Upriver Dawn Beckons Me

Often when I post a stunning scenery shot such as this, someone will ask, "Is that your view?" The answer is, yes. The mountains I've shown you are looking to the south from my deck, and this upriver dawn shot is, obviously, due east.

In 2008 my husband and I built our dream log home overlooking a sparkling river and layering shades of forested mountains in North Idaho. Yes, it is a shame he's not here to enjoy it, I usually nod in fake but polite agreement to that inevitable comment.

Except with those with whom I feel the closest, I refrain from informing anyone that my husband's absence is merely an illusion. He's here, alright. That's been made quite clear to me.

A profound experience hit me yesterday when I suddenly realized that all the weeping, mourning and introspective soul searching I've been doing since he died has all been for me, not for him. I have been so sorry for me. I still am, frankly.

I was driving down the road admiring the January sunshine and blue skies when, like an epiphaney, I fully grasped the concept that my husband is happy now. Boom, like a clap of thunder, I suddenly got it, and tears of joy welled up in my eyes for him.

This has been my belief all along; in fact, it's why my initial major emotion at the time of his death was anger at him for leaving me here and going off, tra la laa la laa, on his merry way to Heaven. "How nice for you," thought poor wittle me.

We've come to terms with that since then, you could say, and I sincerely am happy for him. I sense that he wants me to be happy, too. He worked so hard to provide me with all the nice things around me. If I don't enjoy them, then his efforts will have been in vain.

This makes perfect sense to me, and so with that in mind and a life-insurance check in the bank, I'm Googleing a road trip with Bric the Wonder Dog and my brand-new Nikon D90 DX 12.3 Digital SLR. Yesserie, Bob I me got one.

We're heading to where "the weather suits my soul," as Glenn Campbell once sang. There's an art show, a best girlfriend I miss a lot, and a mini-family reunion with my long-lost Pennsylvania cousins that I plan to indulge myself in enjoying. I can't wait to see the Southwest February desert through the lens of that new Nikon.

Of course I will share with you. I'm really into this blogging thing, which my son jokingly refers to as my "pretend job."

Last year, to attempt this trip would have never occurred to me. For one thing, my mother would have freaked out, fretted herself sick, and tried to tell me I couldn't do this alone. She needed to hear from me at least every-other day or she'd get worried. She didn't really have a life, so's to speak, near the end.

Mom had never in her 86 years ever traveled anywhere at the wheel of  big powerful, shiny pickup truck with a 95-pound-powerful male German Shepherd at her side. The ability and depth of Bric's devotion to protecting me was beyond her grasp. Whatever is the opposite of a dog person, that was my mom. Yes, as a matter of fact, she did like cats, but only one at a time.

She also, bless her heart, lacked much faith in a higher power. More than anyone I've ever known, my mom lived steadfastly in the now. She refused to examine her past and lacked the courage to contemplate her life beyond this one.

Near the end of her years, I sent her a Bible verse in the hope she would look it up and find comfort there. When I asked her later if she did so, she replied, "No. I was afraid to." My mom had a strong aversion to crying. To be seen weeping publicly would have completely mortified her. Yes, I am of Protestant German descent. Why do you ask?

I know I'm not being delusional, nor am I under the influence of anything except Prozac. Not to sound overly dramatic, but I have the feeling I'm embarking on a spiritual quest of sorts. My old pal Jack Daniels is definitely staying in the liquor store where he belongs, Bric will be always at my side, and in more ways than one, I will not be traveling alone.

Border Collies Are A Special Breed

Let's not discuss weighty topics and mope around here anymore. After perusing some of the blogs I have listed here as my favorites, I am inspired to touch on the solid, non-mind-boggling topic of dogs.
Before my husband and I could afford the high-dollar, AKC German Shepherds I now own, we had a variety of mixed-breed dogs. For the first 30 or so years of our marriage, we always had a minimum of two dogs, and sometimes, three.
Many were pound puppies, some were pawned off on us by coworkers, and others seemed to just wander into our lives and never leave. I adored them all. I am, in case you haven't guessed by now, a full-blown, Class A, Lifetime, Fully and Fanatically Dedicated, and hereby Publicly Declared, Dog Person.

I tend to like other peoples' blogs who are dog people, too. I stole this wonderful "Got Stick?" picture of George from Chronicles of a Country Girl's blog to share with you. Hers is very near the top of my list of best blogs; you ought to check it out if you love dogs and beautiful photos, with great graphics and tight writing.
Her wonderful "dog blog" about George got me to thinking about the only dog we ever acquired that was actually worth anything monetarily in the years before we could afford the German Shepherds.

She was a purebred Border Collie our son named Bo. My husband had traded some ranch labor with a neighbor for her when she was an eight-week-old pup. She joined us in the middle of winter in the middle of Idaho.

The photo at the top of this post shows our mini-ranch on 20 acres situated near the Clearwater River in Central Idaho. I think I took this photo in about December of 1983. We had a couple of calves, some chickens, a pony, two other dogs, a cat, and plenty of room, or so we thought, for a little pup who'd been born to herd.

Here is a story I wrote about Bo several years ago that I hope you will enjoy. I reprint it here courtesy of the Capital Press, an agriculture and forestry-focused newspaper based in Salem, Oregon, where it was originally published in about 1990.

The title was, A Good Cow Dog; A Poor Pet:

I recently lost one of the best friends I've ever had. She was a purebred Border Collie, but in Idaho, we just called her a Cow Dog.

A direct descendant of Central Idaho's famed Salmon River Sam, she had herding in her blood. She was 10 years old when she died peacefully in her sleep at our home not long ago. I think she was tired of the confines of city life; it never did agree with her.

I'm not sure why I want to share her passing with Capital Press readers, but I think it's because I know you would appreciate a good cow dog and understand my loss. Most city people don't, really.

As dogs go, she wasn't much of a pet. Next to our affable, sunny-faced, always-smiling Golden Retriever,  this ever-wary, all-black dog came off looking like an evil step-sister. She always preferred to stay under or behind things; she was never comfortable out in the open. She never let her guard down.

It was beneath her dignity to do stupid dog tricks, no matter how hard we tried to cajole or bribe her.

But she had her own tricks. For example, at the words, "load up," she'd spring easily over the tailgate of our pickup in one swift movement, even after she got a bit overweight and on in years. No way was she going to be left home. In fact, near the end of her life, no words were even necessary. Eye contact and a quick nod toward the bed of the truck were enough.

Her greatest skill, however, was moving cows to wherever we wanted them, and occasionally to where we didn't. I remember well the day she learned to duck. She was about six months old when she caught a horse's hoof dead center in her face.

She lost a tooth and got a bloody nose. As she whimpered in anger and pain, I will always believe she cried real tears. Maybe her eyes were just smarting from the kick, but they looked like tears to me. I know my own eyes were puddling up a bit.

From that day on, whenever she worked cows, it was at the low, crouched, quickly darting pace that characterizes good cow dogs. She seemed to develop a sixth sense that enabled her to anticipate a kick.

She was beautiful to watch in action. She'd get the cows moving and if one let fly a kick in her direction, she'd duck and neatly miss the hoof, like a fast ball slipping through a batter's swing. All the time, never missing a beat, she was running from side to side behind the herd, watching everything and listening intently to my husband's commands.

She was happiest when she was working, but I think her second-favorite thing was riding in our pickup. She'd gladly ride back in the bed, but truth be told, I liked having her up front on the seat next to me. We traveled hundreds of miles together; she was good company.

But socializing with her was nearly impossible because her personality was so strange. She was intense about everything in her life and rarely displayed a playful side. She was distrustful of most people and hateful of all other dogs.

Of her complete loyalty and devotion to us, however, there was never any doubt.

There were times, in fits of anger, when she could be quite destructive. Our house still bears the scars of her absolute fury at being left home: a chewed drape, a dug-up board on the deck, a ripped-up section of carpeting.

Other signs of Bo remain as well. There are dirty spots, like shadows, on the walls behind our furniture, where she preferred to lie, wedged in solitude and safety. In my pickup, there are smudges from her nose on the passenger-side window.

I know it's a silly and sentimental mind game that's not really working, but somehow I can't bring myself to wipe away those traces of a quiet, good dog that should not be gone, but is.

It is one of the great injustices of life that just about the time a dog becomes a really good friend, when its communication with you is at a nearly telepathic level, it up and dies.

One of these days, the pickup window will steam over and someone will unwittingly wipe away her nose smudges, which are somehow still of small comfort to me. As long as they remain there, it almost seems as if she's not really gone.

But in our house, there is one corner of the living-room wall, hidden behind my husband's recliner, where a small, low-lying, sweetly rounded shadow, almost like catching a brief glimpse of Bo herself, will always remain for as long as I'm around.

And for the rest of my years, wherever I go, there will be a special place in my heart where it will remain, protected, forever.

Just Lucky To Be Alive

Here's the weather report from my back porch: warm and wet. Following two years of record-setting low temperatures and snowfall, we're now having a soggy, muddy, foggy winter that reminds me a lot of the years I lived in Portland, Oregon. The best word to describe it is "dreary."

I like the snow much better, because it is brighter, cheerier, and a whole lot cleaner. In my ongoing effort to not gripe about things in my life that I can't change, I will say nothing more here about the weather.

However, under old business: I've spent a couple hours looking up the scripture I mentioned in my last post. Thanks to a helpful fellow blogger, I found it easily. But then I became curious, because in five Bibles I consulted, the meaning significantly varies by the omission, addition, or change of one word.

Matthew 10:29 is the verse I was referring to, wherein Jesus says to his apostles, "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father." I am quoting here from the New International Version of the Bible.

Jesus was trying to illustrate to his followers that God cares about everything and everyone, regardless of worth, all the way from important men to practically worthless, little birds.

When I learned this verse, I thought it meant that nothing happens on Earth without God's knowledge. It was not implied, as I understood it, that nothing happens here unless He makes it happen. That's a really hard concept for us to fathom, but our puny human minds are usually incapable of grasping God's immense powers.

"Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And not one of them shall fall to the ground without your Father," the same verse reads in my grandmother's Holman Edition of the Holy Bible. This version doesn't really specify whether God made one of the birds fall, or if He's just aware of it.

My Authorized King James Version of the Holy Bible is equally ambiguous, saying, "And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father." My Father's what? Knowledge or will?

My Revised Standard Version of the Holy Bible says more specifically of the falling bird, "And not one of them will fall to the ground without your Father's will."  That's pretty straightforward: God made it. or let it, fall.

But then I consulted The Living Bible, Paraphrased, which says, "Not one sparrow (What do they cost? Two for a penny?) can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it." That's more like I remember the meaning: God didn't make the bird fall, but He knows about it.

A friend of mine who lost her husband in a motorcycle accident 20 years ago, advised me, after mine died the same way last year, "The biggest question you will ask yourself is: Why?" She's right. It's a temptation that's been hard to resist. There's no definitive answer, in my opinion, but it's human nature to ponder the question.

Another friend had a pragmatic resolution to the Biblical gray area regarding the falling bird. "I think that back when the Bible was written, there were a lot fewer people on Earth," he pointed out. "God probably had a good idea of what everyone and everything was doing." Now, however, my friend continued, "He's far too busy keeping track of so many people to bother making birds fall out of trees, or to even care if they do." I am not so sure I buy that.

It is definitely an intriguing issue that nearly everyone seriously considers at one time or another during their life. How many people in Haiti are asking themselves, "Why did this happen?"

Is there such a thing as fate? Can every event in our lives be preordained? Or is everything that happens to us just pure coincidence, a strictly random occurrence? Does luck, good or bad, factor in anywhere?

All I am sure of is that I'm not sure. I waffle back and forth a lot in my mind. Sometimes, I wonder if it's just better to not think about it so much, especially about things that have happened in the past. Absolutely nothing can be changed, of that much I am certain. How we react to what has occurred is the only thing we can control.

So, on that note I guess I'll wrap this up, get ready for bed, say a prayer for all the suffering people in Haiti, and thank God I'm alive and well.

So ... does that mean I'm lucky? Oh please, just stop it. I don't want to be up all night!

As Luck Would Have It

DOES luck, good or bad, really exist? Do things just occur by happenstance, or is there a reason and a plan for every event in our lives?

This is a question I've long pondered, even before my husband died in a motorcycle crash.

Jesus said that God knows about everything, even when a small bird falls out of a tree. I've tried to find that verse in my Bible, but can't right now, so you'll just have to take my word for it.

Does that mean, however, that God caused the bird to fall out of the tree? In his ambiguous way of teaching his apostles, Jesus never quite explained that. Maybe he wasn't sure of the answer himself, yet.

At any rate, you could probably say I had a stroke of luck the other evening when I was getting ready for bed. My pup, Bric, jumped on the bed, apparently ready to retire for the evening. In the soft lamp light, I realized he looked incredibly pretty.

Glancing at my bedside table, I saw my camera laying there. Quickly I grabbed it, turned off the automatic flash, and snapped this photo. I think it's quite lovely.

All of my dogs instinctively dislike having things pointed at them, including cameras. Getting good photos of them is a real challenge, unless they happen to be distracted.

I love this photo, so I thought I'd share it with you. Was it pure luck? Maybe some of it was. However, all good photographers know that lighting is everything. A flash would have completely ruined the ambiance of this shot. I also knew I had to move quickly.

A lot of good photography is the result of being in the right place at the right time. If I had a studio and had tried to set Bric up in a similar shot, he would not have cooperated.

The profound question of the existence of luck is one of those philosophic subjects that could be debated all night. What I think is more important is to seize the moment of apparent good luck and go with it.

However, I am not a gambler. Take me to a casino, and I'll play for a while, but I'm not really very interested. It seems like such a waste of money.

After mulling this whole topic over here, I guess I'd have to say that I don't actually believe in luck, good or bad.

But, as they say, why ask why? If something happens to you that's good, it's good, then. Be glad. If it's bad, it sucks. End of story.

But don't you think this picture of my dog is quite good? Thanks. Me, too. Was it just luck? Who knows? Who cares? Just enjoy it.