I finally decided to pull together my various scraps of scribblings from over the years, to try to create something resembling order. The first thing I found were notes from a conversation that I'd had with my grandmother at some point. She died in 1992, and the lined paper is yellowed and brittle, but more fascinating now than it clearly had been when I jotted down the items. I had to work a bit to remember what my notes actually referred to, so I thought I'd better elaborate on them now, while I still can.

Ginger

That's the inauspicious heading to the first set of notes. Ginger was the family cat when my aunts and uncles were children - which would have been in the 50's. I remember Aunt Bobbie sharing stories of pushing Ginger around the block in her baby buggy. Neighbors would stop and bend over the buggy to admire the "baby." She laughed as she recalled that they would inevitably draw back in shock when, instead of the plastic baby doll they expected to see, there lay an orange cat, bonnet on his head and blanket tucked around him. Everyone loved that cat, it seemed.

But the notes refer to other memories of Ginger that I only vaguely remember and would have entirely forgotten had I not written them down. Ginger's story at the Resler household, according to my notes, began when the neighbors moved away and gave the cat to Gramma. Ginger soon made herself at home and would open the old wooden screen door by leaping on it. From the outside, he would leverage his weight to swing it open, and from the inside would take a flying leap onto the screen, hanging on while it swung him into the great outdoors. Until one day when Ginger made a running dash for the door, planning on his usual graceful exit, only to find it securely locked. He bounced off of the screen and flew back from whence he came. A very undignified maneuver made even more so by the fact that it was witnessed by my grandmother, a young woman at the time, who was bent over, howling with laughter, tears running down her face.

This episode notwithstanding, Ginger was a suave man about town and was often seen catting about with a sweet little black and white cat - whom Gramma deemed to be his girlfriend. They could be seen hanging out in the yard or cleaning one another with wild abandoned. This went on for an unmarked period of time until one day the girlfriend retuned back to the house without him. Ginger was never seen again. A snowstorm had recently fallen and Gramma said that she figured he was likely killed in the storm. But shortly after that, she found Ginger - dead and having been obviously hit by a car. He had dragged himself back home. Gramma rocked in her chair and thoughtfully ticked her tongue. She loved her animals, be they squirrels, cats or dogs. And Ginger held a place in her heart.

My notes also tell of the joy of moving into her new home on Hiawatha Avenue - the same home that Ginger lived and died in. It was just across the street from Minnehaha Park, which was a wonderland of tennis courts, old depot buildings, abandoned train tracks and, of course, the falls. Hiawatha was a busy street even when I was a child, and we were mostly forbidden from crossing the street, though we did it anyway. But in 1952, when my dad was about 13 years old, they were just moving into that house. Gramma related to me how excited they were to be moving in. This home represented a life that was beyond her wildest dreams. And though it would, of course, now be 100% un-PC to do it, she said that she and her sister "Dotta" (Grace) ran through the house whooping and "Indian calling," so unrelenting was their joy.

But that home was not only in a busy neighborhood, it was also in an area of high crime and gangs. Just down the street were the bars where my Dad would "roll drunks" for money in his teen years.

My notes refer to an incident that Gramma related where she was chased on foot by a man. She ran, fast as lightening, and managed to get to her home and lock the door before he caught her. This was a recurring theme for my grandmother throughout her youth, and speaks as much to her own disabilities as to the culture at the time and her neighborhood's dangerousness. Other notes during that same conversation relate to her being chased in a car down the busy street as she came home one day. Life was full of fear for her even after marrying my grandfather.

But she touted my Grampa's strength and protectiveness, telling me about the time that some young men in a car harassed them. Grampa, driving like a maniac, almost forced them off the road and yelled at them. I wish I had kept more notes on that or remembered it, but that's all I have on that. On another occasion, Gramma and Grampa were together at the local convenience store and saw a young man being abused by other boys. Grampa grabbed the offending boys, "conked their heads together" and drove the sobbing child home.

Of course, my notes also refer to one of the most oft-repeated stories that Gramma would tell. When she was 17 years old, her mother was dying of stomach cancer. Gramma said that her mother told her that HER mother, who had passed away years earlier,  visited her to tell her that in three days she would return to "take her home." Three days later, she found her mother dead. I heard this story many times over the years and Gramma would tell me the reasons for the cancer, which usually involved the time her mother got her arm caught in the mangle of an old washing machine.

Anyway, it's time to give the cat her shot and feed the animals. I just wanted to take a moment to share this little scrap of paper from the heap.

Yesterday as I moseyed around the State Fair grounds, I happened upon Frank Barr who, with his wife, makes Faerie Houses. He was manning their booth and it seemed like a chance to chat with a fellow artist. Also, there was nothing going on in his booth.

As he was asking me questions and we were trading information, I realized that as an artist, my life seems pretty pathetic. I found myself trying to make it seem a little more like what it really is - just life - but I think I sounded like the knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail: "Just a flesh wound!" Bleeding all over the place. 

It just doesn't sound good, you know? No, Frank, I don't do art fairs anymore and the kiln is broken, and no, I don't actually have a studio anymore, and well, no I don't really teach anywhere anymore. And no, I'm not still working at the art center. And no, I don't have really anything to do with it anymore. And well, okay, it's true that I don't sell my work anymore. But REALLY, it's all good! Oy, I ended up wishing that I hadn't even stopped to chat. He had this look on his face like he was trying to figure out why I was still standing there talking to him. And I wasn't really sure at that point. Probably should have kept walking. And eventually, after clearly too long of a conversation, I did.

Then I went back to the West End Market and bought a piece of pottery there. It was super cute. And I kept my yap shut.

Today is both National Dog Day and my birthday. I'm trying not to take that personally. I had promised the dogs earlier that I would take them out somewhere, but now I'm wondering if they remember and plan to hold me to that, because I kind of don't feel like it anymore. The sun was out and shining and now it's cloudy and I'm kind of tired.

I'm upstairs in the office and the dogs are up here with me. They aren't normally allowed up here, so kind of this is going somewhere, right? Damn close to an adventure if you count that they had to walk past the cat boxes on their way up here. 

I can hear the cats fighting out in the hallway. I have no idea what's up with that, but Gypsy is now at the door whining because she's the official investigator of all cat goings-on and probably needs to know what's happening.

Well, anyway, another thrilling birthday and I suppose I should change and go get Marv and head to dinner. I should also mow the lawn. It's looking pretty damn scraggly.

Walking the Dogs

So, in the course of doggie events, it became necessary to walk the dogs. And it became anecdotally evident to me that the very act was conducive to human interaction and just had to make the world a better place.

In what became a two hour walk, we strolled through Central Park, and two small children came running over to the dogs and stopped about five feet away, pondering the possibilities. I got down on my knee and beckoned to them. Their parents sat at a picnic table about twenty feet yonder, watching. 

The little one, who was about two years old reached out and touched Gypsy, then reeled back, squealing with delight. Gypsy was nonplussed. The older one, I'd gauge him to be about four, sidled closer, but didn't touch. 

Then little droolie (the small child) again reached out to Gypsy, who stepped towards him to sniff the purple juice leaking from his tiny lips. He again convulsed with delight and the giggles bubbled out of him. 

I asked his older brother if he wanted to pet Nikki, who was bored and aloof, looking for all the world like an old man who wanted nothing more than a nap. He explained to me that he didn't have a dog, but tomorrow was going to get a fish. He held out his hand and Nikki gave it a non-committal sniff.

"Someday maybe you'll get a dog, huh?" I asked him. He smiled and nodded.

The little one, in the mean time, was dodging around Gypsy as if he were trying to plan his next foray into her fur. She watched him and wondered if his fingers were also lined with that sweet smelling sauce. 

The kids' mom, who had maintained her distance, came over with her camera and got down about five feet away. "Carlos...Carlos" she called to the little one. And then something in Spanish which I didn't understand but apparently meant, "Look this way, Kid, I want to take your picture." He gleefully laughed and ruffled Gypsy's mohawk. She took several pictures, which assume were blurry, but will serve as proof of the encounter none the less. Then she sat back on her heels and grinned at me. 

I grinned back. The dogs panted and the kids smiled at the dogs. 

A small bridge was built today between my neighbors and me through our dogs. We don't know each other, we don't live within blocks, we don't even speak the same language. But we know that when a two year old giggles, it's time to pay attention. 

And THAT is what a dog walk is about.

The End.

Last day of July 2014

I'm not entirely sure how it got to be August already AGAIN. Summer is half over and my tomatoes still haven't even developed little BBs. It's not right. But I did get several zucchini that I donated to the food shelf, though the response that I got when I dropped them off was "Oh no...zucchinis." I wondered if that were a commentary on the amount of zucchini they have already received or on the preferences of the people who get food from the food shelf. Perhaps next year I will ask them what kind of produce they would most desire rather than thinking solely about what kind of produce I can actually grow. Not that those two things will actually coincide in any way, but it might be a challenge worth pursuing.

Today I came home for lunch and was excited and surprised to see my brand spanking new social security card in the mail! They said two weeks, but it only took four business days! I felt a little like Navin Johnson in The Jerk (played by Steve Martin) - hopping around "my social security card is here! my social security card is here!" (This will make sense only if you have seen the movie and get the reference.) It's kind of surreal. I mean, yes, I knew that I did change my name, but on the other hand, IT WAS ACTUALLY DONE! I spent a little time practicing my new signature before signing the card, but really it's still a work in progress.

Marv has a group of wood carvers in town this week and we meet every evening for dinner. Today one of the women asked me if I ever practiced my signature when I was a kid. I said, Well, I practiced signing my first name and the last name of the boy that I loved at that moment, but my OWN name? No, not really. You know what's funny, is that now I can't even remember any of those boys I had a crush on in school. Even though I was so completely devastated that my love was unrequited at the time.

I got to dinner at The Depot a bit late tonight, but Marv was kind enough to save me some walleye. Several of the women (and none of the men, I'd like to point out) were shocked that I would eat "cold" walleye. (It was still lukewarm, by the way.) Who are these people and how did they get to be so bourgeois that they won't eat food if it isn't served piping hot? I explained to the woman next to me that it was fine and that I'm not a picky eater. And the woman across from me said, in a rather disdainful way, "How do you like cold walleye?" I said, "About as well as I like hot walleye." Which I guess sounded like I don't like walleye at all, but really only meant that I like it exactly the same. It doesn't matter to me. Someone actually suggested that I send it to the kitchen to have it heated. I mean REALLY!

It made me wonder a bit when we suddenly became so concerned with food that temperature was a potentially disqualifer for eating perfectly good food. I mean, it's not like it's mayo that's been sitting under a blazing sun for four hours. It's walleye that's been perfectly broiled and sitting on a plate for twenty minutes cooling to room temperature. Not only will it not kill me, but it tastes just fine.

So I ate my piece of walleye and half of a baked potato and the woman to my left says, "Well, you certainly polished that off!" And I was so sorry that she was leaving for home tonight and wouldn't be back tomorrow.

One of the women down the table eats like a little bird and always sends food home for our dogs, which is very sweet of her. I chose not to share with her that her walleye filet was lovely for lunch yesterday. And not for the dog. And guess what I'm having for lunch tomorrow? That's right ladies, not only will I eat a room temperature piece of fish, but I'll eat YOUR leftovers for lunch tomorrow. And I'll LIKE it!

Lunch today was less than stellar. We need to go grocery shopping, so what we have in the fridge is primarily condiments. So for lunch I had a piece of bread with chopped pickles, onions, tomato and mayo topped by swiss cheese and broiled. I can't recommend that one. But it was edible. (So you can only imagine that broiled walleye - at any temperature was a pretty big treat.)

I could have eaten the zucchini that was in the fridge, but it seemed like it would require more preparation than my lunch time would allow, so I figure I'll eat it Saturday when I can really look at it and contemplate my plan of attack. I also have a lot of rhubarb, so likely this weekend I'll whip something up with that.

I have my name-change get together Sunday. I hope my guests have appropriately low expectations, because I'm really not doing much outside of mowing the lawn and slicing up some things. I actually don't even know what I was thinking when I suggested it. I don't have parties, and I don't know what one does at a party. I suppose one grills? But I don't know if I even have propane. And where do people sit? Where do they eat? Ah, well, it's only Thursday night. I'll figure that out on Saturday. No need to get ahead of myself. Right now I just have to remember where I left my iced coffee and watch some TV. :)

What a day! At the moment, I'm hiding in the upstairs bedroom with the music cranked. Why? Because the rat terror downstairs will NOT stop barking. She's in her kennel at the moment because she attacked Nikki (the other dog) AGAIN. Her separation anxiety is just out of control. I tried to go downstairs a few minutes ago and sneak out the back door, but it didn't work. She heard me and commenced her wailing. So I'm back upstairs in the cat's room listening to Johnny Cash as loud as the computer will go. If I thought I would survive the jump from the second floor window, I'd go out that way. I am considering medication (her or me, I haven't decided yet), or boarding her for the next five days.

I love country music, but I have stuff to DO, and I can't leave this room without hearing her bark. She has SUCH bad separation anxiety that I can't even go to the bathroom without her screaming incessantly. And I can't take her in the yard off - leash because she can get under the gate. I can't get anything done because I can't have her and my dogs in the same area because she attacks Nikki. I had her on the leash in the yard with me, and Nikki just got too close and Dottie went for her! I put her in her crate, and was trying to get some work done, and she just SCREAMED without pause or stop. 

This morning I took her to the dog park for an hour and ran her around for a mile and a half and then walked her two miles this afternoon. I give her marrow bones to chew, etc. etc. Everything that has worked for EVERY other dog I've had with SA fails miserably with her. Nothing wears her out. Nothing keeps her interested. She just wants to bark and scream unless I actually just hold her in my lap. (In which case, she's fine as long as Nikki stays away...which isn't fair to my dogs and I can't just SIT there all weekend.) I have her for five more days (three already) and I think I'm going to lose my mind. 

So basically, I've exhausted everything I can think of short of Benadryl. I had to come upstairs and turn on the music loud and my dogs are outside (I can still hear her screaming outside, so there's nowhere to go to get away from it.) Gypsy doesn't want to come in the house because then she's trapped with the screaming.

I have been advised by a local animal rescue that I can give her a half of a Benadryl. And myself a glass of whisky.

Yesterday morning I got a perky email from my older sister reminding me that her little dog would be visiting. I vaguely recalled an exchange some time earlier that went (in my memory) like this:
"Hey, we're going on vacation! Can you watch Dottie?" and I thought about it for about a millisecond and responded, "Sure."

End of discussion, right?

Well, apparently there's a point at which that "sure" becomes "Yes, today, please!" because Dottie arrived yesterday and I've spent the last 24 hours trying to figure out what happened between "vacation" and "sure."

Today at work, Bob asked me what, exactly I meant when I said the dog screamed all the time, so I did my imitation of Dottie's crescendo from a mere irritating whine to a full boar ear-piercing scream. When I finished, he was suitably impressed and remarked that he once knew a dog who sounded exactly like that. I didn't ask what happened to the dog.

But actually, the fact that I can present her with the novelty of chewing on marrow bones and other things does seem to mitigate her craziness a bit. I also gave her a peanut butter-filled frozen Kong today. I can't actually find the Kong, but I'm just going to assume it's in her crate somewhere and push aside the slight concern that she actually ate the whole thing.

She also makes my other dog, Nikki, seem comparatively sane, which is no mean feat. When I got home yesterday, Nikki was barking her fool head off all the way out the door and across the lawn. Then she stood barking at the fence until I walked through the house from the front door (where she'd exited the premises) to the back door where I bade her - in what now seems a needlessly churlish way - to get her hairy butt back in the house and shut her pie hole. Ah, what I would give for a bark that were so easily stopped!

My dogs have never had it so good. We took the dogs to the dog park yesterday to get out some of Dottie's electrified energy, and it seemed to have some effect as she was quiet all night, which actually surprised me greatly. So this morning we went again! The dogs are stoked to have Dottie as a guest as it seems to mean that everyone gets great things to chew on and daily trips to the dog park. YAY!

Yesterday evening I very nearly implored Marv to save himself and stay home, but trooper that he is, he opted to take his chances. I, not being so trusting, made him promise that if he didn't sleep all night due to this decision, he forfeited his right to be a pain in the ass because he was exhausted. He promised. We shook on it. And then we went to Walmart and stocked up on chewing apparatus (for the dogs.) (Is that apparati?)

I was prepared to let Dottie chew on a live cow if it would make her stop her incessant whining and barking. And, by God, it worked! She didn't start barking again until Marv came downstairs this morning.

I came home for lunch and came and left to the sounds of whining and barking though. And tonight it's been an entertaining evening of watching Nikki eyeballing the crate full of chewables and Dottie guarding them. Dottie wants to take the items out of the crate - no doubt to parade around in front of Nikki and Gypsy, but she has had to learn the hard truth that she can go in the crate and she can come out of the crate. But the treats stay locked up. Gypsy, like Dottie, gets snappish and crabby when treats are on the line, so there are NO treats outside of crates.

At night we're "locked down" now. Nikki in a crate, Dottie in a crate, and Gypsy is in the Big House. In other words, there's a gate stopping her from going in the kitchen or downstairs, and a gate stopping her from going down the hallway upstairs and to the bedrooms, but she has the livingroom and dining room to herself. Three cats were locked in the "cat rooms" upstairs, and poor Basil was wandering the house - wherever he goes at night

Well, one day down, and only nine more to go!

Wednesday again and June is almost over. I switch to my later shift in July, which will be good from the perspective that I won't have to be at work until 9:30am, but sucky because I work until 6pm instead of 4. If I could just find a job where I don't start until 10 and I get done at four...well, we'd really have something!

Yesterday I had training in St. Paul all day, which meant that I had three hours on the road. That's never a good thing for me because it means that I have time to myself to think, which pretty much invariably means an existential crisis. the internal dialogue goes like this:
WHY am I not following my bliss? I have a novel...no, a memoir to write. I have pottery to make. I should be a landscape designer. I want to go back to school and get my MFA and lead a life of a Bohemian artist! And, while I'm at it, I think I'll grow my own fruit!

Now repeat that in varying permutations for three hours. By the time I got home I was exhausted and depressed. Marv and I went to dinner at Mill City Restaurant (FKA Bostons) and I was explaining to him the merit of living only three minutes from work (no time to think), and he apparently doesn't have those same thoughts when left to his own devises. Well NO, I said, why would you? You're living the dream. You have ME! And he gets to carve and read and do the crossword at his leisure. Sheesh. Granted, he worked as a teacher for decades FIRST, but why split hairs?

I also didn't say he has never had kids or anyone else to answer to or support. He's never had to NOT do what he wanted with his free time because he HAD to do something else. If he didn't want to do something, he just didn't. No one to explain to. Now, I didn't say that because he has, at times, expressed some regret about never marrying or whatever, and I don't want to make him feel bad, but COME ON.

I mean, the thing is that I've made my choices and I don't regret having kids and the life that it meant. But I'm not sure it's possible to be a single mom and just do what you want with your life. It should be, but I don't think it is.

Now my kids are (sort of) full grown and on their own, and I suppose I could re-arrange my life to pursue a creative life. In fact, if I had more discipline, I'm actually pretty sure I could. But I don't, so I know I have no one to blame but myself. I need someone to tell me what steps to take. What do I do first? And who am I accountable to? Myself? Well, that's not going to fly. I can't hold myself accountable for what I consider to be something done strictly for myself. I need someone else to MAKE me do something I want to do. And even I can see how messed up that is.

I want to write. And I amuse myself with my writing. But I need a deadline and a reason to do it beyond just wanting to. Like submissions. But I hate rejection. Which is a problem. So basically, I need someone to tell me what to write about, let me write whatever I want about it, tell me when I need to submit it, and then lavish me with praise. Again, I see where the problems are with this. As my co-worker would say, it's cray cray. But that's how I roll.

So here's what I want right now. I want a little column in the paper (the local one is fine), that is essentially just an entertaining column about...well, I don't know. About what? Life? And honestly, I think If I submitted some articles they'd probably let me. I mean, this paper could seriously use something entertaining, because it's boring as Hell and the people who have daily columns are dull as dirt. And not very good writers, to boot.

So I need a theme. or at least a topic list. Or something. HELP!

A week ago last Monday, I submitted my petition for a name change. I'm finally going back to my maiden name. $322.00 to basically buy back something that was mine a LOT longer than it was not. But I figure it's an investment in myself. And, as my friend put it, I finally get to throw off the albatross of my married name. So it'll be worth it. I sometimes sit and try to think of myself as that person. And I picture a thirteen year old girl. I don't know why. But I do. But I also feel a freedom and a kind of giddiness that is clearly psychosomatic. But after the divorce, one of my first and deepest wishes was to be rid of my ex's name. But I kept it for a few reasons - the truest one being that it was easier not to deal with it. Others included the expense and the kids. But Grey moved out and Gabe's been moved out for a while, and there just didn't seem to be a good reason not to fill out some paperwork and move on with my life.

I went to the courthouse and let the woman behind the plexiglass know what I intended, and as she started to wearily point me to the direction of where I might find the forms, I apparently delighted her by telling her that I already had filled out the appropriate forms and was prepared to pay the (exorbitant) fee. The fact that she was so clearly pleased says more about the dreariness of her job, I think, that my preparedness.

So that was a week and a half ago, and since she told me that I'd be getting a court date in a few days, I actually thought that meant that I would be getting a court date in a few days. I've been checking my mail box and (GAK!) I listened to my voicemails on the off chance that they decided to call me instead of sending me a letter. So far no dice. Honestly, the fact that I have to go to court and essentially plead for the powers that be to give me back what is actually MINE kind of rankles, but I get that this is how the game is played, and I can make some rationalizations, so I'm playing along. But what I want is to show up at court with Marv and Mel and have them stamp the papers and decree that I am ME again! For some reason, most of the people I tell this to have shared with me what a pain in the ass it will be. New Driver's license, update the bank, the social security administration, etc. Yeah, well, people get married and no one tells them that it's gonna be a really hassle to change their name.

Once again today, my empty mailbox disappointed me and I think if I don't hear by Friday there will be a phone call to the City. This is simply not that big of a city that there should be a line for administrative crap.