Scaring the Tea out of Me

What could be lovelier than a tea party at a well appointed Victorian bed and breakfast? (Visit http://romancingthepast.com for a quick setting of atmosphere, if you will. Thank you. Charming, isn't it? Go see Cate. She's wonderful, best tea in the business! Thus ends my shameless blurb for a truly delightful experience.) A nice, soothing walk back to the house, enjoying the beauty of the spring flowers and the quiet of the day after tea, that's what.

So how come I never get that?

Even though I am dreading leaving my family after such a short visit, as I walk, I am thinking about getting home to the Sweet Duet. Now, the Sweet Duet used to be The Three Dog Opera and Theatre Company (or more commonly, the 3DOT) until the passing of Shani this past January. The girls have adjusted well, as soon as they found out that I was still the one in charge, but we all miss our Bear.

And when I'm gone, even for a day, I miss the Duet. Dulcie, in particular. Usually I manage to find some kind soul who loves that I'm fussing over their loyal canine friend, and my dog withdrawal is lessened for a bit. Somehow, on this trip, I hadn't had a chance to pet a dog for about 45 hours. (Which may be some kind of record for me. Did I mention my addiction of choice is dog fur?). So during our short walk, I'm starting to long for a dog to pet, ears to rub, chin to scrub. The perfect ending to a wonderful day.

Imagine my delight when just across the street, I spy a cream colored Labradoodle trying with great enthusiasm to convince a short Corgi type dog to play. The LabraDoodle is off leash, though her human is close by. He's unsuccessful in his attempt to stop her from annoying the Corgi, who is on a leash held by a small, confused woman. She's not quite sure of the LabraDoodle's intentions, and is simply trying to get her dog away from all that curly exuberance.

My party continues on toward home base; I cross the street, intent on getting my hands full of Happy Dog. I'm just reaching down, touching Happy Dog's silkiness with my palms when the air is rent with the shout, "NO! YOU CANNOT TAKE THAT DOG HOME WITH YOU!". It's my friend Amber, who in her intention to tease me, sets off a chain reaction that nearly ends in total disaster.

First, I nearly, yes, very nearly wet my pants. Remember, I've just had some of the best tea I've ever seen poured out of a teapot, so I drank several cups of it. But my bladder is smarter than my reptile brain, so it kept things under control. Barely.

Secondly, I snatched my hands off that dog like my mother had caught me snitching her stash of chocolate covered peanuts. Some dark corner of my brain scanned the area for my mother; perhaps she'd followed me there, simply to shout at me. And when Happy Dog felt those hands leave her back, she went after them, leaning all of her considerable weight on me, a wobbly woman who was now concentrating on not peeing herself.

I caught myself before I fell into the flower bed or hit my head on the stop sign post, but it was close. Even with all this going on, I noticed that if I'd been startled, Happy Dog's poor man looked terrified as he reached out to break a possible fall. We shared a look of commiseration; by then I know I had a hand over my heart, too breathless to speak. He seemed too shocked to say anything himself.

When I finally could say something, I said, "Beautiful dog." I could hear Amber saying other things in the background, but I was no longer paying attention to her. I was busy trying to let the two of us on the sidewalk, separated by a panting Happy Dog, salvage some sort of dignity in our encounter. I'm not sure it worked, and that's a shame, because Happy Dog lived just down the street from my family. It would have been nice to be able to go down there and say hi when I visited, but I'm not sure that's going to be possible.

Because, you see, I'm still not really sure that the man's whispered "Thank you!" was because I'd admired Happy Dog--or because I didn't try to take his dog with me as I left him standing there in the flowers surrounding the stop sign.

Talking to dogs. . .

Tonight, Elias (my nephew by choice) and I were chatting about our favorite parts of the delightful movie "Clue". I've visited at their lovely home, and slept upstairs in their tiny attic room. To get there, you have to climb some incredibly steep and somewhat narrow stairs, and there are no handrails. A wee scary for an aging, short legged auntie with an old back/leg injury, but I managed (until I begged to be sleep downstairs the last night! Thanks, kids!).

When I first opened the door and looked up those stairs, immediately I saw the scene from "Clue" where the French maid and the Federal agent are sent to search the attic. Neither one wants to go up the dark, scary staircase first, so they end up struggling up the narrow steps side by side, their butts bumping together and their shoulders pressed against the walls. So, that was how I climbed them; suitcase in one hand, the other shoulder pressed firmly into the wall. Dubbing them the "Clue Stairs", I joked about wearing a groove in the wall with my shoulder.

And what, you may be wondering, does this have to do with talking to dogs?

I shared with Elias that one of my favorite scenes in the whole movie is when the butler is dealing with the dogs, just as one of the male guests arrives. Butler shouts at the dogs, "SIT!" and the guest immediately plops down on a bench by the front door. The butler apologizes.

I then realized that I had done much the same thing to a recent visitor at my house. Now, most of you who know me and my Sweet Duet know that I talk to them like people. Full sentences, most of the time. So Dulcie was running to joyously greet Visitor, and I said, "Be CAREFUL! Keep your feet on the floor!" Then I wondered why Visitor was standing so very still. (At 25 pounds and resembling a sweet miniature golden retriever, Dulcie doesn't generally scare people.) Sheepishly, Vistor confessed, "I thought you were talking to me!" Apologies were made, and laughter was shared. Dulcie even got an ear rub out of the deal.

I told Elias I was glad I didn't use our usual "stay off the guests!" command, which is "All four on the floor!". I might have turned around to find my poor guest crouching on the couch, or worse yet, fleeing this house of madness.

So, if you love your dogs--and your visitors--at least learn to preface a command with a name. It'll save everyone a lot of confusion!

The Lady in Red and Lime

Opportunity. We rarely recognize its face at the moment we need to, and sometimes miss its lovely visage entirely.

Such was almost the case with the gothic manse and the elderly woman in a blood red jacket, sparse white hair tied back with a lime green kerchief. She had two ancient dogs on leashes; one so old he was now cinnamon and sugar instead of his youthful brown, the other a black and white rat terrier so drunken wobbly the wind was the only thing holding him up. The trio were visiting with a couple of children, the dogs sniffing the grass and trying valiantly to remain standing under the onslaught of pats from the kids.

Amber had first seen the house on our drive to the cemetery, and on the return trip she decided to drive around the block and take pictures of the two story red and brown house, now abandoned but not yet in great disrepair. She got a bit lost, and in driving around the blocks several times, I got carsick from being sloshed around in the tiny backseat. So when we finally pulled up and parked on the side of the street opposite the house, I was more intent on getting my head and stomach to stop swimming in circles than I was on what was happening across the street. Friends Taylor and Reya both had a better view and stronger constitutions, so they may have seen things differently, but I'll leave it to them to post their comments or corrections on this tale.

After finding her camera, Amber opens her door to get out. Which cues up Lady in Red (whom I came to dub "Elise"), who's been lingering on the sidewalk watching us with undisguised interest as we park and help Amber find her bag and camera.

"That's sure a pretty color for a car," I hear Elise say of Amber's small plum colored car. Which means she must have quite the voice, because she's across the street and I'm on the opposite side of the car, and I'm not having a bit of trouble hearing her. Amber is still at the side of the car, muttering about not talking to strangers, etc. She choses to not answer Elise, which I think is a shame, because I love older people and their stories of the past. I want to leap out of the car and let Elise know I'm interested in her and her dogs. But I also understand we are in a hurry; Taylor needs lunch and a tea party is coming soon, and all those other various last minute things we have to deal with before starting the long trip home. Elise might prove to be too talkative; better to avoid finding that out the hard way. My urge to leap is overcome, with regret.

But Amber is fascinated with the house; it's all she can talk about on the drive home. She would love to have floor plans, know more about this house, learn what architect designed that stunted gothic concoction which she feels would be perfect with her hearse, Miss Victoria, parked in front of it. (She's right, I can see it, too.) I'd just like to know why the remodeling process was not completed, why restoration was dropped.

We're a little tired and overloaded with images from our visit, so it's easy for us to miss the obvious. What I can't explain is why it took me two days to finally see it, but it did. Guess that my observation skills are getting a wee rusty.

But I couldn't stop thinking about the lady in the red jacket with her two tottering old dogs, and it suddenly occurred to me that if Amber had chosen to interact with her, Elise might have could been (as my grandma used to say) an excellent source of info about the house Amber loved so much.

Think about it; she was lingering on the sidewalk already; those dogs didn't look like they could walk a block, much less two; and the kids obviously knew her. Sounds like the "eyes, ears, and mouth" of the neighborhood to me. Perhaps she'd lived 2 houses down from the red house her entire life; or she went to her best friend's sweet sixteen party there; maybe dated the oldest son--or married him and made her home just down the street. We may never know. . . unless I make it a mission to go back there and lie in wait for her and those ancient dogs.

Over a year. . .

I wish I could pick up where I left off last March, but the truth is, I was swept away in a flood of continuing education courses for my line of work and completing the necessary paperwork for a license and a national board recertification for most of the rest of the year. It was a draining process; I'm not even sure I wrote anything after last year's Writer's Digest Poem A Day Challenge in April. I was sleepwalking and didn't know it.

But in late December 2oo9, I got a wake up call, and the awakening process from then until now has been an incredible journey. Bits and pieces of it will appear later, but for now, know that I've chosen to take Ray Bradbury's advice to heart: "Stay drunk on writing so reality won't destroy you." (I'd add "reading" to the writing bit; several books have kept my spirit soaring, too. Not to mention loving and supportive family.)

This last March, I wrote 2 pieces that changed my outlook on my creative process. A friend was asking for possible hiding places for a trunk; I wrote one and posted it, then realized I had to snatch those 2 beginning paragraphs back and run with them. The result was that I ended up with a short story that "turned me upside down and shook all the nonsense out" (paraphrazsing the Persian poet, Hafiz), and resulted in a week of ignoring my life and writing like crazy. The second piece was one that opened my heart to changing and healing my past, inspired by the events of the story of the trunk.

It was worth the sleepless nights and dust rhinos that invaded the house.

I wish I could share those pieces right now, but the truth is, I think I wrote them for myself and a few close family members. Only a few have seen the trunk story; no one has seen the sequel. Perhaps someday they'll appear somewhere. For now you will have to trust me that they served to open the floodgates to writing as truthfully as I am able.

It shows. In my poetry, in the observations that I've been recording, in my willingness to be more open about how the past has shaped me. There are times I feel selfish, that I am concentrating on all these words trapped in my head, helping them plan their escape, and by doing so, ignoring other parts of my life I truly love. But once the flood of refugees has lessened, there will be plenty of time for the rest, too.