Buffalo Wings: Serendipity with The Shepherds

It has been a very long time since Duncan and I have encountered The Shepherds on our walks so I was surprised this morning to come face to face with them once again, only this time the outcome was completely unexpected.

We were playing fetch on the shady side of the park, staying under the tall elms that grow above the lower soccer field. The morning was hotter than usual and Duncan was feeling it, panting and laying down to roll in the grass clippings. He lost interest quicker than usual and instead became fixated on sniffing out the goodies leftover and discarded in the grass from yesterday's sun-worshippers. Just as I laid down next to him I noticed The Shepherds not far away. We have been respectful and courteous to each other since our showdown that dark night several years ago, keeping far away from each other, nodding politely and leashing our dogs as we pass one another. I leashed Roo and stood up to move away but Duncan, always far wiser than me, turned and trotted right in their direction. When I pulled on his leash and said no, he bore down against me, flashed me a look as though to say, "trust me," and pulled me after him. I was nervous but he has yet to steer me wrong so I followed, reeling in the leash and commanding him to heel as we approached the man and his two dogs.

"Good morning," I called.

Mr. Shepherd leashed his dogs, one of them a dark puppy with enormous feet and a too-big tail, fluffy and black and longer than his body. "Good morning," he replied tentatively. After all, none of our conversations have been positive and he was as nervous as I was.

We made small talk for a bit and I asked about the puppy. All those years ago there had been two mature shepherds but Enzo, the male, died just before Christmas and Bodi, the puppy, was a new gift to his wife. Bodi was playful and loveable, nipping at Duncan's ears and rolling in the grass at his feet, but Jay, the large female, was still aggressive and unsure of our presence.

I don't remember exactly how it came up but Mr. Shepherd said that he'd just returned from Buffalo where he was born and raised.

"I'm going there in a few days!" I exclaimed. He asked if I was from there so I explained about Kevin's father's memorial service and meeting his family and how I'd only passed through Buffalo on a train twenty years ago on a trip to visit April in Boston. He asked if we were planning to visit Niagara Falls, which is where his family now lives.

"Of course!" I said. "We're really excited about it!"

"Oh, that's great. It's a pit, a real shit-hole on the American side," he said, "But you have to stop and eat at Viola's! They have the best sandwiches! Don't get anything except the double steak and cheese. You'll thank me later. And if you have time, go to The Como! They have the best Italian food you'll ever eat!"

"Viola's and The Como," I repeated. "Got it!"

"And be sure to try beef on a weck. And don't shy away from the horseradish!"

We talked for nearly an hour about Buffalo and Niagara Falls and then about our dogs, all of whom were laying in the grass, Duncan minding his own business, Bodi still struggling to latch onto one of Roo's ears, and Jay batting at our shadows on the ground. We laughed and exchanged stories and shook hands when it was time to go. I still didn't get his name but I'm sure we'll meet again, next time under far better circumstances than in the past.

It felt good walking home afterward, grinning ear to ear, which puzzled Ken, who was sitting on the patio sipping his coffee and watching us when we arrived home. I explained the story to him and we both marveled at how The Universe has a way of giving us what we need exactly when we need it. Forgiveness, like feathers, come in the most surprising shapes, at surprising times.

Buffalo Wings: A Magic Feather Update (4)

How beautiful a day can be
When kindness touches it!
(George Elliston)

It has been an incredible week for feathers, humbling and emotional, bright and full of untethered hope and encouragement.

My friend David, who has been with me since those long-ago-days at Barnes and Noble back in the safe confines of The Shire-like Midwest, who I have known longer than I have known Ken, and who has been as true as steel, sent me an incredible box full of every kind of feather imaginable, from giant, magnificent parrot feathers––metal blue on one side and sunlight gold on the other––to the tiniest, most delicate fluffs of white no bigger than a baby's fingernail. There are no words to express my awe and gratitude at his generosity and faith in me. I love him like I love the Russian Olives, like I love the appearance of the flowers on the Lindens, like I love the first true day of Spring.

Lori, my faithful friend, first blog buddy, and published author, and her wonderful husband Tom, sent me a peacock tail feather that dazzles my eye. It was tucked into a box that contained an incredible afghan that Lori spent weeks crocheting just for me. While it arrived in the hottest day of the year and won't be getting much use for quite awhile, it is sure to bring as much comfort on a cold winter night as her feather will on my flight. Meeting and getting to know Lori and Tom has brought me unspeakable joy and I am forever in their debt.

Jyoti, another amazing person I met through our blogs and a shared love of Golden Retrievers, sent a gorgeous card with a beautiful dog print and a single beautiful feather tucked inside. It is striped and soft, as vibrant and strong as her spirit and will make an excellent traveling companion. Jyoti is the owner of Sedona Body and Soul in Sedona, AZ. If you're in the area and need a massage, or have health issues that you'd like treated holistically, please pay her a visit and let her know Duncan and Curt sent you. She's a remarkable person and I'm lucky to have found her.

Kemia, one of my oldest and dearest friends, sent a feather she found recently while visiting Croatia. I have known Keem since before I could grow a mustache and have been blessed by her place in my life every day since we first spoke. She has seen me through my awkward adolescence, the challenges of college, and the triumphs of becoming the man I am. Few people have had the kind of faith in me that she has and my life has been forever altered and improved for her place in it. On her card she wrote, 

"My sole intention for you since my journey began was to cast you bravely into the world, and every step along the way I have meditated upon you and wished and prayed for your heart to be still so you can easily take flight. So, so many places await you and require your artists eye and writers pen..." 

Thank you, Keem. From the bottom of my heart. You are an inspiration.

I received a wonderful letter from my father who included an ink drawing of a feather. His words of encouragement moved me deeply and knowing his feather came from his own hand, was drawn with love and faith, brought me to tears. Thank you, dad, for your belief in me. It means more than you will ever know.

And finally I received a packet of feathers my mother sent. Several weeks ago on Memorial Day she and Kevin and my uncle Dennis visited my grandparents grave only to discover several feather laid out neatly near Grandpa's headstone. My grandfather was a dedicated fly-fisherman and spent countless nights tying his own flies, many of them from the feathers he found on his long walks. Mom grabbed them, knowing how much they would mean to me, how remarkable they were. I miss you, Grandpa. Thank you for your gift. Skinadinkinaw!

And thank you to all the people who have supported and encouraged me on this next phase in my recovery. These past few weeks have touched me deeply, brought me to tears, overwhelmed me with the goodness and generosity out there in the world. I am the luckiest person alive to have been touched by so many remarkable souls and wonder what I possibly could have done to deserve so much kindness. I cannot express how deeply you have all impacted my life, strengthened my spirit when I need it most, and brought one silly man in Colorado so much joy.

As a reminder, my family and I will be leaving for Buffalo on Wednesday of next week. If you'd like to send me a feather it's not too late. While I will never stop accepting your feathers, the deadline for entering my contest will end on the 15th when one lucky winner's name will be drawn to receive a thank you prize from Duncan and myself. To request my address please send me an email with the words, "Feathers for Flight" in the subject line. The winner will be drawn on the 15th. Please include the name and kind of pet/s you have, if that's the case.

Again, thank you all.

Feathers for Flight

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.  (Emily Dickinson)

Several years ago, when this outpost here on the internet was still new, I wrote at length about my anxiety disorder. I've done so numerous times since, but I thought I'd take a moment to explain it again so that the request I'm about to make doesn't seem quite so strange.

A little over seven years ago, when Duncan was still a puppy, I was prescribed Wellbutrin to help quit smoking. Unfortunately I was one of those extremely unlucky souls who suffered very serious side-effects because of it. My chances were somewhere along the lines of one in a million and not a day has gone by since that I haven't wished I'd spent a thousand dollars on lottery tickets instead. After six weeks of taking that wretched drug I began having strange episodes that at first seemed like extreme vertigo but quickly turned into all-out manic episodes that sent me to the hospital three times. I was forced to take an extended leave-of-absence from work and my life was turned completely upside-down. My doctors finally diagnosed a severe anxiety disorder that was either unmasked or triggered by the Wellbutrin. Unfortunately, though, it seemed that my body couldn't handle the drugs that are commonly prescribed to help control such an illness. Instead I turned to acupuncture, a change of diet, lots of rest, and a very intense dose of cognitive behavioral therapy, which continues to this day. I was forced to rebuild my life completely. 

Anyone who suffers from anxiety knows that it's a truly horrific experiece that changes your entire perception of the world. Nothing is safe and even when there doesn't appear to be any anxiety the fear of it returning becomes even worse than the anxiety itself. The world becomes your enemy. Tasks that most people take for granted, things I'd done daily, like drive to work, or watch television, go to movies, visit friends, walk Duncan, become impossible. I spent three miserable months holed up, hardly venturing outside, watching as Ken struggled to be brave and patient and comprehend what was happening.

Since then, though, I have worked very hard to reclaim my life but there is not a moment the fear––or rather, the fear of the fear––is not there. It took a long time but eventually I started going to movies again, hiking, venturing downtown to visit friends, all the things I'd once done with little or no thought. They are such silly and minor things, but to someone like me, each of them is a momentous and life-changing event.

And then Christmas of 2007 happened. Ken was unable to drive home to Idaho with me that Christmas and I was forced to make the trip on my own. I did a lot of soul-searching and mustering of courage, and just when I thought I'd have to spend that holiday alone I remembered Dumbo.

Yes, Dumbo. As in the flying elephant who carries a magic feather in his trunk. I remembered that as long as Dumbo had the feather he could fly and perform tremendous feats of magic and courage. But then there's that fateful evening when he loses the feather and is unable to perform until Timothy, his mouse friend, tells him that the feather wasn't magical at all, that he had the power all along. Eureka! I knew exactly what I'd do!

So I turned to my blog and asked my readers to send me a feather, an ordinary feather that contained the magic of their support and encouragement, something I didn't need for the trip but would help remind me that I was strong enough to do anything I set my heart to. I received countless responses, many in forms I hadn't anticipated, from peacock and hawk feathers, to geese and doves, paintings of feathers, photos, news clippings, music, ceramics, dream catchers, smudge kits, all of them magical and wonderful and remarkable in the power they contained.

In January, my step-father Kevin lost his father, Bob Spencer, a remarkable, adventurous man, who touched and changed many lives and has been sorely missed since he embarked on his latest journey. I did not get to spend a lot of time with Bob and his wife Mary, but they occasionally visited Idaho, sent Christmas cards, attended my college graduation and engaged me in some of the most incredible and inspiring conversations I've had. And even though he's no longer with us,  Bob is inspiring me again. Kevin's family, most of whom my sister and I have not met, have been kind enough to invite us to attend Bob's memorial service this summer in Buffalo, New York. I am incredibly honored and touched by their generosity and look forward to spending time with them and getting to meet all the people I've heard so much about for the past twenty-six years.

And so, as I did seven years ago when I needed that little bit of extra courage to travel home, I'm turning to my faithful readers once again. I need your feathers. I need feathers enough to make me a pair of wings that will help me fly––the final really big test of courage I need to face––all the way across the country. I'll be taking the ones sent to me all those years ago, but I'd like more. I have worked hard at steeling my courage and I know this is the final bit of preparation that needs to be done before I embark. If you'd like to send me a feather, please do so. They must be received by June 20th when I'll be trading these walking feet of mine in for a pair of wings, which I quietly alluded to back in February when my eyes began to turn from the ground and toward the bright blue sky.

To sweeten the deal, I'll be putting all the feathers into my feather bag and keeping track of who sent them so that I can draw one lucky feather out of the bag. The winner will receive a dog-approved prize from Duncan and me. Be sure to include your name, the name of your pets, if you have them, your address, and get your feather to me no later than June 15th. I plan on sending the prize the following Monday, so all contest entries must be received by the 15th. To get my address you can email me at jcr138@gmail.com. Please put "Feathers for Flight" in the subject field. It's not the most important of charities to contribute to, but I can't tell you how much it would mean to me.

Thank you all, once again, for your kindness and support over the years. We may not have walked together, Duncan tugging on his leash, but you have certainly been in my heart and thoughts on all the adventures Roo and I have been on.

The Quiet Return

While there are many things I am good at, one thing I do not do well is return home alone after dropping my family off at the airport after a wonderful visit.

Mom and Kevin left this afternoon and although the apartment was bright and sunny and warm enough that I opened the patio doors and all the windows to let some cool air blow through, and Olive and Duncan were waiting at the door for me with the kind of greetings saved for the best of friends,  my small apartment seemed awfully quiet and unexpectedly big and lonely. The kitchen still smells of pumpkin pie and turkey and the carpet still holds the marks of the table we'd set up for our Thanksgiving feast but the long weekend has slipped into memory and it'll take a day or two to ease back into my quiet routine. They have only been gone a few hours and I miss them already.

In the meantime there are chores which need tending to and Duncan is more than ready for a nice afternoon walk. The sun is very bright and very warm, the birds are singing and all sorts of tiny, hovering insects and bees are floating through the air. Duncan will know just the thing to distract me and bring a smile to my face.

He always does.

Eight-Thousand Words

 

Thank You

As I have said many times in this blog, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, not because of the abundance of food or the overindulgence in it, but for its sincerity. It doesn't demand vast sums of money from us, or hours shopping and hunting for gifts, it doesn't require costumes, exploding rockets or flowers and cards designed and written by others because we lack the imagination or courage to express our own words. It doesn't matter if we have a table full of food or if we are surrounded by a room full of people. Thanksgiving asks only that we pause and acknowledge the bounties and blessings of life. So that is what I'm going to do.

Among many other things, this year I am thankful for

• Mom and Kevin, who traveled from home to be with me this year, braving icy roads and treacherous winds to fly to Denver.
• good health: my own, as well as that of Duncan and the cats, my family and friends and the people I love.
• my new job. After eight and a half years in a job I was ill-suited for, and which made me miserable, I am lucky to have found a job I enjoy surrounded by wonderful people.
• the paths and trails, winding around the park and lake, across the foothills, into the mountains, and all the places Duncan and I have walked together, discovering new things, celebrating old things, and enjoying the silent details of the world around us.
• my sister and her fiance, Chris, who asked me to officiate at their wedding next summer. It touched me deeply when they told me they wanted my words to be the words that united them in marriage and bound their lives together.
• Nutella. 'Nuff said.
• the gentle hum of Pip's purr as he sleeps on my shoulder, the soft weight of Winnie on my hip each night and the voice of Olive when she greets me in the morning and asks me in that cat way of hers how I slept.
• The song "Feelin' Good," as performed by the amazing Nina Simone.
• The return of April to my life. Her appearance last summer was sudden and miraculous, and although she doesn't reply to emails as quickly as I'd like and lives too far away, she is immaculate and untouchable.
• Edgar, my Kindle, and Lori and Tom, who sent him to me for no reason and reminded me of the innate goodness and generosity of people and their willingness to indulge me when I refuse to indulge myself.
• the sound of Dunc snoring.
• The Moth podcast, which makes me laugh and cry, sometimes all at once, and always leaves me breathless with anticipation for more.
• "The Last Dream of the Old Oak," the last story read to my grandmother before she passed away last year, and my father for sharing it with us at her memorial service.
• the silence of butterflies and the music of wind chimes.
• Status updates, which make me laugh, think and remember all the people I have shared a path with in my life.
• Lisa, my sidekick, who is not evil but tries so very hard to be.
• Two little punctuation makes, which, when put together say so much, the colon and the closing parenthesis.
• The "It Gets Better" Project and Dan Savage for his work at encouraging gay youth to hang in there and realize the full potential of their lives.
• Eggnog and Pumpkin Spice lattes.
• the poetry of Mary Oliver, the prose of Tom Spanbauer and the magnificence of the written word.
• the voice of Mrs. Wheeland, who says, "Hello, Curt" every time she answers the telephone.
• my friends, who share their triumphs and tragedies, open their hearts, lean on me when they need to and allow me to lean on them in return.
• the holidays, which mean more to me than the insanity of Black Friday shopping.
• a warm bath, a good book, and three cats who perch on the edge of the tub and watch over me protectively.
• Russian Olive and Linden trees, whose fragrance sustains me through the long, dark winter months.
• Glee
• Chris and Troy Denike, who I don't get to visit with enough, but always manage to run into when I'm crossing Bowles with Duncan. Whether they stop and talk or merely honk, wave and holler as they speed past us, they remind me that somehow I have carved out a life for myself here in Denver, the sort that offers sudden and unexpected visits with people I enjoy being with.
• Jupiter, which has been high in the sky these past several months, giving me something to marvel at on our evening walks.
• the little bird which built a home outside my door and stayed for the summer.
• Tired Old Queen at the Movies, The Sassy Gay Friend, Dropbox, Skype and Bejeweled Blitz, which make the internet worthwhile.
• Ken, who tells me he loves me each and every time we talk on the phone.
• and, as always, 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."

A Full Day

Today was a good day, an adventurous day free of work, full and long, the kind of day that ensures a good sleep at the end of it. Mom and Kevin arrived this morning and after being greeted by an ecstatic dancing Duncan, a big sushi lunch, a day of grocery shopping and running errands, of making a ginger-infused-custard pumpkin pie and brining the turkey, playing with Duncan in the frigid temperatures currently holding steady outside the warm walls of my apartment, I am ready to put on my PJs, pull the blanket over me and have nice spice-scented Thanksgiving Eve dreams, my good dog snoring at my feet and one or two, or even three cats curled up like warm little balls of dough around me.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and tonight, as I look forward to a day of cooking, playing Guitar Hero and eating dinner with Mom and Kevin, I am more thankful than ever to have a quiet life and such a wonderful and supportive family.

 

Good dog dreams!

Time Capsule

Duncan and I have come home to be with my family and say farewell to my grandmother.

While it was not the easiest journey, we made it safely and despite the shocking cold in the air--yesterday morning was vaguely October-ish even with all the green in the trees and on the mountains--it was well worth the trouble. I have been in need of a quiet and peaceful place, searching for an escape which I finally found in my mother's garden.

While Duncan plays outside with Zeus, the neighbor's German Shepherd, I wander across the grass and marvel at the place my mother and Kevin have carved out for themselves on the edge of the desolate and sage-riddled desert foothills. It is lush and green here like we don't have even in Colorado. The calendar may say that summer is nearly upon us but in Pocatello Spring seems to only have just begun. The ground is still very soft and dark and moist, and the garden is practically dripping with nectar. The Russian Olives have not yet bloomed even though they are nearly finished in Denver where the Lindens are already beginning to open and waft. As Duncan and Zeus frolic and chase one another I find a nice warm, sun-dappled spot in the shade and listen to the birds, which come in colors I have not seen since I left Illinois: the tanagers with their bright heads, the magpies, purple and cobalt in the sun, the tiny darting hummingbirds, so small and fragile but so fiercely territorial. The air smells clean and delicious and rich enough that I can almost lap at it with my tongue. A buck meandered into the yard and excited Roo, who chased it off before returning to me.

This place is a time capsule where magic can unlock memory. I drive the streets past new buildings and homes, up mountain roads that wind and wend, my muscles somehow remembering where the potholes are, where to slow for dips in the road. There is hardly a place in this town not tied to some precious spot in my heart, and with very little effort I can see the faces I surrounded myself with twenty and thirty years ago. The Universe always listens and sometimes it answers us if we ask the right question. Just yesterday I literally bumped into my friend April and her two sons, the very April I wrote about a week ago but did not expect to see or hear from. There is great magic here indeed.

I have forgotten how perfect this place can be at times and shouldn't have to work so hard to be reminded that no matter how isolated I sometimes feel in Denver, that there is a home here for me, a place where I feel rejuvenated and safe, even if only through photographs and sweet, golden memory. Immaculate and untouchable.

A Change in the Weather

It's never easy to tell here in The Rockies––and I certainly don't want to jump the gun––but I think Spring may be dipping its toes in the DenverLand pool. It's never easy to tell as March and April are typically our snowiest months, and the flowers don't really bloom until mid to late May. Several years ago on my birthday (February 1st), Mom and Kevin came down from Idaho to visit. We awoke to a spectacular morning and spent the day at the zoo with the temperatures firmly resting in the low 80s. The next morning, though, we had a terrific blizzard. and they had to leave a day earlier than planned. It's par for the course here and while we relish our occasional warm winter blessings, we also view Spring with a cautious and suspicious eye. After all, Colorado is where we golf in January and ski until June.

For instance, even though Tuesday night was warm with a luscious breeze drifting through the windows, we awoke Wednesday morning to four inches of snow. Duncan was overjoyed, rolling and playing in the stuff while I scraped the windows and pushed heavy pounds of it off my car. The skies were low and white and the snow was thick and blinding. Walking through it was bitter and wet and we were both soaked within minutes. I left for work and spent the day in my windowless office dreading the long drive home, but by the time I stepped outside at 5 PM, the sun was out, the snow was completely gone and three little dandelions had sprung up along the edge of the sidewalk. While the mountains were still white, the skies were smooth and blue and the air smelled sweet and rich.

Duncan was waiting for me in the window, his tail wagging, a wide grin spread across his face. When we ventured outside he pranced and danced and pulled me across the greening grass to each of the trees, where small buds were beginning to appear. He was proud, as though he'd somehow arranged it himself as a gift for me. So we went to the park, where the ground was dry but still springy and soft and returned Roo's tennis ball with a satisfying and solid bounce. The lake, which had been cloudy and turbulent only that morning was smooth and clear and covered with a battalion of scrawny, squawking gulls and fat pelicans so big they looked like paddle boats. The little birds had invaded the trees and were content darting from green bud to green bud, chirping with each hop. It was miraculous and exactly what my spirit needed after a winter that began three weeks before Halloween. We grilled tilapia outside and slept with the windows open, the cool, candied air greeting us in the morning when we woke.

I am not convinced but remain hopeful.

Irony

It has been five years since I've been here, but I can not remember an Idaho summer this green. It is impossibly green for July, a green so thick and heavy that in some places the mountains appear nearly black, especially early in the morning or in the evening as the sun sinks into the reservoir west of the city. My corner of Idaho, the place I was born and raised, is a brown and yellow expanse of land, broken up by rolling hills and small mountains, heavy black chunks of lava rock and vast flowering potato fields. It is somehow desolate and comforting all at once.

My mother lives south of Pocatello on a nice chunk of land that backs up against the mountains. Her backyard is a mountain, dotted with tall clumps of sage and wide stands of juniper, with deep washes that run down either side of the property. Normally a visit this late in the summer finds the tall grass long since yellowed and crisp, the flowers faded and a bit wilted and the air sharp and hot in the lungs. This year, unlike any year I've known, heavy rains have fallen nearly every day, prolonging Spring and cooling what is typically an unbearable July, keeping the air fresh but dry, fragrant and easy on the nose. Everywhere I look I see green, tall and limber, as alive and tender as May.

Several weeks ago a massive storm gathered near The Gap, the place my mother lives where two mountain ranges come together, creating a narrow valley. Storms often move through the valley and meet these two enormous walls of land and rock and back up on themselves. But this storm swirled and grew in force until it erupted in one of the most fierce microbursts mom has ever seen. Flash floods raged all around as water spilled down the mountains and into the washes on both side of the house, flooding her backyard and running down into the street, which became a river.

Last night after Duncan and I arrived, tired from a long day's travel across Wyoming, we were warned to stay off the mountain because the flood pushed the snakes down lower than usual. My mother, working her amazing gardens and flowerbeds has encountered several, and the neighbors have reported killing rattlers. Duncan has never been to Pocatello in the summer,and his only experiences on the mountain have been in the deep snow. He loves it up there and I've been promising him we'd trek all over. Mom and Kevin's warning was more than a little disappointing.

This morning before I took Duncan for his walk, while mom was getting ready for work, she warned me again. "I wouldn't take him up there," she said. "He's just so curious and I'd hate for him to poke at a snake, especially a rattler."

I nodded and listened, but once she was gone, my dog gave me that look and so we grabbed Zeus, the friendly Shepherd pup from across the street and went up the hillside, running through the juniper, staying out of the sage where the ticks lurk, up and down the hill, back and forth. Duncan was ecstatic and it was all I could do to keep him close. I could stand and watch him run and explore for hours. His enthusiasm and appreciation for all things, old and new, is remarkable.

The morning eventually began to wear off and the sun grew hot. We climbed back down, south of the house to the road, where we walked down the middle, Duncan admiring the stink bugs scurrying for the grass line, and me admiring him.

And then there it was, spread out right in front of us, a long thin snake, tan with black diamonds on its back. I froze, gasped and being terrified of snakes, did a full body quiver. Duncan stopped and stared at the horses, oblivious to the snake directly in front of him. I tightened my grip on the leash and pulled him back close to me. I had no idea what kind of snake it was, and although I was pretty sure its tail didn't have a rattle, those diamonds made me nervous. The snake, of course, did not seem to even notice us. Its tongue spiked out once and only reacted when I moved my hand, sending a shadow across its field of vision, it reared back and looked right at us, capturing Duncan's attention. He bent forward and sniffed it's thin tail, nudging it with his nose, causing the thing to slither a few inches forward. Duncan's tail exploded in joy and he looked ready to pounce.

Duncan was convinced he'd found the ultimate stick, and before I could react, leaned down, scooped up its tail in his mouth and prepared to trot away. I yanked hard as the snake coiled up, startling him. He dropped it and leapt back, his eyes never leaving it as it slithered across the gravel and under a tall clump of lavender.

I could hardly wait to tell mom that the danger was not on the hillside but right in the middle of the road where she'd urged us to walk.

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.

Softly, Deer

Last night after a good meal made by Kevin, warm family chats in front of the fire and Mom's Christmas lights glowing all around us, the hum of the road faded from my back and palms and Duncan and I slipped into the back room to sleep. Mom had loaded the bed with extra blankets because she knows I like to sleep warm while my face is cool above the covers. After I changed into my pajamas she knocked on the door and whispered, "Curt, if you look out the window there's a herd of deer in the backyard." I turned out the light and very softly, without making a sound, pulled the blinds. Six deer had arranged themselves in two tight clusters across the slope of the hill directly behind the house, not ten feet from my window. Their heads were down as they sifted through the snow in search of grass and the last of mom's summer and fall plants.

I watched them a moment, thinking of all the times Grandma and I had cuddled on the top bunk in her camper watching the deer move through the camp. It was a special thing for us, keeping our eyes on the hillsides or along the edge of the road in the tall sage or amid the lodge pole pines where they stood nearly invisible. Deer were always a special bond between Grandma and me. In fact, when I was born she made me a blanket on which was sewn a butterfly dancing in the air inches above Bambi's twitching tail. That film became a favorite of ours and she even bought me the soundtrack on vinyl, which I still have. Even when I lived in Chicago, where the deer are plentiful--and even a bit of a hazard--on the north shore, I always marveled at them, even when they galloped across narrow Sheridan Road in front of Cleo, my little red Nissan Sentra. Deer are symbols of gentleness and grace, unconditional love, the power of gratitude and also alternative paths to a goal. Those gathered in the yard outside my window, with their white bottoms and big ears, were my reward for the journey we made yesterday, Grandma's joy at my return home to celebrate the holiday she loved so much in the mountains where we were born.

Duncan had already curled up on the pillow where I planned to sleep, so I nudged him and called him to the window. He climbed to his feet with a soft groan and leaned forward, resting his paws on the sill where he watched them in rapt attention, his own ears raised, his tail swishing softly against the comforter from side to side. I stood next to him, my hand on his shoulders, and we watched them for more than an hour, the pale glow of the moon washing across the mountain, bathing the backyard in powder white. Finally I climbed under the covers and as I fell asleep Duncan stood guard, whining very quietly when they took cautious steps around the saplings, growling once or twice when they approached the window to peek in. And when I awoke this morning he was curled up next to me, spooned against my back, one paw draped over my shoulder.

Unconditional love and graitude.

Guardian and Companion

This was the perfect day to (still) be sick at home. The skies were gray and heavy and I think––although it's difficult to say with any certainty since I spent most of the day passed out on the couch, Pip curled up in a bunny-ball on my shoulder, one paw curled up and tucked under my chin––it rained and turned Bowles into a hissing line as the cars passed over it, spraying water onto the sidewalks and the tree-lined island which runs down its six-lane center. It was cool and tomorrow promises to actually be cold before the high heat which will consume us this weekend. I don't think Duncan minded staying in so much but he was still anxious to get down to The Glen where he and Kona wrestled and ran while Melissa and I stood on its grassy slopes and watched. Earlier today Melissa witnessed a black lab––very similar to Kona––getting hit by a car. Luckily several professionals were on the scene, including a PetSmart delivery van, which picked the poor thing up and radioed back to their clinic for a surgery-prep. Melissa was very shaken and it reminded me of a similar scene which Mom and Kevin and I witnessed several years ago when they were in town for a weekend visit. While driving back from dinner we saw a large Boxer get hit, a sight that replayed in my head every time I blinked and which is still quite vivid. I was a little more protective of Duncan this afternoon, a little quick to use my Big Deep Papa Voice (which sounds rather funny now that I'm congested and half hoarse) when he didn't respond to a command. I think I scared Kona, who hunkered down next to me, something she almost never does. Duncan was resistant but I was firm and we eventually reached an agreement. I only use The Voice because I love him and constantly watch out for him. I guess this makes me his Guardian, which made me ponder whether or not I'd voted correctly, but eventually, when we sat down in the long damp grass and he rolled his head against my knee and reached out for me, I remembered that I try to be his friend far more often than I play parent, which is exactly as it should be. I'm happy Companion won. From now on that's the word I'll use instead of "owner."

Thank you all for voting and thank you for the well-wishes. I hope tomorrow is the day we're back to the park even if the weather is cold and wet. We deserve it.

Flexability

I am a creature of habit. I can't help it, I have my ways of doing things. For instance, my clothes all hang in the same direction in my closet and my drives to Idaho are just as regimented. I like knowing what to expect and when to expect it. I-25 takes me to Fort Collins, where I cut up Highway 287 to Laramie, bypassing Cheyenne altogether. Then it's around Elk Mountain––which is terrible regardless of the time of year––a quick stop at a familiar truck stop in Rawlins, a straight shot through Rock Springs and Green River, down the hill, through the tunnel to Little America where I stop, pee, refill my mug with hot water or cocoa, then take the exit to Pocatello where I travel through Kemmerer, Cokeville, Bennington, tiny little Dingle and the myriad of small, no-stop-light towns, down through Lava Hot Springs and McCammon, jog onto I-15 and head straight into Pocatello. I've done this the fifty-eight or so times I've made this trip over the course of the past eight and a half years. Sometimes at night, if the sky is clear, I pull off the road, turn off the car and stare at the stars and all that space I can't see through Denver's orange-colored night. Idaho skies are brilliant and vast, bigger each time than I remember and my reward for living far from home.

This trip, however, was different.

I elected not to cut from Fort Collins to Laramie, but to go through Cheyenne and over the pass, thinking it wise to avoid Highway 287, the third most dangerous stretch of road in the country, sticking to the interstate all the way. I put the idea to Duncan, sitting in the backseat, and when he didn't object I changed our course, heading straight into some of the worst weather conditions I've ever navigated. The skies were blue, the sun was out, the roads were clear, but damn if the wind wasn't a bitch. And not just a bitch, but a raging bitch with 55-60 mile an hour gusts, blowing white powder over the road, erasing it almost completely and reducing my visibility to little more than 20 or 30 feet in front of the car. But we did it. We were cautious and careful and came down the other side of the pass, dropping into Laramie safe and sound.

It was Rawlins where everything changed. Wyoming is always windy, in sunny Summer weather or bitter Winter. It never changes, as if the entire southern portion of the state is a prison where the worst winds have been banished to spend their days and nights screaming bloody murder. It's a barren place and even the sage brush seems to struggle there. Only antelope and gas refineries are plentiful. And big trucks, monster rigs that rumble and kick up road gravel which the winds are more than happy to send flying right into your windshield.

We stopped, refilled the gas tank and went for a short walk along the perimeter of the parking lot, which was little more than the frozen mounds pushed and piled up by the ploughs. The wind kicked up more snow, which cut our faces and eyes, stinging like relentless needles piercing my tender cheeks, turning my cheeks pink, chapping our lips. We were more than happy to leave, but The Powers That Be weren't so keen on the idea. Not half a mile out of town the traffic ground to a halt and we came to a stop. The roads were closed-every route out of that crappy little brown, industrial Wyoming town were denied us so we sat for three hours, listening to music, dozing off, venturing out to walk the median and stretch our legs despite the constant bite of the wind. Three long hours, which had not been written in to the itinerary.

A quick thanks to the folks who talked me off the ledge and kept me sane while I waited: Kelly, mom, Kevin and Kevi, who reminded me that not only was I learning to trust myself and my will to travel alone again, unafraid and confident, but that I needed to learn flexibility as well. I sat with the bag of feathers in my lap, telling myself that so many people were rooting for me, that the feathers were reminders of that. I pulled them out, examined each of them, whispered words of thanks to the little talismans that had been sent to me, and learned that even feathers are flexible. They bend and move, adjust when they need to adapt to the changing environment and stay aloft despite the conditions that work against them.

As frustrating and claustrophobic as those three hours were, even they contained value. I am learning and remembering what John Lennon said, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."

It doesn't matter what we endured, or even how long. It matters only that we endured and managed, after fourteen long hours, to arrive in Pocatello safe, strong and together, the moon shining bright, painting the snow blue and night bright. My mother's driveway was the most beautiful place in all the world, and Kevin's hug was the equivalent of crossing the finish line.

"See," he said. "We knew you could do it. And you did."

And here I am. My good dog curled at my feet, watching the fire burn near my mother, who is sleeping in her chair. The air smells of fig tea candle and my mug of eggnog is waiting for me to take another sip from it. My belly is full a delicious meal I shared Kevi, Mike, Elijah and Jonah, and my heart is warm. This is all the Christmas I need.

I could not be happier.

Thank you all. I am home again and my dreams have come true.

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."