Ollie Dachshund and Magic Pip

The times, they are a’changing …the more things change, the more they stay the same…change is inevitable…

There are a myriad of platitudes and quotes about change.  Bottom line…change comes and we don’t like it.

This was a week of loss -- one small, one not so small— but both changes I don’t like.

Ollie was a small, brown stuffed dachshund toy.  Because I love dachshunds.  I had wanted one for years, and would have one someday.  Her name was to be Mrs. Miniver.  Due to a lovely set of odd circumstances, I came home from a vacation trip with an adorable dachshund puppy.  Not Mrs. Miniver, but Clementine, a long name for a long dog.  Clemmie.   I adored Clemmie for 16 years.   Therefore, I also have various dachshund momentos:  a doorstop, Christmas ornaments, a beach towel, the Schlitterbahn dachshund “Schatze” who is wearing an innertube, and Ollie, brown curly fabric with black ribbon around his neck and a paper tag reading “Ollie.”  (I also have Maggie and Gretchen, two breathing, barking, puddling dachshunds, the successors to Clemmie.)

I have also been known through the years as the crazy cat lady.  I had five cats:  George, Maude, Bernice, Fuzzy, Pearl, Violet, Pippi, Spike, Emma, and Emily.  Yes, I know that’s more than five, but they came and went, leaving a different five at a time.  Each had his or her set of stories…the “remember whens.”  For the last two years, there have been only two, Pippi and Emily.  Pippi and Violet were garage cats.  They had been house cats, but for cat reasons moved into the garage.  They were roomies.  Violet was the feline version of Oscar the Grouch; she lived to be 16.    Pippi was my son’s cat.  He moved out.  She didn’t. 

I lost Pippi this week.  She was almost 18 years old, a striped orange tabby with white feet.  There were 18 years of stories.  The time she caught her tail in the candle and we smelled burning fur.  The time she peed on Melly’s head because she was telling us she was sick.  Pippi breaking out of the cardboard cat carrier during the hurricane evacuation and sitting on top of the other cats in their carriers.   Pippi sitting on top of the brick wall, looking down on us all.  Pippi had her own chair in the garage.  I bought it especially for her at Target.  She watched the world and protected the property.  She had grown old and sick this last year.  It didn’t make it any easier.

The next morning, I found Ollie in the backyard – chewed -- nose and ribbons gone.  Manny struck again.  I also mourned Ollie.  Just a stuffed toy, but memories nonetheless. 

People, dogs, cats and things come into our lives for a reason and a season.   Changes happen, but these things leave marks on our hearts forever.   We don’t welcome change, but we must embrace it and let the memories weave the tapestry of our lives.

“Things change.  And friends leave.  Life doesn't stop for anybody.” 
― Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Pick your own title. . .

• Choose joy.

• Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.

• We’re all going to hell in a hand basket.

• Ignorance is bliss.

• Tomorrow is another day.

Check any of the above.  They will all fit.

I spend far more time collecting truisms, verses and pithy sayings for my art journaling than I do actually making pages.  (I also spend way too much time and money shopping for supplies than actually using them, but that’s another problem.)   I was “supposed” to have a little private time Sunday to work on my art journal.  Turned out I had not prepped the page so while I was waiting for gesso to dry, I wandered around the internet.  Found a quote I have intended to use:  “today I will choose JOY.”  I love it and it was beautifully presented.  The internet being what it is, I soon found myself shopping for jewelry and other objects that featured the saying. 

Then I needed my paint to dry, so I was reading a book.  Then the doorbell rang.  Several kids from the impromptu basketball league around the corner informed me that my bicycle had been stolen from my garage.  Yes, the doors to the garage were open.  I like them open.  Airs it out and lets the sunshine in and just feels nice.  The bicycle was old and rusty with flat tires and behind a bunch of stuff.  I was completely bewildered as to the motive.  Turns out apparently it was for “the reward” they wanted for giving me this information.  No reward. 

The Beaumont police recovered my bicycle and found the juvenile who took it.  The officers were fast, competent and completely understanding that while it was an old, sad bike, it was mine and in my garage.  One officer sternly advised me to keep the doors down.  I will comply.  I don’t like it, but I have to accept that my neighborhood is not the same one I moved into almost 40 years ago.

 

Now I am nervous.  I don’t have much that would be of value on the open market and certainly nothing for the black market.  But I do have stuff that is precious to me.  And it’s on my property.  The one I pay taxes on and utility bills for.  I am not so much afraid of theft as I am of retribution…garbage can turned over (shuddering here), paint or eggs on the garage doors that are now firmly down, broken windows or other acts of unkindness.  I don’t like living this way.

And I won’t.  Today I will choose joy.  Even with the doors down and precautions taken.  Even knowing what may be around the corner, across town, all over the country.  Today I WILL choose joy!

Thanks, God

God spoke to me today, as I was driving to Wal-Mart.  And I didn’t particularly like what He had to say.

Oh, plenty of times in my life, I have felt Him guiding me, nudging me or knew inside what He was telling me, but this time I heard the words as clearly as if there was someone in the car with me.  Which, of course, there was.

Once before I heard God speak.  That time I had my head in the dryer.  That’s another story.  But back to today.

I was entreating guidance for a situation I find myself in.  I was wrestling with a better way to behave.  I was trying to put the blame on someone else.  Then I heard it.  Clearly.  “Jerre, (God calls me Jerre and that’s okay when He does it) no one can make you do anything.”  Strong emphasis on the “make” part.

Yes, I had been trying to blame my feelings and reactive behavior on others who “made” me feel that way, act that way.   A way I am ashamed of but seem powerless to stop.  Until now.  Now, it is crystal clear that it’s up to me to stop it myself.  I was praying for guidance and God delivered in record time on Folsom Drive right past Crow Road.  And I didn’t much like it.  Puts it on me.  But of course, I knew that.  I just didn’t want to admit it.

I’m not saying that I’ll be able to change my attitude right away.  But with that kind of push, you’d better believe I’m going to try.  And I know God will be there to help.

Thanks, God.

Ah, Spring! Ah, Spring Break!!!

The worst reason for doing anything is “that’s the way it’s always been.”  Hold to those memories of the good, old days while you punch the buttons on your microwave and start the dishwasher.

This morning children across the area will bound out of bed earlier than usual, brighter than usual.  (It’s the Saturday syndrome.)  They will rush to their video games, ravage the kitchen, take to their bikes.  Spongebob will blare.   Except the teenagers who will sleep until noon.  It’s Spring Break.

And for the first time in the rememberable past, area school districts have corresponding spring breaks.   If you’re still in town, stay home and off Dowlen Road.  It’s going to be worse than the holiday shopping season.

But some people grumble, “We didn’t have any spring break when I was in school.”  Not for me either.  Not even in college.  But then, teachers wrote on chalkboards that the kids in the back couldn’t see, our keyboarding class was typing with Underwood manual typewriters and yes, we walked to school, two miles, in the snow, uphill both ways!  Girls wore dresses with petticoats and their hair in pigtails.  I really did attend a school with the desks that were attached, the desk part to the seat in front and it had a hole for an inkwell.  Our buildings were “temporary” and were old, converted Army barracks.  They had a cloak room.  Never mind, we didn’t know what a cloak was but we put our jackets and lunches in there.  That was just while the new school was being built.  It lasted three years.  I digress.

Maybe it was a kinder, gentler time.  But there were still playground bullies, who would drill you with the dodge ball, just because you weren’t popular or couldn’t hit a baseball or wore glasses.   And there were tyrannical teachers, one in particular, Mrs. Furr, who would rap your hand with the gold-colored ruler she received for teaching excellence.  And the only school shootings were done with rubber bands.  They still stung.

Now we have computers, all kinds of electronic gadgets and gizmos, different styles of teaching, different styles of learning.  And, blissfully, spring break.  It’s a good thing.  Those folks who analyze things have determined that a person’s attention can’t be held for more than about 50 minutes or something like that.  (They do not observe this rule at in-service.)  Stands to reason that you can’t keep a kid motivated with an endless stretch of school days.  Our school year also started in September and ended in May “back in the good old days” too.

As early in March as it may occur, spring break signifies the downhill slide to the end.  The days are getting longer and warmer.  It’s time for shorts and flip-flops (even though we wear them all year).  It’s baseball season. Everything seems a little brighter.  I used to put kiddie sunglasses on all my bears at West Brook when I left for spring break and tell my students that the bears went on vacation too.  Made them laugh, just part of the silliness of the season.  Thoreau said that every season is best in its turn, but that Spring is like the coming of the Golden Age, Cosmos out of Chaos.  You can’t argue with Henry.

Daniel, and probably Kayla, will be hanging with Hubba on their spring breaks because their parents still have to work.  The work life lasts some 40 plus years.  Let’em have a week now as a deposit on the future.

What's in a name?

I’m not fond of my name.  My mother loves it, but for me it has been a source of confusion, frustration and embarrassment over the years.  A masculine name for a female in the ‘50s led me to boys’ PE and an invitation to join the Army before women in the military were cool. 

The spelling has been a nightmare.  There is no “i” in it anywhere.  People insist there should be.  My mother insists not.  (My middle name is no better, but that’s another story.)  It has been misspelled by nearly everybody, including my father once and the jeweler who engraved my wedding ring.  I wore that ring for 10 years before it was replaced. 

I use the name as little as possible, only when I must be identified.  I much prefer the monikers that associate me with my favorite people…my grandchildren.

My grandmothers were “Grandmother” and “Gammy.”  Gammy lived near so I suspect her nickname came before I could say grandmother properly.  And I do recall that Grandmother was insistent on being Grandmother.  My own mother tried that.  My daughter had other ideas.  So she is “Maury,” the only explanation being “because I love her.”  Good enough.

I started out as Grandma, but Ashley had two grandmas so I am Grandma J.

Then the dog, the huge lab/Rottweiler christened me “Grammy.”  Yes, dogs do talk or at least people talk for them.  I’ve been Grammy ever since.  To everyone.  I love that one.

Then Kayla painted a sign that says “Gramsy.”  Don’t know how that happened, but it also is pretty cool.

She also calls me Grandmother sometimes when she wants to be emphatic or really get my attention. 

Then here comes four-year-old Daniel, an entity all of his own.  He is autistic and until recently has been non-verbal.  He is coming along very well, but he refuses to say grandma.  We have prompted and encouraged, but haven’t gotten much that sounds like grandma.  He did say “banana” one time, but I’m not taking that.  He calls me “Hubba.”  Maybe it’s an amalgamation of banana and grandma, but it’s mine alone.  And I really love that one.

Now, if they’d only put it on my driver’s license!

The Typewriter

I’m an art journaler.  The word “art” is used loosely.  The word “journal” not far behind.  I found art journaling last summer when I stumbled across a video, and I was hooked.  The art part can be quite basic with craft paint, rubber stamps and stencils.  The journal part can also be as simple as quotes, pithy statements or verses.  I love it. 

My supplies started out quite simple.  Stuff I had on hand.  Kayla’s art paints, Sharpies, rubber stamps left from my teaching days.  Then it expanded and grew like topsy.  Now I have a craft corner (soon to take over the room), a die cut machine, drawers of rubber stamps, bottles of paint, stencils, paper.  And now a typewriter.

I blame Jerry Minyard.  A West Brook colleague and Facebook friend, Jerry recently changed the cover photo for his timeline.  A wonderful quote by C.S. Lewis.  The quote was great, but the presentation blew me away.  It was typed, in broken lines, on a sepia background with faint clouds.  I loved it and decided, on the spot, that I had to have a typewriter so I could recreate it.  True, I could probably have done it some other way, but my art journal guru, Julie Fei-Fen Balzer (whose blog comes email every Friday and I read avidly) mentioned her five “must haves” for art journaling and topping the list was a typewriter.

I went on a hunt.  It was harder than I expected. There were no typewriters on Southeasttexas.com.  Nothing in the Yellow Pages.  None lying abandoned at WB.  EBay beckoned.  I did find a couple in my price range.  The shipping was horrendous.  Those things are heavy.  But finally, I found a candidate.  The pretty, and pretty dirty, little blue Smith Corona Coronet – vintage undetermined – arrived yesterday.   It desperately needs a ribbon.  Amazon complied.  It reposes on my kitchen counter for cleaning and inspection.

Kayla arrived for the weekend and was immediately fascinated by the typewriter.  She had to try it out.  She used up all the paper and was downcast.  I told her to go get a piece out of the computer printer and she lit up like Christmas.  “You mean I can use the same paper!”  She typed and typed and typed some more.  “I did pretty good without a backspace,” she said.  “But it has a backspace key,” I said.  “Yes, but it doesn’t correct,” she replied.  She’s used to the delete key fixing all our booboos. 

She typed on.  The pitiful ribbon continued to give up faint letters.  She called her friend to let her hear the typing.  Friend now wants one too.  “I’ll let you hear the ‘ding,’” she bubbled to her friend. 

Kayla has a cell phone, an iPod, a Nook, a Nintendo DS.  But she is enthralled with an “old school” throwback to an earlier age.

Urban Dictionary defines “old school”:  “The term old school is of English origin and dates back to at least the 19th Century and is used to denote something that is considered to be out of date with current trends/ideas and thinking.” 

I don’t care for the phrase.  That’s my school we’re talking about.  I prefer to think of “old school” as things my daddy used to say.  He would approve some activity I was planning by commenting, “At least it will keep you from stealing hubcaps!”

I dropped this pearl on Kayla one morning on the way to school.  In all seriousness, she asked me, “Grammy, what’s a hubcap?”  We started looking for a car with hubcaps and did not find a single one by the time we reached the school.

There is a generation gap, but an aging blue typewriter has bridged it.