Let's Get Married

So we’re planning another wedding. We have four daughters and this will be our fourth wedding. Two daughters and a son have gone before. All in birth order, I don’t know why that pleases me so much but it does. The first was a long distance away from us and so she braved most of it alone, which makes me sad, but proud. She was efficient and stuck to a budget that she prepared, asking all those who love her if they wished to contribute to simply say yes to the aspects they were interested in paying for, and she and her future spouse would either pay for or eliminate that which was not taken. Smart girl, this plan worked very well. Hurricane Katrina and my job thousands of miles away, in a not for profit disaster services organization made for more difficulties in being there for her. But we managed, she kept me informed each step of the way and chose a venue that made things easier by catering, hosting, and having a florist on site. All that was left really, were the million little details that fall to we MOBs during the week that leads up to the nuptials. Hosting gatherings, attending last minute fittings, making sure groomsmen had tuxes and shoes then endless trips to the airport to pick up siblings and other guests. This last, falling to the Captain as he was most willing to perform any task that did not involve hair, make-up, nails, shoes, flowers or conflict. 

On the day of the wedding I didn’t get a shower. This was not planned but simply evolved from being too heavily relied upon by my other daughters, the bridesmaids and their endless hours at the salon setting their hair. After each one was finished I drove them back to the venue to get ready so by the time the last one was out the door, I had barely enough time to get back there myself and run a comb through my hair, spray it to within an inch of its life and carry on. Luckily I had received a perm about four days earlier and you know how great your hair can look on the second day after a wash in those early weeks, that’s how I pulled that off. There was in place a make-up artist of such extraordinary talent that he made the physonogamy of a fifty year old look pretty darn good. They served a great many mimosas during the getting dressed portion of the event and when admonished heartily by the darling bride not to get drunk on her wedding day, I should have shown greater shame upon my retort which was “Sorry, too late.” The tiny little things that can go wrong are all, at all costs to be kept from the bride. Many times we hissed this phrase “Just fix it, don’t tell her.” It worked well until the officiant stumbled on a tent hook and broke her wrist about 20 minutes before the ceremony. Not only did we not have the opportunity to not tell the bride, she witnessed it. All sober comportment, she did not fall apart but asked for a plan and forged on. 

I would follow this daughter into battle for she fears nothing. Once her plan is undertaken it will move on to completion and woe betide those who strive to the contrary. The lovely minister conducted the ceremony, in between the profane outbursts from the man in the upstairs apartment whose video game was clearly not a winning undertaking, went to the ER and returned in time to enjoy some food, drink and a little dance, thanks no doubt to the good painkillers. My only concern about the entire affair was that it seemed too short and we worried that our beautiful daughter didn’t really have fun because she was so worried about it all being perfect. They have been married for 10 years have two kids and seem very happy.  Both of the next two weddings in our family took place within five months while she was pregnant with the little man who is now four.

The story of our second daughter’s wedding would make most mothers say no, never again, write them a check and ask them to leave the house. Until the wedding day, which was perfect. I mean movie style, Oscar winning for set direction (thanks to the Captain) full-on gorgeous. She informed us they had picked a date, it was four months away. And they’d like to get married at home. In four months. Go outside right now and look at your house and garden and think about what you’d need to do to host a wedding. In four months. Fall is a wonderful time of year replete as it is with colors and light and the possibility of snow, sleet, freezing rain, or just plain rain.

The Captain looked about our place and made certain decisions about what should be done to turn our home into a wedding venue. His first observation was that we needed to paint. All the exterior doors. So he removed them. All of them. All at once. In taking down the big one in the front hall he dropped it and broke the banister to the stairs. Add that to the list of little things to do. We live on a hill in the country and are exposed on all sides to wind and weather, as are most folks when you remove all the exterior doors to their houses. He hung heavy plastic where all the doors used to be and taped that to the door frames with duct and painter’s tape to keep out the elements. He drove the doors to the local auto body shop and at my instruction told them to paint the exterior of these doors with a high gloss paint and the interior with a satin finish latex. While somewhat concerned about the afore-mentioned wind and weather my need for nocturnal security in his absence was met with a nod from the Captain to the french doors (or rather the spot where they used to be) out to the patio. He described how easy it has always been for anyone with a mind to, to break in. Knowing that and my propensity for deep and impermeable sleep was not helpful. I lived for a month in a constant state of hyper-alert ism, like a war veteran always ready for a fight. I locked my bedroom door at night safe in the thought that at least the burglars would have to fight to get in, and that would wake me up in time to grab my cell phone, now lying ever-present next to me and pre-dialed to 911, so that all I had to do was hit send, which I had learned to find in the dark for just such occasions. Every morning I came downstairs to re-tape the plastic at the doorways, there were five of them, and carried on as if this were a perfectly normal way to live. 

When the Captain brought the doors home for re-installation, of course the auto body shop (they’re made of steel who better to paint them?) had the wrong paint on each side, so we had these super shiny glossy doors on the inside of the house and a comparatively dull sheen on the outside. He took them back, we waited another week, then lived with the smell of fresh paint for another two weeks. You can still see a great deal of daylight around the one in the mudroom, which the Captain ascribes to shrinkage!

Now two weeks from the wedding we began in earnest to watch the long range weather forecast, we booked an alternate venue just in case. The tent delivery folks assured us their tent was totally weather proof. “You could have a funeral in a tornado in there.” said he. I did not ask. They arrived on Thursday, the wedding planned for Sunday. We notified all the neighbors who might be complicit in any type of auditory or olfactory disturbance whether that be the dog kennel across the road or the pig farmer down wind of the garden. We called them and told them about the ceremony, what time it would be and sorry for the loud music, promised it would all be over by 10:00pm. I definitely told our closest neighbor and he had a clear vision of the huge tent to tip him off. 

Shortly after the tent was delivered and set up we took notice of the enormous and hideously ugly plastic lanterns that had been hung therein. One could easily have performed micro surgery under those lights, not only were they offensive to the eye but so bright as to warrant the issue of sunglasses to our assembled guests, should they wish to witness any aspect of the proceedings. Out they came. Christmas lights were procured on October 8th from every hardware store in a ten mile radius and strung gallantly by all the male members of our family and our family to be. Two engineers in this midst so the need for precision and extension cords was a thing to behold. My favorite aspect of the setting up was listening to my son and his brother in law discussing the attachment of wheat sheaves to the backs of all the chairs. They were patient and funny, getting all the bows tied just so for a sister who is detail oriented to say the least and not famous for keeping a decision once made. 

All effort paid off as I watched my beautiful daughter, sublime and confident as she walked arm in arm with her dad around the long brick sidewalk to the beautifully painted front door where she married her love to the strains of braying donkeys and a lawn mower! My grand daughter filled her diaper with an appalling velocity and volume and my third daughter burst into tears of joy as well as laughter. It was a small, intimate, wonderful day that we will all cherish for so many reasons beyond the simple joining of two. It was the creativity of sisters who supported our nervous Nelly through it all with some nail polish and a little champagne, it was my darling husband who sees those shiny doors in every photograph and wishes he’d had time to paint the porch posts as well. And it was the teamwork of a small community to help us pull it all off. My neighbor who started mowing his lawn at the exact moment the procession began, says to this day that he is afraid of me. Use your imagination. My neighbors who raise miniature donkeys could not have known how much that hilarious braying, just as vows were exchanged meant to our memories of the day. It is all that and more that fills me with joy as we plan the next one, another one at home. And as we wonder what the last child, another daughter, will do, I wish for a home wedding one last time and the Captain is ready with a cash incentive to elopement. 

The Good Guy

FICTION

He was not a handsome man by the stretch of anyone's imagination, he was tall, a good asset and he still had a fair amount of hair. No visible deformities and most of the teeth he was born with. He had soft brown eyes and a sharp nose that, if a little beak-like could not be described as ugly. He was if anything, non-descript. An accountant, he had what was universally considered to be, a boring job. He worked in a small firm in the city where he would never rise above the position he currently held, that of associate. He would not make partner. He was good at his work, average, not great, not someone about whom people would say "Oh you need Jack, he's your man for mergers and tax loopholes."

He rarely wavered in his routine, taking the used bike he bought from Craig's list to the train station and a 20 minute ride into the city. He was swallowed up by a million others just like him, he was not noticed, he did not stand out. You would not remember him on your commute. If pressed say, by a vigorous cross examination you couldn't say whether or not he wore glasses or what color his coat was. Was he wearing a suit or a black tie or a brown one? You would not have remembered. He picked up a copy of the Journal at the station where he also bought a small coffee, black, one sugar. He hopped onto the 7:15 to Porter Street and took a window seat if possible. He enjoyed the view, the houses mostly, which he liked to peer into when the train slowed. He made up stories about the  people inside the homes, he imagined them fighting, making love and eating meals together. He wanted them to be as ordinary as he was, he needed their lives to be no more exciting than his.

Tuesday was an unusually light early morning, the sun was up high and shone on everything in its sphere, making things clear and better defined than usual, highlighting the dirt and the rust at the station, yet casting a warmth throughout, which he noticed and which made him mildly happy. He grabbed the paper, the coffee, and then his seat in short order, he was ready for the day. The explosion was unlike any sound he had ever heard, loud does not come close to the telling of its volume, it rumbled long after the initial bang and then there was the roar of flame and the rush of air being sucked out of the windows. They smashed into a million shards, one of which struck his upper thigh and the blood was spurting from him like a geyser, there was no pain. His ears were numb they thudded inside his head but the noises he knew must be occurring didn't register. He didn't hear screams, he saw a hand and then a bloody stump of some kind pass him and then the smell of burning flesh hit his nostrils and made him gag. He was upside down in the rail car, the window was now above his head and suitcases and brief cases were flying down the aisle which was not under but now beside him. Something hit him in the head and later he would say he thought it was a phone or a laptop. Suddenly his hearing came back into sharp focus and the cries and screams and moans were all consuming. He looked about for an explanation, a reason for what was happening. There was none, he registered that a bomb had gone off or a grenade had been lobbed into the train or that a rocket must surely have been launched at them.

The little girl under the seat was seven maybe eight years old, she looked up at him with eyes that could not see because of the blood dribbling down from the gash in her head. She was trapped. He knew without thinking that the fire would consume them all if they didn't get out...now.  He turned away, trying in just an instant to leave her there and save himself but of course he could not. He tried to pry the seat up from on top of her but it was wedged under the remains of the side of the railcar. Using every ounce of strength left to him he pushed and pulled but to no avail. "Help, help us." he yelled panicking now as the heat from the fire began to take hold, "There's a child here she's stuck, I need help for God's sake." Nothing. It was up to him. He looked around unable to see anything that might help, the smoke now thick black, and curling around them. He took off his jacket and stuffed it in and around her so she could avoid breathing in any more of it. He told her to stay calm, he'd help, he'd stay. She cried silently, tears welling up but no sound escaping her tiny red mouth. She seemed to be slipping away, he had no idea how badly she had been hurt, all he could see was her face and torso. Slowly she closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep. Hoping she was no longer in pain he began again to shove the debris off of her, this time more aggressively thinking she could not feel the pain he knew he was causing her. At last the seat freed and he lifted it up and off her tiny body. Her legs were twisted gruesomely behind her, she still appeared to be unconscious and he hauled her up and over his shoulder.

A tiny speck of the bright foreboding sunshine was visible and he followed it, stumbling and falling to his knees. He never let her go, he clung to her little form as if it were his saving grace and he launched himself out of the first opening he found. Slamming to the ground he looked up to see an apocalypse of twisted steel and concrete, hats and coats and shoes lying about, twisted electrical wires and little fires each with their own agenda burning brightly all around him. The sky, an impossible, reckless blue casting a gaiety to everything he saw. People, zombi-like walking around and crying, no wailing, each one dazed yet searching for something. A young woman came into view she was mostly undressed, her burnt clothes hanging in shreds around her, she was screaming "Katie, Katie, Katie it's mommy, where are you?" The tiny child still hung around his neck like a limpet, began to whimper in recognition. Jack laid her down on the ground as soon as he could get far enough away from the train. "Don't move." he said stupidly, and lumbered back towards the woman who was by now walking in circles near where she thought her child might be. "Over here," he shouted, "Over here, I have a kid, a girl, is this her?"

The newspaper article was concise and described him as a regular guy, the kind of guy you'd want to sit next to on a crowded commuter train because he wouldn't say much. The motive for the attack was not discovered although theories abounded. He was interviewed on the radio, on television and seen on social media by all who had taken their phones out and video recorded him exiting the train with the child slung around his neck. They called him a hero and gave him awards. When asked what he was thinking, staying in the burning train so long to rescue the child he replied simply, that he was a good guy.

Dating in the Digital Age

In real life as opposed to the movies, things don’t always turn out happily ever after. Husbands leave, wives die, children take jobs in states half way across the country, which leaves some folks in their late to upper fifties and beyond, seeking companionship. There was a time when the church or the dreaded singles dance would have taken care of meeting someone. Friends with good intentions can sometimes be relied upon to introduce a potential date or friend or whatever label is most suitable in the current state of affairs, so to speak. But for those who are brave, intrepid and have computer skills there are alternatives. There are web sites devoted to finding everyone a partner. 

There are sites that cater to very specific demographics too, there’s Christian Mingle for example, fairly self explanatory unless you are not a Christian. But perhaps you are seeking someone who is, to see what it’s like. Then is it false advertising to join such a site? Is there a Christianity test to be passed before one can join the divine site to find true love with a like minded and vetted person? These questions are yet to be answered. There is a site called Our Time, just for those of a certain age let’s say, over fifty for the sake of honesty. You can find a mate online in almost as many categories as you can conjure.  There is one just for farmers called…Just for Farmers, not as creative as they might have been but one can hope they make up in hay what they lack in feed. 

There is Match.com which upon investigation appears to be easy to navigate, has a reasonable fee and allows you to look before you make a date commitment. Most of the online dating services do that. You can log-in and conduct a search just to see whom you know in your neighborhood, who is looking. Sometimes that can prove eye opening, when you discover that Mr. Jones who is married is also seeking the companionship of a politically aligned woman whose size and looks are of no concern to him. E-Harmony attracts members with their filmy love-laced television commercials showing perfectly matched couples frolicking on a beach or walking hand in hand down a charming city street. These matches are made according to the intake application, through careful screening processes that take you deep into your psyche to reveal your truth and to reveal to others who you really are and what you really are seeking in a partner. Heavy stuff.  Then there are deep-specialty sites. For those into the Sci-Fi world or those who wish to find travel partners, for those who seek a mate for sports and of course, just lunch. Even those who need a buddy to walk along side them in a journey through cancer. All this can be attained simply by clicking on the right site, telling the truth and being willing to take a little risk.

Carolina, not her real name, found herself looking at age 60. She is fair-haired and slim, attractive, active and not particularly interested in marrying again. She has been there and done that. “My husband left for pastures elsewhere,” she says “and I was thrown for a bit of a loop.” After a bitter year of wrangling through the financial quagmire she was left in, she began a journey of a very different kind. “After the shock and the pain, I realized that for the first time in almost 40 years, I was my own boss. I could go anywhere in the world, live the way I wanted to and paint my house purple if that was my choice.” she adds, laughing.  With children grown and living independently  Carolina realized that she would like to have a special friend to join her in social gatherings, for travel sometimes and for all those places where it seems that one must be part of a couple to be most comfortable. She went to Match.com, completed the survey and paid with a credit card. All this took almost two hours. She also made a choice to look for date candidates who lived at least an hour from her home, so that if things didn’t work out she wouldn’t have to bump into him at the grocery store.  The first meeting is important too, Carolina chose a coffee shop for lunch. This was also a smart move, plenty of people she knew in her own comfort zone. A public place is always smart so that if things go horribly wrong there are plenty of known helpers in close proximity. “I wouldn’t suggest that you meet for dinner in the evening or for a meeting that involves alcohol for the first date. You want to have your wits about you.” she says. After a few meetings with nice fellows who were simply not a good match, Carolina found a great guy who turned out to be nothing like what she thought she was looking for, but who was smart and funny and enjoyed much of the same aspects of life that she did. She was very clear up front about her expectations and that helped him to understand that she was not husband hunting but rather seeking a friend for companionship. 

Helen, who suddenly became a widow at age 45 was devastated for more than a year, she had a good job but it was not enough to continue living in the house that two salaries had been paying for. The first step for her was to sell the house and move to something more manageable. “This process was daunting, I had no thoughts at all about dating; just getting through the day was all I could manage.” She waited another year then her adult children began to suggest that she look for a friend. She went straight to E-Harmony and while she says she found the intake questionnaire to be complicated and time consuming, she’s glad she went that route. “I was surprised at how well the system worked, I met a great guy, also a widower, who really understood what I had gone through; he was very patient with me and I with him.” They dated sporadically, about once a month, and the first time they met Helen took two friends with her for safety reasons. “I was not very sophisticated about the whole thing,” she says “but he liked that, so I guess it worked out. We have been very happy for more than a year now.”

Both women make the same suggestions, take your time, try different sites to find the one that works best for you, just like your mother told you, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you meet your prince. And be safe. They both met their potential dates in public places during the day; they also suggest telling the folks at the meeting place what you are doing, so that a waiter or barista can keep an eye on you. They also said that seeing a profile on line is not always the same as meeting a person in the flesh. Photographs can be enhanced and a person can tell a lie or two about their age, job stability or financial situation. The rules for men looking for that special someone are much the same. Honesty really is the best policy. Rick, who lost his wife to infidelity after a thirty year marriage was very hesitant to get back in the game. “I really didn’t trust anybody and had low self esteem.” he said. A good friend pointed out that his online profile, a self description of who you are and what your interests are, which might entice those who are seeking your companionship to make the call, send the e-mail or otherwise attempt to engage you in social interplay, was miserable. “He pointed out that my rambling sad story was not any way to put myself “out there”, so we tweaked it to show my hobbies and my wishes for the future which were much more positive.” Rick met several women and found it much easier than he had anticipated, he too suggests that you start slowly and make sure that you are open about what you are looking for. “If you want a husband I’m not that candidate, but if you want to go fishing or take in a movie and dinner, I’m your guy.” he says. When I was growing up, back in the dark ages my mother always said there was a lid for every pot, it would seem she was right and that most of us can find that special someone if we are patient and smart enough to look in all the places available to us in this modern age of digital dating. There is risk, but there is risk to living. Unless you are willing to take a little risk you may never live your second chapter.

On Dogs.

We have, over the course of almost 35 years of marriage been the proud parents of pooches from purebreds to mutts, from strays to much wished for and fully researched breed-types which we believed, or one of us as least, would complete the family portrait. We have loved dogs singularly and in pairs, I prefer the pair as I think dogs need company and I am not always the best, I have enough of a pack to lead without the requirement to teach a certain fellow how and where to lift his leg. But I didn’t grow up with a dog, or a cat for that matter. We had Budgies. Small noisy sh*t producing things, native to Australia and the Canary Islands. They were all named after my dad’s brothers; so Fred, Billy and I have forgotten the last one. My brother taught them to say the odd word or two and the rest they learned from things my father yelled at regular intervals. Things like “Shut the door.” and “Damn and blast!”  My mother liked to let them out of the cage to fly about a bit and thus upon walking toward our house on occasion, you could clearly see one peeking between the lace curtains to peruse the great outdoors. They didn’t live very long and they stained the wallpaper in the living room. I was not a great fan. 

The idea of a family dog, so often a great deal better than the reality is that you will teach children responsibility. Feed it, clean up after it, teach it to do tricks or at a minimum to behave pleasantly. It would provide companionship, not a huge need for that in a family of seven, it would bind us with a common love. I don’t recall how we came to own the first of so many but his name was Snuffy. We were newly wed and expecting our first child. This puppy was smart, easily housebroken, and I think intuitive because he knew his days would be numbered should he  turn out to be any sort of nuisance. He was also a thief. Living as we did in a small rural town in Ohio, our neighbor was an avid hunter who chose often to clean his prey on his own back stoop. Quite right. The dog however saw this as an open invitation to avail himself of whatever game was hung to cure or await further processing. Never seen by the neighbor or known by us to be undertaking this pursuit, the great mystery remained, who was poaching the hunter’s kill? Finally one bright fall afternoon Snuffy got wind of a carcus and took off up the hill behind our house. Minutes later we heard a great cry and hew as the hunter finally foiled his furry foe.  “Hey, that dog stole my squirrel.” We heard and instinctively knew enough to remain behind closed doors. Of course the hunter knew the dog was ours, we tried valiantly, well the Captain (he was still a First Officer then) did, but to no avail, damn little dog would not give up his catch. Not many weeks later he was hit by a car. We never found out how that happened. 

Several kids and many moves later we found ourselves the proud dog parents of a yellow labrador retriever. The most unintelligent, stubborn, block head of a dog ever known to man. Buster came into the world a hefty untrained pup of about 100 pounds. We had three kids and one on the way, timing was never my forte in these matters. The Captain wore a black uniform in those days, some sort of worsted wool, lightweight but a strong magnet for every hair that Buster shed. Which was a lot, enough to make another fake dog which is what we should have done. He ate through a wall, he ate shoes, purses, toys and clothes. He was never housebroken but he broke our rented house. Literally. He pulled off the spouting from the front of the house and dragged it to the rear. He barked at everything including me and couldn’t walk on a leash unless you were at least 6’5” and weighed about 400 lbs. In the sixth month of our ownership I gave birth to a darling little girl and the Captain broke his ankle rendering him virtually useless in any physical capacity unless the task required hopping. He was very good at hopping. We moved again and this house had a fence, about four feet high. The limping Captain and I now felt some relief at being able to let Buster run about as dogs so love to do, only to watch him the very first day leap over said fence with grace and ease and take off at a jaunty gallop, straight to the main street. We heard the beeping of horns and yelling from drivers,
“Who let this dog off his leash?” Neither one of the responsible parents being physically able to chase the dog, it fell to Dan’s aging grandpa to roam the neighborhood looking for him. The dog cost $200.00, he destroyed another thousand dollars worth of property and I paid a guy $50.00 to take him to his farm and let him be a happy, outside dog. 

One of the best dogs we had was an English Bulldog, Spike. Known to the Captain to be a great breed with very low maintenance. Just getting up to eat required another six hour nap. A stroll from the garage to the house, some fifty feet, would tucker him out completely. The perfect lazy man’s dog. We adored him. He loved the kids, let them sleep on him and cuddle him and in return they allowed him to slobber and slime all over them. A match made in heaven it was. When we moved into the new house I began to notice a gritty, textured substance on the walls, upon closer inspection I saw that it contained microscopic bits of what appeared to be kibble. If you have ever observed a bulldog eat or perhaps seen the movie “Turner and Hooch” you’ll know what I mean. Suffice it to say the slobber and foodie bits came from him, after every meal the great head shaking would commence and all the leftovers from the most recent chow-down would be splattered in slow motion upon the new walls, of the new house. He was a bit of a humper, if you catch my drift, an amorous humper, and not too discerning. A pillow which he would bunch up to the right angle before beginning or even a small child if they sat still for it. Also the plumber’s leg, as the rest of the plumber was under the sink. All very amusing if a little distasteful. Fun to explain to the children what that was all about. He was faithful and affectionate, he left a greasy substance on your hands after you rubbed his head. It was also across the front of all the furniture. We got him a little brother in the form of a Pug, Ike. The first of only two that I have chosen, this little guy was as cute as you would expect him to be and Spike took to being a dad quickly and well. Teaching him to do just as he did, where he did it and how. They romped and barked, pretend growled and generally fell in love with each other. I ran Ike over with the family mini van. Not a great day for motherhood. The children were stoic, upon my greeting them at the school bus and telling them something awful had happened, in unison they cried “Did dad’s plane crash?” Who knew? So running over the dog by comparison was not quite so awful. There was a proper funeral and lessons learned, for me as well as the kids. Spike lived another couple of years but was never the same, he could often be seen lurking about the burial spot, then looking sad. I know, bulldogs always look sad, but he knew, he knew. 

A Jack Russell Terrorist came into our lives next. Let it be known the mutual hate between the two of us was instant, deep and ever lasting. Spike was still alive when Buddy came home and so the lessons began but he showed no respect and was often mean to the old feller. Spike was of course tolerant and eventually a tacit agreement was reached. Buddy ran the ridge, killing everything that was on his ten acre domain. New neighbors wondered where several of their cats had gone, we never said a word. No rodents, very few birds and never a stray cat crossed our territory (or actually Buddy’s) We lived a pest free but terrified existence. He only ever obeyed the Captain who was never home, and he barely tolerated number one son. The rest of us, we girls, lived in a state of constant fear. Eventually Spike went for the big walk and his master found him, having quietly passed away in the front field. He buried him and Buddy went strangely into a deep mourning. He was devastated. He cried and roamed and barked and cried, it was pathetic and of course it made him meaner. A mean dog is funny. So we kept him. One thing you need to know about Jack Russells; they live for EVER. He growled at my friends, our family members and every delivery man who braved the driveway, he chased away small children, bigger dogs and ground hogs which he would bring dead or dying to the front porch at odd hours of the night as a token of his esteem for us. Often the Captain would be forced to finish the kill with a shovel. It’s not that I wished him dead but I was over him long before he was over us or life in general. I spent a holiday weekend in Georgia and whilst gone Buddy decided as dogs will do, that he was not long for this world and it was indeed his time to go walkabout. He roamed down to the front five acres of our little bit of PA heaven and as he lay there waiting for nature to take its course my brother in law and his little girl came whizzing by on a four wheeler. Naturally they “rescued” him. As long as the emergency veterinarian was in possession of my credit card number, which she was via the magic of nation-wide cellular service, all care was duly taken to revive, resuscitate and restore this dog to life. This vet called me for permission to perform all kinds of expensive and invasive tests, all of which I declined saying simply that she should put him to sleep without further ado. Indignant and cross she barked down the phone, long distance shame seeping through the line, “We are nowhere near ready for those kinds of decisions.” My reply was that I had been ready for some time and that no heroic measures were to be taken. Upon my arrival home several days later the poor guy was sent to my own vet who informed us that Buddy had known it was his time, he was riddled with cancer and that we should put him out of his misery forthwith. Now I felt sad. Noble little bastard. My husband arrived home and fetched him from the surgery and when I got home form work that day he looked at the freezer section of my fridge in the kitchen and asked me what we should do with him next!

Mrs. Doubtfire’s Bonnie Wee Lass is snoozing peacefully in her day bed as we speak, a sweet natured playful and stubborn Scottish Terrier (we never learn) Bonnie is my dog but the Captain has stolen her affection with bacon and this chant, “Eggs for a glossy coat.” which he pipes as he lays his almost empty breakfast plate on the floor for her to clean. My grand daughter also shouts this now as she too finishes her breakfast. She’s a good dog, she will most likely be our last. I have not mentioned all of them, there were others, some met an untimely death by UPS and others took off for greener pastures. All were loved in their way and all gave us what they had to give; loyalty, trust, company and life lessons. 

FICTION:

Be careful what you wish for. 

We have all heard this adage and wondered what the point really is. Just, only wish for good things or be careful to only wish for things, that if they come true won’t cause any harm, they won’t kill anyone or maim them for life, is that what it means? Does it mean that even if you know that what you wish for is wrong, then you should somehow stop yourself? There are a few directions that you can go with this. She chose the direction of opposite; she simply didn’t care. She wished him dead and gone. She didn’t want a divorce, she didn’t want the hurts and the dirt and the petty indiscretions brought to the table with lawyers on either side, she didn’t care that he cheated or why, just that he did and it was over. Now he needed to die. How many times she stood at the top of the hill they lived on in the countryside and watched him mow on that bloody tractor; slowly, laboriously, the same every time, the pattern never changing, no deviation from the way he’d always done it. She would watch and imagine him rolling over and over, getting crushed under the size and weight of it, maybe even have his legs sliced off before the safety on the blades ceased their continued spinning. She could see herself waiting to go in and call nine one one, making sure he was dead, no chance for survival. She would take a shower, do her hair and makeup nicely, ready for whomever might show up to save the day. She would have been in the shower when it happened she could say, explaining her delightful yet understated appearance. She would dry her hair and use the curling iron. She’d wear the beige cashmere and the black pencil skirt; she looked good in that, expected, classy. Maybe even add pearls, the ones he bought her for their anniversary. When the ambulance came she would be composed, stoic yet clearly devastated. No police officer could later testify that her reaction was not appropriate to the occasion. Her tears would flow but there would be no embarrassing lines of snot and coughing and general unattractiveness. She would be quoted as having said something like “I just can’t believe it, he was always so careful, whatever could have happened?”

Of course the tractor didn’t roll and he came in as he always did. He would spend exactly two hours out there, come in smelling of diesel fuel and take a shower then complain. Again. How dare he choose to be unpredictable and creative with some one else? She was younger but not much, she was heavier, not as well educated and yet he found her more appealing, exciting, new, different. “Is that all? Just different, not better, not more adventurous?” she had asked, was she willing to to do things she wasn’t? And why could he not have simply asked her to do any of these things, it’s not as if he wasn’t controlling in so many other subtle little ways, checking the calendar when he came home from a trip, silently asking if she had completed her daily to dos. Recriminating glances at Lowes that intimated she was blocking an aisle, not even giving her credit for the capacity to steer a cart without his expert direction. God that infuriated her. She never said a word. For fourteen years she simply wished he would die. She would be at the hospital, by his side until death was declared and would look attractively up into the eyes of a recently widowed doctor who would remember her, and look for her on Facebook after a tasteful period of time. For the funeral, she knew exactly what she would wear, the music she would play, something classical and understated and no hymns, that would annoy his mother, adding to her delight in the funeral arrangements. There would be large expensive pots of gaudy flowers which, were he still alive he would hate, and they would make him sneeze. She would wear a pant suit, again something very expensive and then she’d give it away afterwards. She would have readings from obscure poets that no one would ever have heard of and quotes from foreign writers in the programme which she would spell that way.

For years she envisaged the line of mourners and her sad, ironic smile as she shook their hands, each of them offering short memories and platitudes. And afterwards she would be the talk of the town, how dignified she had been, how great was their marriage, what a tragic ending to such an exemplary couple. Of course in the vision, she would not show up and wail in a barrage of imploring beatitudes. There would be no noisy shuffling her out of the church, no swearing of the mother in law “How fucking dare she show her whore’s face here at this time.” There would not be her son, begging her loud enough for all to hear, to just get out and leave the family in peace. But all that did happen, all the messy public dragnet of filth for the whole world to see, captured and then emptied into the church at his service. For just as she had wished, one spring without warning, he went into the garage to put the mower deck on the tractor, after removing the snow blower, and the thing fell on him and killed him. Instantly. And by God she had been in the bath, but instead of getting dressed she had dialed nine one one instantly and met the paramedics in a dirty bathrobe with egg stains on the front and a splatter of coffee down the side. They came into the house and there was a pile of dishes in the sink as well as two days worth of breakfast cooking pans on the stove, egg-dried and spatulas glued thereto. The laundry room door was ajar and visible to all, a huge pile of unmet needs in the form of sheets and towels, some with the stains of her monthlies visible, awaiting their neglectful mistress. She was forced to throw on sweatpants and rush to the hospital with what was clearly now…his body, to do what, she had no idea, but it wouldn't go well with cashmere and a pencil skirt. 

In the harsh light of the ER she noticed that her socks didn’t match and remembered that her phone needed to be charged. Useless. She couldn’t call the right people to go into her house and clean up quickly to prevent further mortification, she couldn’t call her best friend with whom she had shared all the fantasies of the perfect accidental death to cover for her, bring her make up or a hairbrush. Instead she spent four hours with handsome strangers some even eligible, leaving a lasting impression of sloth and dishevelment. There were no questions asked about how she discovered her husband lying dead under this tractor, the UPS man had found him and banged on the door until she came downstairs, swearing unflinchingly at whom she assumed was her beloved, he who must have locked himself out of the house. There was no need for an autopsy, just a great deal of paperwork and decisions to make. Where would she like to have the body taken and by whom. How the hell would she know this? That had not been a part of the fantasy, why didn’t they ask her about the poetry reading and the music? She took a taxi home where the shower was at last taken and a clean bathrobe found, her best friend arrived and shamed her into cleaning the kitchen, none if this was in the fantasy. 

The debacle of the funeral and the public indignity of it all remained with her for weeks, unlike the fantasy, the only call she received was from the funeral home who had yet to be paid. The life insurance was less than the fantasy too, and the sale of the house she loved, but could no longer afford, was hampered by a weak market, a bad attitude and the need for a great deal of improvement, according to the unenthusiastic realtor who promised to get her out of there in six to nine months. The bills came, she paid them. The job she had did not change, neither did her friends, they just stopped calling and her weekends and nights were a plethora of empty hours filled with her own remorse. The damn grass grew at an alarming rate and she now had to pay someone to come and mow it. She also had to buy a new tractor.