Month: June 2016

In the very beginning there was the egg meeting the sperm thing. What were my chances? Nil to None! But here I am. Staggering thought, right. It’s like looking out into the universe or into the microcosm of life. All those swimming sperms and all those flushed eggs since womankind existed—and yet, here I am. An unflushed egg that was caught by a random sperm–in the body of another arbitrarily developed egg and sperm connection that happened before me, and before her, and before her and before her..

Then there were all those instants leading up to the present moments of my existence when things might have turned out differently. Like in my teens:

Such as the time that my friend and I skinny-dipped in the dark of night on Lake Huron in a boat whose lights were off—we were naked and didn’t wish to be seen…which of course, the fast-moving skiff didn’t and came barreling toward us. We had only the stars to cast light on our small craft–our one hope to be spotted.Luckily I did not

The TV show Naked and Afraid comes to mind.

We clung to our vessel, hoping our craft would be noticed in time. The end of this story: We’d done the right thing.

Again, somewhere in my teenage years when my family fell apart, I took to idolizing Sylvia Plath–the poet who wrote of her angst and solved her misery by sticking her head in a gas oven….

Luckily, we didn’t have a gas stove.

However, I was resourceful, I took to the highway, 100 miles per hour, wanting to lose control…

Then in college, I rolled over the median of a major highway, four times, ending up on the other side of traffic going in the opposite direction–not trying to die, but a victim of my speed and a car suddenly pulling out in front of me.

Again, lucky.

I could go on and on but don’t wish to belabor the point.

All those times I could have left this planet through circumstance, or not have caught the ride on Earth to begin with. And yet here I am, years later.

What were your chances?

(To read what happens when hatred is nourished, scrolled down to: “The Cork has Popped.”)

The cork has been popped on the fermentation of hate, greed, ignorance and despair, snaking through the veins and arteries of our country…

Festering.

Septic.

It’s not about who’s coming into our country.

It’s about us, we who are here.

It’s about turning our heads, covering our eyes, thinking, hoping it won’t affect us–maybe the other guys, but not us, not our families, not our friends. Or writing it off as just politics…Or being so embeded in our day-to-day lives in the distractions du jour…It’s about not looking up and outside the window of our lives…Not listening, hoping it will go away…Or writing it off as “just politics.” It’s about believing someone else will fix it when most of our leaders are stunned into silence or afraid to speak out or holding tight to what they think they have.

It’s about the porous boundaries of our sleeping minds that allow “a reality show” to merge into reality…

Or is it the other way around?

It’s about apathy.

It’s about not understanding that everyone’s “one vote” counts.

The real scary part: it’s about not knowing how Hitler came to power…Listen and you’ll hear the dictator’s voice.

(To learn about my neighborhood dogs at our cottage, scroll down to: “A Tale of Tails.”)

He strolled into our yard, like he owned the place, pooped, then barked at us, drawing the ire of our dogs, Daisy and Lucy, who took off after him as he squealed tearing back home. If I were to describe this seven-month-old puppy to a forensic sketch artist, all I could say is that he sports a black head and spot near his rump, otherwise grayish fur. Breed: several. This new mutt pup of the neighborhood is named Meatball, not his initial name—a handle that was more sophisticated, but it didn’t stick. So, Meatball it is. A pest: maybe. A threat: NOT.

The neighborhood I speak of is at our cottage on a remote lake where dogs can run free—if they mostly behave themselves. I like this concept. I grew up on a beach of Lake Huron’s, and back in the day dogs lived their lives as free as the kids. When I walked down our tarred dirt road, dogs would run up to greet me. It  delighted me. They were my friends. So, being able to allow our two cavapoos—mutts with a fancy breed name—to run unrestricted up here in the North Country feels like life as it should be.

Two of the neighborhood dogs are only allowed out for exercise and a swim in the lake after we’ve gathered up all the other canines, giving them refuge from the bad boys of the neighborhood. Well, the brothers, Gus and Gunner, aren’t actually “bad,” more like can’t be completely trusted. Gus (mug shot above) is approximately the size of a small horse and holds strong opinions about others of his kind. Gunner, a yearling, has the enthusiasm and size of a new born colt, and could run down anything in his path–he’s not called “Gunner” for nothing.

Meatball has an older sister, Marley, a free spirit who runs with the lake breeze. She’s a golden retriever and who-knows-what. Yesterday I was out cleaning up the yard. Exhausted, hot, I flopped down in a chair at the fire pit to recuperate. Out of nowhere Marley made a beeline through our yard, down to the beach and leapt into the water. After swimming five circles–I counted–the diameter of a kid’s inflatable outdoor pool, she came bounding back and slammed on her brakes two yards from me: pooped. Geez, she could have at least hid behind a tree, out of my sight. Brazen bitch! After her expulsion, she took off. I yelled after her, letting her know I thought she was rude…

I lifted my sweaty self out of the chair and retrieved the pooper scooper…Like, I didn’t have enough to do.

Last, but not least, there’s Otis–pictured sitting on back of sofa. Though I’m fond of every dog around here. He’s my favorite neighborhood pooch. Otis is a Shih Tzu—and maybe something else. The old guy has no teeth, which allows his tongue to droop out, at will. Luckily it’s not so long that it trips him up as he wanders around between his place and two other houses he favors—ours is one of them.

In the mornings when I go out with Daisy and Lucy, treats in hand—only awarded after they’ve done their business—we likely find Otis waiting. Of course I give him a dog reward too. I figure he’s already taken care of his bodily elimination needs, waiting for us to get up. Besides, how can I ignore his irresistible mug, wagging tail, and off-the-charts lovability factor looking up at me?

I can’t. No way!

Throughout the day and evening, Otis often makes his way into our house, slipping in, camouflaged in the same approximate size and color as our pooches. He’s learned our routines. Unlike Daisy and Lucy, Otis can’t jump onto our bed, though he initially tried when he first decided he’d like to nap with us. His initial attempt at boarding had to have been painful: he’d backed up and flew toward our resting spot, but slammed into the side, not possessing the lift required to mount our princess-and-the-peas high mattress. Since then, he’s offered a boost up—there’s no end to how a dog can manipulate me.

As I  write this tale of tails, Otis has jumped up onto my chair and made himself comfortable, beside me. Problem is, his head keeps flopping over onto my keyboard, creating new spellings for my words, discouraging me from writing further.

Please forgive any typos.

(To read about how to spread prejudice, scroll down to: “A Bad Sentence in Every Way.”)