The Styles With Which We've Grown Accustomed

When I was very young my mother and sister and I lived away from my grandparents and the rest of the family so trips home were special occasions. My grandmother and I were quite close and even after nearly four years there is not a day that goes by when I'm not keenly aware of her absence. Even as a child I knew that we shared a bond that––although not any stronger or more valuable than her relationships with her other grandchildren––was unique and powerful. I was thinking of one of her favorite stories, which involved my departure from Idaho Falls with Casey and my mother. We'd spent a long weekend with Grandma and Grandpa and when the time came to leave I was beside myself with grief. As we said our good-byes in the front yard I began to cry and became inconsolable. My mother practically had to drag me into the car, where even as we drove away I was racked with sobs. Several blocks from their home, Mom finally asked me what was wrong. "I didn't get to kiss Grandma's knees goodbye," I blubbered. My mother had no choice but to turn the car around and take me back where I did indeed hug and kiss my grandmother's knees.

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There are mornings when leaving the apartment is almost unbearable, when Winnie and Pip are curled up in nice little balls around me on the bed, when Duncan is stretched out between us sleeping soundly and Olive blinks her eyes open when the alarm sounds and I stir. She takes turns sleeping on our two pillows and this morning when I turned and tried to get up she reached out her paw and touched my forehead as if trying to push me back down into a warm, blankety slumber. But the shower and tea beckoned and so I rolled out from under the covers and moved down the hall. The kettle took its time coming to a boil and it seemed the shower , too, was lazy in warming up. The sky was gray and even after the blinds had been drawn the morning light was still low and dim. I sat on the couch a long while, my big red blanket pulled up around my chin wondering if I'd ever manage to wake up. Everything seemed to urge me back to bed and although I was more than willing to go I knew I had to go to work in order to keep the animals in the lifestyle with which they've grown accustomed. Duncan was warm and cuddly outside and refused to venture too far from my side. We walked lazily along the edge of the property, each step in the wet grass a long sigh. When I brought him inside he sat in the doorway, cocked his head and frowned at me. I knelt down and he fell against me, licking my still damp hair. He smelled of morning, sweet like citrus and strawberries, and was as warm as a pillow. He did not want me to go and I did not want to. But I grabbed my bag and keys, kissed him on the head and locked the door behind me.

I crossed the parking lot and climbed into my cold car where I sat a few moments while the wipers pushed the water off the windshield. The sweet, licorice mint steam from my mug rose up and coated the windows so I turned on the air until they were clear. I backed the car from my spot and just as I was about to pull away I glanced at the bedroom window where the blue curtains I'd forgotten to pull hung long and limp. There was a rustling and then a sweet red nose appeared. I watched as Duncan pushed his head under the curtain and back out of his face. He sat there watching me watch him. I smiled and put the car into drive just as he reared back and placed both paws against the glass, his head still cocked, the frown still on his face.

That was all it took. I pulled over, left the car running and went back inside where he was waiting for me at the door. We laid down on the carpet and hugged and while his tail wagged and thumped loudly against the tile, he licked my arms and hands, then my head and face. When he was satisfied he climbed to his feet and plopped himself up on the couch, content at last.

Being late for work because the dog won't poop is one thing. Being late because he needed extra love is something else entirely. I'd gladly do it every morning without remorse or shame, for while I'm supporting him in the style with which he's grown accustomed, he's just as busy supporting me in mine.

Reed

This morning, from my spot on the couch, where I've holed up for the past several days, I had a very vivid dream about walking Duncan down Reed, the street my grandparents lived on in Idaho Falls until I was 15 years old. I think it was still some time in the 70's because the people who lived across the street when I was very young were there with their yellow Volkswagen Beetle. And the house next door was occupied both by the obnoxious neighbors with their hundreds of filthy children my grandmother constantly warned us about, and Alice, the kindly woman who replaced them. The big shrubs in front still reached up to the windows, a perfect hiding spot for grandchildren who spent much of their time pretending to be Steve Austin, The Bionic Man (that was me!) and Jamie Sommers, The Bionic Woman (my cousin Sheryl). The wretched Godfrey's were next door in the blond brick house on the corner, and from their garage issued a cacophony of saws and engines and all manner of noise-makers. Grandma was often so frustrated by them that she joked about taking her violin out at five in the morning and playing it under their window just to give them a taste of their own medicine. Grandpa's old turquoise truck was parked out front, as was the dark orange truck he drove to work at Bingham Mechanical. I didn't see Grandma's red Pontiac because it was always parked in the garage. The tree in front was standing at the corner of the front porch, the arc of one of its boughs worn smooth from all the grandchildren sitting in it like we were riding a pony. The short fence, red and peeling, still stood on the side of the house but I couldn't quite see the backyard. I don't know if the apricot tree was in the northwest corner or if it had been taken down. I was very excited to be there with Duncan, happy to finally show him the place where I had spent so much of my childhood, made so many of my happiest memories, from Christmas mornings to Summer afternoon taffy-pulls with Casey and the cousins. I can't think of a more perfect place in all my memories than that street and it seemed right that Duncan should be there with me. There was no feeling of loss or nostalgia, as there was at Christmas when my family drove slowly by to see what had become of the old place (the shrubs in front were cut down to nothing and the tree, the first tree I climbed, was gone) but only a sense of homecoming, timelessness and belonging. And when I awoke, the scene still strong in my head, I did not feel sadness or grief at having passed out of the dream but rather as though I'd been blessed to have been taken there at all, even if only in a dream, with my best friend at my side.

Cat Break

Up until three years ago I always fancied myself a cat person. I got my first cat, Tigger, when I was five. My grandmother noticed her hanging around the wood pile and when she mentioned it to my mother, mom agreed to consider taking her home with us. Several weeks later when we were in Idaho Falls staying with my grandparents, the kitten appeared and Casey and I spent the afternoon playing with her, feeding her and planning on making her a part of our family. When my mother returned from a convention she'd been attending, the kitten had vanished, breaking our hearts. We reluctantly allowed our mother to convince us that we'd get a new kitten once we returned home to Nampa but as we were climbing into the car we discovered Tigger already waiting for us in the backseat, nonchalant, like it meant to be. And it was for the next thirteen years. After Tigger numerous cats came into my life, Pandora, Ling, Cricket and finally Winnie, Pip and Olive and even though dogs were ever present–Skeeter, Auggie, Noah, Nikki and Ashley–I insisted on calling myself a cat person.

Today I changed my mind.

Don't get me wrong, I love my cats. In fact, Winnie is the best cat I've ever had. She's my girl and if I had to choose a favorite from all the kids, it may surprise you to learn that Winnie would take the prize. If I could, she'd get a blog, too, but let's face it, there's not a lot you can do with a cat. They're great cuddlers, incredible contributors to illiteracy, and the best sleeping aid I could ask for, they just don't do much except sleep, eat, groom and puke.

It was the puke that convinced me tonight.

Is there a week I don't clean up cat puke? Pip's favorite game is to stuff himself full of food, drink a ton of water, run around and play with Duncan until he ralphs on the carpet. Olive, who had a rough evening with a Boxer several years ago, prefers the safety of the bedroom. After eating far too much she'll retire to her favorite place on Ken's pillow, moving to mine only when she feels the need to empty the contents of her stomach. Winnie is a dainty little eater. Her only vice is one of my several spider plants. She can't resist climbing up high to bat at them and chew on the leaves, which immediately come up in green little piles on the counter, the back of the couch, amid the pages of a favorite cookbook I've left open and vulnerable.

There's no stopping them. I spray the plants with cayenne pepper. I'm careful about the amount of food they get. I try. I really do. But, as anyone who lives with them knows, you might as well move a mountain than change the will of a cat.

Lost

I was six years old when my mother finally moved us back to southeast Idaho from Boise. My sister and I had been born in Idaho Falls, but Pocatello was less than an hour away and we looked forward to being able to spend more time with our grandparents and cousins. Our move coincided with my first day of school and even though we only lived a block away from Lewis & Clark Elementary, and even though I'd been a latch-key kid the previous year, my mom insisted I walk from school to The Jolly Daycare Center every day after class let out. The trouble was I could never remember exactly where the damn daycare was located, which was really just the converted basement of Mr. and Mrs. Jolly's home. My mother drove the route from school to the Jolly's several times, and one of my teacher's had arranged to either escort me herself or have an older, wiser third grader show me the way. I was so busy talking about remembering the way to school, with whomever was escorting me, that I never really paid that much attention to the route itself. Plus, the older boy held my hand as he'd been instructed to do and I think some portion of my focus must've gone in that direction. Somehow or another that first week I managed to arrive at the Jolly's front step without ever being aware of quite how I got there. Oh well, I thought. I'm here, no need to worry.

And then week two arrived. I still had no idea how exactly I was supposed to get there and passed my day coloring and learning to count and hoping I presented a reasonable facsimile of the sort of kid who knows how to get from Point A to Point B. It wasn't until class let out and I set off on my own that I got into trouble.

I wasn't all that excited about arriving anyway. Unlike other daycares I attended with my sister, this one was no fun. The Jollys were horrible people who had almost as many children themselves as children they were paid to look after. The Jolly kids, many of them older than myself, were not good people, and treated the rest of us poorly, which somehow escaped the attention of the teachers the Jollys had hired to do their dirty work. At one point I remember being locked in a basement room without a window with thirty other kids. When the lights were turned out we all began to scream and pound on the walls but no one came to our rescue. It seemed like an eternity before someone finally released us, although I will admit, being locked in the dark at the age of six in a very small place with countless kicking and screaming other warm bodies can produce the sensation of a much longer period of time. The Jollys provided barely edible snacks and taught us Mormon Sunday school songs, which even then rubbed me the wrong way. It made perfect sense to me why I was in no hurry to get to daycare: singing "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree" while choking down a piece of dry graham cracker would be too much for anyone.

I never made it to the Jollys on my own. That first day, the one and only time I attempted it I ended up making a wrong turn and found myself on McKinley Avenue, which seemed a large and extremely busy road to my six year old eyes. Up and down the street I wandered and as the panic began to grow I realized I was about to face the kind of situation every first grader had been warned about: I knew I'd have to talk to a stranger, not just talk to one, but approach and strike up the conversation which would surely lead to my death. We'd all seen the reel to reel films of little Jimmy getting into the long, green station wagon driven by the fat, bald man, probably a homosexual, who offered Jimmy candy and other treats. Once Jimmy climbed in, it was a slow fade to black and the police officer climbing the steps to Jimmy's parents front door was explanation enough as to the fate that had befallen that little idiot who'd been seduced by the dark powers of a handful of butterscotch candies. I knew enough to steer clear of passing cars, but I also knew that I'd have to knock on someone's door, which would most likely be the very home where little Jimmy had been taken to spend the last, sugar-high minutes of his short life. The sun was sitting low in the west and I knew I needed help fast. Thoughts of innocent, golden-haired me roaming McKinley Avenue after dark, and every day and night ever afterward, flashed through my brain. God only knew what would become of me.

Hysterical and with tears pouring down my face I stopped on the sidewalk before two houses. There was a momentary dilemma as I tried to decide which one to choose. The one on the right looked like any ordinary home, green siding, a small front yard, a truck parked in the driveway, someone's bike leaning against the mailbox. The house on the left was white, the yard was immaculate, flowers had been planted in nice little rows in narrow little beds all along the property. It smelled of cookies and I could hear a woman singing from somewhere inside. The house on the left seems the obvious choice, right? Wrong! Picking that house would surely equal death! I'd heard the story of Hansel and Gretel enough to know you never pick the good-looking cottage, not unless you're jumping at the opportunity to be fattened up and turned into a gingerbread cookie!

Right it was. Hardly able to see through my tears and gasping for breath, I reached out my small, pale hand and knocked lightly on the door. I could hear someone moving around inside, someone big from the sound of his steps. I backed up and questioned myself. Were trolls easier to escape than witches? At least the witch had been nearly blind and easily fooled by a chicken bone. Trolls could smell children! I was doomed!

But a troll did not open the door. Instead it was a man, probably as old as I am now. He was tall, wore bright blue jeans and a nicely pressed white button-up shirt. He had dark hair, glasses and large, tan hands. When he saw a crying child on his step he knelt down and held the door open as I explained through gasps that I was lost, looking for the Jolly Daycare center and was afraid I'd die alone on the street. I asked if he knew where it was, could he point me in the right direction. He knew exactly where to find it, not five blocks from where he lived; his own children had gone there years before, and he'd be more than happy to take me there himself. But first he wanted to call the Jollys and let them know I'd been located and would be arriving shortly. Everything seemed to be going well–no monsters or witches, no horrible candy-wielding men in station wagons–until he invited me inside. Here was the moment. Did I go inside and face certain death or did I reconcile myself to a lifetime of street-walking? Obviously I chose certain death, but only because it offered a cool glass of water and free ride back to the daycare. After making the call and letting me finish my drink the kindly stranger drove me back to the Jolly's house and explained that I shouldn't knock on strange doors, but if I was ever lost on his street I was to find him. I agreed, and feeling a bit like the returning hero, I walked up the front step where Mrs. Jolly, a horrible woman with a beehive as tall as the temple in downtown Salt Lake, stood waiting. She smiled and waved as the man drove away, but once he was out of sight she grabbed me by the arm, yanked hard and ushered me into the dark room where I sat alone, crying once again, for the next half hour. I was finally released to play outside with the others until my mother arrived to retrieve her children. Mrs. Jolly never told my mom what happened, but once I recounted the harrowing events of the day, my mom went back and confronted her. I never saw that crummy little house with the mistreated children ever again, and to this day I couldn't tell you how to get there.

That was thirty years ago, and although I may have occasionally taken a wrong exit or turned down the wrong street once or twice, I haven't been lost like that since.

Until today.

(My what a long lead-in to the actual story, which, it will turn out, isn't nearly as exciting as you'd suppose)

Duncan and I again skirted the edge of the park, but rather than walk across it, we turned west, crossed Pierce and walked down Leawood toward the elementary school there. It's a nice walk, with the little houses and manicured lawns that often remind me of home. We've walked it two or three times before, but today I just kept going, my thoughts caught up in other things, and before I knew it, the sun had set, the nearly full moon had risen and the warmth of the afternoon had faded. Many of the streets in the area twist and turn and several end in sudden little culdesacs. After nearly two hours I still couldn't find my way out of the inescapable neighborhood, so I started using the moon as my guide. Duncan, who wasn't able to spot the four rabbits he chased without my assistance (I swear, he's got the hunting ability of a carrot), was absolutely no use. If we'd been transported to one of those after-school TV shows about kids lost in the woods with only a pack of food and their trusty dog, we'd be dead long before the kindly park ranger or the wizened, but comical, hermit came to our rescue. Duncan would simply chase rabbits as I pointed them out and I be forced to give him bits of our last scraps of graham cracker as a reward.

I've claimed many times that Duncan has led me to poetry, he's shown me beauty and taught me lessons that I strive to remember every day. He just isn't able to show me the way home. But I still love him. We're just not going anywhere too far without a map.