Dog Days

The dog's ears lift as I cinch the garbage bag closed and lift it out of the kitchen bin. She raises her head off the carpet and unfolds her body, giving herself a big stretch. 

She is ready. 

I am not. I still have some work to do. The dog paces behind me as I open the fridge, inspecting it for leftovers abandoned by their owners, and now need to join the other cast-offs in the bag. 

As I sniff the container to see if what's inside has gone off, she can sense it's time for her chance to go off, too.

She follows me closely as I place the empties in the sink and tie the bag. Her head arrow straight below her shoulders. 

She darts past me as I open the door. Unleashed.

I am taking a calculated risk: a main truck route lies about 100 feet to the left, and the garbage collection site is about a thousand feet to the right.

She always goes right. 

"Hurry, hurry," says the tags on her collar as she bounces on her front legs. She looks back at me while i heft the bag over my shoulder and start walking.

I nonchalantly watch her as she runs the perimeters of our yard. She sniffs the ghost-scents of the various wildlife that crosses from one neighbor to the next. Occasionally, she disappears into the trees for a few moments. 

If it takes longer she usually comes back with a treasure ... often smelly and ground into a paste under her collar. Her secret life amounts to this, and the seasonal ability to enter the fenced-in yard whenever she likes now that we have a fly-weight screen tacked to the door, which opens and closes using the magic of magnets.

Any worry I have is fleeting and usually allayed by a two-fingered whistle; the one I'd practiced it for an entire summer when I was twelve.

The dog we had back then used to come when I whisted, too. 

But that dog lived her life on her own schedule. A Saint Bernard-mix, she was anxious in the house, preferring to live outside where the weather suited her fur. Now, we had assumed she'd wandered a bit; she'd walk us kids to the bus stop and then she'd wandered right back home afterward. She always seemed to be around, waiting for our return. 

It wasn't until after she passed away, having reached the ripe old of 91 in dog years, that we learned she had a schedule not unlike the friendly, neighborhood postal carrier: neither rain, nor sleet, nor dark of night could keep her from her appointed rounds.  

Of course her rounds mostly involved a three-mile loop on back roads and farmland to check in on all her favorite folks ... People we hadn't introduced her to because we only got to meet them when they sent condolences, telling us our loss was, in a way, their loss, too.

I miss that dog as much as I marvel at her life.

But I'm not sad that we've made progress. Our dog is happy and healthy and out of harms' way. She may lead a boring existence ... waiting for us to enliven it with our ball-throwing, and our property perimeter perambulations ... but all she really wants in life is us and a scruff full of deer poo on occasion. 

She thinks a bath is a small price to pay for the luxury of a few moments of abandon.  I do, too.

 

Isn't that what I said?

With the speakerphone engaged, a husky voice, neither identifiably male nor female, announces the department we dialed: "Financial Services.

My frazzled daughter hesitated before launching into her question. It had been a rough couple of days, starting with a problem, progressing to a remote meeting to gain clarity and a potential solution, only to have that meeting spin off into a part of the internet blocking all calls. 

After she had gotten through all the rigamarole -- the awkwardly spaced sentences that jumbled out all that she had done up until this point -- the person at the end of the line reassured us that the problem was, indeed, technical, as well as entirely on their end, and would be sorted out soon.

"Sit tight on that one. Was there anything related to Financial Aid?"

And like the deer in headlights, we just froze. ... letting the opportunity sail right by before the phone disconnected with two-toned digital sound. A deeply dissatisfying note, that lacks the finality and catharsis of a slam.

These gizmo and glass phones force us to be better behaved than their bakelite brethren.

Of course, from where I was sitting -- on the edge of the couch, between a wadded-up throw blanket and an aging cat that would like a smattering of whatever foodstuff I was snacking on -- I thought the whole transaction went surprisingly well.

She discovers a problem. She navigates the proper channels to address the issue and, in doing so, faces unexpected hurdles. She leaps over those to find another avenue, and takes this new path as far as she can to its logical end. Success.

My daughter didn't quite see it that way:

"But the problem isn't solved yet."

"No, but you know you're in the right universe, and the light from Solved is much closer it is to the proximity of the looming deadline."

Of course, the problem wasn't the real problem.

"I hate feeling like a fool," she tells me between anxious sobs. 

"I don't understand ..."

Didn't you hear that person tell me: "Oh, you didn't have a Financial Aid question?" 

More than she hates being wrong, she despises being perceived as wrong. She takes it personally. A vendetta against herself, a person who is new to all of this (gestures wildly with full wing span arms), but who went from misunderstanding to understanding in the span of an eight-minute phone call that "may have been monitored or recorded for quality assurances."

I know we are all sensitive to our forehead-slapping moments; all the things that become painfully obvious with experience and hindsight. 

I tried to soften the blow, highlighting my belief that a professional person's deftness of understanding what you meant doesn't mean they will keep their translations silent. That person knows their department like you know how to define ribosomes or the cosmetic product that will best accentuate cheekbones. 

"I mean ... if I described wanting something to catch more light but asked for a "bronzer" would you just hand me a highlighter and not clarify the product's actual category?"

"No. No, I would not," she said defensively. 

"If I described cytoplasm but called it a ribosome would you not correct me?"

"No ... probably not, but I might think you were not prepared for Biology 101."

Maybe I wasn't using the correct analogy. Aside from the possible pedantry of official departments being similarly named, I reminded my daughter that we did have a Financial Aid question that we lost track of as we were staring like deer in the headlights of the Financial Services response.

"I have an idea."

"Oh, God. Do I want to know?"

"Tomorrow, let's call back. We'll use my name this time."

Into the woods

We gathered at the car park. A gaggle of friends intent on running a few miles after-work and off the so-called beaten path.

There is little doubt, trails can be punishing.

We face perils at every turn. 

It's only the second of a four-week series, and we haven't exactly gotten the bumps smoothed over. 

It's not supposed to be easy. 

Although, it wouldn't hurt to plan for the bare essentials.

Like why do I keep forgetting to bring bug spray?

Bloodthirsty mosquitoes, vector ticks and poorly marked trails are the least of our worries. ... We will literally run across fields full of woodchuck holes and happen upon fenced-in dogs who are finally getting the opportunity to run free.

We haven't even discussed the possibility of what to do if we happen upon a bear, or a raccoon or an overly familiar squirrel. 

I push all that to the edge of my mind and lace up. There's nothing quite like running in the woods. 

The shaded quiet of trees overhead give us cover to watch the sky open up with dappled light. We delight to feel soft earth under our feet as we take extra care, avoiding the mounds of lush, green moss and bright orange newts we encounter along the path. 

There's no denying it's beautiful here. 

Our guide, who runs through this place on the regular, points out the local lore. We are happy, sweaty tourists.

He tells us about the Sheep Dip, a trickle of water falling over rocks that feed into a slow stream. That's where the flock would cool off back in the day, he explains. We will have to see Magical Rock another day, since we zigged. Next time, he promises, we'll zag. 

I tried to follow the leader closely as we circled the landscape. Acknowledging that my sense of direction lacked any sense at all. I knew, left to my own devices, I might be here forever.

Which, I told myself, wouldn't be so terrible. I could live in the shady shadows with the crickets and the hop-frogs while the rest of the world burned itself out. 

This is the thought I hold as I try to keep up in the hour allotted for this little jaunt.

The pandemic has changed me some. Where I had once chosen the pest-free tables inside, I now rejoice in the availability of a patio table. I recognize it more as I tackle the hill ahead of me in small steps. It is an easy climb if I keep conversation to a minimum.

The air smells different here. Earthy and sweet. The light looks different, too. It casts a warm shadow all around. As I run up the next hill, my watch reminds me that I am slower than usual, yet I feel like I'm flying. The soft ground absorbs all manner of shocks that would assail. my shins were my feet hitting the pavement.

The hill turns into a valley, and my pace accelerates naturally. 

I didn't see the root that tripped me up. 

Thanks to the forest's earthen floor and its carpet of verdant moss, I barely felt the impact of my fall. I wasn't even sure whether the "snap" I heard came from a twig or my ankle. But I knew exactly what kind of pain I was feeling: The kind that told me I had zigged when I should have zagged. And worst of all, I'll probably be missing this magical place (and its Magical Rock) for the next six to eight weeks.

Intentional community

The room had so much nervous energy. A hundred parents perched on rows and rows of stackable chairs waiting for the keys to this new universe ... university. 

"What are you feeling? Just shout it out." 

I have to admit, I was skeptical. A college orientation for parents? 

I expected the mustachioed man from the insurance commercials to emerge and gently tell us how we could avoid the mistakes of all parents who came before us.

Instead we met Candy, who introduced herself as the director of student engagement at the school of a-very-long-name within the university that also has an acronym I couldn't for the life of me remember, and had asked us this question earnestly. She smiled sweetly as she waited for an answer. 

"Come on, you won't surprise me."

A voice in the crowd ventured a guess. 

"Excitement."

I winced and lifted my eyes to the ceiling fixing my gaze on the row of inset lights overhead. 

I dialed back my sarcasm enough to admit that "excitement" was perhaps the most hopeful and measured of responses. But this person, I thought, was probably being as candid as a middle school photographer. Hoping that with some authoritative suggestion they might substitute the truth with some toothy grin.

The remainder of the gathering must have sensed this, too, because the room erupted in the naming of a range of emotions that seemed more accurate if painfully so: "Anxiety." "Fear." "Loneliness." "Joy!"  "Jealousy."

I felt it all. But mostly I felt terrified.

The dean didn't need to tell us what we all suspected: that we, the undersigned of the next crop of first-year students, were on the cusp of beginning our lives as the proud new parents of a bouncing adult; and this two-day, 17-part symposium, was cleverly designed to give us the basics tools to more effectively let go. 

But oh, no. Lest you think this was the pep talk of all pep talks; the magical string of words that would halt the helicopter parents' rotating blade. This speech and all the speeches that followed were intended to give us the framework by which we could helicopter from a safe, more secure distance. 

Knowledge, it turns out, is the key to that trust and the cornerstone of every big thing we endeavor to build. Well, knowledge and the ability to find resources online.

Candy, knew what we were thinking, even before we all thought it. 

"Your child got here. That means they are capable of great things. But that doesn't mean they will make this enormous transition alone, and we don't expect them to."

Then Candy ran down a list of first-year hardships that ranged from the conflicts that may arise when one is dropped into a room the size of a walk-in closet with two strangers; to the amount of deflation, the ego may suffer just before Christmas when the first grades of their college careers come calling. 

The honeymoon will be over. 

"The most important thing you can do to support them now is to understand how we are here for them find solutions. Because one day they will call you with a problem, and we know that you can absolutely help. But we don't want you to call us, we want you to encourage them to take the initiative. They will listen. We know this because we have evidence that parents still have an enormous influence on their student's decisions."

Somehow, those words gave me the key I had been searching for. That this method wasn't madness, it was intentional and important.

Knowledge really does feel empowering. 

Into the lion's den

Republican operative John Faso seemed revelatory as he joined WAMC's Roundtable panel on Monday. Alan Chartok, the more liberal host, showered the conservative former representative with praise for taking up airspace in the studio. He likened this bravery to sticking one's head in the proverbial "lion's den."

They were going to talk about the end of Roe, and Faso was the only person in the room who approved of the decision.

For women like me listening at home, the previous weekend had been spent in a strange state of disbelief. Yes, we knew it was coming. But just after 10 on the morning of June 24th, we learned the Supreme Court had overturned the landmark decision that had protected a woman's right to terminate a pregnancy for half a century.

Faso's side had won. And, depending on how one explains it, the court's conservative members had either saved the potential for human life, or they had ripped away a basic constitutional protection from millions of people who can become pregnant: The right to make essential healthcare choices for themselves.

I felt revulsion just listening to Faso spin truth into lies: Turning the fact that majority of Americans would put some restrictions on abortions into a a misguided mandate to prevent most abortions from being legal.

It doesn't surprise me.

He is not of the people. He has always set himself apart. Even in his early days as an assemblyman, he had a constituent arrested when the man called his listed home number and became impolite. As a member of Congress, he pushed many duplicitous falsehoods intended to divide and conquer: linking food stamps to crime; fighting worker protections; to the final blow of voting down healthcare after assuting a cancer patient he wouldn't take it away.

Faso, the polite and presentable Trump ally, even said the quiet parts aloud as he argued "States' Rights" to decide which women and which religions will get the permission to express themselves freely while our medical systems become incapable of doing less harm. 

The point was honed when a fellow panelist, Libby Post, asked him to explain why, in the matter of body autonomy, his faith could trump hers? Why, she had asked, should she be thwarted from following her Jewish faith, which holds that human life begins at first breath, not at conception and further requires abortion to viewed as a life-saving option.

Faso, on air, called Post's beliefs an "outlier," and then tried to backtrack when she rightly called him on the implicit bias of his comment - that the Jewish law was, by definition, a thing differing vastly from all other groups or sets.

He left the studio soon after that, citing an appointment he had elsewhere.

If he regretted his choice of words, I didn't hear him say it.

Not that it matters. As a Trump supporter who claimed he found the former president's crassness distasteful, Faso was happy to accept the spoils in the interests of Conservative goals.

Though Faso denies it, we should know what's next.

With precedent dead, the questions of who you can marry, who will be allowed to discriminate against you, what you can say and where you can travel in your own country will be revisited. And they're not done with women yet either: Not having the right to choose doesn't mean termination exclusively. The right to protect ourselves with birth control or from spousal rape, even the ability to try and become a parent using the miracle of science, will all find unsympathetic jurists on this court.

Faso is a harbinger not a hero.

We are all heading into the lion's den.