sympathizers, nor political activists, homosexuals, people of other races, the disabled,or, in effect, anyone whose looks and beliefs were in opposition with the Nazi regime during World War II.  They disregard, for example,  that entire towns were wiped off the map….more than SIX MILLION PEOPLE, murdered.  Such people claim that the six million count was wildly exaggerated…..that there are no credible records…no real “paper trail” to support the “claim”….no gas chambers….etc. etc.

Yeah. Right.

The black and white images in this memorial, and similar ones all over the world, tell a far different, incontrovertible story.  One need only Google “Holocaust” and in an instant hundreds upon hundreds of images from as many credible sources are to be found.  You’ve seen them, to be sure, dear reader…but though we must tell and retell until the end of time I still cannot post even one gruesome image.

Standing in front of a wall of names of those who rescued Jews, a memory surfaces from some thirty years ago when I first arrived in Stuttgart Germany as a young military wife.  As clear as yesterday I am sitting on a city bus with my toddler son sleeping on my lap.  I’d only been in country for a couple of weeks and was taking my first trip downtown for shopping.  Across from me an old man sits, his arm resting on an elaborately carved handle on a cane made of dark wood.  His body language seems sad beyond measure.  Our eyes met…it was barely a fleeting moment.  Was I imagining the weight of that evil not so long ago in his eyes?   I still remember being startled by the question in my heart…

Which were you…friend or foe?

I’m almost too ashamed to admit that I would spend three years in Germany without a visit to the concentration camps.  I did visit the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam, an almost featherweight view in comparison, I know.  But the actual camps...

I simply could not do it.

Here I am today:  Miss Cookie has made her way home, grateful (as I am) that we shared this memorial visit together.  Though we were subdued for the remainder of that day we managed to finish the weekend visit with a fun-filled day of shopping for dinner fixings and then chopping those fixings to music and girlfriend talk.  How lucky am I for a friend like Miss Cookie; she filled my home with her unique wit, love, laughter, and the still-lingering scent of her fabulous Hungarian Goulash.

As I walked with The Poodle this morning,  I opt for no music…just silence.  I am still thinking about the memorial visit.  Perhaps it’s the approach of bitter cold weather that makes me think of the Holocaust or the few pages I’ve read of the historical fiction book I picked up just yesterday,  “The Tattooist of Auschwitz” by Heather Morris.  A wave of cold grips me though I’m bundled up quite nicely in a down coat. Dry, crisp autumn leaves swirl about us as the wind picks up.   “Let’s go home Poodle-love and sit together for awhile.”

The nightmare of those years makes me ask a hundred questions in my mind.  And now, uppermost in my thoughts in this moment, as I sit here struggling for the right words for this post with images swirling in my head of unspeakable things that I did not personally endure (and, failing miserably, to articulate anything coherent) is:

How is it that birds still sing?

How is it that the sun still shines? 

…And how can I feel so content with my poodle-love in my lap….when….

well, you get it….right?

Gas Chamber, Dachau


Ten But Minus One….

The Poodle at Six

Kind reader, life has gotten away from me.  It’s November already! Seriously?  Where has the time gone?  The thought of Christmas around the corner boggles my mind.  Though I have no pressing agendas or a timetable that I’m subject to, I’m behind in everything, including penning a few words in this here space, at least on a weekly basis. 

Sigh.  Can you hear my groan?  There are not enough hours in a day.

So yesterday was my poodle-love’s tenth birthday. My heart swells still at the memory of that brisk February day in Oregon, well outside of Portland, in the country.  We drove up quite a hill to the modest home that sat on  acreage more than ample enough to allow puppies to thrive and run to their hearts content.  

It seems like yesterday when we first laid eyes on what was then a small bundle of black fluff. I had walked out on a large wood deck and this fellow came running out of the blue, planting himself down right between my legs.  That was it; my head and heart were seized by somersaults of  overwhelming love though I pretended to hem and haw for more than an hour as we watched how the little fellow got along with other pups and such.  Rocket-man had to agree to the new addition of course…and therein was the potential hiccup in my decade-old quest to add the pitter-patter of four paws to the house. Truth be told, initially he wasn’t all that keen on the idea.  In fact he was such a hard sell that it took me nearly ten years to merely warm him up to the idea.  At times I was ever so subtle in my approach.  We’d be out for an evening stroll and I’d make it my secret mission to stop and talk to at least one dog-walker.  Of course I’d be overly-effusive at times in an effort to engage Rocket-man, as in for example: “how brilliant that your dog fetches the paper for you every morning! That’s what we need too, don’t you think?”    At other times I could be more direct…like parking the grocery cart in the pet food isle, vocally sharing the ingredients of a particular brand that I intended to purchase for my make-believe pup, all to rocket-man eye-rolls and a shake of  his head with an emphatic “No!”

Ah, but rocket-man was captivated too on that February day that would bring further internet searches to a halt.  I had found my poodle-love–or rather, he had found me.  As for my husband: he will claim that it was the sparkle in my eyes that did him in.  I submit that he too fell in love at first sight with the ball of fluff that chose me…us.

So as I sit here an type at my desk my shadow–as I often call him– sits on top of my feet slumbering away.  He’s recovering from the trauma of a dental cleaning at the vet’s just last week.  In fact, I am sort-of recovering too…from an unexpected jolt over it all.  The vet called to advise that three teeth needed to be pulled. 

I did not see that coming. 

Okay….perhaps my head was stuck in the sand on this one.  I will admit to a little voice nagging about a certain someone’s recent bout of bad breath…

“Oh, wow,” I cried in disbelief.  “He’s had stellar checkups in the past!”

“There are a number of factors that could account for this,” the doctor said in her soothing, undeniably British voice.  “Age is certainly one factor but also he hasn’t been getting his teeth cleaned consistently and thoroughly enough.”  She noted that I’d recorded his last cleaning a little over two years ago.  Before that, my boy had had three cleanings while we lived in Southern California but those were done anesthesia-free.  I thought I was being a “good” dog-parent by not subjecting my pooch to an IV and drugs.  What I realize now is that it meant that he could not possibly receive a thorough cleaning because he was not put under for the procedure. 

After going over the options with the doctor we settled on pulling one tooth, the worst of the three that was nearly falling out due to bone loss at the site.  “We may be able buy some time for the other two; but let’s be quite vigilent about it,” said the vet.   

“I feel terrible,” I tell her.  “I’m guilty of being lazy about tooth-brushing.  I honestly tried to do it daily for awhile but life got in the way…with my mother…family stuff…moving…Lord, the list could go on!  All excuses nonetheless.” 

“Don’t beat yourself up over this,” were her kind words.  “It’s not easy for most pet-parents…sometimes it’s all we can do to brush and floss our own teeth!  And really, his health is otherwise excellent and overall, the rest of his teeth are in good shape, with minimal tartar and plaque build-up.  The important thing is that you are taking care of this severely wobbly one now which will prevent more health complications in the future if you do nothing.”

$600 dollars later….(yes, indeed that was head-popping)…. I thanked the veterinarian with certain promise that my boy would be on the schedule for a dental cleaning next October.  While he slept in his bed, fortified with antibiotics, exhausted no doubt from the stress of the day, I high-tailed it to Petsmart in search of liquid tartar remover, Greenies dental treats and canine toothpaste.  As I stood looking at all the dental-related choices I was amazed by how much the canine/feline dental products mirrors those that we “uprights” use daily.  Some would argue the canine/feline dental industry is nothing short of a scam…an unnecessary, even fabricated excuse to drain the pocketbook.  After all, as a general rule, for eons, dogs and cats in the wild didn’t go for dental cleanings.  My vet pointed out that our four-legged loves aren’t foraging for food in the wild.  They are not, for the most part, tearing meat from bones or sharpening their teeth on twigs and branches. And, they also don’t live long enough to outlive their teeth.  Our fur-babies snuggle in our laps or slumber in comfy pet beds after eating kibble or canned soft mush.   Baring unforeseen health circumstances, our pets live years longer than their close counterparts in the wild. 

So the consequences of mediocre dental hygiene are essentially no different  between us and our four-legged loves.  Just as we take our own precautions against gum disease by regular flossing, cleanings, and good dental hygiene habits, essentially the same applies to our beloved cats and dogs. Obviously, we cannot floss our dog’s teeth to prevent canine periodontis (inflammation and infection from bacteria in the mouth), but we can pay attention to our pet’s teeth with daily brushing or at least a yearly thorough dental cleaning.   Without proper care, even mildly inflamed gums can progress to full-on painful gingivitis. From there it leads to where my pooch is today…resting in his bed minus an incisor with two other teeth in peril.   Furthermore, doing nothing would exponentially increase the likelihood of developing heart disease as a constant attack of bacteria from the inflammation in the mouth would find it’s way into the blood stream…the sticky plaque substance adhering to arteries surrounding the heart, threatening other organs as well.  Not much different from us bipeds if you think about it!

I look down at The Poodle who is still sleeping on top of my feet.  “Ten years and minus a tooth,” I whisper to him.   His left ear twitches at the sound of my voice.  My heart swells.   His presence fills me with peace.  The world is right as rain when my shadow is with me.  I know our days together are numbered, in every sense of the word.  That’s the way it is of course, the natural order of things.  Impermanence.   But for now I try not to think of rainbow bridges.  I just want my birthday boy to be with me–as healthy as possible–for as long as the fates allow.

Feeling the bliss on a chilly, wet, and overall dreary November day. 

Now, get out and vote if you haven’t already!

Breath strips….really?!! My luck I’d mistake them for my own Listerine strips!
I love you “mom” but seriously…let’s get this over with so I can take this ridiculous coat off!

Sinfully Sloth-full

Is it any wonder why Sloths always seem to be smiling?

It’s that time of year again where–for this gal–there is a short window of pure enjoyment of being outdoors.  I’ve inserted that qualifier (short window) on purpose of course. It’s what comes next that often makes me lose sight of being in the present moment; I am already gritting my teeth in anticipation of the derrière-freezing, frost-bound cold hands, of winter.

But for now, dear reader, I pledge my focus on the many delights of autumn as well as the promise of warm pumpkin bread, steaming hot cappuccinos and the luxury of slipping my feet (beaten up from years of long distance running) into UGG’s®.

I know. There is a certain camp of folks who opine mightily on the subject of Ugg-wear: As in, Ugg’s are ugly. These are the same folks, I believe, who have a particular disdain for Birkenstocks and Crocs too. Oh sure, I’d love to pull on a pair of fashionable European leather boots with fancy buckles and just the right heel that mold to my feet in perfect comfort, but that has yet to happen (the perfect comfort part, that is.). As you can surmise…I’ve thrown in that towel…

My Ugg’s, standing at the ready….

So who knew that today is International Sloth Day?!  I’d never have known such a fascinating tidbit of information if not for Alexa.  If you don’t believe me check out the following link: https://www.daysoftheyear.com/days/international-sloth-day.  Apparently the holiday was drummed up in 2010 as a way of bringing much needed attention to the animal which appears to be in danger of extinction.

Though it took quite some time today for the sun to break through gray clouds (perhaps She was feeling sloth-full as well?) I felt it was my duty to comply with Alexa’s order of the day:  “…so go ahead, slow down and relax.”  And, reading just a bit about International Sloth Day I could only chuckle over the validity of learning from animals…other than the human-kind, of course.  The Poodle, for one, has opened my heart ten-fold more in the nearly ten years he has been with us.

What bliss it was this afternoon then as I slid bare feet into Ugg”s and spent a few sinfully sloth-full hours after yard work out on the screened-in porch reading, enjoying cups of coffee, and generally thinking about–and doing–absolutely nothing.

So, take notice dear reader to consider an excerpt from the International Sloth Day page.  It is sage health advice (nothing of course that you have not heard before):

Excerpt from International Sloth Day page: 

“….Make sure you get enough sleep, take a walk through the park or a long bubble bath, make a real dinner instead of just popping some frozen lump of food in the microwave for 3 minutes. We humans should realize that although we may be the most intelligent of the species, that does not mean there aren’t things we can’t learn from other species. And who could possibly teach a better lesson about how to relax than the sloth? Exactly!”….

They are not lazy, nor stupid....They are creatures who are remarkably tender with each other and they know how to "just hang."
Remarkably tender creatures who know how to “just hang.”

I’m thinking perhaps we should all adhere to a new October 20th tradition and enjoy being sinfully sloth-full, if only for an hour.  Mark your calendars now for 2019!

Feeling deliciously sloth-full on this fine October evening.


‘Shroom Boom

With a late afternoon coffee in hand I’m staring out the window assessing the view.  Unfortunately, it is not altogether pleasing.  In fact, it is borderline abysmal.  I’ve never had such a terrible looking yard. At present, It’s basically a mud pit… well, a mud pit with weeds.  It’s been wrecked by many weeks of rain and although we’ve enjoyed a full eight days of warm, sunny weather we still haven’t dried out. We’ve had our front lawn sodded twice in the year we have lived here and both times the grass has perished. I think of Hurricane Michael and its aftermath on Florida’s panhandle and realize that our struggles to address all the drainage issues are mighty inconsequential of what’s happening there.

Still, early this morning, in jest, I tell my neighbor, Sayed, who lives at the top of our pipe-stem on the main street, that I’m considering getting pigs.  His look is quizzical, of course.

I explain:  “My yard is nothing but mud now. What fragile grass I had has been drowned out…and yet those blasted weeds have flourished.  So now, I’ve got nothing but mud and you know how pigs like to roll around in mud.” 

“Ah!” he says with a chuckle.   He gets it.

His yard has plenty of grass and while he does not have drainage issues he notes something has changed in his yard.  Hmm.  He is pondering.  Yes, he has weeds…but…he can’t quite nail it.  I don’t judge; he is a busy father and husband. 

However, it dawns on me this morning what it is.

Over the course of more than several morning walks with The Poodle I note a strange phenomena….something I haven’t seen in all the years I have lived in Northern Virginia…

Multitudes of mushrooms. Large and small, weird and wild….colorful and mud-colored drab….we seem to have it all.

These snake-like 'shrooms have popped up in various places in the neighborhood.

A Snake – like mushroom brightens up a flower bed…

A psychedelic mushroom stands alone in a patch of muck.

While a psychedelic mushroom, a tiny little thing, stands proud in a field of muck….

And, barely off the beaten path from our walking path, a veritable mushroom city.  I’m in awe because it wasn’t there just a few days ago.

A mushroom city....

Then there is the grotesque, fuzzy variety growing in the middle of the sidewalk that at first glance I mistook for vomit….

Honestly, I thought it was vomit.....

…Not to mention one that looks like a UFO from a galaxy far, far away….

As these surely inedible and likely poisonous  ‘shrooms take over the neighborhood I can only think of those varieties that make my mouth water in lovely anticipation of the deliciousness they assure.  I’ve got risotto ai  funghi (risotto with porcini mushrooms) on my brain….along with stuffed Portobello mushrooms oozing with mozzarella and freshly grated Parmesan cheese or …how about button mushrooms sauteed in Plugra butter, wine, with plenty of chopped garlic and fresh parsley.

Is your mouth watering yet?  Mine is.

There is only one thing to do now, as if you didn’t know kind reader….

It’s off to the store for the edible variety of mushrooms…and wine of course.

A mouthful of bliss is surely on the menu tonight.



LXI

I’m standing in my kitchen pouring salsa into a small bowl.  I’ve already got the tortilla chips arranged on the chip platter….and I’ve got some mixed nuts out too.  I make a mental note to check on the kabobs marinating in the refrigerator (which, thankfully is humming along perfectly after it’s repair).  I check my watch.  Sis and family won’t be arriving for our little cookout for another forty-five minutes or so.  I’ve got time to sip on a white wine spritzer while reading my latest pick-up on Kindle, Trail of Broken Wings by Sejal Badani. 

Before I reach for my wine, I remember the beautiful hot cherry peppers I had picked up at Wegman’s specifically for my brother-in-law.  I didn’t want to forget including them with the other items we were planning to grill.   I pull them out from the fridge and rinse them.  As I stood at the counter drying them off the doorbell rings. 

“Ciao CC,” says my sister as she tentatively pops her head in the doorway.

Hmm They’re early!  Often, they run late….

My nephew runs in and promptly gives me a bear hug as his mother sets a large Whole Foods bag on the island counter.  She has all the fixings for a lovely Caprese salad including a generous bunch of fresh basil she’d brought in from her yard.  Her basil is still growing ever-so-vigorously in a large barrel planter; everything in it is still thriving in a sunny location in front of her house.

“You’re early! I say as we air kiss each other’s cheeks.  I give her a run-down on what we’re having for dinner later as I continue drying off the peppers.  Rocket-man has also stepped into kitchen with beers in hand for himself and his bro-in-law.  He sets them on the counter.

“Where is your husband?” I ask sis.

“Oh, he’s out walking the dog.” 

And then it begins….

The Poodle, who is out on the screened-in porch, begins to bark like crazy.   Though irritating, I think nothing of it as there surely is a squirrel taunting him from a tree.  Then the tenor of his bark changes to that familiar oh-my-Yippee-ki-yay excitement that overtakes when he sees his bestie Nica, my sister’s dog.

The patio kitchen door opens and in bolts Nica followed by my brother-in-law. He’s got his martini glass Hawaiian shirt on.  Now we are all around the kitchen island.  The guys have their beers and sis and son are oddly at rapt attention as I show them the peppers that I had picked up for grilling.

Hmm.  Faintly, my senses tingle….

The dogs start their two minute uber-exuberant zoomie ritual that always results in rugs askew.  This time however, the excitement between the two is strangely magnified times ten.  The barking and excited whining has not stopped as quickly as usual.  In fact, the barking was getting annoying enough that I was ready to banish the two to the basement.

It would be just a nano-second after that thought that the reason for their excitement would be revealed.

“…And I’m so disappointed that Wegman’s didn’t have any of their gourmet burgers available yesterday…” I say as I feel a light tap on my left shoulder.  I turn my head, but just barely, thinking it’s just my nephew wanting to know if he can get a treat from his designated space in my pantry. 

WHAT the…?

She had come through the back yard and stealthily up the back deck steps.  She had opened the door whisper-quiet and because my back was to the door it would be simple enough to take me…

COMPLETELY BY SURPRISE!

Happy Birthday Mom. 

It’s my “baby” girl.  She had flown in from Chicago.  Weeks in the making, the family had cooked up this surprise which left me speechless and in a puddle of happy tears.  Needless to say, this was the best birthday present ever.

Sixty-one is starting out wonderfully blissful.

One Less Set of Eyes…

The day started in the usual way which is to say, as of late, I’ve had to practically do cartwheels to get The Poodle out the door for his early morning walk. Begrudgingly, he finally gets with the program, as it were, and we’re off up the street, around the block and into the woods.

Luckily we have been missed by Hurricane Florence but we’re experiencing some scant peripheral effects as it is a particularly gloomy day.   We’re due for rain but we’ve not seen more than a few drops, so far that is.  Still, the sky could not be any grayer.  As I listen to a Hearts of Space playlist I’m all to keenly aware of how the music and the somber sky are messing with my soul. I need some pep in my step so I switch to Spotify and decide on something more energizing.  On cue, The Poodle begins to pick up his pace too, although it’s because of a nearby squirrel sighting.

My mind wanders over this and that as we continue down the path. About a mile into our walk I say to The Poodle, as I often do, “We’re almost there so let’s stop for a brief moment to say hello, shall we?”

‘Round this bend….up and over breaks in the macadam path due to gnarly tree roots….then around another bend to the right…..

Wait a minute….

I stop in the middle of the path in a moment of utter confusion.

Was I so into my head that I missed her?

“Let’s turn around,” I say to The Poodle.  We backtrack only three steps. I look right, left…all around me.

Something definitely is not right here.

I turn back in the direction of my purpose.

And then it hits me like a two by four….

I am in the right place… but she is not!

OH NO! This can’t be! I literally cried out aloud. The Poodle looks at me with questioning, clouded eyes.

Drusilla the wood nymph–the name I gave to her– is gone!  I hadn’t taken this route for a while because the mosquitoes were such an annoyance…and now, it seems that she has disappeared! 

I cannot believe that my “eyes and ears in the woods” is gone. 

I stand at the spot where she was once proudly rooted, searching for an explanation.  And then I see her.  She had to have taken her last breath weeks ago during one of the pounding rains.  She’s lifeless indeed, broken almost beyond recognition, split into three or four chunks and covered with a  tangle of debris.  The heavy rains from some weeks ago have drowned the life out of her, washing her away from the sentry post she held for years down into the shallow ravine that was now to be her final resting place.

I stand above the spot where she fell lamenting the loss long enough for The Poodle to decide that he may as well lie down and rest his weary bones.

Dear readers you must think I’m bonkers.  Perhaps so.  But truly, seeing Drusilla the wood nymph on my morning walks for years when visiting my sister and now for a year living in her neighborhood has been a lovely ritual.  Nearly every morning I’d share a moment with her, stopping as close to her base as possible given the terrain to tell her a thought that I held in my heart…then I’d move on to the rest of my day.  It was a curiously magical, divine start to my day.

Yes, you know it…I shed a tear or two.  I will miss her wonky head and her almost sad, asymmetrical face.  I will miss the simple act of saying “Good Morning Drusilla.” My morning walks won’t feel quite the same now that she is gone.

I suppose it just speaks to the impermanence of Every. Little. Thing.

In the words of french novelist Gustave Flaubert:

“The principle thing in this world is to keep one’s soul aloft.”

Through some difficult months a walk in the woods and a Drusilla sighting  was responsible for doing just that.

There was bliss in that.

 

 

Drusilla, the wood nymph.  Eyes and ears of these woods!

Chilled…Not Chilled

I’m staring at the glass before me which contains a splash of a lovely, buttery Chardonnay.  What I’m about to do will make any decent oenophile gasp in horror.I add ice cubes.Lest you judge dear reader I’ve got reason as you’ll see….or not.

So, I’ve had a first world problem for over a week now (eight days and ten hours to be exact).  The refrigerator, a lovely gleaming Kitchen Aid purchased new one year ago…went on the fritz.  Specifically, only part of it died.  It was a curiously slow decline that I witnessed;  over the course of two weeks I noted that the refrigerator was not cooling items very well but the freezer was behaving perfectly fine.

That’s strange. How could this be? 

I checked the settings.  I even lowered the temperature by two degrees.  Nothing.  Well, actually there was something; I was beginning to throw away food at an alarming rate due to spoilage.Well isn’t this just peachy? Not.I dug through my files to find the receipt.

#$%! Seriously?!

Yep.  You guessed it.  We are less than a week past the warranty coverage.  As happens often in my world…what rotten luck.

Grrr.   A one year warranty for a $3200 refrigerator!?   Over coffee, I gripe to my sis about this.  She points out that’s why they try to rope you into purchasing pricey extended warranty coverage.  In all my years of purchasing new refrigerators I never purchased extended warranties. Refrigerators were built to last a long time.  Our fridge in my childhood years is likely still running, albeit terribly out of fashion in it’s avocado dress.

Harumpf.

I call the place where I purchased the refrigerator and they are sympathetic.  They urge me to contact Kitchen Aid to complain about a one year warranty saying that if enough people do so perhaps the company will do something about it.  They also give me the name of the service repair company they refer their customers to.  I’m of the temperament to complain later.  In need of a refrigerator, like yesterday, my energies need to go into getting the problem fixed.  So I look up the referral and the company appears to have good ratings.  I call to have it serviced, which in itself makes me want to spit bullets because, again….the refrigerator is just a year old!  But I grit teeth and breathe through the impulse to be angry.  There are so many less fortunate than me.

The response is not as swift as I would have liked it to be.  It takes two days for a serviceman to come out but I’ve got the luxury of storing items in my sisters’ basement refrigerator.  It doesn’t take long for the repairman to diagnose the problem.  I spit even more bullets when it was determined that the freezer door apparently was not being closed appropriately on enough occasions that it caused the refrigerator fan to fail.  I rack my brains for all of a minute and realize that this problem can be traced back to a certain man-child who had the freezer stuffed to the gills with his junk food for ten months.

I excuse myself to my study for a moment.  I need the time to give my Dammit Doll a good three whacks on my desk.  Ah…better. I’m feeling mighty proud that I didn’t utter one expletive.  And yes, it hasn’t escaped me that for six weeks we didn’t have a functioning kitchen due to the renovation but we did have a working refrigerator! Now the opposite has occurred! How upside-down is that?

The repairman orders a new fan part which may be around $400 and he says we should have it in a week, tops.  “Great,” I say with all the calm I can muster.  The service rep smiles when I tell him: “I’ll chill.  We can go with the flow for one week; it’s just a minor inconvenience in the big scheme of things.” Right?

Hmm.  Maybe I’d lose a pound or two without trips to the fridge for cheese…

So here we are today, a week later.  The repairman is back with the new part in hand. I’m practically busting with excitement that within the hour I’ll have a working refrigerator again.  I’m itching to fill the bins with salad greens and vegetables and of course eggs, butter, cheese, milk and yogurt.  There’s a couple of bottles of prosecco and a bottle of Chardonnay too, not to mention Rocket-man will have his beer back in the fridge and not in a cooler on the kitchen floor.

As I type these words I am mindful that my inconvenience is trivial compared to so many.   Hundreds of thousands of folks in North Carolina are without power as the continue to be pummeled by Hurricane Florence.  Relief washes over me knowing that my elderly aunt and uncle have evacuated Roanoke Island in the Outer Banks to a safer location.  We are lucky that it seems our area will be spared Flo’s wrath.So I’m chilled (sort-of) with the refrigerator repairman–in spite of the fact that he arrived just barely within the service window of between 1-4 p.m.  I’m chilled (sort-of) that he has been downstairs working on the repair for two hours now.

Good grief!  How long does it take to install a refrigerator fan?!

Meanwhile, The Poodle figures it’s his earnest duty to bark…a lot…which of course is doing nothing to keep SHE WHO LOVES and FEEDS HIM calm after a week of hit or miss meals because of not having a refrigerator!Ah…here we go folks!  I hear the repair dude calling from the kitchen below.  I practically dance down the stairs with checkbook in hand ready to pay and then make a mad dash to the grocery store.

Oh…wait dear reader.  I’ve got an update!

Wait for it…wait for it….WAIT FOR IT…Drum roll…..THE WRONG PART WAS ORDERED! 

“Sorry ma’am, but it looks like It’ll be another week before the correct part comes in.Son of a…biscuit.

I’m pretty sure I looked at him with blood-laced daggers in my eyes.  In fact, I noted he winced as he said “I’m sorry” for the third time.A purple minion moment is entirely justified here.  Just saying.So pardon me while I go do just that… Purple Minion Moment: I am not chilled.

Not chilled.

As soon as the repairman was out the door I call and leave an after-hours message for the appliance repair company telling them in measured restraint that I AM NOT CHILLED.

Fortunately, I’ve got chicken stored in my sister’s refrigerator.  That, along with tomatoes, rice, onions, olive oil and garlic means there is hope for a home cooked meal on the table this evening.  And there’s plenty of pasta in the pantry with all sorts of possibilities that don’t require a stocked refrigerator.  Indeed.  What on earth am I carping on about.  We can get through another week.

There is bliss in that.