Inspired by Lens-Artists Photo Challenge: Precious Pets
…We have a dog. Her name is Kaki. She is a beagle…
Kaki
That was the grand announcement in my diary for January 1, 1965 for the first (and last) dog to appear during my childhood. Three scrawled blue ink sentences interspersed between waxing my new white bike, describing my parents’ Open House and watching The Addams Family and Gomer Pyle that night on television.
Kaki’s arrival actually happened on Christmas Eve 1964. I imagine she was supposed to be a Christmas present for me and my 3 younger siblings…
…We have a surprise for you all!
The front door opened and a small dog broke loose from my father’s grip. She started running – taking off down the hall through the kitchen and into the dining room. From there she ran straight into the 4 of us waiting in the living room. Where a fully decorated Christmas tree was standing in the corner. All hell broke loose.
We all chased her. She ran faster. Repeating the circular path around the main floor of the house. Kitchen-Dining Room-Living Room. My parents yelled. The next thing I remember, our new dog ran into the tree and grabbed ornaments in her mouth. Glass ornaments. The tree may have tipped over. I was petrified. She’s swallowed glass. She might die!
My remembering gets murky after that. I think my father finally caught her and checked her mouth. Gave her bread to eat, which was supposed to stick to the shards from the ornament. Perhaps the actual drama was shorter lived, but it was scary for all of us – Kaki (named for her brown colored ears) was probably the most scared.
It was my mother’s well meaning idea to give us a dog. I think it completed her dream of the ideal family unit: mother, father, 4 kids and a dog. In her dream we would all help take care of it. Without complaint. The dog would, of course, behave perfectly. There would be no peeing on the floor. No chewing on furniture. Eating the pompoms off the tablecloth. Throwing up on the rug.
Unfortunately for Kaki, she behaved about as perfectly as the imperfect children in this less than ideal household. She was a sweet dog, though. I enjoyed walking her around the block. Searching the neighborhood (repeatedly) for her when she escaped out the front door…not so much. I wonder now if my parents ever brought her to obedience school.
Several years later (4 or 5?) my parents gave her away to a single guy (I think he was a veteran) who wanted a dog. I don’t remember why or when or how.
When I had a family of my own – including a daughter and a son – the subject of getting a dog came up a few times. My husband and I decided we had enough to do with jobs, a house, kids and activities. I saw first hand as a child…dogs are a lot of work and take a lot of time. And sometimes it doesn’t go according to plan.
When you grow up, you can have your own dog!…was our standard answer.
And they did.
My daughter and her husband adopted a rescue dog in 2014. Lutra is a well loved (and well trained!) member of the family. She loves squeaky chew toys, cheese and helping out with crumbs below the chair belonging to the newest human member of the family. She does not like squirrels or cats and lets them know it too.
My 3 year old grandson considers Lutra to be his dog.
Lutra
My son finally got a dog of his own this past February. He and his girlfriend also adopted a rescue dog. It had been found lost on a highway in Arkansas with no chip or ID. They discovered him on an adoption site online and he arrived via a freight truck at a rest area nearby. We went with them to pick up their new pet.
They were understandably a bit nervous – after all they lived in a small 4th floor walkup apartment in Boston. A high strung barking dog would be a challenge. The agreement included a 2 week trial period, but as it turned out…they had nothing to worry about. It was a perfect match. We could see it that cold day in the parking lot as they met for the first time….
What does it mean to recover? What would full recovery look like, and is there such a thing? Recover from what?
~~~
Everything else you grow out of, but you never recover from childhood.
Beryl Bainbridge
Time to come in for dinner!
Whoops.
It became kind of a family joke when I was a kid – that I often ended up needing stitches on Thanksgiving…or Easter. Usually a holiday with visiting grandparents. More than once.
I’m not sure how many times it actually happened, but as I recall I’d be sent outside to play while the turkey was roasting. In my dressy clothes and patent leather shoes, I’d start running around like usual…climbing the monkey bars…swinging on the swings…riding my bike. Jump roping. Inevitably, without my “play shoes” on, I’d slip and fall. Many times on the cement patio or out in the street. Back then, we played in the street. Kickball. Baseball.
Before long there was blood everywhere…a huge gash on my chin, forehead or knee. At the same time the turkey was just about ready to carve.
I’d ruin the rest of the day as someone would have to take me to the Emergency Room – or the pediatrician’s office…who would be called in on a holiday (this was the 1950’s & ’60s…and they did that then) to stitch me up.
I obviously healed and recovered from the consequences of my holiday mishaps. The stitches were eventually removed. The scars faded, but remain….
I was branded for the duration of my childhood. My fearlessness and budding athleticism were not what a girl should be. My mother enrolled me in the “Junior Miss Club” when I was about 10…where I was supposed to learn how to be more ladylike. It met weekly after school and included practice walking with a book on my head. The goal was to keep it there. Boring as sin and to this day I am mystified at why that was a desirable skill. Ballet was almost as frustrating. Too slow and regimented. Baton twirling lessons were a disaster.
Girls who liked to play outside and get dirty and collect bees in jars and play baseball in the street were not “normal” girls. We were called tomboys. And grew up to prefer jeans to dresses. My poor mother desperately wanted me to be a normal daughter. She never got what she wanted, despite her heroic efforts. Which continued through my high school years.
Nobody has a perfect childhood. Nobody.
However, I have to believe some sort of recovery is possible…
This week, we will explore different ways of framing images. Many photographers agree on one thing about framing – that it can help direct the viewers‘ eyes to where you want them to look.
~~~
It’s hard to believe the summer of 2019 is – for the most part – in the rear view. I don’t know what it is about summer, but it always seems to “go by” faster than winter with its endless cold dark days.
This summer, we traveled more than usual. Not very far…Vermont in June and Washington DC in June and August. No trips overseas or cross-country. Which is okay…longer distance travel is probably not going to happen anymore. Also okay.
As always – no matter how far I travel – I document. My ongoing attempts to freeze time.
For this challenge, these 2 shots came to mind.
The first one is from our three day June visit with friends on Lake Champlain in North Ferrisburgh, Vermont. We witnessed spectacular sunsets over dinner from their back porch.
At one point venturing closer to lake’s edge for unobstructed views…
Sunset on Lake Champlain – framing the shot
During our second visit to Washington DC we spent a few hours babysitting for our 3 year old grandson. A few blocks away his parents started painting his new bedroom a pale shade of pink…in preparation for their move a few days later.
I think he sensed that big changes were in the air. After an hour of making multiple garages with magnetic tiles for his miniature construction trucks with Grandma & Grampa, he became restless and began looking for Mama.
That is, until we heard a Home Depot flatbed delivery truck across the street. The front porch offered the best view…as we watched one man unload a large pallet of lumber and building materials. By himself! With an attached forklift! Fascinating stuff for a lover of all things construction.
Several minutes of respite for a 3 year old…and for Grampa too.
During a rare visit from long distance family, I caught this moment of rest for three very sweaty and tired cousins. Collapsed on the living room floor after a hot August day spent playing outside in our backyard. More than ready for some down time.
My son and two of his cousins…watching television all in a row.
This week, let’s think about the beliefs – personally, socially, culturally – that define our realities.
~~~
The most profound disappointment in life is when your truth is not believed.
When reality becomes distorted. By people who matter. And even by people who don’t matter.
But those close to you…that’s when the knife cuts the deepest. Because the hope hangs on. And on. And on. Maybe if this, maybe if that….then they’ll believe me.
Wait, I know that’s what happened. I was there. I heard it. I saw it.
But what if we are programmed from an early age to tell the world – or, more specifically, our world – family, friends – no everything is just fine.
My father would stare into the sad face of one of his children and chant over and over: Don’t Smile! Don’t Smile! Don’t Smile! Laughing…as he repeated his mantra. He’d crouch down and get right in front of a small unhappy face, his mouth stretched tight in a wide grin. His brown eyes, behind thick glasses, betrayed the frivolity. They were mocking. Perhaps fearful.
As if we presented the impossible possibility that one so small and helpless could struggle with an emotion so complicated, so fraught with need.
Need for compassion, understanding, some measure of support. Validation. That we mattered.
I understand now why. He had no idea how to respond. Maybe he was overwhelmed. As it reflected his own dark emotional beliefs. The message: Don’t Be Sad. Deny the Sad. It’s not okay.
Of course, it didn’t take long for our smiles to take shape. If for nothing else, to make the laughing father stop. Smiles did not match up with the eyes or heart. And especially they did not reflect our truth.
My mother, on the other hand, would ask us what we did wrong to cause this emotion that made her so uncomfortable.
Life seldom unfolds in straight lines. It’s not necessary to repeat the prompt phrase, but this week let’s think about the times when life has turned an abrupt corner, or caught us off guard.
~~~
This topic jettisons me back almost 30 years to one of those moments. Which caught me off guard…and remains clear in my memory even now.
You hear so much advice as a new parent. Or a young parent. It comes at you from every direction. Other parents. Friends. Family members. Books. Magazine articles. I’m talking pre-internet…when I was raising children.
In the midst of all this advice, there were times I neglected the inner barometer. My parenting radar and instincts still not fully developed.
My 3 year old son’s 8 month experience at a local daycare center was one of those times. When I should have picked up on the signs. That it wasn’t the best place for him; even at only 2 days a week.
Irritability. Anger. Clingyness. But not all the time. I increasingly felt something was off, but rationalized my uneasiness…as over-reacting to normal toddler adjustments.
Until an exchange one evening while changing his diaper. When paying attention became front and center. And a turning point for me…
I am a bad boy.
The words jarring and new…from a child who talked little. Dark green eyes glanced up at me, and then away.
I froze; his two ankles balanced between the fingers of my left hand as I tried to still their movement. He was anxious to be off the changing table. Arms and legs swinging up. Down. Sideways. Body twisting. Trying to roll over. Two damp middle fingers plunged deep in his mouth. No more words came as the sucking became rhythmic.
With my free hand, I smoothed blonde hair back from his forehead.
His eyes met mine. Sweetie…You are a Good Boy. A wonderful boy. And I love you!
I pulled the diaper up between his legs and gently held it on his belly. I let go of his legs. They scissored the air like bike pedals. Wrinkled fingers slid out of his mouth.
Bad Boy he repeated.
I leaned closer…You are the best boy in the whole world.
He strained to be upright. I pinned the diaper, pulled up the pants and stood him on the table. We were almost eye-to-eye.
I felt my outrage growing, the tears close behind….
You Are A Good Boy.
I kissed his cheek. Wrapped my arms around him. Lifted him up. He hooked his little boy legs around my waist and rested his head on my shoulder. His body finally still.
I knew there was only one place he could have heard those words…and gotten that message.
I withdrew him from the daycare center.
I quit my consulting job.
one letter UP ~ diary 2.0 