Clambering Autumn

When I was young, perhaps seven or eight, I remember my sister and I Sunday-driving through the wide neighborhood streets near the high school in Blackfoot, Idaho in my father's car. It was some time in late Autumn when the sun is still able to choose warmth even though the sky is as sharp as a razor and as far away as the moon. The trees, yellowed nicely, had finally kissed their leaves farewell and set them free on the wind. They'd spent all summer shading and sheltering the swallows and sparrows and countless other little gray and dirt-colored Idaho birds, listening to their talk, imagining they understood enough that when the time came they'd learned enough to fly off on their own, far away from the bleak little town on the edge of the reservation in a forgotten corner of the state. But when the time came, when the fingers of the trees relaxed and set them loose, they could only spin once or twice in the air before alighting on the grass, against the tall curbs or down into the street where they curled up on themselves and waited and waited.


Casey and I were in the backseat, standing, as you could in those days, looking out the back window, watching as the thrust of the car pushed the leaves aside and then pulled them in behind us where they rattled as they took chase, bouncing and crunching, leaving sad, broken bits of themselves––slivers in the road––behind. Casey and I cheered them on and when our father asked what we were watching I exclaimed, "They're chasing us, daddy! They're chasing us! Go faster." He glanced back in the rear view mirror and confirmed the army of leaves advancing and then falling behind as we sped ever forward, and bless him, he played along, slowing the car and letting them clatter forward, almost reaching us and then gunning it just as they reached for the tires beneath us.


It was an image I have never forgotten, and I have spent many a Fall afternoon walk with Duncan remembering it as I've watched the leaves rain gold and fire from the trees, roll across the sidewalk, heave through the grass or shatter against the curbs in the parking lots. There is nothing quiet or serene about Autumn and her colorful dancing minions are louder than even the wind, never content but always clambering for direction and movement, for the ghost-dreams of flight which haunt them through their final hours. On those days when the weight of the season has not taken my heart I like to run with Dunc across the grass, dodging the dried little hand-print shapes caught in the slowly yellowing blades, leaping over them as we cross the sidewalks. His joy at the chase is matched only by the surrender when we stand beneath the locust trees as the leaves swarm down on us, catching me around the shoulders, hanging from Roo's ears and clinging to his tail. Eventually we find ourselves on our backs staring upward, blinking leaves away when they waft down into our eyes, listening to their final mad frolic and the broken glass notes of their song.


There are not many days left of this part of Autumn, this Clambering Autumn when Orion rules the night and the naked trees, can only point, mute, at his path across the dark.

Special Guest

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born." (Anaïs Nin)

After months of anticipation and planning it finally happened: Lori from Fermented Fur finally came to Denver and made her debut appearance right here at While Walking Duncan. Although she hasn't actually had a chance to walk with him, she did spend several quality hours playing with and spoiling him. Of course it helped that she came bearing gifts: a beautiful pheasant toy we've dubbed Birdy and some delicious Duck Strip Dog Treats from Plato. I, in turn, made my Famous White Pizza, and Duncan doted on her and somehow convinced her, as he does every visitor, that he's sorely neglected and doesn't get nearly as much attention as he deserves. We had a wonderful evening, especially Dunc, who has made a new Best Friend For Life. Lori and I spent much of the night sitting and talking, playing with Roo, eating and talking, playing with Roo, discussing books and writing, politics and Roo, and getting so caught up in our time together that we didn't realize it was well past Turning-Back-Into-Pumpkins time and finally admitted that it was time to call it a night. As Lori gathered her things and headed to the door, Duncan put on his saddest face and pouted as she scritched behind his ears one last time. Luckily we'll be able to get together again on Saturday and actually walk and enjoy the cool Fall weather which has settled over The Rockies, with crunching leaves underfoot and the laughter of a new friendship ringing across the fields.

Politics Monday: Experience

I was talking with a good friend this morning, someone I admire and genuinely love, but with whom I rarely discuss politics. He's an Iraq war veteran and although I'm opposed to the war it would not be respectful of his service and the sacrifices he's made to argue my opinions with him. He left his home and family to fight for something he very much believes in and I am in awe of his duty. I sat at home, watched the war on television or read about it, debated it from the safety of my living room or on the phone with friends while he was actually there, unable to turn it off, put it down or hang up on it. And although we have differing opinions he knows how high my esteem is for him and how grateful I am for the decisions he's made.

One night last Summer, sitting on his patio sipping a beer and listening to the crickets hum in the rose bushes in his backyard, we engaged in one of our few, brief political discussions. He told me the reason he could not vote for Barack Obama was that he lacked experience. It was an argument I'd heard many times before and the only response I had was to say that George W. Bush didn't have any experience either and that he'd been so cavalier about his time with the Texas Air National Guard that to this day we're not sure whether he ever fulfilled his duties there. But, I pointed out, Obama is a man who will surround himself with other educated and experienced people, that he would not be brash and arrogant in his decision making.

This morning on the way to work I mentioned that Colin Powell had finally endorsed Obama on Meet the Press. The news caught him by surprise and for a moment I think he believed I was mistaken. He made me repeat the name. Yes, I told him. That Colin Powell. The General. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Secretary of State.

He was shocked but asked questions, wanted to know more about what Powell had said. I explained that he disagreed with the GOP's direction, did not have faith in McCain's economic strategy and doubted his choice in running mates. I also mentioned that several weeks ago General Patraeus had discussed the strategy in Afghanistan and without endorsing him, clearly stated an opinion that more closely resembled that of Barack Obama's than it did Senator McCain's. My friend realized that in one fell swoop, Powell's endorsement and Patraeus' strategy had effectively destroyed the "no experience" argument.

I have no idea whether my friend will vote for Obama; that's not the point. The point is that because I was informed and had not given up on the election in these last crucial weeks, I was able to make him pause and think. I did not expect to have the conversation and I certainly didn't think there was anything I could say that would change his mind, but he admitted he had some studying to do, and that's all I could hope for. And I hope that each of you, no matter where you are or how many political commercials are bombarding you (I live in Colorado, and believe me, all I see are political commercials!), you will take these words to heart. We are too close to think we have it in the bag. Now, more than ever, we have to fight, harder than we have over the course of the past several months. We have to fight for the uninsured, for the veterans and the soldiers still serving, for the poor and disenfranchised. We can not make the same mistake we made four years ago. We owe it to them. Research, read all you can, take the videos off this blog and send them to everyone you know. Urge them to forward them along. If you have a blog you must use your voice, no matter how small or how off-topic you think it is, to speak up for what you know is right. I challenge you to get involved in whatever way you can. With two weeks remaining, every moment counts!

LATE BREAKING NEWS (10/21/08 6 AM): Word has just come out that in addition to Michigan, the McCain campaign may be giving up on Colorado, big news for a state that twice went red. See, the little people can make a difference! Get out there and do something in your state!

Rapture and Oblivion

There is a wall at the end of the grassy lane where Duncan and I walk in the morning and again at night. On both sides of that wall the trees have turned the most brilliant shades of Autumn and beneath them the light glows a buttery cinnamon color and the air is sweet and heavy and flavorful on the tongue. For the last few weeks we have watched the progress of the leaves erupting from the tree and the slow but steady growth of the empty space around them as more and more find their way to ground below. The light has changed slowly as the canopy above has frayed, but the ground, a pleasant but single shade of green, has tattooed itself in celebration with the red and golden bodies it espied enviously all Summer.

The most marvelous thing about the wall and the corner where it sits is the delight the wind takes in traipsing through it. This morning, the street calm and quiet, the light still low but bright, Duncan and I followed the grassy lane down to the wall and gasped at the festival awaiting our arrival. As the leaves were finally letting go of their roost, the only place they have ever known, the wind fluttered and swirled around the base of the trees, pulling the bodies which had already settled there into the air and flung them in wide, playful eddies around the trunks where they mingled and danced with those who were only just making the journey to the ground. Families of leaves rose up to meet the stalwart who had held out for so long, tickled their crimson skins and coaxed them free of the branches where they swept far and wide and low. Duncan and I watched the leaves rise up even as others fell. He wagged his tail as his feet danced before him, then cocked his head and looked at me, curious for an explanation but content with the magic of not being given one.

In this time of transition, from vibrant life to stark hibernation, I wonder if The Universe will rejoice at our own passing in a similar manner, stirring the spirits who have gone before us into joyful revelry as they escort us from the only place we have known into rapture and oblivion.

Happy Birthday, Grandma

It's Grandma's birthday once again and even though we're six-hundred miles away, Duncan wanted to be part of the celebration. She's his favorite, you know, especially because of all the turkey and treats she sneaks him when his papa isn't looking, and were she here he'd plant a big sloppy wet kiss right across her face.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Hillside

"What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach far to the horizon?" (Hal Borland)

This afternoon the northwest side of the park and the lower field were blessedly clear of the usual brightly clad darting soccer-kids and their milling, indifferent parents. Duncan and I had crossed Bowles, tromping over the fallen leaf bodies in the curb to weave through the gathered crowds. Once on the far side of the queen willow, holding court over the tall reeds and cattails bowing and bending low at her feet, the field opened up before us like an unexpected sanctuary. The elms on its western edge have long since given up their Autumn struggle and looked bony and sickly, almost obscene against the faraway hollow blue of the mountained sky. But the field spread before us long and green and the maples and cottonwoods ringing her other boundaries were full and bloated with color. We spent much of last winter there playing in refuge from the wind at the base of its low hill, but there has been little reason to visit it since. There are places in the world which are meant almost strictly for specific times and seasons and it seems I have found another. Duncan was lucky enough to find a good, solid throwing stick which he preferred to gnaw upon rather than chase, and so I unrolled myself out on the ground, rested my head among the tall blades of grass which, at this time of year, feel cold and damp, even if they are not, slipped my hands behind my head and watched the sky move as only Autumn skies do, swiftly and with unknown purpose, clouds spread haphazardously about, mingling as indifferent as strangers among each other. Defying their nature they did not blend or merge and grow indistinguishable, like people in a crowd, but moved cautiously, revolving around one another, like drops of oil in water. From where I watched, my glorious red dog chipping away on the fractured femur of a maple branch with his diligent and purposeful teeth, the fuzzy, almost transparent clouds made impressions in the sky like the fleshy undersides of alabaster baby feet dipped in heavy cream. My fingers, restless worms, tubed through the grass on the hill above my head, blind eyes seeking contact, catching and crunching the few stray leaves which had fallen in the hours since the park's grounds crew had mulched them en masse earlier in the day. My hand fell upon an elm twig, pliable and green at the place where it had broken free of the rest of the tree, its skin still tender and warm with ridges heavy and knuckled like the bony finger of an old woman, the kind of thing I imagine Gretel offered to the witch who wanted only to fatten up her and Hansel before making a dinner of them. My fingers rejoiced in its texture and weight and because I did not use my eyes, did not commit its color and speckled skin to memory, I knew it as intimately and as fully as a lover's body, traced and caressed under the silken sheets of midnight.

And this, I suppose, is what I love most about this bittersweet season, that even though The Universe placates our fear and apprehension with explosions of color, so much more is offered through its scents and sounds, the feel of it on the skin of our faces and hands, the whispering of the leaves dancing down the street, the sweet, pungent flavor of the wind on our tongues. This is the time to close our eyes and feel our most alive, to remember and burn our brightest, rejoice in the beating of our hearts.

"It was one of those perfect... autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life." (P.D. James)

Political Monday: Character

My friend Ruth and I were discussing the election tonight and I mentioned that this election is unlike any I have experienced in the nearly twenty years I've participated in the political process. It seems that since 1988, when I was two months shy of being allowed to vote, most of the elections have been centered on hot-button social issues such as abortion or gay rights (being allowed into the military or granted the right to marry), or universal health care, but that this election is about America's place in the world, as both an economic and democratic leader. This election is about restoring the principles which made this country great and repairing the tremendous damages by a single dangerously ignorant administration. I feel so strongly about this country's future because I have never felt quite so patriotic and wanted so badly to believe in the truth of the American Dream. I want to see our flag and nation restored in the eyes of a world which once looked to us for guidance. I firmly believe that this is the most important election of my life and that only one man has the values and character to guide us out of the quagmire that George Bush has left us in.

John McCain has waged an erratic and divisive campaign and it is clear by the lies and deceit he's perpetuated in his ads, his handling of the economic crisis and the hateful and dangerous rhetoric he and his pit bull lobbed against Barack Obama last week, that he has little sense of direction and is a volatile and unsafe candidate. The character of the man now is an indication of the character of the man in office. Barack Obama has kept his campaign focused on the issues which are of concern to the American public. He has not used smear tactics and has remained presidential throughout much of the turmoil that has engulfed this country over the past several weeks. I want a community organizer to lead us into the future, a man who knows how to teach others to lead themselves, not a maverick who shows little respect for the greater need of the majority of our citizens. I want a man who is clear-headed and calm, who surrounds himself with a group of advisers who are experienced and intelligent rather than cronies and lobbyists. The country has never needed change as terribly as we need it now. Please speak with your friends and family about the issues that matter most to you. Use your voice, be it in a telephone call or an email or on your own blog, as a force for change. Volunteer in any way you can, if that means canvassing your neighborhood or offering to drive voters to the polls on the 4th. Any effort is better than remaining silent. Silence will not change the world but strangle it.

Be sure to watch the third and final presidential debate on Wednesday, October 15th! Host a party, attend one, talk about with everyone you know.

Grandpa's Poetry

My grandfather is the kind of man by which I measure all others. It seems there was nothing he could not do or figure out. As a child I was fascinated by him, by the stories he told and the sound effects he injected throughout, the beeps and toots and whistles. He is a natural musician, playing the guitar, singing in his smooth tenor voice, learning the harmonica in only a day. It was my grandfather who taught me to whistle, and despite the fact that I whistle almost constantly, I will never be half as good as he is in his sleep. He knows how to fix things like cars and sinks and showers and toilets. He is an outdoors man and many of my earliest memories of him are centered around camping trips and fishing excursions or the places in-between, when he would set me on his lap and let me drive the turquoise green truck we took on so many of those trips, keeping a careful finger at the bottom of the steering wheel as I was hardly big enough to see over the dashboard. Grandma was kind enough to feign fear and cover her eyes as she squealed. But it thrilled me and Grandpa always made me feel capable and brave and I loved nothing more than when he'd rest his heavy hand on my shoulder and call me "son." He is a hunter with a tremendous love and respect for the wild places of the world. For as long as I can remember, when asked what he'd want if I were to become rich and famous he's said he wants a helicopter to take him to the most beautiful and remote places in Alaska where he could stand in a cold stream and fly-fish all day. When I was very young and got to spend a week with my grandparents, Grandpa and I had a routine that began the moment he walked up the front step. I would hide somewhere in the house and he would spend long minutes, tired and smelling of grease and the bus he rode across the desert to and from the I.N.E.L. where he worked, tromping back and forth through the kitchen and living room, down the hall to the narrow closet where Grandma kept the vacuum, peeking behind couches and under tables looking for me. I'd stay put, giggling into a clenched fist and chirping like a bird or squeaking like a mouse to attract his attention, and he would pretend not to see me, standing almost on top of me until I leapt out at him. He'd stumble back in shock and then hug me tight, tickling my ribs as he held me. And then, after he'd cleaned up, changing into a simple white t-shirt, he'd carry me downstairs in his arms and lead me through the family room to the stuffed antelope and deer heads mounted on the wall, which I would pet somewhat apprehensively, staring at my own reflection in their glassy black eyes. Then he'd lead me to the bobcat hide, tanned and hanging above the couch, which I would run my fingers through while Grandpa meowed softly in my ear. Then he'd set me down on the bearskin rug and let me peer into the eyes and open mouth of the thing, poke at the place its tongue should have been, trace the lines of its teeth. That mothball-scented basement family room is where I learned to love my grandfather and I think that was because it was his space. Grandma could do whatever she wanted with the rest of the house, changing and rearranging the furniture, making new curtains and drapes, painting, buying new lamps and fixtures, but the basement was his. It was where he kept his trophies, his hunting equipment, including the elk calls he'd occasionally let me blow into. Most importantly, though, it was where he kept the jars.

There were shelves and shelves of them, mostly old peanut butter jars, the glass kind, family-sized and heavy, thick so that when you peered into them their contents blurred and warped and refused to reveal themselves except by the red or green punch labels Grandpa had made and attached to the places where Grandma had washed away the paper Skippy or Jif labels. Elk, grouse, pheasant, skunk, they read; beaver, mule deer, roadkill, on and on, every manner of creature. And in those jars were bits of hide, colorful feathered wings, tails he'd collected. I spent many hours leaning over the arms of the rough-textured couch behind his work station, watching him open them and withdraw bits which he always let me stroke or caress with the back of my hand, fascinated not only by what they'd once been but also by what they were about to become. I don't know how he did it, but he spent hours extracting pieces of fur or strands of feather which he wrapped around a hook and mounted on a vice and spun and spun until after long hours he'd produced a bright and beautiful lure for his fly-fishing trips. My eyes lit up at the transformation and I wanted to throw my arms around him and congratulate him on his magic. Nothing was more wondrous than his ability to change one thing--something so alien, disconnected as it was from the thing it had been--into something luminous and more alive than all those heads and skins hanging from the walls around us. My grandfather could spin gold! And there is nothing I wouldn't give to sit in that basement and see him do it again.

This morning at the park Duncan followed close, almost behind me, near to my body, watching me as though waiting for something, his eyes wide and head slightly cocked, ears up. His ball was at home where he'd dropped it in all his excitement and bum-shimmying in front of the door while waiting for me to leash him up. I had nothing to throw his way. and held out my empty hands for him to see. He did a little prancing hop at me as though I was hiding something which he'd discovered and wanted. But I had nothing. Scanning the ground I spotted a large branch which had broken free of the naked and sickly elm above us. Moving quickly I snapped off the last brittle four feet of the thing. Duncan plopped down hard, his tail wagging beneath him, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Hardly able to contain themselves, his front paws danced in place as I worked, peeling the smaller leafy twigs off the main branch, shucking them and dropping them at my feet, until I'd finally fashioned the perfect throwing stick, smooth and nearly nub-free. As I tossed it across the park, watching it spin and arc in the air while Duncan chased after it, his head craned back and his tail sticking straight out, I thought of Grandpa and his flies, his taking and making, the way he taught me, without knowing it, how to write poetry and how to move through this life, looking at things exactly as they are but also seeing them for what they could be, should be. In my mind those flies, those scraps of long-dead animals and birds, are still humming and darting over the speckled lakes and rivers of southeast Idaho, more alive in their tethered flight than I could have imagined peering into their peanut butter jar-kennels.

I do not know how to tie flies, and despite Grandpa's best efforts, I never managed to catch anything fly-fishing next to him on the south fork of the Snake River. There are many things my grandfather knows which I will never be able to do but his whistle is not the only thing I've inherited. I can turn branches in flying toys and fulfill the dreams of my own "son."

Political Monday: McCain's Judgment and Values

"The current economic crisis demands that we understand John McCain's attitudes about economic oversight and corporate influence in federal regulation. Nothing illustrates the danger of his approach more clearly than his central role in the savings and loan scandal of the late '80s and early '90s.

John McCain was accused of improperly aiding his political patron, Charles Keating, chairman of the Lincoln Savings and Loan Association. The bipartisan Senate Ethics Committee launched investigations and formally reprimanded Senator McCain for his role in the scandal -- the first such Senator to receive a major party nomination for president.

At the heart of the scandal was Keating's Lincoln Savings and Loan Association, which took advantage of deregulation in the 1980s to make risky investments with its depositors' money. McCain intervened on behalf of Charles Keating with federal regulators tasked with preventing banking fraud, and championed legislation to delay regulation of the savings and loan industry––actions that allowed Keating to continue his fraud at an incredible cost to taxpayers.

When the savings and loan industry collapsed, Keating's failed company put taxpayers on the hook for $3.4 billion and more than 20,000 Americans lost their savings. John McCain was reprimanded by the bipartisan Senate Ethics Committee, but the ultimate cost of the crisis to American taxpayers reached more than $120 billion.

The Keating scandal is eerily similar to today's credit crisis, where a lack of regulation and cozy relationships between the financial industry and Congress has allowed banks to make risky loans and profit by bending the rules. And in both cases, John McCain's judgment and values have placed him on the wrong side of history." (as quoted from www.KeatingEconomics.com)

It may be a bit long and technical but it's crucial that we understand exactly where John McCain's allegiances lie: with the rich and with the corrupt institutions which continually profit off the hard work of American citizens. He does not support the middle class and does not have your best interests at heart. History has proven that. Twice. Please take the time to watch the video, read on your own and pass this information along to everyone you know. You owe it to your country. Be a patriot and stand up for what you know is right. Vote Barack Obama on November 4th.

Sunshine Rapture

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
(from "Wild Geese", by Mary Oliver)

Don't Vote

Don't watch this video, packed full of film, television and music stars. And whatever you do, don't vote. And when it's over and you have the option on clicking "embed" or copying the link, don't post it on your own blog or send it to five people. Don't do anything. Whatever you do, don't do anything. Except maybe look into the faces of our children who can't compete academically. Or the faces of people whose lives have been ruined because they got sick and our government refuses to see health care as a right instead of a privilege. Or hold the hands women who were denied the right to choose. Or watch as the ice caps melt and the polar bears have to eat each other just to stay alive. Or witness our economy collapse right before our very eyes. Don't vote, but do those other things and come back and tell the rest of us how you feel. Duncan says so.

And don't forget to watch the VP debate Thursday night! Not only is it important but I have a feeling it will be entertaining and infuriating all at once!

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?

Political Monday: "Campaign '08"

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There's always room for levity, even in the most important matters. I wanted you all to know I do have a sense of humor despite the fact that I think the soul of America is on the line in this election. Enjoy Duncan's cameo appearance, send your own cards, but remember to vote, to educate yourself about the issues and to speak to those people who haven't yet made up their minds. And don't forget to watch the Vice Presidential debate on Thursday night. I'm sure we'll all learn a few not so shocking things and maybe get some more laughs out of the whole thing.

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.

Xylophone

It was a perfect night, perfect because the lake's surface was more smooth than I've seen it in months, glassy and clear, moving only because of the fat fish breaching its surface in search of flying, buzzing dinner; moving because of the squadrons of mallards which glided down from the pink sky and slid into it effortlessly, their voices a greater cacophony than their delicate touchdowns; moving only as the light moved in the west, the day's final blush rising and falling across it like the color on the cheeks of a little girl in love. Duncan marched at my side, head high, his eyes bright with sundown, his tongue pink and languid at its corner. The darting bugs, fighting, it seemed, not to alight on our bodies, but in our eyes and the corners of our mouths, did not even trouble us. The air was clean and clear, the day and night only just beginning to trade places, their meeting and parting embrace colored in cinnamon.

A perfect night in every way until we reached the hill at the edge of high school practice fields, where the silence and stillness were broken by

Please remember the first of the presidential debates is on Friday night. If you won't be home to watch, make sure you tape it. It's too important to miss! If you can, host a debate party and watch it with your friends, family and neighbors. Order a few pizzas, drink beer and wine and discuss what you can do as a community to help win this election!

Political Monday: The Truth

It's become quite obvious (even to ABC News, who couldn't find the news if it ran over them with a Mack truck) especially over the course of the past week, that John McCain is either a) completely off his rocker and has no idea what's going on; or b) a self-serving liar who's in bed with big oil, big Washington lobbyists and the men who've held our country hostage for the past eight years. First he claimed the fundamentals of the economy were just fine, then he got all fired up and demanded greater governmental regulation, the very thing he's spent his entire career in the senate arguing against. Just last week one of his most trusted economic advisers (and former CEO of Hewlett-Packard) went on MSNBC and claimed that not only could Sarah Palin not manage a large corporation, but neither could John McCain. John McCain has been all over the map lately, so much so that many of his own supporters, including evangelical leaders, are calling him unprincipled as they turn against him. He's continually lied about Barack Obama in his campaign ads, so much so that even Karl Rove jumped in and said the senator had gone too far. He even appeared confused as to where Spain was and whether or not the Spanish are our allies (they are!). The last week has not been kind to John McCain but we must remember the last eight years have been far worse for many Americans (who lack health care, educational opportunities, jobs, homes and retirement). McCain is finally revealing how little he knows, how ill-prepared he and his running mate are to lead us, and how ready Americans are for change.



Please, now, more than ever, we must all educate ourselves and act, not for personal benefit, but for the benefit of our children and grandchildren, the sick, the forgotten, those who are less fortunate. John McCain is the wrong choice. We all know it, even they know it, and even though it's easy to let fear dissuade us, we must hold firm, we must reach out and offer guidance, set an example, we must not be afraid. Barack Obama can not win this election alone. We must all work together to win it. Speak with others, offer them sources of information. If they talk about taxes, show them this link and explain how 95% of Americans will save money under Obama's tax plan. Do not sit idly by. Voting is your civic duty, but becoming an informed voter is an ethical one. Please share everything here and on trusted news sources (such as NPR) with your friends, family and neighbors, especially those who don't share your beliefs. They are the ones we need to reach. More than ever they need to understand the truth.

Red Tonic

Summer is holding tight but we are on the brink of Autumn, tumbling, gracefully and slowly, like cotton drifting down from the trees, but tumbling nonetheless. It was a magnificent day, clear and bright, far warmer than it looked from my bedroom window when I opened my eyes and peered out through the blinds. I bundled up in the jacket I've started wearing on our morning walks and quickly discovered it wasn't needed. And because there aren't many more days when the water at Chatfield will still be warm enough to enjoy, Melissa and I decided to take Kona and Duncan there to run free across the forested trails, only barely beginning to burn with Autumn's fever, and to swim in the series of small lakes that have recently become our favorite place to walk.


It's hard to believe that only a month ago Duncan refused to play in the water. Now it's all I can do to keep him out of it. Long before the trail reaches the lake, Duncan has already mounted the last rise and thrown himself into the water long enough to get completely wet before scampering back down the hill to urge me forward at a faster pace and share in his discovery (which means he waits to shake himself dry until he's standing right beside me). And while I stroll the trails which wind among the meadows and trees which line the shore, Duncan is content to paddle beside me, climbing out of the water as rarely as possible. Then there is that moment when we reach the far, wide beach where all the other dogs have gathered. Duncan gallops through the water, heaving his body upward and forward, undulating as he goes and leaving a gentle wake behind him, always diligent about keeping his nose, and sometimes only his nose above the surface. There is nothing shy or trepidacious about his arrival as he plunges into the crowds of wagging tails and butts waiting to be sniffed. He will steal a ball or floaty toy from any dog regardless of size or health, swim halfway across the lake to catch someone else's stick and then forget about it and release it as soon as another is tossed from the shore. He's become quite good at abandoning his own toys far out into the water in favor of chasing another, racing along beside a newfound friend only to snatch it from them once they can touch bottom again, which usually results in a discussion about what it means to share. He listens patiently but I can see in his eyes that he's already forgotten my name and only hears that voice reserved for adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons.

Kona does not swim but prefers to wade just up to the point where she can still feel the muddy bottom against the very tips of her toes. Instead she likes to run up and down the shore, sometimes ploughing right over other dogs and even their human companions. After being knocked down several times I've started referring to her as "Tank." But she means no harm and is quite sweet, standing by Duncan's side and wading out to greet him after a long swim leaving his toys floating out somewhere in the middle.


The walk back is a winding one but doesn't seem to last as long as the walk to the water. Especially now that Autumn has flared up and is painting the trees, the heart-shaped leaves and slinking vines along the path in heavy golds and reds, which creeps like a virus overhead. As much as Autumn hurts my spirit, I can not help marvel at her pallet and the slowness and stealth of her infection in these early days. Everywhere I turned was a wonder to be found, erupting amid the blades of grass, spilling down from walls of ivy, wrapping around weathered trunks.




Autumn's infection is remarkable, beautiful and calm, tricking us into believing she's anything but fatal. And in these early days, the days I could write long and hard about, I don't mind one bit. I have a my red dog at my side, always waiting on the path ahead, a tonic against the winter to come.

Sunset Alchemy

Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon
Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape;
Trinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline)

There was a moment this evening, just before sunset when day and night seem to hold their breath, as if making a silent, solemn vow to one another, when Duncan pulled me down the side of the hill toward the lake. The willows and long grass along the shore stood at attention, saluting the golden light, every tip reflecting and magnifying it, taking what was given and somehow making more of it, turning everything into gold, a kind of sunset alchemy. Duncan, always eager and sometimes more so, led me through the field of reeds, shimmering bulbs and whispering grass to a pair of small wild sunflowers which grew no taller than his face. I marveled at the light dancing around me reflected from all directions, but especially from the water and the flowers, dappling my skin and dazzling my eyes. I could not believe I'd stumbled upon and become a part of such a perfect moment. And then I turned to Roo, standing as he was near those bright yellow petals. He smiled at me and as he raised his head his eyes were obscured by the sunflowers, which replaced and become them, brilliant and wide, unblinking and magnificent. It lasted only a moment before the ducks paddling nearby caught his attention, raising his ears as they passed. It was a moment I will always remember, my boy one with the field and the sunset and all the world rising up to meet the light shining around him.

"The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past."

(William Shakespeare)

Now is the Hour

The electoral votes have shifted dramatically in the past week, and not in the favor of progress and change.

How is your health care? I hope you're better off than the 47 million who have none.

How do this country's students measure up against those in China or Korea?

Are you one of the lucky ones who still has a house?

What happened to your 401K today?

Have you talked to your friends about Troopergate?

I can not urge you enough to pass on this video, not only to those who share your beliefs but most especially to those who don't. I am an idealist and a patriot and I want desperately to feel proud of this country again, to know that the world holds us in the high regard they once did. I want to walk my dog in the park in the afternoons and not shudder at the McCain Palin signs which are beginning to creep up around me. I want to believe that Americans are smarter than to think the Republican agenda is about anything other than keeping rich, white folk rich, the disenfranchised forgotten, and all the rest of us poor, sick and scared out of our minds.

Stand up. Learn all you can learn and educate everyone around you. Now is the hour. If you are as repulsed by the past eight years as I am, why would you do nothing to prevent another four? If you're like many of the people I know who vote Republican and don't know why, who do it because their parents did and don't care to learn about the actual issues, not the lies, then make a point of asking someone, or shut the hell up and get out of the way of progress and change. This is my country, too, and I take responsibility for it. We all must. There is no time left to abide ignorance and laziness.

Now go do something.

Summer's Silhouette

On this night, the night Summerset has ended––the tents folded up, the wares placed back in their careful packaging and the crowds dispersed––Summer really does seem to have gone. It rained for two days straight, clearing up yesterday, enough to appease the crowds and vendors, but turned cold again for much of today. Duncan and I have avoided the park; it's too much to see the litter everywhere, our precious fields reduced to parking lots and lanes. But this afternoon, as they were tearing things down, we wandered across the street if only to visit the Colorado Democrats booth and see if perhaps they had some Obama signs left over. They were quite happy to report that they had none, that, in fact, there wasn't a single sign to be had in the entire state. More should arrive on Tuesday at a town hall meeting so hopefully I'll be able to grab one. Afterward we wandered the park, Duncan's eyes and nose aimed at the ground where he sniffed for remnants of corn dogs, turkey legs and funnel cake. The sky seemed far away as an enormous hawk cut across it, riding the air from the golf course to the park and back again, its wings spread out, hardly moving, its eyes seeing more in the end of the summer than my fellow groundlings. My eyes, though, were trained on the trees, especially the elms, which almost look like they had not even experienced the green of summer. Their leaves have withered already and the branches, which only a few weeks ago were dense and heavy, are now bony and bare. Most of the leaves that have already fallen had been carted away for the weekend's festivities, but a single gold one alighted near my foot and came to rest against a curling dandelion, papery and as transparent as Summer's silhouette can be, perhaps the sign the hawk had been seeking.


My heart breaks every year at the passing of Summer, but tonight, as I prepared a heaping pot of chili, I kept the patio doors open to allow the air inside while Duncan curled up with Bugsy on the cool cement, his nose still turned toward the now empty field across the street. While I chopped and cut and mixed and sipped from the spiced rum which I dribbled into the pot, the slap of a baseball striking a bat rang loud and true, followed by the frenzied cries of the team and spectators. It was a welcome sound, a song of summer, and seemed to drive back my autumn melancholy a bit. Summer is not gone. Not yet, not as long as the lights on the field slice the night and I can hear the game, as long as there is a dandelion left to cast a shadow.

Gift

There was a package waiting for me when I got home yesterday, a nice big, heavy one, the kind that makes you smile when you jiggle it to hear what kind of noises it makes. Duncan was slow to greet me, asleep as he was across my side of the bed, dreaming of Winnie feeding him pumpkin cookies while Olive and Pip rubbed his feet. But once he heard me cutting into it he was quick to snap into action and whine and do his shaky little rump dance at my feet, somehow knowing the contents were for him.

It seemed that Val from My Boo Bear and Sue at Random Ramblings had sent us a little care package with all sorts of goodies inside, including a new bunny (we've already dubbed him Bugsy), a duck (Beaker), a crazy Zap Ball, which looks and acts like the amputated nose of a giant clown, glowing and lighting up as it makes all sorts of crazy amputee kinds of noises that have Duncan pining for it every minute of the day. They also sent a perfectly timed package of doggy bags for our walks, three big chews, a San Diego Golden Retriever Meetup group t-shirt and hat, which I assume were meant for me since they look ridiculous on Dunc, and because the fields of Colorado have been devoid of them this summer, they included a beautiful set of ceramic monarch butterflies so that I always have them nearby to guide and direct my course. It was an incredibly thoughtful and generous gift, and has already brought us hours of fun. Duncan will not let Bugsy out of his sight, but I'm afraid his Berry is feeling a little abandoned.


As I told them yesterday, when I first began writing about my walks with Duncan a year ago I had no idea I'd meet such wonderful and supportive people. I have received far more from my readers than I could've hoped and I'm grateful everyday for each and every one of them.

Thank you Sue and Val. You mean the world to me. And Duncan, too.