you, dog

you, dog

you do not worry about Corona Virus.
you do not fret about the Stock Market.
you do not care who is elected.
you do not mind about my problems, my insecurities, my weaknesses.

you, dog.
the best fun for you is when we play fetch. When we scratch you behind your ears. When you escape out the front door and chase ducks. When we are both home, and you can sit beside us. When you swim in the pool to cool off. When visitors come and you think that is so great.

When you let us know you are home.

you, dog.
If only I could see your world. If only I could be as happy. If only I could love beyond hurt. If only.

you dog.
can I be you?

The Summer of Living and Dying

The summer of 2019 was mostly terrible. Although visits from overseas family brightened the days, My older brother, David, and I steeled ourselves to fly to New York to rescue our younger brother, Christopher, from a wickedly awful nursing home situation, intending to bring him down to Florida, where we had prepared a way better nursing home situation. Chris had advanced Parkinson's Disease, including its insidious related dementia, and, after a series of bad falls, he was forced into hospitalization, with the medical mandate that he not return home.

For the past few years, I wrestled with my conscience, debating whether I should leave Chris in his Long Island house, (which, for this lifelong bachelor, was wife, children and more) dreading the call that he had bled to death at the bottom of the stairs, or, wrest him from every semblance of security, and place him in a 24-7 facility, where only his physical body would be safe. I had hired home health aides, and done all I thought I could to keep him safe and confident in his house. My other option was to consign him to an assisted living situation that would wrench him away from all things familiar.

I opted for the latter.

After several months of nursing home hell, I flew up to New York to see him. I found him, unkempt, and unwashed, tethered to a wheelchair, in someone else's clothes, in a urine-smelling hallway by the nurses' station. "Oh, Lisa!" He immediately started crying, and held onto me as if I were his savior. He thought I was there to finally take him home.

But the plan was to transport him south, never allowing him to see his beloved home again, believing a visit there would cause us unnecessary stress, and him an unrealistic view of his future. Dave and I transported him safely, even making sure he had a good home-cooked dinner upon his arrival.

He never saw his beloved home again.

Chris's diagnosis became official 18 years ago. I had seen his shaking hands, and rather than asking him about it (I should have!) I asked my then-ailing parents about it. They said it was stress. Finally, one Christmas, as my parents and Chris were leaving, I again, noted his tremors. "Chris, I think you should see a specialist." He agreed without hesitation. The only reason he had not done so before, was most likely because my parents, in their own time of need, tried to will away the more pressing needs of their youngest devoted son.

Chris went to the neurology appointment, and was quickly, and accurately diagnosed with Parkinson's. My mother, already suffering from Alzheimers' Disease herself, was not able to comprehend her baby boy's situation, making the appointment all about herself. "What do you think about my hand tremor?" she asked. The doctor -- A brusque man, who initially came across as rude -- later becoming a staunch ally, kept her at bay. "We are treating your son right now. I will speak to you after."

In the ensuing years, I accompanied Chris to countless doctor appointments. I drove him into upper Manhattan to see a specialist to see if he might be a candidate for brain stimulation surgery (he was not). I took him shopping for groceries (He wanted mostly pasta). I took him out for lunches (his treat). I welcomed him to my home for every one of his Christmas Eve birthdays, making sure he was in the mix of his nieces and nephews, and enjoying his remembered childhood birthday foods -- Veal Parmigiana, Crespella, and a chocolate Christmas tree-shaped birthday cake . . .

Fast forward . . . Company had already arrived. 26 family members milled around, playing with the kids, and chatting with each other. My cell phone rang. A Caribbean voice spoke: "This is ... from West Broward Nursing Home. Mr. Christopher was found unresponsive in his room, and has been taken to Westside Hospital Emergency Room." Numbly, I thanked the voice, hung up, and told everyone I needed to leave for the ER.

When we arrived, we were quickly escorted through the ER to a conference room. A young doctor began speaking. "Your brother came in presenting no vital signs. We worked on him for a half hour. I am so sorry to tell you, but your brother has passed away."


WHAT??? NOOOOOO! This is not true! Let me see him!

The young nurse led me to ER cubicle number 29. As I approached, I could see Chris lying in the bed. He still had a tube inserted into his mouth. For the first time in many years, his limbs were still. I held his still-warm hand, and stroked his head. "I'm sorry," was all I could say, over, and over. His hand was soft, and I felt him still there, holding my hand.

I dialed Dave's number. "My baby brother!" he wailed. Neither of us could comprehend what was happening. Where had Chris gone? Did he go on purpose? Did he give up? Was this his only escape from a life he hated?


I do not have answers. Really, the only question that both haunts my dreams, and keeps me awake, is, did I do this to him?

The Guitar In the Distance

I have owned my guitar since 1969, when I was 13 year old. It was an eighth grade graduation gift from my parents. He is a Guild D-35

acoustic six string, and I have played him for fifty years. His name is Vladimir. 

 Vlad has traveled a long and winding road in his career. He went with me to college, where I almost immediately dropped out, finding "god" in a popular cult of the time. He sang with me as I wound my way through belief and question, worry and warrior, kids and camp. I roused innocent children from sleep with "good morning" songs," sent them off to bed with soothing ballads, inspired peers with popular folk songs of the 60s and 70s. His charge was to always be a comfort and inspiration to others. Vlad followed me into marriage, children and every issue of the day. I taught my sons to play him (they have since far surpassed me in their musical abilities!) and, lately, I have swung him around 360 degrees, playing in coffee houses, at hospice services, and in church sanctuaries. 

I played him at each of my parents' funerals. 

How hard to momentarily turn off all emotion, in order to get through a cherished song, only to break down the moment it was over! Thankfully he appeared at weddings too, for both friends and family. He is always good that way. Each day, as I drive home from work on the Florida Turnpike, I pass the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino off in the distance. The hotel building is in the shape of a classic Les Paul guitar, and right now, the builders are at the upper parts of the neck. This guitar lets me know my daily commute is almost over, and I will soon be home. I say hello to it every time, wondering if this grand instrument has any communication with my Vlad. I am now almost 64 years old, yet I still greet Vlad each morning. He rests in the corner of my bedroom, patiently collecting dust and waiting for the very infrequent times I pull his hardshell case out to play him. He is my un-aging friend and companion, the one who remembers me as a young, red-headed girl, still waiting for life -- and guitars -- to guide her on her way.

Checking in on Charlie

I lost my dog, Charlie yesterday. He was 15, arthritic, often confused, and having daily small seizures that left him panicked and panting. He cried a lot. It is always a terrible decision to make, and, while Charlie made it clear he already had his eye on the bridge, I did not want him to go. The night before, I slept on the rug alongside him, his chin on my leg. Every now and then he would open his eyes and look up, checking that I was still there. I spent the next morning and afternoon never leaving his side. He ate a whole bunch of hamburger and lapped water from a bowl I held for him. I took him outside for a while, to sit with the family of Muskovy ducks living in residence on the front lawn. At one point, three adolescent sibling ducks (I call the Three Caballeros) waddled over and sat next to Charlie, blinking their understanding and support. I held his head and talked to him as he passed. "Go ahead, my boy. Go run. There's the creek bed trail right there. Go run, and run, and run. I will be along soon." Two of my kids visited us a couple of weeks ago, and one night we decided to go see a movie. Of course, it was "The Art of Racing in the Rain!" I had read the book and knew what I was in for, yet despite the personal emotion I knew it would draw out, the film actually helped steel me for what I knew was soon to come. Enzo (the dog) decides to return as a human boy, offering Denny (his owner)the assurance that his beloved friend is well and happy, and, while I don't subscribe to that idea, I understand the deep-seated need to know. I need to know -- without a doubt -- that Charlie is well, happy, and living his best life. I got to glimpse that life all the years

he was with me. Is it too much to ask for another peek?

The Myth of the Guru

My head is swimming. Listening to NPR on my way to work, I intentionally nod -- Yes!, railing against Trump, white supremacy, and Islamophobia. But my life experience gives me pause. A Sicilian/Irish Catholic American through and through, 12 years of Catholic school, and a more personal search for self, landed me into Christian Pentacostalism, and, more importantly, 30 years of cult beliefs, where the leader claimed messianic status, and his theology absolute. What leads humans to seek a guru? A single person upon whom to pin hopes, beliefs, and loyalty? Historically, this has, of course, gone beyond religion. Adolf Hitler, Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, Gautama Buddha, Jim Jones, Jesus, Menachem Schneerson, Sun Myung Moon, every parish priest. And the list goes on. . .

 We do not trust ourselves. What would a modern world be like if each human individual relied solely on her or his own conscience? Would we be lost to anarchy? Or would we be challenged to locate the angels of our better nature, finding a way to live together, with wild differences, yet communally seeking co-habitation? Part of me wants to blame men for all historical problems. If women ran the world, it would be a far better place! But, as the mother of two amazing, moral men, I cannot go there. Here, I pose a most basic of challenges: How do we make our global community better? How do we appeal to each and every person's better angels? How?

Instructions for Opening the Heart

“How’s Walter?” I asked her on the phone. “He’s goooood.” She drawled out the word, indicating a more measured response. “We opened his chest today to look at his heart and lungs. It was amazing.” Cadaver lab was humming with murmured activity. Physician Assistant students began with small-opening incisions -- a forearm to look at muscles and tendons, a calf to see tibia and fibula connectors -- working their way up to more major organs. Today was Cardio-Vascular. Next week -- the brain and all its complicated grayness. Jenny had her new lab coat on. It was a Christmas gift, a cool Grey’s Anatomy brand jacket with a streamlined fit and better pockets. She was the first of Walter’s cohort to grasp her scalpel, creating a neat French-door over Walter’s sternum. There, like a muscular prize, lay his oversized heart. “Here are the aorta and the ventricles,” the professor intoned flatly. “Note the size of the organ. Its overly large circumference indicates what?” Jenny raised her latexed hand. “Considering his obesity, he most likely suffered from hypertension and hypertrophy,” she ventured, fairly sure of her diagnosis. “His heart had to accommodate his issues by growing larger.” The professor nodded. “That is most likely the case,” he agreed. “This patient may have been a good transplant candidate.” While Jenny was pleased with her correct answer, she also noted how her own heart raced during this class procedure. She, and her two lab partners set to work dissecting Walter’s various cardial chambers. Jenny could not help but look into Walter’s face, imagining him as an actual person with an actual life. Bad heart and romance jokes elicited giggles and groans around the lab. Walter’s chest was finally sutured with large novice stitches. They covered Walter and picked up their backpacks. As they filed out of the lab, Jenny took note of her own beating heart. “I will never take this for granted again,” she thought.

The Souls of Shoes

They are lined up on low Ikea shelves in the cluttered mudroom, spilling everywhere onto the floor. Every person living here kicks off their shoes upon entering. Each pair is a portrait of its owner, and it is effortless for me to identify them correctly. Outward or inward pronations are as much giveaways as is style. Only Jina walks that way, hah! Since Daniel began working as a vet tech, he opts for medical Crocs, once a nerd style he would have shunned. Kalia’s tiny size five-and-a-half thrift store finds are a given.


In elementary school, I would doodle my classmates’ shoes in the margins of my marble notebooks. Since penny loafers were the uniform shoe, there was little variety in the Bic sketches, yet still, I could later identify each classmate by their shoe drawing. I did this for a couple of years. Was I working through something, or just bored? Not part of the popular crowd, this exercise allowed me clandestine entrée into the rarified atmosphere of the truly cool. Own their shoes, own them.


There are a number of shoe sayings. “Walk a mile in my shoes.” “Put yourself in my shoes.” “If the shoe fits . . .” And Cinderella’s, “One shoe can change your life.” There are more -- albeit fairly obscure sayings. When insisting fame had not muddled her sense of self, Oprah Winfrey famously stated, “I still have my feet on the ground. I just wear better shoes.” How is it that our shoes have taken the lion’s share of apparel metaphor? Shirts and pants? Dresses? Socks? Jackets? Not by a long shot. Are our shoes really a mirror to something deeper within us?


At the Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum on the western flank of Mount Herzl in Jerusalem, there is a huge and eerie pile of shoes on display, taken from the feet of Jews on their way to the extermination camps. For survivors, bare feet conjured seared memories of the Shoah.


My barefootedness is not anything like this. On the contrary, It is a declaration of freedom, and even, maybe, a form of rebellion. I walk barefoot around the house, no matter the temperature. I like the feel of wood and tile and rug. If I must wear something, I prefer sandals and flip flops. When I was a child, we called them “thongs,” a term I can no longer use because of its other connotation. I wear flip flops well into winter, along with my down coat and double-wrapped scarf. It is a call of the wild, a spit into the wind. Defiance of weather’s strictures and society’s norms.


Yes, shoes are identifiers. “Give a girl the right pair of shoes, and she can conquer the world,” Marilyn Monroe had famously said. 19th century Irish labor organizer and feminist Mary Harris Jones (we know her as “Mother Jones”) wrote, “My address is like my shoes. It travels with me.” I imagine Jones’ sturdy oxfords, soles worn to nothingness, marching, traveling, stomping her feet in frustration and determination.


Shoes take us wherever we are going. They dance with us, run with us, march with us. They skip along with our childhood games, ski and skate down mountains and across frozen lakes. They supply support as we age, and often follow us into the ground, as if we might need them as we step onto the shores of heaven.


We know, of course, that shoes have soles. Why the homonym? Are they windows allowing us to peer into our deeper selves, our proverbial souls? Monroe, Winfrey, Jones and Cinderella might think so. If I brought this idea to my children, whose jumble of shoes hold court along the mudroom floor and Ikea shelves, they would surely smirk and return to their eye-roll-default setting of “mom is hopelessly ridiculous.”


Except Daniel. He wouldn’t think that at all and, later, over an excellent coffee, he would confide that he has often thought in similar metaphoric fashion, except with hands. “ Look at people’s hands and form judgements,” he says. “Their movement, the way they hold a pen, or type, or smoke. Thumbs, knuckles, nails, and all, a person’s hands speak their own language and cannot lie.” I agree with my son. It’s odd that it is not feet that we speak about, but shoes. Shoes and hands. Palms and soles. Speaking the language of our own souls.