The Lord (okay, Lady) of the Dance

My three daughters have all taken dance classes at the local studio. My oldest began as a pink-leotarded kindergartener and finished up strong with some raging hip hop. My second daughter developed a fondness for tap, which was good, since she is in every school musical. Tap comes in real handy for her. My youngest, a little gangsta girl, yo, also took hip hop for a while.

The studio belongs to a remarkable woman, a former dancer and mother of three grown daughters of her own. Her oldest recently retired from a world reknowned dance company where she was a featured performer for a number of years. Together, mother and daughter run the show, day in and day out, going on 25 or so years, now. The mom is about sixty five years old now, but has the lithe dancer's body of a lucky 25-year-old. Her posture is perfect, her severe white hair (channeling Meryl Streep in 'The Devil Wears Prada')frames her face like a helmet. Although officially retired, she retains an active emeritus status. She is there every day, still teaching the youngest students and energetically leading step aerobics classes most weekday mornings.

At the end-of-year recital, she always comes out, mid show, to introduce and say a public farewell to her graduating senior students. This year was my daughter's turn. After her spotlight hip hop number (awesome!) my sweaty girl was taken by the hand and introduced to the packed crowd as one of those special students who came as a tiny red-haired five-year-old, and was leaving a brilliant, honors student, red-haired young woman. The teacher cried a little.

Today was the first day of dance class for the new season. My daughter is away at school. Her sister went back to tap, this year an accelerated class, and already has plans on dancing in the upcoming fall school musical. She has a dancer's legs and a dancer's posture. Her teacher, a former student of the owner, and a seasoned professional herself, used to tutor my son in math. It's a small town that way.

I don't know how to dance at all. In another life I would like to learn. Even from the pink leotard on. It is a language I admire, but do not speak.

A Dog's Life Can Suck Sometimes

Today was the last day of my job at a local animal shelter. I was hired as a dog trainer. As it turned out, the dog trainer they needed was a strapping young experienced, fearless, at least 200 pound dog trainer. I am not these things.

Anyway, I did learn a lot these past six or so weeks on the job. The place I worked was a large, private shelter where dozens (sometimes hundreds) of dogs and cats would arrive on a regular basis. My job, in the Pet Behavior department, was to train and maintain the hardest cases - those dogs who have bitten either people or other dogs or at least, shown an inclination to do so.

This job is not for the faint of heart. In my brief tenure, I traveled to two city shelters where the stench was only matched by the hopelessness in the eyes of the dogs in their care. I watched as two caring and careful city workers corralled a scared pit bull for euthanization. I sat and petted a friendly mastiff mix who nuzzled me and poked for the treats he knew were in my pocket, only to find out that his number was up later that very day.

At my shelter, I was given a handful of difficult dogs to train. They all had different issues, all not ready for prime time.
There was Dash, a medium sized Australian Cattle dog mix full of energy and bravado. There was Diablo, a terrier mix who looked like a Jack Russell on steroids who jumped and lunged at every opportunity. There was Rosie, a big neurotic lab mix girl who cried and wailed when left alone and pushed and prodded for attention to the point where she became aggressive. There was Benny, a compact, skittish, feral dog, rescued from the streets of Taiwan where he might have otherwise been caught and eaten for dinner. And then there was Ace, a large pit bull mix who would bite me soon as look as me.

Dash had been adopted and returned twice. It seems he attaches to one particular member of his new family and guards them against all the other members. He thinks he is doing his job. The first time around, he nipped at a child. The second time he bit a man on the leg. And yesterday he was returned for the third time for biting his female owner up and down her arm.

Today, Benny, the little feral pup taken from an alley in Taipei, greeted me excitedly in his cage. I took him out and we played for a while in the yard, together with another dog recently rescued from a Virginia puppy mill. Benny never met a dog he doesn't like. As fearful as he is toward people, he solicits as much play and fun from other dogs. Benny and the Mill dog bowed and pranced around each other, allowing me into their game as well. They chased me and I chased them. They zig- zagged around, coming up from behind to nose at my leg. When we were done, I put the mill dog back into his kennel and took Benny up to the office with me. This has been our regular routine. He hops up the stairs and darts under my desk. I kneel on the floor and he comes out for ear scratching and belly rubs. He snoozes under there while I write up my dog behavior entries.

Later this afternoon, I went looking for Dash. He was in the bad dog wing where the kennel door has a big sign that says, "AUTHORIZED PET BEHAVIOR PERSONNEL ONLY." Dash was hopping around, excited to see me. I put him on leash and we headed out of the building for a walk. He stopped and sat at every door, waiting like a perfect gentleman for my go-ahead. He is strong and pulled when we reached the sidewalk so I took him to the play area so he could run. He found a tennis ball and brought it to me. We played fetch for a while until the hot summer sun got the best of both of us. I sat in a chair in the shade. He chewed the ball contentedly under my chair.

By 4:15 I had only 45 more minutes before quitting time. I brought Benny back to the big kennel. While I navigated my way through the public area, a young woman and her mom came up. "He is so cute!", the mom says. "What kind of dog is it?". I am used to this question. Benny doesn't look like any dog one normally sees in America. He looks something like a cross between a hyena pup and a dingo. A very cute dingo. He has a reddish brindle coat and wide, round paws. His harness (don't ask me why) has attached blue angel wings. I told them his story, and for the first time ever, he came over to greet them. He let them pet him. This was major. I checked my watch. 15 minutes to the end of my shift. After what seemed like a long time and a lot of discussion, the mom turned to me and said, "we want him". I left them filling out forms and ran back to see Dash in his kennel. He had finished his dinner. He looked up expectantly at me. I had to clock out across the street in five minutes. I rubbed his cheek through the grill and slip him a few treats. As I went to leave I took one more look. He smiled a big cattle dog smile as if to say, "See you tomorrow." But for Dash, his tomorrows are numbered Even though it is a no-kill shelter it's still "three bites and you're out". Dash will be shipped back to the pound he came from - that same city shelter I had visited two weeks earlier. They have no room for dogs who bite.

After clocking out and heading toward the street, I heard someone call to me. There, walking proudly in his angel wings and brand new blue leash was Benny, flanked by the young woman and her mom. Benny, who traveled across the ocean from the mean streets of China was walking into a fine new and loving home where he would never have to look over his shoulder or scavenge for food.

I looked at Benny. I thought of Dash. The afternoon sun was turning August red. Time to go.

Florence Cracked Corn (and I DO Care)

It was late fall. I parked my car alongside the Starbucks on Main Street, got out and turned the corner into the shop. I got my usual quadtallamericanohotwithroom, ($3.10) fixed it at the fixings counter and walked out. As I rounded that same corner back to my car, I saw a pigeon huddled against the side of the building. This pidgeon did not look well. Her feathers were ruffled up against the wind whipping straight down the sidewalk. I approached, doing my best pigeon coo. She had her eyes closed and seemed a little wobbly, even though her little red legs were tucked underneath her. She had found a nook in the facade, right in front of the taxi depot. It was a poor wind shield, but it did allow some sun to shaft down, warming her a bit.

I went back into Starbucks and came out with a corn muffin ($3.75) When I returned, she was as I had left her, head down, feathers up. I crumbled some corn muffin up and spread it on the ground a non-invasive distance away. She looked up and stood. Her legs, red, like most of our town pigeons' were distorted with painful-looking tumors, especially the left one. She hobbled over to the muffin crumbs and ate with gusto. I got into my car and drove home.

The next day, she was there again, in the same spot, huddled, waiting for a few friendly sun rays to penetrate her shivering body. I got another muffin, cooed to her and crumbled it just the way she liked it. She ate greedily, nodding occasionally to me as if to say, "hey, by the way, thanks for the food".
I decided to name her Florence.

Visits with Florence continued into the winter, when the livin' outside ain't easy even for the hardiest of wildlife. Some mornings I would come and a crumbled muffin would already be in place, courtesy, I believe of the rangy taxi dispatcher who dressed in cowboy boots, ten gallon hat and fringed vest. He chain smoked and had that constant raspy smoker's cough. I switched from corn muffins to cracked corn, since I had googled pigeon food and learned that cracked corn was a fine food base for most any bird. Florence liked it and cleaned her plate every day. Word spread throughout Pigeon Hotel (A large tree by the train station) that Florence had a rich benefactor. When I came in the mornings, now I would find a robust (yet still limping) Florence chasing and pecking opportunistic relatives away from her recent and regular windfall. It was futile. Every time she shooed one cousin away, another would sneak in from behind and grab a beakful of corn. Invariably Florence would give up and join in with the group, pecking and flinging dried corn kernels all over the sidewalk.

Florence could fly just fine. Some days, she would not be in her spot, but if I cooed, she would drop from a nearby eave and walk over saying, "what took you so long? I'm starving!"

The cold days dragged on. Spring finally came and the winter birds left, replaced by courting robins, sparrows and starlings. Florence too disappeared. I looked for her for a few weeks, carrying my container of corn in the glove compartment, just in case. I half-heartedly threw some out to the new crowd who waited until I was gone before coming down.

Another winter has come and gone. I don't know how Florence has fared or even what the life expectancy of a pigeon is. I do know she was a lovely creature sharing a moment and a space on the sidewalk with me. I hope it made a difference to her.

Mass Wedding and Me

28 years ago this past July first, I was part of the mass Moonie wedding at Madison Square Garden. It was the summer of 1982. Older folks will remember this as an offbeat news item of that time. I was 27 years old and had been a member of the Unification Church (UC) for 9 years then. My husband and I had been matched by the Reverend himself three years earlier in the main ballroom of the (UC-owned) New Yorker Hotel. We were lucky to have those three years to get to know each other a little. Hundreds of the 2000-plus couples married that hot day had only met three DAYS before.

I was also fortunate to have gotten an American guy, with an extremely similar family background to mine. White middle-class Catholic Republican. We grew up on the same TV shows, same rock bands, same knock-knock jokes. These commonalities helped a whole lot as we spent time getting to know each other well enough to feel comfortable being actually married to each other.

I am flashing back here. The day dawned hot and sunny. We couples were all staying at the same New Yorker, just a block away from our wedding venue at the Garden. I was staying in one small room with five other brides-to-be. We got up, prayed and began putting on our identical wedding dresses (Butterick pattern # 56709 or something) and taking turns in the bathroom. I wanted coffee, but there was none to be had. We went downstairs, lined up for yogurt and fruit and met with our new life partners in the lobby. Mine looked dashing in his new blue suit (they all wore blue suits and red ties) and bright red wavy hair. We queued up again and, slowly processed up the block and across the street to Madison Square Garden. Bystanders stared, some smiling, some scowling at us. A few muttered utterances were heard about "cults" and "brainwashed". We looked straight ahead and did not answer.

Now that week, the Garden was also hosting the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus. Circus trucks and trailers were parked everywhere and the aroma of wild animals was in the wind. As we walked into the building we could smell elephant all the way up and around. Fortunately, the staff had the wisdom to turn off all the escalators so our long dresses would not get caught. THAT would have been awful. As we came closer to the opening of the main room, we could hear the excitement of the audience, made up of relatives who were willing to come to such a show, other church members, curiosity seekers and the media.

Since I actually liked my fiance, I was happy and calm. In the UC, marriage is called 'the Blessing' and it is not only the joining of two people, it is meant to be the beginnings of a new and holy human lineage from which would spring the kingdom of heaven on earth. No doubt, a great thing to be part of. As my soon-to-be husband and I entered, we passed through the gate of the Reverend and his wife, standing on platforms on either side of us. They were wearing white robes trimmed in gold with matching crowns. The 'Wedding March' played over and over and over again. The Moons threw handfuls of 'holy water' on us and we continued to our spots. Hymns played softly in the background. I looked around at the sea of believers around me. Some looked scared. Some looked miserable. Some were crying, moved by the magnitude of what they were about to do. Or maybe they were just crying. I'm not sure.

Vows were read simultaneously and the Reverend pronounced us married in the sight of God. We did a loud Korean victory cheer and moved off the greet our families.

My husband and I were lucky. My mom, dad, brother and my favorite neighbor, Mrs. Schramm (see blog entry entitled, 'One of the Boys') all came. His dad had traveled from the midwest to be there. I loved his dad. A D-day veteran and career military officer, he was a man of few and carefully chosen words. "I don't approve of this method of marriage," he had said to his son. "But it looks like you got lucky." The Colonel passed away two months shy of 9/11 and was buried with full honors in Arlington National Cemetery. That is a story for another day.

My dad took us all to Tavern on the Green for a celebration dinner in the garden room. I don't remember what we had, except I do remember champagne and white cake. Looking around the room, we saw several other parties from the mass wedding there as well. They toasted us and made us feel loved and special. Despite the oddness of the occasion, it was a really good day for both of us.

My husband and I are in the process of divorce right now. 28 years, five children and an entire adult lifetime spent together is coming to a close. I have no regrets. We are still friends and we have been good parents. An end to a chapter that ran the gamut from exhiliration at the births of our kids, fun summer road trips to see grandparents, to bouts of depression, unhappiness, misunderstandings and misplaced expectations.

We are moving on with new homes, new dreams, new loves. Not a bad way to spend an anniversary.

Snap Decisions

My dogs and I take a long walk down a nearby secluded creek trail most mornings. To find this trail you have to go down my street into a blocked-off driveway-like easement meant for use only by the local water district. You head south, and then west past the barbed-wire gate of the expansive Water District property. Didn't you always wonder why they need acres and acres of fenced-off grassy fields upon which nothing seemed to be happening?
Anyway, after passing this waste of prime space, you find a lovely dirt path running parallel to an even lovelier creek. The creek runs north to south, with some little waterfalls, a duck pond and a bigger waterfall. Someone years ago built a treehouse by that waterfall.
In the pond - which is in full barren view in winter, but hidden by reed grass in the summer, there is abundant wildlife. Ducks and geese nest and raise families there. Herons and hawks live there too. Garter Snakes, toads, squirrels and rabbits abound.
My dogs, Charlie and Sammy love this walk. they get to be off-lead here, up and down the ravines, splashing in the creek, chasing squirrels and geese and raising a fine ruckus. One day in late spring, as we walked together past the sandy footbridge, Sammy spied a creature of great interest in the middle of the path. I was a ways back and all I could see was her barking at something, sniffing and jumping back. Barking, sniffing, jumping. Charlie joined in the chorus. As I came closer, I could see what it was. A large snapping turtle had decided that this high-traffic area would make an ideal nesting area for her eggs. She sat in the scoop she had made with her back legs, bravely facing her yapping tormentors, alternately pulling her head in and poking it out for a warning snap. I know that snapping turtles can bite your hand off if they want, so I called to the dogs, waving cheese in the air as I moved away from the scene. No go. Charlie and Sammy were mesmerized, circling and barking. I got worried mama turtle would connect with a snout at some point and I would be making tournaquets out of my bra, like I had read about in a story about a man who was mauled by a bear and his wife stripped off her undergarment and saved his life.
It's interesting how whole dramatic scenarios come to you in those moments. Maybe this is where movie scripts come from. Maybe some bored commuter riding a city bus to work imagined 'Crash' during a Monday rush hour. Idk.
The dogs were fine, the turtle was finally left in peace and our walk continued. A gaggle of geese glided along the pond, oblivious to the mayhem occuring nearby. A woodpecker could be heard from a spot in the trees where a shaft of early morning light poured down from the sky like a slanted silent waterfall. I reached into my pocket and the dogs came running to me, knowing well the slight sound of ziplock baggie holding bite-sized chunks of cheddar just for them.

Filling in the Blanks

My father is not doing so well these days. He turns 84 tomorrow. He lost his eyesight about five years ago and lost my mother about a year and a half ago. And although he has lost much more than this in his life, these two losses have taken the wind out of his sails entirely.

Dad lives alone now, in the house he bought brand new in 1955, the one I grew up in. It is small according to today's standards, where McMansions abound and computer rooms, media rooms and master suites are must-haves. It is a three bedroom, one-and-a-half bath ranch house with no finished basement, den or office space. Small enough for two, when my mom was alive, but somehow swallowing my dad in his solitude.
He really should live either with lots of help, or in an assisted living situation. He gets disoriented a bit and has hallucinations in the middle of the night. My brothers and I visit, cook meals, do his laundry and shopping, help him with his bills, take him to appointments. He has a cleaning lady once every two weeks.

My dad does NOT want to leave his house. This is not uncommon, I know. He knows every inch of his house and property. He was an electrical engineer by trade and, like many men of his generation, could fix, rewire, unclog or re-route just about anything. He can still feel his way to the circuit breaker box and the furnace.

My younger brother believes that if we insist that dad move, it will kill him. My older brother believes moving him is necessary now. I just don't know. He sits in the living room on one spot on the sofa day after day. The sofa is depressed and worn right there from all the sitting. Because he cannot see, he does not notice when his shirt is stained or his beard has sauce residue. Sometimes, when I go there, I give him a haircut and trim his beard. We both like this. It is a chance for contact - my hands on his head, his face. Dad was never demonstrative in that way. But now, as I wrap his shoulders with a towel to keep the hair off and touch his chin and cheek for a better angle, he closes his eyes and relaxes into my care.

It's a small thing - way too small. Part of me wants to wrap my arms around him from behind and stay there for many moments. But enough of me is not that brave, so I don't.
In my house, my kids - even the grown-up ones - still climb in my bed and lean on me while watching TV or talking. Random hugging is much easier here than it ever was there. How do I give my dad what he needs, what he misses and longs for? I cannot fill the gaping space my mom left. But I can do more. . .

And Then There Were Nun

I grew up Roman Catholic. I went to Catholic elementary school and Catholic High School. I wore scratchy wool skirts, knee socks and saddle shoes. The skirts were supposed to reach the middle of our knees, for modesty. Since this was the sixties and the age of Mary Quant and mini-skirts, the middle-of-the-knee thing was completely unacceptable. We girls had a simple solution. Roll the skirts up at the waist until desired mini length is reached, leaving us with a bunchy middle, but great leg exposure. The principal (Sister Mary Sebastian) would appear at our classroom door randomly throughout the school week to do 'skirt check'. All the girls would have to exit the classroom and line up in the hallway. We were then told to kneel down against the wall facing out. If our skirts brushed the floor, we were safe. Any knee action going on would give us a one-way ticket to the Principal's Office, where our mothers would be called and they would have to come bail us out. This was the days before 'Harper Valley PTA'. Our mothers did not wear mini skirts, nor were they aware we created such on our own.

Some of the nuns - we were taught by the Sisters of Mercy, a teaching order - were old and crabby. We called them the Sisters of NO Mercy. Some were young and groovy. The young ones would tell stories, laugh at our jokes and sometimes come out to the schoolyard at recess, hike up their long skirts and jump rope with us. With Veils a flying and belted rosaries (as deadly as a nunchuk!) swinging, it seemed they were able to snatch a moment of childhood back for themselves.

I always wondered what they looked like underneath those crazy, restrictive black habits. Did they have hair? What did they wear to bed? Were they allowed to go swimming? And if so, did they have to swim at the 'nuns-only' beach, far from prying eyes?

The priests - there were three of them in our parish - lived in the rectory, with a maid, a cook and their own suite of rooms. They smoked and drank alcohol. They each had their own car. The youngest priest had a Pontiac LeMans convertible. And exept for sharing the weekly mass schedule and appearing at the occasional baptism, wedding or funeral, they never seemed to be very busy. I did see them walk to their cars sometimes with golf bags slung over their shoulders, however.

The nuns lived in the convent on the top floor of the school. It was communal. They each had a tiny cell for a room and shared the shopping, cleaning and cooking. They shared one old bomb of a blue station wagon that some parishioner had donated. They worked full time downstairs as teachers and were transfered every three years. This was so that they could not develop deep relationships with anybody, thereby devoting themselves entirely to God.

It was always a little unnerving seeing them in the supermarket. When you are a kid, you like to keep your worlds separate. Family and relatives here, friends over here, and teachers over there. When the worlds collided, it was so disorienting. Nuns in the toilet paper aisle? Ew! Even the thought of a nun using the bathroom was unimaginable. Feminine products? Please stop! My head is exploding!

Nuns are a dying breed (literally). Not many young women these days are interested in giving up their lives, not to mention sex forever. Many have left the convent (or as we used to say, 'kicked the habit') for more normal and free existences. Maybe some of them wear mini skirts. I hope they are still jumping rope.