Puppy Memories

The puppies will be leaving soon, all but one of them to new homes. Gryffndoor will remain. Tonight, Joan has begun the baking and the preparation to send them off with goodies and food. Like hobos, each leaves with a tiny bag.

But, they are not hobos. We have carefully chosen their homes and most we will see again. Maybe not little Kensington. He's going to a person we do not know, but I will ask for his owners' address and send Christmas letters and hope that his owner answers and sends back photos. And, if he does I will place them in a scrapbook and we will ooh and ahh over them as a mother does a baby picture and say "isn't he cute?" "my ,he has grown" and "he looks just like his mommy."

He may get a new name. Margot will. Most often do. Even when I first took Vader, before I knew Joan well, I changed his name. He was originally Zag to his brother Zig. But for a time, these were Kensington and Margot and will remain ours and we will sometimes talk of them and always remember.

Often with time the names and litters become jumbled in our memories as will these and we will have to nudge each other and ask was that so and so's litter? Who was the father? And, one of us, often me, will remember or take out a paper that tells or consult the scrapbook. We may have the story wrong or the details confused -- was it Margot with white on her paw or was that Indigo from another litter? But they are not lost to memory only mixed and married to a host of other puppies who were also loved and are gone.

Each has formed Pugdom. So now I can tell stories of dogs I've never even known because they have become real to me. Mookie, the big black male who won many shows and Shandi, the pug Joan claims was gay, and Patty Albee who didn't like to show. They all lived and died before I came to know Joan and yet, I can paint you a picture of each.

In the days ahead, certain specifics about this litter will become cloudy, but right now I can tell you that it is Margot with the right, white paw, that Kensington is a lovebug, sweet and gentle, that Trump has the most wrinkles on his head. I can pick up from the squirming black mass on the ground the one I want and present it to you, "Here's Kensington or here's Gryff." And, you will look amazed. "How do you tell them apart," you might ask. The love that helps me make those identifications never fades. It becomes a trace memory and some part of it lingers so I will always be able to reach out and grab them still.

These are the creatures and characters that have opened up a whole new world for me and so we send them off into the world to live and breathe whole lives. And, somwhere in their tiny animal minds, in the scents and sounds they have storehoused and hold dear, I think we remain and travel with them. So, if they were to see us again they might pause and ask isn't that so and so? I remember that smell, that voice, that hand, that touch. She gave us food or a belly rub and they may sigh before barking and moving on with one last wag of their tails.

Writing Prompt: Flight

You do not live in the northeast long without witnessing the seasonal migration of Canadian geese away from our cold climes; their journey a harbinger of winter's rapid arrival. Late last Sunday afternoon, I felt less witness and more participant as the rush and roar of them seized something primal in me, sweeping me up in their journey. My sister-in-law and I were out shooting photos, when we felt a gush of wind and an assault of noise. SQUAWK! SQUAWK! SQUAWK! SQUAWK! I barely had time to lift my camera to the sky and snap this photo before they passed by.

What must it be like to heed such a call, to know when it is time to move and when to return? Often I have thought I could take flight if I only knew the direction, if I had inside me such an unwavering beacon. And, in that moment part of me lifted and soared to the possibility. And, part of me stood anchored to home and hearth, to the familiar. And, I'm not sure one path is preferable. We always dream of the flight, but there can be steel in the staying, seeing a path through. The geese? Perhaps they know the best of both. They come and they go, choosing here and there. And, I can look up and go with them and I can plant my feet and discover in both air and ground the totality of who I am.

Writing prompt: When have you stayed? When have you gone? And, how did you know it was time to do either?

Dogs & Pics

I traveled to Montpelier, Vt. to interview a real estate attorney for an article I am writing. After the interview, I decided to wander the streets of our state capital and ended up visiting The Quirky Pet, a small, but charming pet store filled with all sorts of delectable goodies for your dog. One of the best things about The Quirky Pet is their dog-in-residence. Aria is one of the owners' three Bergamasco Sheepdogs. I spent some time with the owner talking dogs and sharing Facebook photographs.
After leaving Montpelier, I drove to Quechee for a photography meetup and critique where I share a few of the fairy wing photos of the pugs and a couple of pics of my niece, Tori. I saw some friends I hadn't seen in a while, Jean and Renee and a former teacher, Carla. Carla told me that she had channeled me this week when she went to take a close-up of a cow. "I was right up to it's nose. I thought this is a Kim shot," she said. I was of touched that my work was so distinctive that a certain type of animal shot made her think of me. As one of the photographers showed some of his shots of flowering succulents, my friend Amy made me laugh. "I love the word succulent," she said. I was thinking the same thing. I think if we had been in school together we would have gotten in a lot of trouble.

All in all a satisfying day and one truly dedicated to both dogs and pics.

Poetry in Motion

Another shot from the other day. You saw Alfie and Waffles taking time to stop and smell the roses. They loved the flowers, checking them out, sniffing them, pawing them and yes, eventually eating them. Here, Waffles grabbed one in her mouth, quickly spinning away to keep Alfie at bay.  I love the play between light and color, motion and stillness.

Winter is Coming...

They say it is in spring that we awaken and blossom. In Vermont, I think it is in late fall. We come alive as leaf-peepers and colors fade and trees are stripped bare. A silent siren call rings throughout our former green mountains now turned to rust.

"Winter," it warns. "Time to prepare."

And, although we may "piss and moan" as the saying goes, we rise to the occasion. These are the days of gray skies and brown earth, cool frosty mornings, even colder nights. It is the time where air begins to hang thick with wood smoke. It rises from chimneys and assaults the nostrils, a specter of approaching winter. It promises warmth and home.

We get to work, as busy as our animal cousins, shoring up for winter. Sheds and garages transform into storehouses for lawn furniture, summer tires, gardening supplies. They now look fed and content, their bellies full. We buy and stack wood and stack wood some more. Backs, hands, and feet ache, but eyes gleam and Vermont hearts swell. Somewhere in our New England spines we know this is the way things are supposed to be.

They say that humans come from dust and to dust we will return, but here in New England, I think it is snow and ice and cold that forms us and cold is our inevitable end. And, even I, as a child of summer, who was born on Long Island to a mother raised on the water, who hates to drive if there is a flake in the sky, feels the stirring in my blood.

"Winter is coming. We are almost home."

Waffles' Sweater

I brought Waffles' sweater to my friend Joan's yesterday, which was probably not a good idea. Everyone was so eager to see it complete that they urged me to finish it and I probably ended up making it too short as a result. I was also a little uncertain how to finish it off and made a few minor and thankfully unnoticeable mistakes. It does, however, fit her. I still want to add some embellishments and am going to work on those later tonight, but here she is for now.
Now, that I have one under my belt and some of the details of how to make these are coming back to me, I think I'll try another for Waffles before beginning Alfie's. The new one I may make in more fall colors.

Fortunately, although she seems to hate putting it on, Waffles really seems to like wearing the sweater. She ran around in it, playing with my niece and nephew in the back yard.

Two Potters

Today, I took my sister-in-law, Gretchin, to visit Two Potters (www.twopotters.com) gallery and kiln on Christian Hill in Bethel, Vt. The two potters are husband-and-wife Nathan Webb and Becca Van Fleet Webb. I first met the couple a few years ago when writing an article on their business for Upper Valley Life Magazine. At the time, they were recently married and had moved to Nathan's home in Bethel where they planned to build their own kiln, which they have since done.

I fell in love with two of them right away -- their work, their home, their story. I have been returning almost every open studio weekend since and often before many birthdays and holidays to purchase their work. I am getting quite a collection. Today, Gretchin walked away with a wall hanging and I bought the three pieces pictured above.

Nathan and Becca's home is not far from my property. Their view is expansive, their kiln a work of art itself. Their small, yellow studio welcomes guests. "Shop locally," a sign reads outside. Their dog, Lego, bounds across the yard. It is easy to fall in love with this place and the creative life these two are building.

As I am getting ready to leave I tell the two I am in search of a pumpkin and Nathan recommends going up past my land to a local farm. I feel like neighbors. I am happy to support these artists and their work, to take a piece of their creative life home with me to share and enjoy.

Music

Ever since I was a little girl nothing could touch me or make me cry more than listening to someone create music. Maybe it's because my favorite memories, the ones I most associate with love and security are of sitting around a campfire with my mom and dad, uncles and aunts, grandparents and family friends listening to them sing. The air would be cold, the campfire hot and I would sit wrapped in sweatshirt and blankets in my parents' arms in lawn chairs and on benches made from boards and stumps, as they sang, "It only takes a spark to get a fire going..."

When I was 15, one of my best friends, Becky, would sit at the piano in our living room and I would feel my eyes fill with tears as she played songs she wrote. Each note seemed full of emotion, passion and drama. Each hand on a keyboard seems as distinct as fingerprints. My friend, Joan, was a concert pianist, who still teaches piano. her answer machine says, "You have reached the Foster residence where pugs and pianos outnumber the people." In the early days, when I first met her, I would sit in her studio on cold winter's nights and listen as she played Debussy and Rachmaninoff. Her hands seemed to touch and leave the keyboard with an extra lilt, the presence of joy.

My brother, John, like my father, plays the piano by ear. John didn't play in front of us until he was older, but once he did I was in awe. I cannot understand how he hears what he does, how he knows where to place his hands to bring what he hears in his head to the keys. When he plays he seems to be lost in the melody as if hearing notes from another world and translating them to this one.

Today, he stopped by the family house with two of his three children, Avery and Tori. John sat down to play the piano and suddenly Avery was beside him playing along. Avery, too, it seems hears music in his head. Sitting there, listening, watching father and son lost in this moment, lost in the music, I felt privy to this other world. And, for a moment I could hear the music, too.

* Please note when listening to this video that the piano is out-of-tune. John would want me to tell you this.

It once was lost but now it's found...

Wednesday evening I met my friend Joan in Montpelier, Vt. to see the new Clint Eastwood movie and eat at Julio's, the local Mexican restaurant. On Thursday I worked from home most of the day until I had to head out to teach. On Friday, I realized my favorite hat was missing.

This isn't just any hat. It's my favorite hat. The one I've owned for years, the one that's a perfect fit. It's not just comfortable, functional and fashionable, it's a part of me, almost a uniform I don every fall. It makes me feel capable, independent, ready. If it's windy or it's rainy or my hair is bad, no problem I have my hat. I don't even have to think about adjusting it. It falls into place naturally.  Suddenly, it was missing and I felt naked, lost, exposed.

I called Julio's, actually my nephew, who was visiting, called Julio's desperate I think to silence my fears, but all they had in Lost and Found was a black Nike hat and a black Monster cap. I tried to call the theater, but they only had a 24-hour movie phone that played recorded messages of the latest show times. After listening to all the movies and times, I finally found a phone number to talk to a real person, but after calling it repeatedly, no one answered and I was transferred to the movie line once again.

I knew if I lost the hat at the college where I teach I would never locate it, but I couldn't figure out why I would wear the hat there as I do not consider it appropriate to wear when teaching. I might have worn it to avoid the rain on Thursday night, but I have a rain hat in the car for that and besides who wants hat head when you are at the front of the classroom? So I was left with scouring the house on Friday. I ransacked my bedroom, the hat cubbies in the mudroom, the basket on the vanity where my hat usually sits. My poor nephew had to hear me repeatedly whine. I've owned that hat for years and in that time, I have never found another hat that fits me as well, not just physically, but psychologically. I feel more me in that hat.

Out of desperation I ran into TJ Maxx on Friday night hoping I could find another hat that could suffice. By that time, I had resigned myself to the fact that it was indeed lost. But, I knew I had worn it on Wednesday night when I first met Joan because there was a picture on my cell phone of me wearing it. So, I decided to try the movie theater and Julio's once again.

Surprisingly, I got through to the theater on the first try, but the girl who answered said they were busy and that she would check and get right back to me. Julio's informed me about the Nike hat and Monster cap. I waited and waited some more and finally called the theater again.

"You reached the 24-hour movie phone."

I was ready to give up, but thought it worth another call. After several more tries I finally reached the girl again. No hat.

I sighed and headed off to pick up the sub I ordered at the local sandwich shop. Suddenly, my cell rang. I couldn't answer it right away, but checked the number as soon as I pulled into the shop. It was the theater, they had found my hat.

"I'll be there in 45 minutes," I told them, which is exactly how long it takes me to drive to Montpelier.

I did this even though I was suppose to be someplace else, even though I am headed to Montpelier again on Monday and could have asked them to hold onto the hat until then. Suddenly, I felt like the Good Shepherd in the Bible, you know, the one that goes out after the lost sheep. My hat was that sheep and I was ready to go the distance to bring it back into the fold.

I parked the car in front of the theater, darting in and announcing that I was there for my hat. The girl smiled, handed it to me and I placed it on my head, where it fell right into place. Welcome home, I thought, strutting out the door with a big smile. Ahh, such a sweet feeling. Reunited, complete. I felt like me again.

Fairy Photoshoot: Pug Point of View

She's at it again and even though I know what she's up to and it seems kind of strange, I feel my body tense in excitement. I start to wiggle and wag my tail in spite of myself. Oh, oh, I am excited. We are going outside. I like going outside. So much to smell. Maybe she'll give me food. Oh, oh, she has something in her hand. Oh, oh, maybe she is going to give it to the other one. I better butt her out of the way.

"Let me in, Let me in."

No food. I paw at my girl. She is slow sometimes. She probably forgot the food. Again!
"Um, hey? Remember me?" Where's the snacks?"

Oh no, she's putting one of those silly outfits on me. She seems to want me to do something. What? I tilt my head perplexed. I am thinking really hard. If I do it right, maybe she'll give me food. She's putting that box she calls a camera in my face again. I hear a click.

"Good dog," she says. "Nice picture." She adjusts the thing on my back. She says they're wings. Dogs don't have wings! I try to bite them. Instead, I turn and bite the "wings" on the other one. She doesn't like that. She growls. We spin in circles. My girl keeps laughing and snapping that box at us. She doesn't give us food. Finally we stop spinning. We rest our heads in our paws. The other one looks as disappointed as me. We think the girl forgot the snacks again. Sigh. We shut our eyes and enjoy the sun.

She calls us "beautiful." We each open one eye and wag our tails. She is our girl. She is forgiven, but I wish she'd forget the wings and remember the food next time.