Farewell to Summer

Leawood seemed a perfect place to walk tonight, this last night of August, when--even though the calendar says otherwise--I always feel the finality of summer. It is a neighborhood much like the one I grew up in, where the people seem to know each other, a man is always puttering around the garage while his wife tends to the flowerbeds that line the narrow sidewalks and some child or another rides a bike in endless circles in the driveway, their tires smoothing and softening the pavement as they go. It is a comfortable place, always somewhat nostalgic and sad, like something remembered rather than walked through, a place left behind, caught in the amber of time. Duncan loves it for its bunnies and for the sweet fragrance of barbeque. I love it because I sometimes imagine buying a house there, a small one with a nice yard where Dunc can run and chase squirrels as they dart across canopy of aspens, hiding among the palm-sized leaves of the towering cottonwoods. I would be happy there because it would be home.

For a long time I have felt homeless, without a place to call my own. Denver never seemed to be the place I belonged, but truthfully, I don't know if there is a place for me, other than memory and daydreams. But that's okay because as the sun sets on this day, as the cicadas fall silent and the crickets take their place, as the stars come alive in the emptiness of the evening sky, I feel at home with reflections of this summer, spent with an incredible man and an incredible dog at my side, playing at the river, taking long walks around the lake and through the park, driving to Idaho to climb the sage and juniper-covered hillside behind my mother's house, spending time with my family, laughing and talking, cooking great meals, rediscovering the art of adventure and togetherness. That is home and that is where I take my comfort as summer slips away and the cool nights of September blow through the window.

Where we love is home,
Home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
(Oliver Wendell Holmes)

June Hymn

The tragedy of the Russian Olives, so precious to me, is that they do not endure. Last night, after an afternoon with heat so heavy my feet and chest ached walking through it, I caught what was surely the last hint of perfume from the tree that saturated my apartment only two weeks ago with its lemon-honey, mint fragrance. Duncan and I strolled down The Run as the sun was setting and the world was beginning to turn blue. I'd hoped the evening had cooled but was wrong. Not even the grass could offer consolation to Roo when he plopped down in it and rolled onto his side, his tongue hanging out.

I have been watching those magnificent yellow blossoms darken and plump up, their weight enough to pull the limbs of the tree low to the ground as they do when a heavy, wet, late-spring snow falls on them. But slowly, over the past week those flowers have bleached under the scrutiny of the sun's light and those branches have begun to cast them off and rise back up. Their fragrance has diminished and I have felt that space in my spirit which has been so fulfilled by it begin to ache with a longing for next June.

I stood a long time at the fence and breathed it in, closing my eyes with the hope of not wasting a single cherished ounce of it. Finally the breeze off the golf course changed direction and it was gone. I stood a long time watching the shadows gather around the base of the tree and turned my thoughts to July when the Lindens blossom and the world is sweetened one last time before the brutal charge of August and the inevitable cooling of September.

As beautiful as the summer solstice was I could not help but feel melancholy at its arrival. For six months my eyes and heart have watched the sun rise higher and higher in the sky, staying longer each day, tasting sweeter on the tongue and caressing my skin more tenderly as it did so. There are still many months of summer left, especially in Denver where it can sometimes last into late October, but its too easy for me to forget that and focus on its passing. So tonight I let Duncan lead me down Leawood, the quiet neighborhood that almost feels as though it's a part of my past, the kind of place where I wish I owned a porch and could oversee my children and grandchildren as they play in the yard under the grove of Aspens I have planted and watched grow for thirty years. We have not been there lately and it seems we only go when I need to be reminded of something or when I feel detached and wandering. It is a place of found objects so I knew that going there would ground me in these last days of June and reignite my passion for the remaining days of Summer. As we passed through it I began to softly whistle "June Hymn" by The Decemberists, and I felt the exuberance of the season return with each step we took, with each bunny Dunc wanted to rouse from their lazy loungings in the shaded grass, with the color bursting all around us, even from the sidewalks that held our weight as we passed across them.

It was enough to make June fresh and new again, to liven my step and remind me of the magic still so strong this summer. It is too early to mourn its passing despite the yellowing of the white blossoms and whitening of the yellow ones. The freckles are still strong on my cheeks and arms, and the low vibrato of bee song among the symphony of the flowers is still joyous and lively.

A barony of ivy in the trees
Expanding out its empire by degrees
And all the branches burst to bloom
In the boom
Heaven sent this cardinal maroon
To decorate our living room

And once upon it
The yellow bonnets
Garland all the lawn
And you were waking
And day was breaking
A panoply of song
And summer comes to Springville Hill.

(The Decemberists, "June Hymn")

Double Two

The family was playing catch in the park. They, and the friends who'd joined them, were young, perhaps only in their mid-20's. It was a perfect day with temperatures in the low 70's. The sky to the north and west was threatening to cloud over but the air was warm and without a breeze. The men and their young sons had their shirts off while they tossed the ball. The grass was green all around them and because the sun was so bright the shadows of the trees were crisp and dark. The smell of hamburgers drifted across the soccer field from the grill where the two women––no more than girls, really––tended to lunch, spreading the buns and jars of condiments on the picnic table, checking the patties, chatting softly amongst themselves over the portable CD player they'd brought. Two daughters, uninterested in the baseball or the cooking were wandering across the field gathering sticks from the grass. The blond girl was taller and older than her companion, a child not yet four, who wore shorts and a diaper. When they spotted Duncan and me trotting along the edge of the hillside overlooking the big willow they stumbled toward us in that way children have when they run and their legs are still not quite yet used to it.

Duncan did not want to tend to business. Most walks he'll go as soon as I simply show him the bright green plastic bag with the words "Poopy Pouch" printed across the front beneath a cartoon of a squatting dog. Once he sees that he'll begin sniffing until he finds his spot and then, after I turn my back, will take care of things. But today he did not want to. He looked at me with the kind of vacancy most people reserve for foreigners and merely trotted along. "Duncan, go!" I urged him. "When you go we'll take a long walk down Leawood and hunt for bunnies." His ears perked at their mention but he soon lost interest. So we wandered here and there, up to the skate park and finally down to the long grass and reeds that grow around the willow. I figured the privacy might be beneficial but he didn't care and pulled me up the hillside. After wandering back and forth for a few minutes he seemed to have found what he was looking, that perfect place in the long, cool grass. It was when he started to squat that the little girls spotted us.

They squealed and ran straight toward us. "Puppypuppypuppypuppy," the little one chanted as she climbed the hill on her fat, unsteady legs. Duncan stood up quickly, as though caught in the act and wagged his tail as they approached. I sighed and put a smile on my face, giving him the hand signal to sit and wait.

They paused a few feet away. "Can we pet your dog?" the older one asked. Once I gave them permission they stepped forward and began stroking Duncan's back and shoulders, running their little fingers over his ears and across his nose. The stains on their faces and hands told me they'd been eating ice cream. Duncan began lapping at them, moving back and forth between the two until they giggled loudly.

"What is his name?" the blond asked.

"Duncan," I told her.

"Duncan," she said as though feeling the word in her mouth for the first time. "That's an awkward name," she frowned. "Are you walking Duncan?"

"I sure am," I said. "I'm trying to get him to go potty."

The older one nodded thoughtfully. The little one stepped up. "Doesn't he like to potty?" she asked.

"Sometimes he does but I think he's shy."

She nodded. "I'm not shy," she said thoughtfully. And then, a moment later added "And I like to potty." Then, without hesitation, she arched her back, farted loudly and promptly filled her diaper, grinning wildly at me as she went.

That was all the approval Duncan needed. He immediately squatted and did the same.

It's a glamorous life I lead.

Lilacs and Forgiveness

I was not a good papa tonight. Not only did Pip spend the day locked in the bedroom closet, where he'd wandered this morning while my back was turned, curling up in a tight little ball on the clean linens, but I was late getting home as well. I'd planned to leave work a few minutes early but once outside I spotted a small lilac bush and insisted on crawling through the shrubs to pick off a small sprig of fragrant purple flowers. I realized I hadn't had an opportunity to enjoy them this Spring and had just been lamenting the fact that I'd probably missed my chance for another year. When I saw them I couldn't resist and once I had them in my hand I held them close to my face, breathing in the scent which reminds me of my childhood and my grandmother. Driving home I felt nostalgic and eventually found myself at my previous job visiting for a long time with old colleagues.

It was nearly eight o'clock before I got home, long overdue. Dunc was sitting on the bed in the window, wiggling and yelping as though he thought I'd abandoned him forever. I carried my things up the stairs, my tiny clutch of lilac pinched in my curled fist. No sooner had I opened the door than Duncan jumped up on me, knocking the flowers to floor where he tromped joyously all over them, smashing them and scattering the tiny petals across the tile and carpet. I scooped them up and held them to my face one last time, thinking of Grandma and the smell of her yard all those years ago.

I leashed up Roo and took him outside. He pulled me downstairs and tended to business almost immediately. It was a long time before he was ready and when he was he knew where to go. We sidestepped the park and ventured down into Leawood. A warm wind came up, churning the leaves in the trees and waving across the long grass. Duncan kept pausing and turning his face into it, closing his eyes a moment in rapturous glee. Then he'd stare at the sky and the miles-tall cumulonimbus cloud which looked like the curled hand of an old woman, soft and white, wrinkled and cottony. Time and time again he did this, pausing to watch the cloud, which slowly unfurled, the fist relaxing, the fingers straightening and the palm opening to the fading gold of the sun like the secret insides of a flower. Ignoring the places he knows the bunnies congregate he pulled me down the street as though leading me in a specific direction. When we finally turned the corner across from the elementary school he stopped in front of a tall copse of white and purple lilacs, a mountain of them, all still new and wonderfully fragrant. He sat, turned his face skyward and seemed to smile at the cloud which had flattened out, one long finger pointing at us, to the place he'd led me where the lilacs still bloomed.

He sat quietly at my feet while I gathered a small handful, carefully plucking each and holding them to my nose, breathing in the memory of years passed. I don't know how long I stood there, eyes closed. The sun had drifted below the horizon and the clouds in the north and west had smeared across the sky, sparking with distant lightning. When he knew I was ready Duncan stood, stretched and led me back home, waiting patiently for dinner while I filled a small glass with water in which to place my treasure.

He's sitting at my feet now, licking my ankles and occasionally glancing up at the flowers resting next to me on the end table.

Pippin won't have anything to do with me, of course, and is no doubt planning the most opportune moment to retch on my pillow. It would be a bad thing but the lilacs somehow make it better before it's even happened.

Painted in Amber

The light was old tonight, Autumnal and hollow, yellowed and fraying at the edges like a postcard from a forgotten age. The sky was overcast and gray except for one corner above the mountains where the clouds opened up like the mouth of a wide cup and spilled the most luxurious and somehow muted light I've ever seen. My grandmother once shared with me some postcards she'd collected while living in Germany in the 30's. They were black and white, but painted, like badly colorized movies on Turner Classics, and driving home after work today looking at the sky I couldn't help but remember them and wonder where those cards are now, whose hands have held them, what drawer they've been tucked into, moments, precious but forgotten, painted in amber.

It was a lonely sky, and although it was still quite warm, hot even, it looked cold and made me shiver thinking of taking Duncan out for a walk down Leawood. I climbed the long flights of steps, slipped the key into the lock and turned the knob. The apartment was dark except for a brilliant splash of golden light, so much more vivid than anything I'd seen on the ride home, as though the single ray of sunlight in all the world had found its way into my sanctuary and was waiting for me. Olive was sitting in it, one paw resting on Duncan's blue bone. She meowed softly when I closed the door behind me and entwined herself around my ankles as I set my things down on the couch. Duncan ambled down the hall, stretched and yawned and smiled as he does when he knows a walk is soon to come. The three of moved into the office and sat on the floor in the light together, enjoying the quiet and wealth of the moment.


For awhile, as we sat and leaned against each other, Olive rolling her cheeks and chin first against Duncan and then me, and Duncan smiling and chirping, never taking his eyes off of me, there was no better place to be in all the universe, as if the only sun in eternity was shining its light on us and calling us good, promising that moments like this would never be forgotten.

Things Remembered

There are a plethora of things I struggle to remember, such as the four constantly changing user-names and passwords assigned to me at work, or the combination of the safe, or even my own phone number, but Duncan, my genius dog, remembers each and every place he's every spotted a rabbit, chased a squirrel or found a tennis ball.

Our walks--through the park, down Leawood, or even around the lake--have become an exercise in memory as Duncan forces me to wait while he inspects the hedges in the yard in front of the apartment, or the lumpy lawn just off the patio behind Hopps Bar and Grill. There are easily ten different spots at the edge of the lake in front of the retirement community which demand his attention, and the entirety of the square cinder block management office at the park where the rabbits have set up a home base of sorts. First we sneak down on them from the side of Rebel Hill, yellowed and crumbling with slowly drying mud. Then we pace the edge of the chain-link fence where they roost on the safe side, their backs turned to us in feigned indifference, an act which drives Roo crazy, eliciting whines and pants and the occasional leap forward, all which cause them to rocket under a nearby shed or parked golf cart. Once the herd has been scattered he pulls me around the side and front of the building, sometimes right up to the office door where rabbits been known to crouch in the bushes like breathing rocks. I have lost track of the number of yards in Leawood where Duncan has hunted, but our constant exploration of those places has earned us familiar waves from the home-owners, many of whom remember his name. "Hello, Duncan," they call, holding their hands out for his inspection. "I haven't seen any rabbits today, but come back tomorrow!" they encourage him, running their fingers through the long curls on his back and patting his hind end as he moves on to the next hedge row. He pauses at countless trees in search of a squirrel he once chased up its trunk and scours the edge of the baseball diamonds for the balls which sometimes roll away and are forgotten. Once, a few months ago he pulled me along the fence where he'd once sniffed out the brightest green tennis ball in his collection only to find a discarded athletic cup lurking under the dead leaves. There is very little that escapes his attention and even less that slips out of his head.

Except for one thing. While I still struggle with my address he has difficulty remembering we live on the third floor. He's content to climb one flight of stairs and head to the first apartment on his left. It takes a great deal of coaching to convince him he has one more set of stairs to go and it's never accomplished without a disapproving, furrowed brow sort of side glance and a deep, heavy sigh before he follows after me.

It's been a month, and most walks around the complex inevitably take us past our old apartment, which has been painted, carpeted, refurbished and finally looks ready for new tenants. I try to pass by without reflecting too hard on the changes we've been through as of late but Duncan, Finder of Rabbits, Squirrels and Balls, always leads us up the walk, down the breezeway and to our old front door, where he pauses as though waiting for me to remove his leash and guide him inside.


He never forgets.

Another Evolution

The world feels as though it is slowly greening up around me but having lived in Denver for the past nine and a half years I know better than to trust the weather. We folk on the edge of the Front Range have enjoyed seventy-degree temperatures for the past week, sitting out on the grass in our t-shirts and shorts, taking long lunches outside in the shade of our naked trees, biking to work. It has been a bittersweet heaven and there has been something almost rabid in our enjoyment of it because we know it will not last. A few months from now while the rest of the world is warming up and basking in the delicious golden glow of the sun we will be hunkered down under feet of snow and fierce winds desperately clinging to the memory of our brief January and February springtime.


Duncan and I have walked for hours and hours, across the park, where the shirtless boys have gathered at the skate park, showing off for the girls who snap their gum and twist their hair around their nervous fingers while they watch. Bees and fat hairy flies have suddenly appeared, flying recklessly, sometimes smacking right into us before bouncing away. The little birds practically scream their joy from the barren branches outside my windows, which sit open, wide and cool and fresh, filling my apartment with skittish hope. We have walked down Leawood, examining the dry hard patches which will soon overflow with flowers and clover and lavender and make nice little resting spots for the bunnies Duncan loves so much. Duncan and I are perfect companions for we both crave attention to detail nearly as much as air and water and sleep. We take our time, going slow, stopping to check in with each other and share in our discoveries. The world may be evolving around us, but we are in no hurry to reach a destination. After all, it's the journey that matters most, fair or foul weather.

I'm not sure how much longer we'll be here. Ken and I have decided we need to move to a smaller apartment in an effort to save money and although I hope we don't venture too far from where we live now, I'm not sure my windows will continue to overlook the park and lake we have explored and watched over in the dark months and have grown to love so deeply during the light ones. Duncan––who has spent the past two years memorizing the places where the bunnies roost and the trees where the squirrels squat and scream down at us––may have to coax the secrets from a whole new setting, and although it will be tiring and tedious work I'm sure he's up for the task. I've never known him to shy away from exploration. More often than not it's Dunc who has to guide me through the process. The world evolves and pushes on and as challenging as that can sometimes be I would grow quite bored if it didn't.

For now, though, we'll continue to do what we do, walking every morning and afternoon, taking our time along the low hedges and the the gnarled tree trunks along out path, paying special attention to the fattening moon in the afternoon sky and the dimpled edges where the craters seem to jut out beyond her edges. We will walk and breath in this deep woodsy and red-scented earth and witness the world change and change back again all around us, each step a memento of the journey we've made together and a promise of steps still to come.

"There is a grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one another; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved." (Charles Darwin, The Origin of Species)

Only Venus

It was an April day today, bright and sunny with dark shadows falling on the grass, which still believes––rightly, so––that it is early January on the edge of The Rockies. I spent most of the day at my dark little desk in the far corner of the bookstore dreaming of walking with Duncan while the sun was still high and the air a surprisingly warm sixty-six degrees. It was not meant to be, of course, as it was dark and cool by the time I arrived home. The sun had left a faint smear of itself on the western horizon, an orange fingerprint hovering above the mountain shadows for an hour or so before even it finally melted away.

But it was still warm for a January night and there seemed to be a sense of celebration in the air, accompanied by the summer scent of steaks on the grill and the far away sound of passing music drifting out of some open car window. We leashed up and with only the slightest amount of regret at not having the sense to fake a sudden bout of stomach flu in order to spend the afternoon playing outside, we turned away from the goose-trodden park and walked down Leawood toward the elementary school where Duncan loves to run back and forth across the soccer field. I have lived in many neighborhoods here in sunny Denverland, including Stapleton, which, at one time, was the place to live, but none have offered the same sort of warm welcome as the familiar-ish homes on Leawood. They remind me of the street where I grew up in Pocatello, and the houses where my friends lived and played. It is not often we get down that way in the winter months so tonight seemed the perfect night to take an extended stroll with Duncan marching ahead of me, his eyes trained on the shadows for a glimpse of the ever present crouching rabbits which linger on the edge of the sidewalks and huddle among the shrubs in the brittle, amber flowerbeds.

There was no sun, but there was Venus, high above in the south, traipsing gently westward, Orion rising slowly at her back. She was bright and vibrant, unwavering, unblinking with beauty as surprising as the day was warm. She was the only star in the sky and once the others had blinked awake, the brightest. While Duncan nosed around the mailboxes and lawn ornaments, I could not take my eyes off her, and wondered for a moment why the sun had seemed so important when Venus was out, offering clarity and calm, the kind I crave so often throughout the day and look forward to on my nightly walks. There was something familiar about her, close and warm and I wished every night could be like this night, with the heavens open and welcome, a warm hand on a cold forehead, a promise that clear winter nights can be as magnificent as any summer day.

Image courtesy of www.nasa.gov

Retreat

Duncan has never given up on a walk. Not once. Even when he was sick after eating 500 feet of yarn, when he was hunched up on the grass puking up an endless line of bright red fluff which had been meant for a scarf, he wanted to walk. I was in a frenzy, uncertain what to do, but there was Roo, a trooper through and through, a length of yarn caught in his stomach and hanging out of his mouth dragging on the ground beside him, gagging and whining around it while still attempting to make the rounds. Last winter, when snow would ball up under his sweet paws, causing him to limp, he wanted to do another lap around the lake, maybe head down Leawood and see what was shaking on the elementary school ball field where he likes to run. There where frozen nights, tall and cloudless with a moon whiter than exposed bone, when I had to drag him home and carry him across the parking lot because his feet hurt so bad. He has never given up.

Until tonight.

I'd come home, found him curled up on the bed, or rather in it. Somehow or another he decided the bed would be more comfortable if he swirled the sheets around himself and propped his head under one of the pillow, a single back paw and his tail the only sign of him protruding from under the comforter. He snorted when I sat next to him and plucked his paw up into my hand. We attempted our welcome-home routine, which entails a lot of rolling around and pawing and huffing, all of which took place tonight under the covers. When he did finally emerge he grabbed my wrist in his mouth and trotted us down the hall, through the dining and living rooms to the front door where he wiggled his bum and chirped like a bird until I leashed him up and pulled on my cap.

Duncan is an eager walker and pulls hard on his leash when we first leave, only calming down once we cross Bowles, where he sits nicely, smiling up at me while we wait for the traffic to clear before crossing. He did all of that, and once we reached the lower soccer field he traipsed and gallivanted, head held high after discovering someone's discarded soccer sock, which he carried proudly, like a shot duck, in his mouth. We played chase for quite awhile until he suddenly stopped and looked north toward the big queen willow. A soft whine came to his throat, and although he didn't release the sock he stared nervously and kept looking over his shoulder at me. Finally he began a slow walk back up the hill, keeping his eyes trained on the tree and the tall reeds which crowd her base, and moved across the larger field, a nearly inaudible whine rising up from his chest as we went. He led me back across the park to Bowles, where he plopped his rear down in the cold grass and waited to cross, never looking away from the willow. There was no reluctance as we entered the parking lot and headed toward home. By the time we reached the door he was practically running, dragging me behind.

It was only an hour later, sitting on the patio watching two bright southern stars rise up over the trees that I heard the yipping of the coyotes over the grind of the traffic and understood why he wanted to come home.

Sudden Dark

Yesterday, on our late afternoon walk, Duncan was not ready to come home. We'd already strolled up to the library, around the side of the lake, up the hill above Columbine, down to the gray cinder block parks and rec building where the bunnies hole up on the safe side of the chain link fence, back across the park and through the lower soccer field. The sun was warm despite being low in the western sky, hovering just above the mountains, casting them in heavy shadow even as it favored the rest of the land in gold. It was a marvelous afternoon, with one or two stars already peeking out and the wind blowing the smell of toffee and cinnamon. So I indulged him and let guide me across Pierce to Leawood, where he stopped and sniffed at every spot where we've ever encountered a rabbit. He played with Jinx, a familiar Golden on our route and chased only a handful of bunnies under a large, low-boughed pine tree. And even after the sun had slipped behind the mountains and the sky began to turn, when the air cooled and rustled our hair, chilling, if only a little, our cheeks, he still did not want to come home. With some coaxing and promises of extra treats with his dinner, I was able to convince him, but as I sat on the patio outside, my feet propped up on the railing listening to Miles Davis, I wondered if coming home had been the right choice. We have been unseasonably lucky here in Denver the last few weeks, with clear mornings, nearly hot afternoons and mild nights, the kind which allow for windows left open a crack to cool our dreams and night imaginings. I realized after the sun had set and Duncan had finished his dinner (in addition to some of the duck strips Lori brought him when she visited two weeks ago) that the day's glowing afternoon walk will become a rarity, that the sun will have set by the time I arrive home. Time has suddenly shifted and where there was day there is now dark. I will hold the memory of yesterday's walk with me a long time, watching Duncan sniff under hedges, step gently around fences, the sun dancing as it does so willingly across the curling gold and red of his back. He knew dark was coming and wanted only to walk in the sun as long as possible. My wise, wise friend.

Shades of Autumn and Long Minutes of Belonging

Today down on Leawood I plucked a clump of lavender from a large fluffy bush still teeming with honey bees, small and vibrant as they darted amid the thick purple flowers, and I wondered, who do the flowers belong to, the gardener or the bees, or the person who stops on the sidewalk and admires them, pressing his face into their fragrance before taking a sprig home with him? And who do the rabbits belong to, nestled as they are in the yards, moving without moving, ears pressed flat, eyes big and wide reflecting the last of the sun and the long shadows? Do they belong to the grass where they huddle and leave their scent, or to the dog who stands long minutes, a single paw raised and pointing as though calling attention to them from the universe itself? And who do the leaves belong to, glowing and quivering in the sun on their boughs, the tree who birthed them or the ground, patient and almost motionless, which has watched them enviously for long, long minutes and will finally claim them? Who do the names carved in the railing at the lake belong to, the lovers who felt the press of time against them or the fingers which find them and trace them over and over and over again? Who does the wash of warm western light belong to, the gracious and generous sun or the silhouette of the dog which catches it and radiates it back into the flowers and the eyes of the bunnies, the shimmer of nearly invisible bee wings, the honey-lit leaves and the long grass? And does it matter, this belonging, or is it enough to stand before them for long minutes and know them utterly and openly, content that you belong to them?

The Business of Others

Because the park is no longer our own, having been invaded by innumerable children clad in the most garish of colors, their shirts emblazoned with names and numbers, and their parents, who leer and refuse to get out of the way when Duncan and I pass them on the sidewalks, we decided to stroll down Leawood to the school at the bottom of the hill. It's a nice neighborhood and each time I'm there, especially early in the morning, my heart breaks at the realization that Ken and I were so misguided in our attempt to own a home at Stapleton, one of the most sterile and homogeneous of Denver's neighborhoods. Leawood is an old neighborhood, with lots of big trees––which Stapleton lacked entirely––and houses that look well-lived in and loved, not the cookie cutter nouveau-retro styles of our former area, which was built on the razed property of Denver's former airport. The truth of the matter is, we got caught up in the prospect of living in a new and popular neighborhood when we should have been looking for something more our style, with a big yard for the dog, a quiet street and lots and lots of trees. Leawood is exactly that neighborhood, and it reminds me a great deal––especially when the sun is still low in the eastern sky and the smell of bacon drifts out through the open windows––of the block on which I grew up.

This morning I figured we'd walk down the shady sidewalks where the lavender grows wild in the front yards, play on the school grounds where I could take Duncan off-leash and throw his ball, let him explore the edge of the fences which border the pastures where the horses roam, and perhaps climb on the jungle gym, all without the bother of the soccer hoards and their wretched parents who scowl at me whenever Duncan tends to business.


We'd barely gone more than a few blocks, stopping every now and then to admire the gardens, watch the honey bees frolic amid the lavender bushes, which grow nearly as tall as me, when Duncan stopped to pee. I've always felt rather strange about him peeing in other people's yards, usually against a fence post or even at the foot of their mailboxes, but nothing prepared me for what happened this morning. We were standing near what must've been a spectacular wall of lilacs earlier in the spring, me milling around while Duncan sniffed out the ideal place to drop someone a line or leave a message, when, just as he was about to raise his leg, two men, quite possibly in their early 70's and clad from in golfing attire stepped out of the lilac hedge, both of them buttoning up their trousers.

"Hey," the taller of the two called to me and shuffled to my side, leaving his smaller and more jovial-faced friend behind. Duncan was still propped up on three legs, watching them but nothing else as though curious to see where this would lead before he spilled a drop. "I see your dog is about to mark some territory," the man said, dropping a weathered hand on my shoulder.

"I think so," I told him and smiled.

"Well you know," he said, squeezing my shoulder as though we were old friends, his words bleeding together to form a single word, wellyaknow. "I know they like to pee where someone else has already marked. Is that right?"

"It certainly is," I offered.

"Well you know," he said again and his friend smiled behind him as if he'd spent a lifetime listening to him start every sentence the same way. "If he's looking for a place with a lot of piss you just point him right through that hedge. We just left plenty there for him." With that they both burst into laughter and shuffled on their way. Duncan dropped his airborne leg and looked at me as if waiting for a cue as to our next move. I could only shrug my shoulders and pull him along, right past the spot, which I'm sure, inflamed his nostrils.

Blow: The Undoing of a Musical Genius

As previously mentioned, and well-known by everyone who knows me, even if only slightly, I am a whistler. It's the one musical talent I inherited from my grandfather, who taught me everything I know about it by simply telling me, "Put your lips together and blow." His lesson, while not the most detailed, and which certainly omits quite a lot about the actual technique of whistling, was a valuable one, and one I have practiced daily since that very first whistle, standing in his garage on Reed Street in Idaho Falls, back when I was no more than five years old. While not the best whistler--I'm certainly no Cartter Frierson!––I am pretty good, especially in the morning. At work. When no one seems to like me. Long years I have entertained the idea of cracking into that great untapped Whistling Market, recording and releasing an album of favorite whistles. I envision a world where farm fields in upstate New York will overflow with the muddy and sometimes nude bodies of tens of thousands of America's youth, who've gathered for a four day music festival of world renowned whistlers, like Frances Bonifazi, Fred Lowery, the Great Roger Whitaker and Mike Riston, a Whistival, if you will, a place where we can meet free of shame, unafraid to practice our art without fear of retribution. But alas, that day has not yet come and so I dream alone, whistling as I work, sending my call out into the world in hopes of attracting others like me.

Like many talented musicians, I am haunted by my art. I spent much of last winter with Arthur Fiedlers's "Sleigh Ride" banging around inside my head, demanding I purse my lips and belt it out at the top of my lungs, or tongue, or whatever it is whistlers like me use to craft our music. "Sleigh Ride" refused to let go of me and still occasionally sneaks up on me when I least expect it. About all I can do in those moments is let it out, over and over again, all day long. Sometimes I whistle the melody, sometimes the harmony leaks out (which is interesting because, unlike my friend Jen, who can harmonize to a fart, I can't pick one out to save my life), and sometimes I attempt a grand symphonic discourse and end up with a strained tongue and chapped lips, which, if you're one of the Whistling Ignorant, is the worst thing that can happen, like writer's block, or a bad hair day.

I do have my standards, those tunes I whistle over and over and over again. There's Für Elise, which I do first as Beethoven intended, but on my second trip through I jazzify it and transform it into a snappy little number you could bebop along with. Then there's "I'll Be Seeing You," which, for three years, drifted over the campus of Lake Forest College late at night as I walked back to my room keeping my eye on the moon, or if there was none, on the halos which glowed around the lamps which lit the paths. There's also "Recipe for Making Love," by Harry Connick, Jr, which is just plain fun on the lips. But of course, as an artist, I must constantly push myself, which is why I've gotten pretty good at whistling "Lose Yourself," by Eminem. I would, after all, hate to be pigeon-holed as a performer of nothing but pop standards. "Lose Yourself" was my version of Dylan going electric.

I hate to admit it, but Summer can be just as dangerous for earworms (those tunes which get stuck in your head) as the holidays and that damn Feidler tune. It's only crept up on me the last day or two as Duncan and I have strolled the park and even on the edges of Lilley Gulch. It starts off innocuously enough but before you know it, it's lodged as firmly as a twin absorbed in vitro. It only appears during the hot Summer months, and typically only within earshot of places where children gather, children with money in their pockets or grown-ups who can be pestered for money.

That's right. It's the ice cream truck with that damn ice cream truck song that every person in this country knows by heart. The damn ice cream truck has crashed my whistling party and made a mockery of the tunes and voices which play constantly in my head. Even Duncan, who normally isn't phased by anything on our walks, other than the hopping-away of a rabbit or a screaming squirrel, has started whining when we walk the park. Or the lake. Or down Leawood. I'm hoping that when my vacation starts next week we can get up into the mountains where there's nothing but peace and tranquility. And Für Elise, of course.

'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy

As the end of the school year draws near, while most people are preparing for a season of laziness and bliss, shopping for swim suits and flip flops, the little hair that remains on my head turns whiter by the day. I am in full panic mode at work and can't seem to find enough time to accomplish the things that desperately need to get done. It doesn't help, of course, that this is also the time of year when I receive the most threats of death and violence to either myself or my car. Students attempting to sell their books back to the bookstore tend to get unhappy when I can't offer them more than they actually paid for the books. Most of the time I laugh it off, pop a few Xanex and go merrily about my day. Ah, the joy of working at a bookstore.

About the only thing that gets me through is knowing I get to unwind with Duncan at the park or down Leawood, or even Lilley Gulch. Prior to walking with him I'd come home, sit on the couch or the floor and brood over all my perceived failures. Now I'm able to cast them aside and re-tune myself. And as the weather gets nicer and the last of the snow and mud pull off the foothills I hope to take him for nice evening strolls up Ken Caryl Canyon. But until then I'm content with playing at The Glen, weaving through the various soccer practices in the fields across the street and admiring the lake from the top of Rebel Hill.
Today we climbed the hill overlooking the lake and just sat. It took most of the walk to let go of the tension but once we were there the sunset was vast and gold and all the world seemed amazing and full of magic. I'm convinced that work is a magic-free zone and if I can only make it through my time there the mountains, the warm air, the gentle scuff of Duncan's paws on the sidewalk and in the grass will be magic enough to rejuvenate me. Laying on my back and taking pictures of clouds sometimes does the trick too, especially when Duncan leans into frame to sneak a kiss.

The Voice of March

This night is alive with the sound of chimes, mine and the others spread around the apartment complex, coming even as far away as the houses down on Leawood. At the park, even through the low and constant wail of the wind I can hear them. The small ones, light and bouncing bells, the sound of metal dandelions, their flowers plucked away, the wind rushing through their hollow stems. The heavy wooden ones cut from bamboo as thick as my wrist singing a brown song, earthy and deep, the tones of lost tribes. The ceramic ones with music that sounds like something on the verge of breaking––egg shells, perhaps, or ice, a frantic voice, urgent and fragile. And always the wind struggling to be heard over them, around and through them. The blood and breath of their voices. I wonder, does Duncan hear them as I do, patternless and chaotic yet somehow soothing? He pushes his nose against the ground as he walks, aware of things I know nothing about. I can smell the greening of the world, or the perfumes of other walkers, but it is a superficial sense compared to his. I think I know our walks, know the ways and where the wind blows the coldest and hardest. I know its melody and the harmony of the chimes which comes and goes, almost touching us through the night. But what do I miss, what have I not heard that Duncan has already memorized and hums in his dreams. His walk is the wiser one and on nights when March screams all around us, I wonder which of us is guiding the other.

No Longer Our Own

Duncan and I, under the constellation Orion, have been faithful guardians of the park since October when the last of the after-school sports teams packed up and called it quits for the year. Dutifully we strolled the wide sidewalks, cut our own paths through the snow, protected the fields from the varmint geese and played as much as we could, keeping that park magic alive during the long dark months and the quiet cold mornings when we were its only occupants. Yes, there were times the park didn't feel as safe as it could've, but most days we were content with the silence and the vast emptiness, alone with the snow halos around the street lamps, the owl which stared down at us from its tree perch, the sound of our feet crunching the snow and cracking the ice echoing between the trees, across the fields and over the frozen lake.

This afternoon we ventured across the street to discover that the teams have returned. Children had flooded the fields and I was unable to count the number of different soccer practices which were taking place around us. There was the girls team in the lower field with the blue jerseys and the matching purple backpacks. There were two different boys teams, the taller ones in gold and black, the smaller ones in red and blue. Further down toward the skate park the jerseys bled together until it seemed like a mass gathering, a protest, perhaps, or even a gay pride parade exploding with all those colors. The parking lots were packed with minivans and SUVs, barking mothers, fathers talking on cell phones, toddlers playing on the edges of the sidewalks, their parents too busy catching up with other parents to notice their children were playing with the crusty remnants of green goose poop. I felt invaded and a little sad that with the return of Spring and green and sunshine we'd lost the thing that's meant the most to us these long months. We were glared at as we made out way through a particularly loud group of people. One of the kids was lazily bouncing a silver and red soccer ball and Duncan took an interest in it. The child's mother hastily pulled the kid away and the unattended ball rolled down the hill with Duncan straining his leash to follow after it.

So we left and ventured down Leawood, the neighborhood which reminds me of the place I grew up. The new Spring light falls at a nostalgic angle on the 80's-model homes, on the gently sloped curbs, the red mustang––just like the one Kenny Mecham's older brother drove––parked in the decaying driveway. There is something comforting about Leawood and her side streets, Newland and Marshall, where we walk. Something friendly about the people tending to their yards or clearing our their overly-packed garages. There are the monkey bars at the school, an exact copy of the one we played on at Edahow, the elementary school I attended (several readers of this blog just saw that picture and smiled). It's nice to walk there, even though it's not my neighborhood or 1982 when I rode my faithful black dirt bike up and down that hill to and from the homes of my friends.

Tonight, on our last walk, I noticed that Orion has slipped in the sky. For months I have watched him hover in the southern night directly over the park, his dogs Canis Major and Minor nearby hunting Taurus the bull, keeping their eyes on Lepus the hare. As the days have grown longer Orion has started to move on, beginning his nightly hunts further west, perhaps aware that all those kicking children and their loud-mouthed hovering parents and coaches, have chased away the good game.

We will watch over the park without him. And we will relish the daylight, but we will miss calling it our own.

Smoke Rings

Tell me where do they go,
These smoke rings I blow each night?
What do they do these circles of blue and white?
And why do they seem to picture a dream of love?
Why do they fade, my phantom parade of love?
(Smoke Rings, The Mills Brothers)

Sunday night is a blues night, a night to sit on my patio, Duncan at my feet, the laundry churning inside–as it has all day– melancholy music playing while a cigarette dangles from my lip. Sunday is the bluest night of the week and I can't help but plod through with a flourish. Were it Summer I'd don a wife-beater and pretend it was some time in the 30's in the Midwest, flat and lonesome with nothing but the smell of the corn and whiskey to keep me company. Sunday is a day that moves too fast despite its tedium, a day to reflect on all you'd hoped to accomplish and to feel guilt for all you didn't. Sundays are manic in their leisure and I've never known quite how to handle them. It may be the first day of the week but it feels like the last, like a dream about to burst at the sound of the clock. I do not like Sunday and have spent much of my life trying. I walked Duncan three times today, once through Leawood, the neighborhood which reminds me of the streets where I grew up and all the people I knew there who probably haven't thought of me in years. We strolled through the park where a new youth baseball team has sprung up, their white and blue uniforms stark and brilliant as they practiced against the warm sky. And finally we walked down Bowles, past the place where the bus stop used to be before a car skidded on the ice a few months back and smashed it to pieces. We stopped at the dog park and I let Duncan roam around off-leash, but neither of us seemed satisfied so we returned home to the patio where we've been sitting for an hour, The Mills Brothers playing on a loop while I smoke and he gnaws on mulch. Sunday feels like there should be something more but I don't know what. More late-night driving under serene and vast skies. More drinks with more people. More adventures. More beginnings.

Oh, little smoke rings I love,
Please take me above, take me with you.

Blessings

There was no mistaking the smell of Spring in the air tonight. It was rich and earthy with just a hint of smoke, but fresh and clean, and the silence of the walk down Leawood certainly added to it. Children were outside playing in the warm air (not to rub it in–well, okay, just a bit but only because I can–but it was in the high 60's today and still 61˚ at 6PM). The sound of dogs playing in their backyards drowned out what little traffic from Pierce and Bowles we could hear and I could feel my spirit soar, a welcome change from the drab brown gruel of the previous weeks.And so, after a week of melancholy and The Blues, it's time to remind myself about the things which hold meaning for me right now, most of which, but not all, come from my walks with Dunc.

The rabbit statue halfway down Leawood that always captures Duncan's attention and sets him into hunt mode. We spent ten minutes staring at it this afternoon, Duncan taking slow and careful steps toward it before finally crashing through the bushes toward it, expecting it to dart away. When it didn't, he looked over his shoulder at me, eyebrows raised, clearly dumbfounded.

On the corner of Nixon and Leawood a tall evergreen sang in bird-ish at us as we approached. The tree was filled with tiny sparrows, some of which fluttered to and fro around it, while most of them hopped safely amid the branches and needles deep inside. There could have been a hundred of them there, all invisible, all raising their voices in a single chorus of praise toward the sun and the blue, shining sky.

On Marshall we met Jinx, a big, waddler of a Golden Retriever who belongs to the Jenkins family ("Get it" Mrs. Jenkins asked. "Jinx Jenkins?" she needlessly explained), who clamored out the door, down the step and across the street toward us while Mrs. Jenkins carried the groceries inside. Duncan and I accompanied Jinx back home and while I made conversation with the family, Jinx proceeded to sniff Duncan and then, without any sort of pillow talk, or even dinner and flowers, attempted to mount him from behind. Duncan snarled and stared up at me wide-eyed while Mrs. Jenkins pulled her dog away, apologized and retreated to her groceries. Duncan almost shook his head in disbelief, as if sighing, "Boys!"

While I watch the sky and the clouds easing slowly across it, squinting into the sun, tilting my head back into the warmth of the afternoon (did I mention it was almost 70˚?), Duncan sees the world in a completely different way, nose to the ground, following trails I'd never know where there. He is so careful with them, delicately touching his nose to the tips of the leaves, carefully circling trunks of trees, stepping over puddles, casting aside pebbles, all in pursuit of things I will never be able to experience.

Working with Duncan while on our walks the last few weeks has been wonderful. Quite often people forget that they need to train their dogs outside of their living-rooms and off their property. We have been working on "Come," which requires him to return to me and sit on my right foot or as near to it as he can get. He's gotten quite good, with the exception of a couple of distractions. We've also been working on "Down," so that when people approach us I can give the command and make him wait patiently for them to pass or scratch him on the ears without the risk of taking a paw in the crotch or kidney. He knows I carry treats in my pocket and the look he gives me while I make him wait is beautiful, innocent, excited and proud.

Today while cutting across the park, a kid–meaning a former frat boy now past his prime –was hitting golf balls, his mastiff at his side. Each time he hit a ball across the field the dog chased after it which resulted in a beating. I shook my head and wondered what he expected. The dog was simply being a dog and I knew that as frustrating and difficult as it is to train a pet, it's a lot harder to train people. And yet Duncan has trained me that I love him too much to deny him his nature.

I'm thankful that I can stand on my patio and look up at Orion and the moon and know that on the other side of the country, people I love dearly can do the same thing, and even though we can't see it together, knowing we can see it at all is enough.

I am thankful that someone is saying a prayer for the woman on the bridge.

And despite the fact that I've made entirely too much about our balmy, Spring-like weather today (again, for the people in the Midwest, it was 50 degrees warmer here!), it's going to snow all night and through the morning. My drive will be horrendous but when I get home I get to watch Duncan gallop and roll and snort and that will bring me tremendous joy. That white will wash the blues right out of my hair!

Sunday Sixty-Five

I'm not so good at breakfast. Don't get me wrong, I make some pretty good ones (just ask David, Kelly, Kevi and Mike, who've all had my dessert-like puff pancake with yogurt, fresh berries, peaches, bananas, apples with a single scoop of vanilla ice cream), I'm just not so great at taking the time to eat it regularly. That's why I make my own yogurt (Yo-Curt! Citrus Pumpkin is my newest flavor, although I'm pretty good at Honey Maple as well) and have started making breakfast pies, with eggs, bacon, pepper, onions, potatoes and smoked white cheddar cheese, all wrapped in a nice homemade bread dough. After they're done I toss them in the fridge so Ken and I can pop them in the microwave before heading out the door.

This is what I spend the majority of my Sundays doing, in addition to the grocery shopping and laundry. Today was a difficult day to spend inside. The temperatures rose to above 65° and the birds and sunshine were calling to me. As expected, Winnie, Pip and Olive did what cats do best by staking out their respective patches of sunshine in front of the various southern-facing windows. Because the morning was warm, I opened the patio doors and let Duncan lounge outside, where I joined him between various cooking sprees. Rather than listen to Dave Brubeck, I turned on the Magic Feather CD my friend Traci made me for my drive to Idaho last month. It was perfect for lounging around, lazily reading Tom Spanbauer and sipping Egyptian Licorice tea, scratching Duncan behind the ears and watching the chorus of little birds which had assembled to sing and hop from naked branch to naked branch in the tree just off the patio. Duncan was content to sprawl on his side and snore, only occasionally perking up long enough to watch a brown plastic bag he kept mistaking for a squirrel as it fluttered, caught in the bars of the fence.

Duncan, of course, couldn't care less what I was doing. He wanted only to walk or pick up the bits and chunks which accidentally slipped off the counter and fell onto the floor. He could hear the geese flocking up across the street in the park, so after what I'm sure seemed an eternity, we strolled out the front gates and walked down Leawood to the elementary school, where there weren't any geese, but horses, at which he got to stare confoundedly through the fences. The sound of dripping and running snow-melt was everywhere. It trickled and sparkled as it raced alongside us against the curb, pulling once-leaves and Pooh Sticks with it.

But the geese were calling from the park, where they'd gathered to enjoy the sunshine and warmth in the relative safety of the fenced-in baseball field. Duncan stalked along the chain links, his head low, keeping his eye on them as he herded them from the outfield to the infield. Once satisfied with their positioning he hurtled himself against the fence and without raising a bark, propelled the geese straight up into the air where they headed west toward the lake and the mountains.

Window Stories*

If there's one thing I hate it's when the holiday decorations don't go away. My mother raised me the right way, which means the tree, the tinsel and hoopla come down by New Year's Day. Any later than that and not only are you lazy, but you're sick in the head. Considering that the holidays now begin sometime shortly after Labor Day, I'm stymied as to how anyone could stand another minute of Christmas by the 26th. As Duncan and I walked down Leawood tonight, I couldn't help but tsk tsk tsk at all the people who haven't had the decency to take it all down and put it back in a box. If Wal-Mart can find the guts to do it, so can they!

If I were a voyeur (and I'm not saying I'm not), walking down Leawood could be an interesting experience. The first thing I noticed was all the lights still up, then the trees in the windows, some still lit, but many were dark and brittle, fire hazards dressed in drag. Once I got past the holiday hangers-on I started seeing the people and brief glimpses of their lives. Like television there's a bit of everything, a story for everyone, fact and fiction, and you need only scan the various windows for the one that's right for you.

Greg Holland was just getting home from work. He's a plumber who works for the new communities up at Lowry and Stapleton and gets to drive one of those shiny white vans with all sorts of gear fastened to the roof and sides. As Duncan and I passed, poor Greg was struggling to remove a ladder but it fell and the language he used was not fit for a house with a wreath–brown and folded up on itself–still hanging on the front door.

Nora Chambers, who lives on the corner of Newland and Leawood was standing over her sink in her kitchen, which faces the street. Her arms were moving rapidly up and down, as if rinsing potatoes or scrubbing a seared pan. She was talking to someone over her shoulder, probably her nineteen year-old son, Cliff, who's played Wii every waking second since Christmas. Nora did not look happy, and that one long curl in the middle of her forehead, the one she bleaches to hide the advancing gray, was wagging and bouncing like a deflated balloon.

On Newland Duncan got sidetracked by a lawn statue, nearly invisible behind the shrubs and rocks. It was a small bunny, it's ears up and at alert, eyes wide and peering straight ahead, right at Duncan, who froze and lowered his head as he studied the thing. I stepped back and watched him as his left paw came up slowly, as if pointing, before he took a cautious step and inched closer to the thing. When it didn't move he waited a moment, snorted softly then looked up at me to see whether or not I'd witnessed his momentary confusion. Another sniff and we were on our way toward the school.

Down on Jay, at the house with too many trucks, a trailer laden with well-used RVs, a burnt-out looking camper shell and a garage full of tools and engine parts, two teenagers were smoking in the darkness off the side of the driveway. One said, "I can't believe you got away with it," to which the other replied, "I know, right? They think grandma did it."

People love their lights and on both sides of the street we could see clearly into nearly every room. Sharon and Ralph Piper looked as though they were arguing. Ralph must've just come home because he was still wearing his scrubs. At the school one lonely teacher, a brown-haired, short woman with a white, puffy sweater, was busy writing on the board, stepping back every now and then to inspect her work. It was nearly 7:30 and as we passed her window I wondered if she had anyone to go home to. Across the street, on Ingalls, Glenda Tropmann was baking cookies for the 6th Grade Winter Carnival. He daughter Caitlyn, the 6th grader, was sitting on a stool nearby, talking on the telephone and twisting her long brown hair around her thumb. Downstairs her brother, Colby, was watching 1 Vs 100. Next door, the Hoffmans were doing the same while their black lab Libby sniffed the counter for dinner crumbs. A couple of houses down and across the street, Randy Norby was in the garage working on his truck, as he's done every night since his wife left.

There was no end to what we could see and learn on our quick walk down to the school and back. Even at our apartment building the lights were on next door, at Tom and Melinda's, where they were eating dinner in the living room from TV trays. Their dogs were on the floor, Kiki with her head resting on her neatly folded paws while Cyrus licked himself. Across the way, Ben and his Boxer, Layla, were running back and forth across his living room.

As we came into our Christmas-free apartment and I took the leash off Duncan, kissing his head and cheering him for a good walk as I do every time we come home, I smiled and asked him, "Do you think if I posted a made up a story about the houses we passed and the people who lived there, they'd believe me?" He cocked his head and waited for me to kick off my boots. "If you write with authority," I explained, "People will believe almost anything."

*Dedicated to Kelly, whose neighbors know no boundaries