Seven

Today Sue at Random Ramblings tagged me to name seven things I love (she thought it would make me feel better and already my heart is a little warmer). Thanks for thinking of me, Sue!

In no particular order, here are seven things I love (not most, just love):

• Obviously I love my family, especially the memories we have shared, from my mother removing her sunglasses and handing me a can of beer in order to retrieve our dog Skeeter from the murky depths of the Blackfoot Reservoir, to Casey singing songs we made up while riding in our camper on weekend getaways when we were young. I love Kevin's laugh and his dislike for mushrooms and chocolate.
• My kids, Winnie, Pip, Olive, and, of course, Duncan.
  
• Idaho in the early summer, when the mountains are still green and the smell of sage and Russian Olive trees rise up all around.
• I love my best friends in the whole world: Ruth, who spends her time super-heroing with me in our off-hours; Kevi, whose stories of food poisoning in foreign locations remind me to never take myself too seriously; David, for being my Jewish mama; Jen, for being able to harmonize to anything, including a fart; and Kelly, my "Good Friend."
  
• My Illinois restaurants, The Hoagie Hut in Highwood, where it's best to order a cheese-steak, bacon hoagie and a medium root beer, and Salutos, where everything is good, especially the salad.
• The magic of words, making my own, as well as those of others, such as Tom Spanbauer, Mary Oliver, Tim Muskat, Phil Simmons, Michael Cunningham, Jonathan Franzen, Michael Chabon, Geoffrey Eugenides and John Irving.
• Ken, with all my heart.

And because seven is simply too small a number I've also thrown in some random loves: peanut sauce, new socks, clean sheets, Orion and Venus, tres leches, butterflies and dragonflies, the music of Patty Griffin, the quiet moment of darkness before the sun rises when all the world is holding its breath, Egg Foo Yung, the Grand Canyon, riding my bike down a hill in the sunshine, a brand new pack of Sharpie markers, how much Duncan loves Brady, writing about, campaigning door to door and voting for Barack Obama, the French Quarter, Devil's Tower, Miss Katie's Diner in Milwaukee, acupuncture, and more things than I could name.

And now to pick seven other blogs to tag. You know the drill: once you've been tagged you have to pass it along to seven others.

Property of Kelly
Fermented Fur
The Midnight Garden
Charlie!
Mackenzie Speaks!
A Red Dog in the Red Rocks
Life is Golden


Thank you, Sue, for including me and making me think of the things I love most. It's easy to forget when life does that thing it occasionally does.

A Strange Acquaintance

The man, tall and wide at his front, with long uncombed hair, wide eyes and an unruly and rather patchy beard spread across his pock-marked face, was the kind of man, who if seen on the street or alone on the lake path, would've caused others to give him a wide berth. But he was not alone, and because of his animal companion he drew many curious, if not affectionate glances. He coaxed his friend along, not tugging on her leash or rushing, as so many other walkers do, but walking directly beside her, offering soft words of guidance. She took her time, each step gracefully following the last and she smiled into the sunshine, squinting as she and her friend walked directly into it. Her tail was up, tall and straight, a striped stem rising into the light but bouncing casually, confidently, as though today and this walk were no different than any other. Duncan, who is a curious and sometimes overly-friendly walker, took an immediate interest in her, and as we approached them, he tugged on the leash and pulled me in their direction. I tried to reign him in but even before he neared she'd spotted him and flopped over on her side, exposing her fat, white belly.

"I'm sorry I said," holding my breath as Dunc pushed his cold nose into her.

Her companion smiled. "Carl doesn't mind at all. She gets this a lot."

"Carl?" I asked.

He nodded."She was so little when I rescued her that I couldn't tell what she was. The people at the shelter thought she was a boy so I named her Carl. I liked the name and we'd both grown used to it so I kept it," he explained. As he spoke I thought of Cricket, the kitten my roommates Wendy and Jen and I had adopted a few months after graduating from college. We'd been told he was a girl but learned otherwise from our vet after his first visit.

I watched Duncan sniff Carl's belly while she beamed from ear to ear and stretched out on the sidewalk. Others walkers continued in their sadly hurried march around the lake, smiling at Carl and Duncan, who seemed fast friends. Because Duncan was so much bigger, I kept a tight grip on the leash and pulled only when he scooched up next to her and rolled over on his side almost on top of her. Carl hardly moved.

We talked for a minute until Floyd gave his nylon leash a few quick tugs and Carl jumped up. "Time to go, girl. Dinner won't make itself." We said our farewells and Duncan and I watched as they ambled down the sidewalk into the sunset. Duncan's tail wagged and he whimpered a little as Carl went. She gave him one last look over her shoulder and kept going, purring the most contented purr a cat has ever purred.

The lake trail is full of discoveries, from the strange and incomprehensible conversations of the Juicy Buns to the roller-blading priest who listens to Night Ranger on his iPod, but I don't think I've ever been as impressed or startled as I was by Floyd and Carl. How we missed them for a year I have no idea, and I certainly hope we run into them again soon.




Despite the recent embarrassing political posturing on the part of the Republican candidate, Friday's debate still appears to be on. Don't forget to watch it. Host some friends and neighbors if you can and remind others that tomorrow will be an excellent opportunity to learn more about the candidates and the issues which matter so much during this election. If you've made other plans please tape it and take the time to watch it yourself. The brief sound-bites the news channels will offer are not enough. You should see it for yourself, in context and with an open mind. Learn more here.

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.

Girls

The truth is not many girls visit our apartment. There aren't many guys either for that matter. Ken and I have startlingly sparse social lives outside of those people we know from work. It wasn't always this way, of course. For a time after we moved to Denver I had weekly Sunday night get-togethers that sometimes hosted up to twenty people. But those days are long gone and most of our time at home is spent alone, doting on the kids, eating and sleeping.

Duncan doesn't get to see many women, other than my mother and sister once or twice a year, and Melissa on the occasional play-dates we arrange at The Glen. Other than that his only female contacts come from Winnie and Olive and Kona. I'm not quite sure what he thinks of them, but I think he likes them. So tonight when Summer, my long lost friend from high school, arrived and spent a couple of hours with us, Duncan didn't seem to want to leave her alone, sitting with her on the couch and laying at her feet. I had no idea how comfortable Summer was with that arrangement, being crowded off the couch, taking the occasional foot in the ribs and having a big red dog lay on her jacket, but she handled it gracefully.

Pip is the same way. He adores women. He grew up in Illinois sitting on my friend April's lap. When Jen was here last Fall he wouldn't leave her alone. I think he's a boob man, Pip, crawling up their laps and in their faces, trying to rest against their chests, nuzzling their cheeks, turning up the Charm Volume all the way. Were he a boy he'd be a frat boy and a lady killer, much to the dismay of his two dads.

Winnie, of course, is intensely jealous of all women, looks on them with complete and utter indifference which sometimes borders on brazen contempt. She hardly moved from the couch to investigate Summer, turned her back on her and behaved in that way that makes "Dog People" despise cats. I'm sure she'll take up extra room on my hip tonight just for opening the door to a woman.

And Duncan and Pip will spread out on the bed for allowing her to leave. Boys!

Thank You

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, because it's genuine, and because it doesn't really ask all that much of those celebrating it. No obnoxious lights and ornaments to hang, the universe has spared us Thanksgiving Carolers, people aren't banging at our doors dressed as pilgrims or Indians, or, God forbid, headless turkeys. Our animals aren't startled by the continuous explosion of a million snapping cornucopia crackers or the bright burst of pumpkin-scented bottle rockets. Thanksgiving has remained pure, if only because the retailers use it as the jumping off point for the exploitation of the rest of the holiday season. Its message is not one of consumerism, but rather a quiet time to come together, be it with the family you were born into or the family you've created on your own, and to acknowledge the the blessings of your life.

With that in mind, here are some of the things for which I am grateful (in no particular order, of course)

• The sound of Elijah singing or Jonah cooing while I talk on the phone with their mother.
• The warm bodies and soft weight of Winnie, Pip and Olive, who curl up on my hip, against my chest, on the pillow near my head each night while I sleep.
• The speckled color of cinnamon and allspice added to pumpkin, whipped together and poured into a pie crust
• The sound of a new book as you crack it open for the first time
• The word "skinidinkinaw," which has been used by my family since before I was born. I have no idea what it means, but my grandfather uses it best as an all-purpose curse.
  
• Dill bread fresh from the oven with butter melting on top
  
• The warm, fresh smell of the bathroom after Ken has showered and shaved.
• This American Life on NPR
• The way Ruth calls me, "Sweetie," Kevi calls me, "Curty-Wurty," Casey calls me "Bro" and Jen calls me "Curtle" (which to be fair she got from my father, who called me "Curtle the Turtle," playing off the Dr. Seuss character).
• Squinting into sunshine reflected off of snow
• The short, sing-songy melody my mother makes out of the word "hello" when she answers the telephone.
  
• Duncan's amazing eyebrows, the loose skin of his cheeks and his puppy paws, which aren't as soft as they once were, but I still love to cradle them in my palm when we cuddle.
• Talking with Kelly every night on her way home from work, the way she makes me laugh and how old and comfortable our friendship is.
• Peanut sauce, postcards, Poi Dog Pondering
  
• Finding lost things, especially if they're much loved.
  
• Having a space to write and voice with which to do it.
• Kevin, who loves my mother more than I love dreaming.
• New pens, new journals, and a nice flat place in the sunshine to sprawl out and use them both.
• Working with Phil Simmons before he died and knowing that even now he's encouraging me to do what I do best.
• "Feeling Good" by Nina Simone
  
• A.A. Milne, who wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."