And Now She's Vivian

Almost 8 years ago we adopted a tiny china blue chihuahua. Using our strange but seemingly infallible method of naming (this being we call out names to the puppy and when said puppy responds, we have a name!). This little gal chose the name Della, against many protests from my daughter who said "Mom you just can't name that little dog Della!". To which I replied "It's the name she chose and it's the name she keeps". So for almost 8 years Della has been, well, Della. But today she wouldn't respond to her name, just sat in my lap gazing in my eyes with this earnest expression. And then the thought hit me. Della isn't her name, she must have hiccuped or something and we just thought that was the name she chose. With her focus expressly on my face, I begin saying names to her, just a few. Finally, when I said the nameVivian she started jumping up and down, in a state of excitement, a look of rapture on her little face. And all's well that ends well. Vivian-formerly called Della, is napping now after exhausting herself celebrating and finally landing her true name.

The question? How to make love

True story: A little 5 yr old girl, Becky, asked her mom how to make love. Mom was putting her makeup on and the question caused her to streak her lipstick in places on her face not within the lip line. Anyhow, mom goes to her daughter, probably ready to explain that she would give her an answer when the child is 16 (that's what I would have done) and sees said daughter with crayon poised over a paper. And there it was, the dreaded question. But all Becky wanted to know was how to write the word "love". Parents can be pretty strange sometimes.

Money for a tooth

Remember when you were a kid and you lost a tooth? And you woke up the next morning to find a dime under your pillow? And remember when your own kid lost a tooth and they woke up the next morning to find, because of inflation, 50 cents or even a dollar under their pillow? Well I lost a tooth Monday, a molar. Darn thing was throbbing and had to come out. The tooth fairy didn't visit me this time. It actually cost me $148. So what happened between kidhood and adulthood? When you got paid for losing a tooth and then things change and you have to pay someone to take one out. Something is not right. Not right at all.

The Devil Played Pool

It often happens that people get irritated with each other, especially within your own family. You know more about these people, are intimately connected with varying degrees of emotion and experiences, and therefore have a far greater ability to hurt one another. This happened in our family today because that's when the Devil played pool.
He lined the pool stick up with cool practice, eyed his target, drew back and rammed the cue ball into the middle of my family. Proverbially speaking, and perfect aim by the way. At this point no one is speaking to anyone, one has posted that another family member is now dead to her, I've been removed from her Facebook page, and I'm equally sure that there are now 3 grandchildren without a grandmother. There have been squabbles and petty resentments along the way which may or may not be typical for most families but I figure it's probably not unusual. But what happened today has left my family totally shattered by unpredicable events leaving each family member wounded, befuddled and dazed. Emotions have to be feeling burned and ragged from the intensity of it all. So where do we go from here. It's obvious to me. We have to get the pool stick out of the Devil's hands. But it will take all of us working together to do it. Maybe after some healing and feelings have calmed down. Hey, anyone ever played pool before? The pool stick is in your hands now.

Guilty Nudes

We lived in a modest home on the corner of Summit and Norton Road in Springfield. Our house was primly perched on the leveled top of a small hill with a view out the front window of a pasture full of grazing cattle. And there began my sexual education. Being a child of 5 or 6 I can assure you that sex wasn't even remotely in my vocabularly or understanding but it was sharply slapped to the front of my head one day in church by my mother's loving hand. I had been given pen and paper to occupy myself during the service and scribbled around eventually producing a picture of one of the 'cows' that I saw frequently grazing across the street. Upon proudly presenting my rendition to my mother she grabbed my arm, a look of forboding on her face, and dragged me out of the sanctuary and into the ladies bathroom. My mother never said a word, only emitting various sounds of disgust and loud snorts as she whailed away at my bare nether parts. She then tore my drawing into tiny pieces and made me flush them down the toilet. It was obvious to me that I had drawn something terribly wrong but it was years before I figured it out and the residue of guilt stained my feelings for many years. It's still beyond me why my mother thought the drawing of a bull was bad thing.

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Same house. The street in front was little traveled so we kids were free to ride our bikes, playing chase or wear vegetable cans smashed around each shoe which gave off satisfying clanking sounds with each step. At the bottom of the hill was a double wide culvert under which a miniscule stream trickled. After a rain the stream would grow and pool under the culvert providing hours of splashing, cool fun. My brother and I raced that day wanting to be the first to arrive at the culvert pool. Before I got to the concrete edge of the culvert my brother popped up crowing and waving a magazine high above his head. I demanded to see at which time he dropped the magazine in the water and raced off. I rescued the sinking book and sat down under the culvert to read my new treasure. To this day I can see the image of a naked woman leaning forward, her breasts large, seeming to almost plump themselves off the page. And the caption read "her cups runneth over". I not only threw the magazine in the pool, I stayed to make sure it sank all the way to the bottom. My brother never mentioned the incident to me and I never felt the need to bring it up either. I did find it strange that the good Lord would be making a comment under such a picture.

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For some reason I still haven't figured out, I started first grade at the intrepid age of five. It was immediately obvious to both my teacher, Mrs. Beacham, and myself that we shared a problem that never seemed to improve. Although I found school interesting in general I frequently felt the need to chat with my near neighbors. I made many friends this way but one of them was not Mrs. Beacham. There was no such thing as PMS then in 1953 but I feel pretty sure that is what Mrs. Beacham was experiencing as she marched me to the storage closet. On the way she announced that I would be sharing space with spiders and snakes that lived there, quietly, in the dark. I found myself a spot against the far wall and sat down, watching Mrs. Beacham's feet disappear from view under the closet door. It seemed a perfect time to daydream since my glance around had confirmed there were no critters there to cause me any harm. After an indeterminate amount of time she reappeared at the door and asked sternly if I thought I could sit quietly at my desk. I thought a bit and then said "no. I don't think so". She slammed the door and it was some time before she came back. It's entirely possible that she intended to leave me there overnight. Although Mrs. Beacham and I couldn't claim a complete cure for my chatting problem I did settle down, mostly, to complete my first year of school. I can still view this experience with humor because I'm sure I enjoyed my time in the storage closet much more than did Mrs. Beacham.

But It's Too Early For Halloween

Ir's still too early for Halloween but somehow there are spooky things going on around here. I was in the living room this morning around 5:00 a.m. Della, Iyah and Mendilah (MeanMindy), my three doggy pets, were already fed and cozily tunneled under blankets. Except MeanMindy who continually pesters me. Continually. Anyhow, I'm watching the news while holding Mendy's meedle sharp baby teeth at bay when I hear.....THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD. These were rapid, solid thumps on my front door. MeanMindy jumps up, growling and staring at the foyer. I get up and look out the door window. No one there. I know it can't be my cat Camy because she only knocks on the front window when 1. she's out of food, 2. she wants in, or 3. she's conveying, get the heck out here, there's a stray cat about to attack!. Plus I don't think she can count to five anyway. So what to do. I could play spy lady and warmly wrap up in my wooly bathrobe armed with a flashlight, phone and fog horn lurking beneath my humongous moonflower plant while perched on a comfy cushion from the porch swing. But probably not a good idea because pre-Halloween only comes once a year and that would be a very long wait. So, Della, Iyah, MeanMindy and I will bravely carry on, occupying our living room with our morning routine until the next spooky thing happens. But I warn whomever is doing this. The next time I won't be so charitable because the next time I'm opening the front door and turning MeanMindy loose.

Just Another Day At My House

You know how it takes awhile being around others before you really, really get to know their true selves? Well, we're experiencing this right here at my house. Little tiny Mindelah (Mindy), all of two pounds, apparently has 3 personalities. The first two, Sybil and Eve, can be found in any psychiatry book, and then the precious, adorable Mindy who only enters that third personality when asleep. I have raised a number of dogs but never have I had to deal with a pup that whines wanting to be picked up and then growls fiercely and gnoshes on your fingers, hands, anything she can get her teeth into. She truly has her bluff in on all visitors, running to them and begging to be picked up while I secretly sneer at her fraudulent behavior. You would think she was a timid little thing in need of protection. Not so. Not so at all. While walking the other day Mindy demanded to be down. I didn't want to right then because there was a huge chocolate lab racing toward us. I could just picture the gore my little Mindy would become but then her growling and biting communicated to my nerve endings and I let her go. The lab's owners were screaming, I was screaming, as Mindy playfully approached that behemoth dog. And they began to frolic on the lawn, Mindy charming yet another group of people. Time to go and I pick her up to her growls and chomping on my thumb. I know those people think I mistreat this little heathen and I begin to explain and realize Mindy's precious puppy behavior would trump anything I would explain and make me look even more guilty. So I slink off, snarling puppy in hand, and plan to avoid that block for a very long time.

And then there's the time I was a bit frazzled with grandchildren's visit. Their mother walks in, sees the kids rowdy play and says "you have to play quiet, kids. Your grandmother has PTSD". Just another day at my house.