Thoughts and Thinking

What a relief, that three friends survived their operations and are recuperating at home, in their own beds.  I remember when I had my hysterectomy in 1994. I scheduled it for the first week in November when daylight savings time ended, because I dreaded that first shock of dark afternoons and figured it would be easier to get through it if I was drugged. I saved mail-order catalogs for weeks and planned to do my Christmas shopping lounging in bed during my recovery.

            The best part of my recuperation was Robbie helping out. I remember sitting at the kitchen table talking about our lives. For me, and most women I suspect, the exchange of stories is like an exchange of gifts, particularly when the stories are about experiences that resulted in spiritual and emotional growth.  I love my women friends so much, they have been there at every turn: as a little girl, worrying that my parents would split up, as a heartbroken teen, as a hormone-driven young woman not knowing who I was or what I wanted to do with my life. My girlfriends have always been there, not to tell me what to do, just to listen.  Likewise I feel an immense satisfaction when I can be there for them. 

            My relationship with men has been more about gaining knowledge from them and/or physical pleasure. I suppose it goes back to the father, how I loved to watch him work when I was small, building furniture or taking pictures and especially making prints in the darkroom, something I’ve written about before – how he was like a wizard performing magic in his dark cave.

            The first man, other than my father, who I fell in love with because of his mind, was Mr. Harlan, my junior high science teacher. He was a little like Mr. Peepers, with black rimmed glasses, mild mannered but with soft lips that I would not have minded kissing. I wonder what it was like for him – he was only in his twenties – to have a fourteen-year-old girl breathlessly rush in, between classes, just to say hi. My day was not complete without a visit to his room filled with charts and graphs and the mysteries of science.

            When I was a confused teenager, Joe Gray, Hollywood stunt man and friend of my family, gave me a paperback copy of Siddhartha by Herman Hesse.  That same year I read Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams.  My world went from revolving around deciding what to wear to school to the brain-tingling wonderment of pondering reality.   

            The best part about knowledge is that it becomes part of you in a concrete way that you can build on as you learn more and more. When Tom introduced me to classical music, he taught me to really listen.  This multiplied my enjoyment of all music, so that twenty-five years later when I married John, and he sat me down to listen to his speakers, I could talk about what I heard and how I heard it, in a way that let him know I really got it.

            Roger introduced me to Russian novelists, and later Chinese literature which led to me studying Mandarin for three years, then going to China.  Why did I choose Chinese over Russian? Because of a dream of a Chinese woman’s white-painted face – a past life memory? A message from beyond?  I remember living with Roger in Berkeley, a night Jerry Hopkins came to dinner. We sat at our small round oak table and talked in a way that made me feel I was their intellectual equal, an adult.

            This week I paid a visit to the Argument Club, ostensibly to participate in discussions and give the Libertarian point of view. But at the first question I admitted they probably knew more about the topic than I did. I listened to Democrats, Republicans and Independents exchanging ideas in a friendly, civilized manner.  Talking to a Democrat from Chicago, who came to Texas as a geographer, I was fascinated by his ideas of what was “just wrong”, and even though I didn’t agree with him I had no desire to try to convert him to my philosophy. I could see his mind was set in stone.   

            I learn a lot from children too. Tuesday when I gave the “

Favorite Place

” assignment, I got to hear all about the Texas coast, and the kids experiences with crabs and jelly fish, good places to eat and the thrill of riding a Boogie board.

            They say we only use a tenth of our brains. And I know that I’m guilty of thinking the same thoughts, over and over, which is such a bore. But the worst hindrance to letting new, more interesting thoughts into my brain, is worry. It’s like saggy old mattresses and dog-damaged couches blocking the entrance to my mind.  But since my friends are on the mend, the pile has shrunk to a manageable heap, that new ideas can sidle around – “Come in, come in, tell me your story!” 

My Brain is Full

         This is how my brain feels:  when I pour dry dog food into a Tupper Ware container, it fills up and almost spills over, but I tap the container on the counter and there’s just enough room for everything to fit.

          My brain is full of new names, new faces, new stories.  On Sunday, after church, I went out to lunch with “the usual group.”  I know their names but am just now finding out details about their lives, their pasts, their opinions and ideas.  I’m noticing more details -their eyes, their hair, the way they move their hands when the talk, what they like to eat, how they eat it.  I was impressed that Leahanna’s napkin was neatly folded on her lap, in one piece, where mine was completely shredded by the time I’d finished by turkey-pastrami Ruben sandwich.

          After lunch I picked up Joan, the octogenarian poet who has been – oh, I shouldn’t say hounding me – telling me about the two poetry groups she belonged to in Houston. I told her when fall came I’d start up a group.  I submitted an article to the Kerrville Daily Times and got one call, from a fellow who said he was a retired cowboy. So I knew there would at least be three of us.

          When we pulled up there were people standing around. I said to Joan, “Who are these people?” then realized they were poets!

          I had set chairs up in a circle and made a sort of agenda: information on the Poetry Society of Texas, American Life in Poetry, etc. Plus, I had books and journals to give away, or share.

          It was an eclectic group -which is one of the things I love about poets and poetry, the variety:  a white haired couple, the man read a rhyming poem, the woman a serious, religious poem; wonderful Ellen who took my creative writing class read a short poem and one by Kay Ryan, US Poet Laureate; a fellow read from a small spiral-bound notebook, poems he’d written in 1978 and 1981 – I hope this group will inspire him to write again; funny Arzie from the Tuesday class we both take at the Dietert Center read a serious poem about a Marine dying in combat; George, the man who had called, moved to Arizona in 1949 to become a cowboy and also was a race horse jockey. I said, “You don’t sound like you’re from Arizona.”  He said, “I’m not I’m from Brooklyn!”; a fellow with an oxygen tank had a little booklet he’d compiled of the poems he writes every Christmas, humorous, rhyming and very entertaining.  Both Arzie and George had been Marines. Leahanna is a pacifist, her poem was about peace.  Lorraine didn’t share this time.

          I felt my body relax as I heard each poem and realize that I’m a poetry junkie, I need my fix of fresh, read-out-loud poems!  I love the intimacy of being in a small group and have faith that this group will grow, change, evolve.  We’ll meet the Second Sundays of each month.

          Monday I taught my first session of my ten-week class, “Writing Your Life.”  As always, before I let anyone talk about themselves we did a quick writing exercise. I wanted to see how comfortable everyone was with taking orders and reading aloud. They all did great.

          What I particularly enjoy is finding commonality between the students, who otherwise may seem so different. This time we have two men and eight women.  Frank and Fern are back, from my creative writing class. I warned both of them I may repeat “assignments” (which I should start calling “prompts” I suppose), but they didn’t mind.  Most of the people are retired but one is a dog trainer who has trained another participants dog.

          After everyone read what they’d written, based on five random words, they told why they were in the class.  There are all levels of writers, some new, some experienced. I handed out a list of twelve opening lines from memoirs I own and asked them to choose one that inspires them and just write a couple of pages.  I emailed the assignment to two who couldn’t make it.

          That evening I had a conference call with Libertarians from all over the state. As is my way, I took notes throughout the meeting and before I knew it, the next day I was agreeing to help manage a Yahoo group. I posted a photo and Laura the county chair of Bexar County (a Spanish word pronounced bear, which includes San Antonio) posted many helpful documents and data bases for us to access.  There were ten counties (out of Texas’ 250) on the call and I felt pretty good about what I’m doing here in Kerr County, which includes going to the Argument Group on Wednesday morning to hand out information. The three guys there asked me to come back next week – the Libertarian who had responded to my letter to the paper was not there. 

          Tuesday I interviewed the President of Wells Fargo Bank for the cover article of the Kerrville Business Magazine. I had no idea what to ask a banker but was impressed that his reason for wanting to go into banking was watching It’s a Wonderful Life, when he was young. I found out that Wells Fargo gives millions of dollars to charities, and recently gave $100,000 to the Red Cross of Bastrop County to help fire victims. Over 1,500 homes have burned there.

          The same afternoon I taught at Art 2 Heart – only three kids, but we had fun talking and writing about food.

          Wednesday I thought I’d catch up on my writing but after the gym and lunch I had long conversations with friends and family and was too tired to generate any new thoughts. 

          I have three close friends undergoing surgery in the next ten days. I know they’ll be fine, they’ll each get through it and be better afterwards, but I know from my own experience that surgery, and the drugs they give you, take a toll, not to mention waking up thirsty and only getting to suck on ice chips.

          I finished a nice Kindle Single called Animalish by Susan Orlean and have started Little Bride, about a poor, orphaned Russian Jewish girl, who becomes a mail-order bride, sent to America. The language is poetic and lush and has swept me back in time so that when I’m at the gym, reading while I ride the recumbent bike, when I stop peddling and look up it takes me a minute to remember I’m in Kerrville Texas not Odessa and it’s 2011 and time to hit the arm machines.

          And now, on Friday, it’s time for lunch. But I promise myself that after I’ve eaten I will get back to writing my memoir. Unless I’m sleepy, then I may take a nap.

TEA PARTY

I walk across dead grass toward the courthouse,

the only woman in pink, my tropical OP tee shirt tucked

into low-riding white Bermuda shorts. I feel thirty-five,

not sixty-two, but I’m not much younger than these

docile retirees who cluster on lawn chairs

beneath the big sweeping tree.

I find a small, compact man in a white shirt and jeans.

He has a tight, weathered face and intense blue eyes,

who says I’m poisoned by the mainstream news.

Sun shines on the white gazebo and our host, who stands

at the microphone in a white shirt, black tie, silver-rimmed glasses.

We cast our eyes up to the flag, which I see through the screen of trees, way up high, lying limp beside the Flag of the Republic.

No wind today.

Day jillion of the drought.

Our voices float in the late summer air, pledging allegiance

like we did in school, proclaiming our love for our country,

wishing we could yank it back to a better time, like

a mother rescuing her drowning child.

For we all remember “when” – when we were young,

when we had hope, before wars, before debt, before

young girls kept their babies and got tattoos and

got their tongues pierced, before young men laid on the couch

playing video games, take-out wrappers littering the floor.

We remember sitting down to dinner with

a mother and father, siblings who grumbled about

school and chores but went to school and did their

chores and enlisted in the army because

it was the right thing to do, to serve our country.

But I marched against the war, I took acid

I felt we were changing the world.

We did change the world. 

Now I stand, one foot saluting the flag, the other

running naked through hot summer sand

into a bracing cold ocean . . .

I don’t feel I belong here.  

I’m not one of them.

A line of children – a fife and drum corps – emerges,

boys and girls, seven to fifteen, on time, in tune,

in white leggings and bright white shirts

and bright blue knickers and vests. Black tri-cornered

caps point the way as they weave around the gazebo.

When I realize I’m the only one bopping to the music, 

I hope the colonel next to me doesn’t think I’m

unpatriotic, I move in church too – joy can’t sit still.

A woman nearby, with a fresh crisp hairdo, videotapes

with her cell phone.  I study her earrings, her painted nails.

She smells good.

One of the children drummers, fifteen years old, comes

to the microphone.  He’s going to talk about the Constitution,

he read this summer, down by the river.

Suddenly he’s talking about praying in school, that

this country was founded by Religious Men, in the name

of God, and my feet start carrying me away.  I circumvent

quiet clusters of gray haired men and women, in red, white and blue.

They seem quite comfortable in their lawn chairs.

One more hot, dry summer day.

LABOR DAY OUTING

          I’ve been complaining that we never go anywhere so John decided to take us on a little road trip today, to see Buchanan Lake, about two hours away. It had been years since he’d been there, but he remembered a cute little restaurant where we could eat, overlooking the lake and rolling hills.

          He didn’t mind that I wanted to sit in the back seat of his Lincoln Town Car because he knows the front seat makes my hip hurt. The back seat is narrower and, to me, more comfortable.  I sat behind him so the sun would not be on me as we headed out toward Fredericksburg.

          I lasted about twenty five minutes before I had to pull out my Kindle and read. I can only take so much of looking out the side window at the same landscape over and over – dry grass, oak trees, dry meadow, dry creek.  At one point he asked if I was okay – I was sniffling at a moving scene in The Patron Saint of Liars.

          We passed through Fredericksburg, where we’d had a noisy dinner at the Brewery Friday night, and headed north.  When I told him I had to pee pretty soon, he said it was about twenty or thirty minutes till the lake.  So I read some more.  We passed a place that said, “Lake landing” but that was on the wrong side of the road, a different lake. The lake we wanted was on the right.  We passed a place that said Hydro-something, but that couldn’t be it.   So on we drove.  We could see the lake, but how to get to it?

          We got off the main highway and took a smaller, though well paved, country road. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and asked him to pull over.  I went around to the passenger side, opened the back door and squatted. I didn’t really care if anyone saw me but it gave a little privacy.  Suddenly I felt my pee splashing onto my foot. I looked down and saw that where I thought I was peeing in the dirt, there was an old newspaper and the pee was bouncing off of it. Luckily I was wearing rubber zories. I dried my foot and rinsed the shoe off with some bottled water. I had brought walking sandals, so I got back in the car and put them on.

          We drove around some more until finally we returned to the sad little Chamber of Commerce building. When we’d passed it on the way in I saw one red Explorer out front and said, “Let’s stop. There’s probably a lonely little old lady just waiting to talk to us.”

          This time there was one other car there. We stopped and went in. A middle-aged woman in shorts, who would have been pretty if she didn’t have such crooked teeth, greeted us.  She explained that the Department of Homeland Security “drove us out of there,” after 9/11.  No one could go near the dam!  No wonder the town of Llano, which we’d just passed through, was half boarded up.  Why would anyone come here, if they couldn’t go to the lake? 

          The woman took us out back and showed us the pretty view of the dam. They were hoping to make a nice place for people to picnic, maybe even have some walking trails.  I said that would be nice but privately felt that there was no way this would ever happen.

          We drove to a restaurant she recommended on the outskirts of Burnet (pronounced BUR-net).  They had no beer. John drank water. I drank iced tea. I ordered a half-pound hamburger (the only size they had) and ate half.  John ate a BLT.  I asked the waitress for aluminum foil, instead of Styrofoam to take the rest of the food home, and she obliged.

          I decided to sit in the front seat for a while but within fifteen minutes my right hip was aching. John pulled over to let me get in the back seat, but by now the pain was throbbing. I read some; stared out the window some, liked the town of Marble Falls – it was clean and looked prosperous and the Perdenales River was gorgeous, but once we passed through, every creek we passed over was bone-dry.

          In the distance the sky was shrouded with smoke from one of the many fires burning throughout the state.  We passed Lyndon B. Johnson State Park, and Lady Bird Johnson park, but didn’t stop. By now, being in the car nearly six hours, I just wanted to get home.

          John said, “Next Saturday we can go to. . .” and I had to tell him the truth: I’m no good in a car for more than a few hours, unless we have a destination where we can stop and spend the night – maybe a hotel with a pool. I know I’m a disappointment to him, who loves to hit the open road. For him, all his tension fades away when he leans back and puts his foot on the gas.  But for me I become nine-years old again, sitting in the back seat of our 1959 Mercedes, driving through Europe, bored and homesick.

          Once home I let the dog and cats sniff me. Then I laid on the couch and Audrey laid on my chest/stomach/legs. We dozed. I was in heaven i.e., home.

Helpless Witness

Haven’t written my blog for a while because I thought, I can’t just complain!  But the truth is I’ve been down in the dumps. Mostly because of the weather – the worst drought in Texas in people’s lifetimes.  At first it was just annoying, continued dry heat day after day.  Then water restrictions began, watering lawns twice a week. Now, no sprinklers, period. Only hand watering.  I see my neighbors, when I walk Walter at dawn (the sun doesn’t come up till 7:15 this time of year), looking dejected as they stand with a hose trying to save their trees.  News of the famous Austin bats dying for lack of mosquitoes, ranchers having to sell off cattle, lakes and streams drying up killing thousands of fish  -the feeling of helplessness paralyzes me.  I look at photographs friends on Facebook have posted of Yosemite and imagine I am breathing in the cool mist from the falls.  But it doesn’t really help.

          Then there’s news that I have two friends who need heart surgery, another friend recuperating at the Mayo Clinic, and just last night news from my most vital, happy, upbeat friend that she too needs surgery this month!  Again, the feeling of helplessness, as if I’m in a straightjacket . . .

          Speaking of straightjackets, did you see the ridiculous outfit with sleeves like a red straightjacket on Project Runway last night?  I watch the show because I love to see what designers can come up with on short notice, with a weird variety of restrictions. But this year there are so many designers I don’t like - they’re mean and back-biting. I still want Laura, the blond, to win because she designs really pretty clothes that are original and well made.  Plus I adore Heidi Klum. She had a show all about kids once that was really fun and funny. She has four children and is really like a kid herself.

          Kids: I’m back to teaching – one hour a week of pure delight. First week: three children. This week: six! Plus a wonderful adult helper who loves words, language, and proper grammar.  It was great to commiserate with someone else distraught at the corrosion of our beautiful language.

          I’ve started Hill Country Poets – “for the creation and appreciation of poetry.” We meet on second Sundays at Unity Church of the Hills. I’ve put a notice in the paper and know three or four people who want to come. I wonder if the first meeting, September 11, will interfere with comemmoration ceremonies of that awful day ten years ago when Barbara called and said, “Turn on the TV!” and I stood, like millions of others, shocked and afraid.

          Now here we are a decade later, a decade older. Economy sucks. Weather sucks. Friends are sick. I give thanks for my blessings – health, family, friends, husband, pets, love of books, love of dancing.  Soon my Mondays and Tuesdays will be enhanced by Dancing With the Stars. I’ll lose myself in the music and the lights. I’ll cheer for my favorite pro dancers and come to admire “celebrities” I didn’t know before. I’ll waltz into bed remembering my years as a dancer in summer-stock musicals and be glad I’ve had an interesting, music and love filled life.

Love of Laundry

          A neighbor leant me Isabella Rosselini’s memoir Some of Me.  I  learned that her mother, Ingrid Bergman, loved to clean and instilled in her the same sense of how to do it properly.  For me, laundry is the domestic chore I like best. I remember the first time I washed my boyfriend’s clothes with mine. I was nineteen.  The intimate act of folding his long white socks was more meaningful to me than sex. I had had sex with many boys by then, but I had never washed their clothes!

          There are many levels of pleasure to be had doing laundry. First is the act of gathering.  Not all dirty clothes are in the tall hamper I bought when we built our house eleven years ago. Some are hanging over the end of the bed, or on a doorknob in the bathroom.  Hunting for John’s tee shirts takes me into his office and out into the garage where he’s flung them over half-finished speakers.  Some of his clothes make it into the laundry basket in his bathroom, which is a rattan waste basket that used to belong to Diane. So right there I’ve made a connection to two things I miss so much: my beautiful home and my beautiful friend.

          When we moved here, the dial on the washer that sets the water level on our washer broke off. Luckily it was set in the medium position. I never liked doing gigantic loads anyway.  I do one white load and one dark load every week. Most weeks I do a third load, on Laundry Day #2, which may be towels, or doggy blanket, or whatever is left over.

          My favorite part of the process is drying.  I have three drying racks. One is stainless steel, collapsible.  The other is wooden, collapsible. This I found on

Longview Lane East

on trash day and brought home. It’s perfectly good except some of the rods are bent. It too reminds me of “home.”  The third one was purchased with Blue Chip Stamps that we collected in booklets when I was growing up.  We also collected S&H Green Stamps.  It was my job, after returning from the grocery store, to put the stamps in the book. Originally the stamps came in sheets of small stamps and I’d have to use a sponge to wet them and stick them in.  But then they added bigger stamps and you only needed a strip of five per page which was more convenient.

          When the booklets were full my mother and I would go to the redemption store.  That’s where I selected the free-standing towel rack that I’ve taken with me every time I’ve moved since 1968. I use it now in my bathroom to hold my two white hand towels, which are what I use to dry off after a shower and to dry my hair.  My full size bath towel is hung over the shower just to add color to the room and keep out some of the afternoon sun that comes through the privacy glass.  I use the big towel when I take a bath and have to walk through John’s office to get to the tub.

          So, after a load of laundry has washed, one by one I toss small items into the dryer and run it on fluff, while I set up the drying racks. This removes dog and cat hair and takes out some wrinkles. Some items like bras or the wonderful lingerie Christina has designed over the years never go in the dryer at all.  When small items have fluffed I take them out and throw in the sheets.  Then my favorite part: arranging everything on the racks.

          Underpants hang from the four corners, socks line up neatly all facing the same way, small towels and tee shirts release fragrant moisture into the house.

          During the course of the day, items will be turned and rearranged and inevitably Audrey will show up and jump into the orange plastic tote basket in which I’d carried everything to the laundry room. This is the same basket I almost threw out after Amber died because I was afraid it would make me to sad to see it, she loved riding around in it so much. I used to carry her all over the house, all seven pounds of her. Now my fifteen-pound cat jumps in and takes up the entire space, her face pressed against one end, her tail escaping out the top. She likes to be carried too, but she’s so heavy I just give her short little trips to different parts of the house and plop her down.

          While I’m writing or eating or talking on the phone water is evaporating from wet laundry until it is completely dry, reminding me that nothing in life is static, although it may appear so at times.

          Making my bed is easier these days. Audrey is not into attacking the sheets as I toss them across the bed, as other cats in my life did.

Phoebe’s favorite thing was a sheet of tissue paper I’d place on the made bed.  She’d run and slide into it and rustle around on it. Every few weeks I’d have to replace it. She also loved Macy’s paper shopping bags.  I’ve kept one in her memory. It’s hanging in the laundry room with paper bags in it. Phoebe died in 1994.

          Tonight when it’s time for bed, I’ll pull back the covers to a sheet with no cat hair, drool or dead skin on it.  I will feel like a guest in a luxury hotel as I slip in my weary body and rest my head on a freshly fluffed pillow. I’ll open Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin Stories to where I left off this afternoon at the gym, reading on the recumbent bike. I’ll let go of sweltering Texas in 2011 and travel back to Germany before

the war. I’ll savor the beautiful writing, which will cause me to pause from time to time to marvel at Isherwood’s craft that lives on in the printed word. 

Dreams, Memories

          I’m blaming the heat and my lack of work for what’s happening in my brain:

          Last night I went to sleep at 10:15 and woke up at 4:45. When the cat heard me stirring, she came out from under the bed, where I had occasionally heard her heavy sighs throughout the night.  I cuddled with her for a minute, remembering a dream in which I wore yellow socks and was mad at John because the floor of his room was so dirty the bottoms of the socks were black.  I laid awake until about 5:30. Then I had this dream:

          I dreamed I was in a house with white walls. It was hot outside. I thought I better close the sliding glass doors. I stood for a moment and thought, something’s missing. Walter! I’d left him outside in the heat. He was sitting by the patio door. I let him in.

          I turned on a big screen TV. A show about darling teenage girls was on. They had braces on their teeth.  I was sitting on the floor, watching the show and turned to Walter, who was now a  seventeen-year old boy. He had very black hair, cropped short, but not too short, about an inch long, it was thick and lustrous. He wore a long sleeved white shirt and white pants with a black belt.  He wore the latest style for young guys: a 1” wide black tie, like a very thick ribbon, tied in a stiff bow, with two long “tails.” He was absolutely adorable.

          He said a sentence with a made up word in it that started with a V. I knew it was not a real word but I got his meaning. He didn’t like living in a city. He missed the country.  I told him I did too.

          The outfit he wore was very much like what Tom Gray was wearing the first day I saw him at SMCC in 1968.  Tom was sitting, leaning against a sycamore tree.  He wore the white shirt, white pants, black belt, but also had a black vest and brown suede boot moccasins. His hair was medium brown, to his shoulders.

          I had gone back to SMCC with the intention of meeting “a guy” who would take me out of LA.  In January 1970 we left LA for Mt Shasta. Tom returned to LA a few months later without me, under the auspices of trying to get a recording contract.  I stayed until May 1971.

          I think the reason I’m stalled, writing my memoir, is that I’m not looking forward to writing about those years because they were traumatic and I made so many stupid mistakes.  According to Jane Fonda’s latest book, Prime Time, the last one-third of our lives should be spent reflecting on and coming to understand the previous two-thirds of our life, how we got to where we are, what we learned.

          I saw wonderful therapists in the 1970s and 1980s and thought I had come to terms with the mistakes of my youth.  But now they resurface. Now I have the opportunity to look at them with the added “wisdom” I’m supposed to have gained from my experiences since.

          We’ll see. So far, in writing my story I haven’t done much editorializing. I re-read the first few chapters today and found that the ones I like best are the ones in which one main event occurs, not where I cover several years at a time.

          So when I write about meeting Tom, I will have to describe my delight at finding that he was in one of my classes and how I casually  asked him if he knew where I could get some mescaline.  I’ll have to describe that tiny one-room cottage in Ocean Park where he first played Mozart for me on tinny speakers and how his body felt like an ironing board when we laid on his narrow bed.

          In the meantime, I look at my dog with different eyes. Of course I know he’s not a seventeen-year-old boy, but he is my constant companion. He delights when he sees me return from being out, or just from being in another room. Like a kid he’s excited when I ask him to find his squeaky. He brings it to me with bright eyes, anticipating what?

That I’ll steal it, throw it, roll it down the hall?  Or is what I call anticipation just pure delight that he has a squeaky toy and someone bring it to?