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A Raindrop In Mid-Fall Is A Split-Second Shot

 A  P  R  I  L    R  A  I  N    S  O  N  G

Let the rain kiss you

Let the rain beat upon your head

With silver liquid drops

Let the rain sing you a lullaby

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk

The rain makes running pools in the gutter

The rain plays a little sleep song

On our roof at night

And I love the rain.

--- Langston Hughes

Jack Frost Paints the World With Diamond Dust

Jack Frost can jazz up any landscape; he's always been one of my favorite artists. He works odd hours, however, so you have to get up real early to catch his stunning transformations of  mundane winter landscapes into sparkling crystal kingdoms.

Jack always takes summers off. When he returns in the fall, his arrival is the clarion call that signals the end of warm weather for that year. He cares nothing about growers. If late, he will cruelly ruin a vintner's entire grape crop; if early, he'll quietly devastate every tomato patch for miles.

No, Jack cares not for dull, trifling agrarian duties, for his true calling is that of a great artist. It's up to him to bedazzle the heck out of an otherwise bland cold-weather morning. With quick flicks of his wrist, Jack can fling bling all over Mother Nature like no body's business. Fresh snowfall can't even hold a candle to the beauty of Jack's blasts of sparkles, especially when he's in the zone.

Early in the fall Jack may dust your pumpkin patch out of a sense of duty, as if the bright yellow-orange globes would keep growing forever without his kiss-of-death touch.

Jack's artwork always vanishes in the morning sun but like a sculptor of sandcastles, he loves the doing of the thing more than the finished work.

Jack's is a reckless and romantic form of art. But for anyone who has ever stopped in the delicate glow of morning's first light to look closely at his use of diamond dust on a spiderweb in a barb-wire fence, it is pure magic.

A Widow's Collection of Inspirational Scenes

These are all photos I've taken since my husband died in 2009. I know that he is always with me, but I feel closest to him when I am outdoors in the Cathedral of Nature. Many places claim to be "God's Country:" here are a few I've found in Idaho, Utah, Oregon and Montana. Sometimes, it's in my own back yard, if I look close enough.

Only God Can Make A Tree

 Trees

(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden) I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. ~ Joyce Kilmer

Got Your Nikon Charged? It's Time To Shoot Autumn's Stunning Color





Soft September sunlight can transform an average scene into one of enchantment. This Virginia Creeper gracefully making its way across the top of a chain-link fence illustrates my point. This is prime time to photograph nature's beauty. I like to use back-lighting to accent fall's subtle hues.











I Know Why The Wild Bird Sings

One morning last week as I was sipping my first cup of tea, I noticed a pair of birds of prey putting on quite a performance just off my deck. As they danced in the wind, I was reminded of a true experience I call "My Bird Story." I'll tell it to you now, on this Mother's Day.

I had a four-decade-long crush on my late husband, Roger. The thought of losing him was unbearable to me all those years. When we were first married, I worried he would be drafted and sent to Vietnam. My big, handsome hunk was definitely a 1-A prime candidate for cannon fodder.

One evening after watching the mounting daily death toll from that sad war on the evening news, I had an inspiration. "If I die before you," I said to Roger, "I'll come back as a mourning dove, and every time you hear that bird's call, that will be me, saying I’m here and I love you."

Roger thought about that for a minute, then said, "If I go first, I'll come back as a red-tailed hawk. You'll see me most often on the wing. Every time you do, it'll be me, saying hi." As I looked at him a bit disappointed, he quickly added, "And I'm here, and I love you." We both laughed.

We never forgot that conversation. During thousands of miles I rode behind Roger on his Harley, sometimes a hawk would suddenly rise from a field and fly over our heads. Roger would always reach back, squeeze my leg and nod at the bird to make sure I saw it, too. That's the joy of being on a motorcycle; we would have missed it in a car.

Similarly through the years whenever we heard a mourning-dove call, I'd give him a hug or at least eye contact to reaffirm our everlasting love. Our "afterlife-bird promises" were a secret pact we never shared with anyone.

One horrible day in May 2009, Roger fatally crashed on his Harley. The night he died, I had left the hospital to come home, exhausted. About 9 PM, Roger’s sister called and said he was gone.

Daylight was fading as I walked out onto our deck to absorb this news. My action startled a big bird sitting in the top of the closest tree to our house, just 10 feet away from the deck railing I was leaning on. With a lot of loud flapping, a magnificent Bald Eagle arose from the tree top.

In a glorious display of graceful strength, its wings making a "whoop, whoosh" sound, the giant bird flew upriver, eventually disappearing around the bend. Rays of warm, peachy light from the setting sun reflected off billowing clouds on the horizon. The glow bounced back up from the river below to illuminate the bird's wings in a surrealistic, stunning scene.

I knew this was an all-out display of God's glory just for my benefit. I had absolutely no doubt about that.

Dazed and drained by the day’s sorrow, I stood in awe, watching this nation's symbol of freedom until it was out of sight.

I spoke to Roger, who was now free, no longer lingering between life and death in the sad hospital bed where I'd last seen him. "Wow, Hon," I said. "You really outdid yourself. That was very impressive."

I didn't bother to try to try to figure out how Roger was going to hear my words, but I knew he would as I smiled and continued to speak to the love of my life. This became a habit I continue to this day.

"I should have known you'd want to ride into Heaven on something bigger than a hawk," I told him. Turning away, waves of tears crashed through my fragile facade, falling from my face into my hands.

Hunting for my Kleenex box, I sobbed in earnest, unable to stop the growing alarm in my head that was screaming the saddest of all my unwanted thoughts: "Now I am alone." I turned the knob and stepped blindly into the rest of my life. It was suddenly dark.

Two years later as I write this on a cool but bright-green spring evening, I am comforted by the soft cooing of a mourning dove. He is right outside my window.

Have An Extraordinary Easter Day Full Of Love

People Are Often Unreasonable and Self-Centered

People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centered; Forgive them anyway. If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; Be kind anyway. If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies; Succeed anyway. If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; Be honest and frank anyway. What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; Build anyway. If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; Be happy anyway. The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; Do good anyway. Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough; Give the world the best you’ve got anyway. You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God; It was never between you and them anyway.

--- Mother Theresa

I Am Waking Up From Winter Hibernation

My Head is in the Clouds Quite Often These Days

We Are Creating the Coal That Fires This Oven

Get yourself a cup of coffee and let's talk shop. I heard an interesting interview last week on NPR's Morning Edition, which I'm sharing here for the benefit of my coworkers, the "legions of unpaid bloggers."

In it, we are described as a bunch of "showoffs," which, at heart I suppose we are. I know I am, at least. My blog is pretty much all about me. In my last post I included 40 pictures of myself, so that's pretty clear evidence of my egocentricity.

Speaking of photos, check out this one I took of my old Sadie dog as she lie curled up against the cold this morning. 

I share this here for your enjoyment. If you leave a comment saying you like it, then I will be happy. It's just that simple. I live for feedback; it's at the heart of why I do this.

What is your altruistic purpose for blogging? It seems like all bloggers basically write about their own lives. Is there anything wrong with that?

Not in my opinion. The world needs more entertainment, especially if it's free. Having a feeling of being connected with others is healthy, too. It's good for the soul to remember we're not alone in the world. It sure has helped me.

My fellow bloggers, have you ever asked yourselves, "Why am I doing this?" Then read this interesting insight from writer David Carr, whose blog has attracted nearly 300,000 followers.

February 15, 2011 - RENEE MONTAGNE, host: The sale of the Huffington Post to AOL for $315 million made at least one person very rich - actually, probably a couple of people. But that huge purchase price has led many of its legions of unpaid bloggers to wonder, what about us?

David Carr is the salaried media columnist at The New York Times, but he's written about and experienced the phenomenon of unpaid content and he's here to talk to us a little bit about this deal.

Mr. DAVID CARR (Media Columnist, The New York Times): Good morning.

MONTAGNE: You titled the piece that you wrote in The New York Times yesterday "A Nation of Serfs," meaning what? Meaning people on property that's not their own?

Mr. CARR: Yeah. When you talk about people who provide platforms - be it Facebook or Twitter or LinkedIn or Koora - they own the interface and the technology. Huffington Post is a little different deal because they are a news platform, but again, a lot of people work for them in unpaid ways.

And as we all we all Twitter away and type away and update our Facebooks, we're creating the coal that sort of fires this oven and creates these values, but they continue to own the lands.

MONTAGNE: Right. And there's somebody at the top who benefits mightily in that kind of old-fashioned, capitalistic way.

Mr. CARR: Well, let's be honest, it's always been .. it's nobody ever got rich - well, very few people ever got rich writing. What's unusual about the era that we live in is not that content comes cheaply. You know, writing beats working, so I'm going to choose it every single time.

But the fact that it seems to be dropping to a price of zero - if you look even beyond the social networks and The Huffington Post - content farms like Demand Media, where they're employing professional journalists, but they're being paid at the rate of $10 or $15 or $20 a story. As content doubles every year - becomes more and more ubiquitous - the price of it is bound to go down, as is the compensation.

MONTAGNE: Well, the way you describe though, the charm of being able to write for free, it's very much an opportunity to use your wit with an audience.

Mr. CARR: Oh, it's a great place for showoffs, there's no doubt about it. Those of us who write for a living, we're among the first and early adapters of Twitter, along with technical people. And it's not as if we get nothing in return. We're able to promote our work, much of what I Twitter about.

Sometimes I, you know, write about my commute home to New Jersey on the bus, but other times I'm promoting my work or the work of others. I've been rewarded with almost 300,000 followers, and those people are a kind of social and business asset. I can't really put a number on them, but there's some value in that.

MONTAGNE: And just one other thing about this sale. I wonder even though it doesn't change what the agreement was with the Huffington Post, that is, we get an audience and you get our talent for nothing. It's maybe one thing to write for the Huffington Post and another to write for this, you know, gigantic entity, AOL.

Mr. CARR: Yeah, you're talking a big corporate blob that's worth $2.2 billion in terms of market capitalization. And while I'm sure people are interested in accessing an audience, you'd have to think that a lot of people at the Huffington Post were somewhat politically motivated to contribute to the civic common and what they felt were progressive and additive ways. It feels a little different when you're sending that copy to a big gigantic media conglomerate, at least I think so.

MONTAGNE: David, thanks very much for joining us.
Mr. CARR: Oh, an absolute pleasure, Renee.

Copyright © 2011 National Public Radio®. All rights reserved.
http://www.npr.org/2011/02/15/133759724/is-writing-online-without-pay-worth-it

On Finding My Look After 60 Years of Searching

"To grow old and wise, you first must be young and stupid."

Following 40 years of marriage, I lost my husband in the spring of 2009 on the same day my mother died. As the fallout of that emotional nuclear blast continues to settle, the full impact of the result -- an unexpected and unprecedented personal freedom -- is beginning to dawn on me.

My reactions -- enormous grief, shock, despair, worry, regret, faith, hope and at times, even joy -- have given me much to think about. It's all got to come out somewhere, so I figure it might as well be on my blog.

I'm aware that the one glaring attribute lacking from my posts has been humor. I do have a sense of one somewhere, but it's been hard to find in the last couple of years. I was going to say it's been buried, but thought better of using that term. (See? It's in there somewhere. Maybe it's "black humor," but it's funny, no?)

When one of my readers commented on a recent particularly poignant post, "I should know better than to read you at work," it gave me pause. "Jeeze," I thought. "I am going to totally bum out and lose my entire audience if I don't get a grip on this grief thing."

So I vowed to try to find my funny bone again. Truth is, I'm tired of being sad all the time, too -- and that's an understatement, believe me.

Perhaps I've reached the point of Maximum Grief Endurance (MGE). I've noticed on TV shows about treating people with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), that therapy includes completely bombarding them with exposure to the very fear that's driving them crazy. The theory is that the human mind simply cannot sustain an extreme level of terror for an infinite period of time. What seems like a cruel treatment actually appears to work.

This always makes me wonder if I rode, let's say, Cedar Point Park's Magnum XL-200 ("the extreme coaster ride by which all others are measured") 200 times, by my 199th trip, I'd just be sitting there expressionlessly, bored. Maybe that's why it's called the XL-200. http://www.cedarpoint.com/public/park/rides/coasters/index.cfm (In my youth I lived near Cedar Point, and it's a blast, by the way.)

The faithful among my so-called followers will notice this is my first post of 2011. That's because it's not easy for me to come up with an upbeat idea. I doubt if I'll ever be as wildly crazy-funny as Murr Brewster, whose "Murrmurrs" blog is one of my favorites, http://murrbrewster.blogspot.com/ -- at least not if I continue to maintain sobriety. (However, when one is "under the influence," as they say, one is inclined to think one is funnier than one actually is, isn't one?)

So to start off with, I thought I'd entertain you with the above evidence of my life-long search for "my look." This staggering display of my failure to feel comfortable with my hairstyle rivals Hilary Clinton's obviously similar misgivings about her appearance as First Lady. For years I tried to blame this on my DNA. Here's a picture of my grandma in her youth, which seemed to explain everything about my hair. I only knew her to have fairly straight, gray hair, so I was shocked when I saw this picture. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to ask her how she felt about her unruly locks when she was young. I've been told her hair was a deep auburn color that was very pretty, but I'll bet she had her moments when she wished for "normal," straight hair. I've definitely had mine, especially back when everyone wanted to look like Cher, including me.

Now that I'm not trying to please anyone with my looks anymore, I simply don't do anything with my hair, except keep it very short so I don't have to mess with it. I love getting up in the morning and not even having to look at it. To quote one of my heroes, Joan Rivers, "Age is freedom."

Right on, Joanie.

Maybe next time, we can discuss my weight or my unpopular smoking habit. Or maybe not. Let's just not get too hasty, here, shall we? Oh, and MGE is a made-up diagnosis, but it's pretty real to me.

Mine is the Sunlight, Mine is the Morning

Sun and River, simply stunning at 6 A.M. and 7 below.

Morning Has Broken

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God’s re-creation of the new day

http://www.yusufislam.com/lifeline/15

My Flag's Flying Today For All Vets

I'm making a conscious effort these days to resist looking back at my life with regret. It's impossible, of course, to go back and change anything, so what's the point?

On this Veteran's Day, however, there is something on my mind I'd definitely do differently, if I could. I wish I'd spent more time talking to my dad.

Isn't it remarkable how our perspective of life changes with our age? When my dad passed away at 64, not once did it enter my mind that he was "too young." It just seemed like he got old and died, like people do, end of story. Now, his death seems almost tragically premature. He wasn't much older than I am.

He was a quiet guy; it was hard to get him to talk about his WWII days and I never persisted questioning him out of respect, I suppose. But how I would love to know what was going through his mind on the night of June 5, 1944, the eve of the D-Day Invasion.

I inherited my dad's uniform, shown above, after my mom passed away last year. With it came a treasure of his WWII memorabilia, such as flight logs, photos, and his "short snorter." My dad took this small black-and-white photo of one of his crew mates, Cpl. Howard Bell, posing on a destroyed German bomber at their Chateaudun base. 

A pilot in the 94th Troop Carrier Squadron, Dad was preparing to fly a huge, black-and-white-striped, unarmed cargo plane across the English Channel to Nazi-occupied France. The weather had been terrible, but everyone wanted the invasion to get underway. They were tired of waiting.

That's my dad inside his C-47 in the other old photo, helping men of the 101st Airborne board on the eve of D-Day. The paratroopers were heavily weighed down with all their gear. This shows a lot about Dad's character; the other pilot is just standing there in his life vest, waiting, his back to the photographer.

Once over his designated drop zone above Normandy, Dad had to turn on a green light,  the signal for about 40 men of the 101st Airborne to jump out of the plane into the darkness, smoke, flak and deafening noise of battle. I know their safety had to have weighed heavily on my father's heart that night -- and for the rest of his life.

Those are the guys my father could hardly talk about in later years, except to say, "They were the brave ones, not me," sometimes adding, teary-eyed, "those poor suckers."

My dad did not drop them in the wrong place, from what I've been told. There was just so much "heavy ack," smoke, and confusion that the men were clearly jumping into "the mouth of Hell."

Most combat veterans I've known downplay their own wartime service. They point to pictures of long, neat lines of white headstones and say, "I didn't do anything; they did." You know, probably even if I'd had more time with him, Dad wasn't going to go there with me, ever.

So if you ever hear some guy in the back of a bar bragging about being in combat in some foreign war zone, I'll bet he's lying just to impress his buddies.

Real combat vets, at least all the ones I've known, not only don't flaunt it, they hardly ever bring it up. It's not something they want to dwell on.

This is their one day of the year, though, to be reminded of their bravery and service. If you see a vet today, just smile and say, "Thanks." That's probably good enough; we don't want to cause discomfort. 

But tonight, just take a second to ask God to bless and protect them all. They've earned it.

Can You Hear The Trees Laughing?

Life is an opportunity, benefit from it.
Life is beauty, admire it.
Life is bliss, taste it.
Life is a dream, realize it.
Life is a challenge, meet it.
Life is a duty, complete it.
Life is a game, play it.
Life is a promise, fulfill it.
Life is sorrow, overcome it.
Life is a song, sing it.
Life is a struggle, accept it.
Life is a tragedy, confront it.
Life is an adventure, dare it.
Life is luck, make it.
Life is too precious, do not destroy it.
Life is life, fight for it.

~ Mother Teresa ~

Working in my office this morning, I thought I heard children playing. Going outside to look, I spotted Sunny and River in a back eddy below. Recent rains have brought the water level up again, and those two were celebrating.

It's true laughter is contagious. Sunny, always the instigator of happiness, was tickling River as they swirled 'round and 'round, bouncing off rocks and giggling brightly.

All their fun had River's row of nearest neighbors, the normally dull Conifers, almost shining in delight. On this side of the river, a small but boisterous group of Deciduous broke into a riot of hilarity.

Before long I was smiling, too; it was impossible to do otherwise. It's weird how that works; it felt as if my heart was being lifted as well.

Maybe it was the motion of raising my camera that caught River's eye, but for some reason, just then she looked up and gave me the biggest, brightest wink I've ever seen.

I nodded back at her, grinning in acknowledgment. I took a few pictures, then stood there awhile, trying to decipher River's message. "Look at me!" I think she was saying. "I can twinkle again! Am I lovely?"

Oh, ab-sol-tute-ly, I tell her after Sunny moves on and we're alone again in the dark. River, girlfriend, you definitely got your groove back this morning. I have a lovely photograph. So tell me: Were you wearing real diamonds?

Now, as I write to you, there are tears in my eyes again. This time, though, they're not from sadness, but in gratitude for the beauty and glory of His love.

Fighting Darkness Is So Wearisome

My recent neglect of you, dear readers, does not reflect a lack of desire to write here. My voice-mail is full, bills lie unopened, emails, unread. The dishes are done, but that's about all I can manage. 

Trying to keep my son alive has taken all my energy lately. I've never written much about him for several reasons. I try to respect his privacy, since he is a grown man of 35 and not a little kid.

But I've not voiced my feelings about him here primarily because that, my friends, is when the bullet hits the bone for this writer. It's seemed a bit hard to approach the topic, too: "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's true that I lost my husband and my mom last year on the same day -- but wait! It gets worse!"

Here's the deal: My son suffers from Type I Diabetes, juvenile onset. His health has been steadily declining for quite a while now. Before my husband died, it had become so worrisome that we urged him to move back home with us. So he did.

He has lived in my basement now for more than two years. He doesn't work. In fact, he makes little effort to do anything at all.

I've found him in insulin shock and near death more times than I care to recall. So far, I have been able to get some Karo syrup down him or call 911 in time to save him.

But I am beginning to feel so worn down by the weight of it all. The anxiety compounds my grief.

I have to fight the urge to give into negativity every day. Jack Daniels beckons, but I will not go there. I know it wouldn't help. In fact, it would only make things worse, and I gave up on self-destruction a while back.

Bottom line: I know I can't change my son; only he can do that. This situation with him, however, has evolved into a full-blown crisis that must end soon. I simply can't take it anymore.

So I've made some tough decisions and planned some big changes. Don't worry; they will be positive for us both. 

It's so hard for a mom to unmom herself, even if it's for the better. Telling you about it strengthens my resolve.

It's not going to be easy, but then, nothing really worth doing ever is, is it? Rolling over and dying, now that would be easy.

In my dream we're on the sinking Titanic when I hear someone yell, "Women and children on the lifeboats first!"

I may be an old woman, but I'm still a woman, and someone who's 35, I'm pretty sure, is no longer a child. These are my thoughts as I run for a lifeboat but then I hear another voice: "It's every man for himself!"

Wait a minute. That is just so wrong! We're all in this together, aren't we?

Turning back, I see my son and grab his hand, holding tight. "Let's go!" I yell at him. "We've got to keep going forward!"

A sea of darkness swells ahead of us as I scream again, "'It's going to be all right!"  I'm not sure if he can hear me, but I will not let go of his hand.

Leaning into the wind, I pull with everything I've got.
Then comes the light of another day. I wake up and keep trying. It's all I can do.

This Thing We Call Life

I had planned to write this post about special dogs we've loved over the years, but it seems too tough of a topic for today. Here's the photos, but the story's different. I want to tell you a story about a good friend from my teen years named Dawn. She and I have kept in touch with for many years.

She's a widow now too, and has been a valuable source of support. I didn't make it to our 40th high-school reunion in 2009, but we did manage to get together one day for lunch last summer. Isn't it funny how, even if they look quite different, when you see someone again after several years, once they start talking, all the time falls away? When I'm with Dawn, it's 1967 again, or so it seems. Her parents lived right behind mine and we were in the same grade at school, so we couldn't have avoided each other even if we'd tried. It was a good thing we hit it off right away after I was involuntarily transplanted to Boise in the eighth grade.

After being no-bosom buddies (yuck, yuck) all through school, we went our separate ways after college. We each married handsome young men, and I remained in Boise while she moved to a remote Alaskan fishing village with her husband to teach Eskimo children.

Teaching in Alaska's extreme conditions was a popular move for young couples with education degrees in the 1970's. It paid very well. The oil pipeline was under construction then, too, so we had several friends who left Idaho for the Far North to make big money.

Such pilgrimages are still going on, since Idaho hasn't had an economic boom since its last gold rush and that was quite some time ago. No one seems to come back and say they hated their Alaskan experience and Dawn and her husband were no exception. They loved living among the Eskimos and ended up staying about ten years.The minimalist lifestyle of the natives afforded few luxuries. Their traditional sources of food and clothing were whale, seal, fox and fish. This proved to be adequate, Dawn said, but she constantly craved a fresh green salad.

No fresh produce could be flown into their village due to the extremely cold temperatures. So Dawn decided to try to bring two heads of iceberg lettuce home from a trip to Fairbanks. To protect them from freezing, she stuffed them up in her coat, planning to keep them warm there for the entire flight. This vision of my skinny friend with two heads of lettuce crammed up her coat is amusing in itself, but it gets better. As she tried to negotiate her way to her seat, while jockeying the ton of other stuff from town, she was mortified when both heads of lettuce escaped and rolled down the aisle like a pair of pale-green bowling balls.

Dawn turned red with embarrassment (she does that easily), but quickly learned in that part of the country, no one bats an eye at the sight of two heads of lettuce coming at them down an airplane aisle. The produce was simply scooped up and politely returned by another traveler. Here you go; no problem, ma'am. She wondered later if everyone else on the plane was also cradling lettuce in their coats.

My friend had two babies, Emily and Jessica, while living in their Arctic home. This seemed a little nuts to me at the time, but Dawn's always been quite a trooper, especially when it comes to the Great Outdoors. Now that I think about it, she still is. A little nuts, that is.

Another time, she took her little girls on a rare trip to the city. Emily was about four years old and Jessica, two. They had no TV at home, so the girls had never seen a movie (VCRs hadn't been invented yet). So off they went to see a Disney classic on the big screen. Dawn wasn't into watching the movie as much as she was seeing her kids' reactions as they laughed and clapped through the childrens' film.

When it was over and the lights came on, Dawn prepared to leave. When she looked to see if she had both girls, she was surprised to see Emily still sitting in her seat, weeping.  My friend was shocked. It had been a happy movie with a great ending, she thought. "Why are you crying?" she asked little Emily, who was the very picture of despair, tears rolling down her cheeks. "B-b-b-because it's ov, ov, o-ver," Emily blubbered, letting loose wioth a full-blown wail. "You're crying because it's over?" Dawn asked, adding, "Oh Honey, we'll do this again sometime."  All parents tell their kids that when they're trying to get them out of a place if they don't want to leave. It works for a few years, but as they get older, children begin to realize there's a catch to this thing we call life: You can't go back, you can only go forward.  You can revisit special places or look at pictures of past times, but the experiences,  exactly as you had them, can never truly be relived. 

I've been thinking about this since last month when I wrote about our dog, Hoo, and promised a follow-up. Looking through pictures of the 16 years Hoo enriched our lives, I was reminded of so much happiness I had with my late husband.

Sometimes I think I'd rather recall the times when we weren't getting along so well. It's easier. Don't get me wrong. I'm very grateful for my 40 years with my husband. "You should be glad for what you had," says my best friend, who is divorced. "I always wanted a marriage like yours, but I never had it," she reminds me when I get down.

"I know," I reply. "I am glad." Lately, though, I've been thinking about Emily in the theater. I can totally relate to the reason for her tears when the lights came on.

There's only one difference: I do my crying in the dark.

Never Fear; I'm Still Here

Sunny came by yesterday afternoon and kissed River, giving her a radiant glow. It helped make up for River's lack of sparkling current this time of year. Her bony shoulders are exposed, too, and her underbelly is growing fuzz in her low-water season.

Greedy birds of prey dive-bomb her shallow pools, feasting on stranded fish. River is glad, however, that no rock-crushers have shown up to grind away at her shores this fall. There is a limit to the indignities she can endure while she is laid off from work.

I grew melancholy looking at photos of Hoo, so that project has been shelved for now. I am getting in firewood and doing all necessary preparations folks must make for winter in this part of the country.

Living a stone's throw away from the Canadian border makes one wary of the approaching change of weather.

I'm glad I don't also have to contend with hoards of Canadians illegally crossing into North Idaho in search of work. God save the Queen.

Sunny was in a hurry to leave, as her hours have been cut, too. Before she left, though, she kissed Bric on the forehead. He was unaware of his beauty, but I saw it, and share it with you here.

Don't forget about me, give up on me, or quit praying for me, and I'll do the same for you. Let's carry on, then, shall we?

The Legendary Hoobert Heever



I'm not a dog snob. For the first 30 years of our marriage, we never had the money to buy an AKC dog, so a series of lovable mutts shared our lives. Probably the most memorable and clearly my favorite was a black-and-white, natural-born comedian named Hoo.

That's her above, laughing. Behind her is a our Golden Retriever, a pound puppy we named "Wuzzy." As a wee doggie, she looked like a little bear, so her name came from the nursery rhyme, "Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.." She went by "Wuz" most of the time.

We got Hoo for free from a neighbor who owned her mother, a purebred German Shepherd. Her father was unknown. A half-shepherd sounded good, so we brought home the sweetest of 10 little pups.

How a dog gets its name at our house is usually left up to fate. In Hoo's case, it happened when another neighbor came over to see our new puppy.  "And this is who?" he asked politely, picking her up. In a light-bulb moment, I answered, "Yes, this is Hoo." Having one dog named Wuz and another named Hoo had potential for being very funny, I remember thinking.

Hoo didn't know who she was yet when she first came to live with us. As she grew, our hopes of owning a dog that looked like a German Shepherd began to fade. It wasn't long before her personality began to emerge as well. Hoobie was a nut. You could tell just by looking at her. She received her full name, Hoobert Heever Henderson, from something I read one day in a Reader's Digest. It was a short story about the first-ever live radio broadcast of a presidential address to the nation. It marked the end of the golden era for newspapers, which had long enjoyed a media monopoly as the sole source of news coverage.

President Herbert Hoover was standing by as the broadcast was about to begin. The announcer, incredibly nervous and daunted by his historic task, ceremoniously cleared his throat. In a high-pitched, quivering voice, he then effectively ended his broadcasting career by leaning to the mike and saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States, HOOBERT HEEVER."

I've always imagined this epic blunder having been followed by an audible gasp of horror from all the people in the radio station control room. I've also pondered the possibility that if hundred of thousands were listening to their radios at that moment, the announcer's huge faux pas may have caused a tsunami of collective gasps that rolled across America, eventually sending out a global "OMG!" Perhaps the massive intake of breath created an atmospheric change, a moment of shock so intense it was like a  "shot heard 'round the world."

But that's just speculation. The Reader's Digest article didn't say whatever happened to the poor guy. I hope he didn't go out and jump off a building. The country was in the Great Depression, after all.

Humiliation of this scale must have been hard to handle. Hopefully he found another job in a field where stage fright couldn't sabotage him. Perhaps he turned to Demon Rum and became a bum, like many men down on their luck in those days. 

Hoo knows? Yes, she does but she'd never tell. Hoo's tail must be continued, for she lived to be 16 years old and her legendary antics were many. Stay tuned, then. More Hoo is coming for you.