Writing Prompt: Child Bride

My niece Tori stopped by tonight on the way to a Halloween party taking place at her Tae Kwan Do class. She wore the bridal gown costume that I bought her. I managed to corral her long enough to take a few pictures. This was my favorite.

Halloween

For tonight and tonight only Try on another face, a face of tomorrow a face of fantasy, a face of what could be

Breathe in childhood Twirl in the magic of youth For Halloweens are fleeting Years move swiftly Soon you will be asked to don one face for real

For tonight and tonight only Be a princess, a mermaid, A monster, a bird Become familiar with your faces and facets The realm of possibility So that when Halloweens are over You'll not hide behind a mask

But shine brightly with a youth well lived All the creatures inside you Not hidden but bursting forth with a flash of Trick or Treat eyes

Writing Prompt: What creatures hide inside you? What masks have you worn?

My Dog

Waffles settles in more everyday. She still has her habits from her former life like tipping over trash cans and screeching her banshee scream. She hates to be locked up. But she is growing fatter and prettier and more content. Sometimes, when Alfie plays with her too roughly (Alfie loves to play) she will seek me out and hide in my lap. She looks for me, too, now. Not just for food or to figure out what's up, but for kisses and cuddling. She is becoming more and more my dog.

Celebrating Ceretha

A score of people huddle in the corner surrounding the wine and hors d'oeuvre table, mostly woman, mostly with their backs to me. Moments like this are one of the hardest parts of being single, at least for me anyway. I mourn the lack of having someone to walk into the room with, to occupy space between conversations, the air of legitimacy a partner gives. But I am alone, so I try to look busy checking my cellphone while I make my way toward the food.

I am here for the Celebration of the Life of Ceretha McKenzie, my student and friend, who died of cancer several weeks ago. I know no one, but Ceretha mentioned the names of many in her writing and conversations. I am looking for one woman in particular, the one that sought me out to tell me Ceretha had died. I have no way of telling her apart. Most of the people in the room are middle-aged, Ceretha's age, slender, earthy women who knew her from her dance class and some men, a few teen-aged boys, several couples. It's too difficult to get near the hors d'oeuvres, so I follow two young men to the empty, opposite corner of the room. Color looms there. Someone draped Ceretha's collection of scarves over the chairs, a rainbow snake of lights slinks across the floor. I later learn as people share that Ceretha had once brought a chain of similar lights to dance class, brightening the atmosphere and making them a staple. Someone financed the printing of Ceretha's books, Hairstory and Extra:ordinary, and they are available for the price of the printing cost on a table at the far end of the room. I take out my checkbook, pleased that someone has thought to do this.

A man walks in whom I recognize. Short and quiet with a sandy beard, he was the curator of Ceretha's art show at the Hartford library. I was the one who had told him Ceretha had died. "Hi," I say.

"Kim Gifford, right?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, perhaps too eagerly. In a stage whisper I say, "I'm so glad you're here. I don't know anybody."

He murmurs something I don't quite understand, but I make out words, which I take to mean he doesn't know anybody either.

Jan, Ceretha's rabbi friend, who was with her when she died, starts to call the people away from the food and the wine to the chairs. When no one listens, a graying man in glasses and a reed-thin woman dressed in black offer to howl. They tilt their heads back and let loose. "Ahoooo, Ahoooo." That does the trick. People stop their conversations and drift to the circle of seats. The Rabbi suggests we introduce ourselves, acknowledging that Ceretha had a wide circle of friends. She split her time between two coasts, worked as a scientist, was an artist, dancer, writer. We meet people she lived with, people she danced with, people she learned from. The Rabbi's partner talks about Ceretha's talking, her endless chatter. He compares her circuitous tangents to listening to jazz and says he misses the jazz. Someone comments on Ceretha's Hairstory, the book I helped edit, here is Ceretha calm, one said.

We learn how she turned to photography during her cancer and how she evolved as an artist. We chant a song. And, then when it is all over the Rabbi tell us to go to the room next door where some of Ceretha's belongings are laid out and to choose among them things we want to take home. Both the library curator and I travel to a table that holds her writings and artwork. He shares about her photographs, I share about her writing. We both caress the pieces of the shiny, speckled silver sheets of paper, almost like mica, that she had finally decided upon for her Tao de Ching translations. Most of us just rush out to complete a project, I think, but instead Ceretha worried over the weight and color of the paper she used. Her previous attempts and paper choices lie scattered over the table so that I can finger them and read the story that brought her from here to there. One of her earliest attempts, a book of hand-painted symbols, the curator pockets. I discover a copy of our class journal that we had been working on completing. Again, I marvel over her diligence. I was ready to just print it and call it a day. She labored over its size, the font, how many blank pages to leave between each chapter. Her art was not just about the finished product, it was about the process. Being very goal oriented, I always hated the expression, "it's the journey, not the destination," seeing Ceretha's life and work, I now understand it.

The Rabbi spoke about seeing Ceretha dance for the first time, her long hair waving. "She was graceful, tentative, powerful all at once," she said. On the table with her art and pictures sits a photograph of Ceretha in a convertible with her friend. In the picture her hair still flowed while her friend sported the sheared yellow fuzz of a cancer patient. She had told me about this friend who had died shortly before Ceretha. I can't leave the photograph on the table to be discarded, I can't walk away from her story.

The curator and I linger at the table long after others have gone, each time I start to wander away he calls me back and asks me about another piece of her writing or shows me another picture that they had edited together. I prepare to leave, realizing that I am not alone, I knew someone at this event after all. So does the curator. We both knew Ceretha -- through her words, through her photographs. I grab the photo of Ceretha and her friend, and realize that many of us will be carrying her with us. In the future I will choose my paper more carefully, share my stories more generously, dance more freely, and walk into rooms more boldly because I knew Ceretha.

Hurricanes

In honor of Hurricane Sandy, I thought I'd post my own hurricane story. This one first appeared in The Herald of Randolph, 7-20-2006

A Vacationer’s Tale: Hurricane Rita’s Rage Matched by Companion

By Kim J. Gifford

Savvy vacationers know that there are certain unspoken rules. Such rules don’t need to be delineated, because they are obvious. For example, don’t book passage on a sinking ship, avoid erupting volcanoes, and by all means, don’t drive into disaster when others are driving away.

While I have always abided by the first two—they seem relatively straightforward—the third offers some wiggle room. It all hinges on the definition of disaster or the potential for one, I thought. Yet, I soon discovered that my emphasis was wrong—forget about qualifying the disaster, much more important to focus on the fact that everyone is driving away from it.

Yet, last fall in the process of obtaining this wisdom, I broke this third rule and traveled with my friend Joan to San Antonio, Texas just as Hurricane Rita was about to touch down. Not a wise move under any circumstance, but consider that Hurricane Katrina had devastated New Orleans only weeks before.

People were scared, uncertain where the new threat might hit, and evacuating probable site Houston for San Antonio in droves. Thus, even if Rita missed our route, the likelihood of us meeting chaos at our destination was good, really good.

Already, many of the Katrina victims had migrated to the Lone Star State, so even before this new scenario, San Antonio was not the best location for travelers; many of the hotels already booked with evacuees. Now we were hearing of the possibility of gasoline shortages and the need to stock up on bottled water.

Still we were undaunted. Joan had a son in Marshall, Texas, who could keep us informed. Driving almost straight through from Vermont, we were to leave on Friday, Sept. 23 and arrive in San Antonio on Monday the 26th.

The hurricane was supposed to touch ground on Sunday, so the way we figured it there would be plenty of time to assess the damage and reroute or turn around before getting into any trouble. After all, this wasn’t an ordinary pleasure trip. We had a reason for our journey—the 2005 Pug Dog National Specialty, the top-of-the-line, annual dog show geared specifically for pugs. We were bringing three: Lumpi, a splashy fawn making his debut; The Big Mamoo, a black; and Beau Diddley, a veteran fawn taking his last bow in the ring.

Now, anyone who knows me can attest I’m not exactly adventuresome. I always carry an umbrella and am the last one to head out in a snowstorm. I like situations that are predictable, controllable. Even on this trip, I was the good Girl Scout, storing six-packs of water, rain gear, and extra canned food in the storage compartment mounted on the top of Joan’s Dodge Caravan.

"Be prepared" may have been my motto, but in all my planning, I neglected to realize that storms sometimes move in from unexpected fronts.

Setting Sail

I learned that lesson when we broke another one of those traveler rules: Don’t set sail on a voyage with someone you barely know. Joan had decided to invite a friend, Bonnie, from New Jersey, a psychic who had visited for a day or two once or twice before. Good, another driver to spot us, I thought, and a psychic at that. Maybe she might have some insight into the outcome of this adventure. Yes, Bonnie wanted to come, but could she bring her dogs?

She arrived the morning of our departure, a blonde Fran Drescher from the sitcom "The Nanny," complete with a "New Joisey" accent to rival the actress’s own.

"Hurricane Bonnie?" I wondered, as she whirled in with coffeemaker, Swiss chocolate, air mattress, and two dogs that were decidedly not pugs to attend the Pug Dog Nationals.

As I scanned for a weather station on the radio and packed emergency gear, she set up a luxury suite for herself in the back seat. She sported shorts and sandals while I slipped on knee-high rain boots and wondered if Joan had any floatation devices for the pugs.

Oblivious to my concerns, Joan hopped in the driver’s seat whistlin’ Dixie and merrily honking the horn. Bonnie hadn’t heard anything much about a hurricane, but had some conspiracy theories to share on the Kennedy assassination and the death of Princess Di. Perhaps her psychic abilities only worked in reverse, detecting trouble in the past. Suddenly, I began to have some premonitions of my own. Still, I remained in the car breaking my own rule: It’s okay to bail ship.

A day into the trip, Bonnie’s dogs disclosed their personalities. One yelped, the other peed; both had chronic diarrhea. Bonnie begged for pit stops, Joan refused to give them. Joan drove when she should have been sleeping, Bonnie slept when she should have been driving. I spent my time refereeing and calling home for updates on Hurricane Rita.

Our Private Hurricane

The fourth-most intense Atlantic hurricane ever recorded, Rita made landfall on Sept. 24 at the Louisiana-Texas border, our exact point of entry into the state. Although she had landed a good day-and-a-half before our arrival in Texas, reports told of damage, flash flooding, downed power lines, and even tornados along our path. I envisioned the Caravan twirling around in the sky like Dorothy’s house, five dogs’ heads hanging out the windows, pugs’ eyes bulging.

Family suggested extending our travel time and choosing another route into Texas. Too late. As we approached Memphis—the home of Elvis Presley—rain was heavy, but any change would be backtracking and Joan was not hearing of that.

Not to be deterred from our sightseeing, we did a drive-by past the gates of Graceland and considered stopping for dinner. The rain was pounding so hard we missed the turn into the restaurant, got lost and found ourselves headed back in the wrong direction. The Caravan was hot and humid, tempers even hotter.

As Hurricane Rita became less severe, the storm inside the car intensified. Bonnie wanted to tour the whole of Graceland. Joan hoped to beat Rita’s wake. We should have opted for a nap. After two days non-stop on the road, not one of us was sound enough to be making any decisions.

The radio claimed the storm, complete with tornados, would reach Arkansas, the state ahead of us, by 7 p.m.

"Well, if we’re not stopping at Graceland, let’s keep driving. We should be in Arkansas before 7," Bonnie suggested.

"Why do we want to drive into the storm?" I inquired. My companions conceded, taking a hotel room for a few hours and just in the knick of time.

As the winds picked up, I donned my raincoat and began to move the dog crates into the hotel. A strong gust suddenly shoved me and the dog crate I was carrying, complete with a 22-pound pug, across the parking lot as if we were a feather. As I made my way back, Joan and Bonnie, now soaking wet, stared at my rain slicker in wonder.

"Whatever made you think to pack that?"

I rolled my eyes just as Joan let out a yelp. "Something’s the matter with Beau Diddley!"

Pugs are a brachycephalic breed, meaning their flat faces and small nostrils make it difficult to breathe and easy to succumb to heat and humidity. All the time in the hot car had led Beau to begin suffering a heat stroke.

"Get him inside, cool him down quickly. Put him in the bathtub and turn the air-conditioner on," one of them shouted.

"Don’t cool him too rapidly and keep him out of the cold air," the other contradicted.

I stood frozen, scared for the dog and wondering how much it would cost to book a flight back to Vermont. "I want to go home," I announced.

Joan and Bonnie appeared shocked. "Stop being such a baby," Bonnie said. Apparently, I had no idea how to enjoy a vacation!

Fortunately, Beau survived, welcoming the bath and remaining in the doorway to the bathroom, where the cool air from the air-conditioner reached him, but not too directly.

It seems the art of good travel is compromise.

At an Arkansas gas station the next morning, we learned just how close those tornados had come, one breezing through our path only 20 minutes ahead of us. Disaster averted, we made our way to San Antonio where the Big Mamoo earned a 4th place finish in his class and our newcomer and old-timer did us proud by simply making it around the ring.

It would be nice to say we had broken the rules, beaten the odds and walked away from the journey consummate travelers with a good tale to tell, yet, when it comes to vacationing there are always new lessons to learn. Before returning home, for example, we discovered roof-mounted cargo carriers and parking garages don’t mix. You’d think it wouldn’t take a psychic to realize that.

My Pretty Girls

Waltham's I.W. Waffles

I set out to take some Halloween shots of my girls this week with various degrees of success. Here are two portraits that I liked. The girls couldn't be any different. Alfie is only three weeks older than Waffles, but Waffles is significantly smaller. Alfie is a showdog, Waffles is not. Waffles is spayed, Alfie is not. Waffles can jump up on the bench seats at the kitchen table. Alfie cannot. Alfie loves to taunt Waffles with her bones. Waffles could care less. Waffles loves to flaunt her toys, Alfie doesn't really care. Alfie likes to pee on the bath mat in the bathroom, Waffles likes to tip over the bathroom trash can. Waffles will sometimes sit still for pictures, Alfie never will. Alfie slips out of her harness when going for a walk, Waffles slips out of her harness in the car. Both like their breakfast, going for car rides, and visiting the dog park. Alfie's real name is NW Elvis' Birthday Girl. Waffles' real name is Waltham's I.W. Waffles. Alfie had two sisters and so did Waffles. Alfie came to me from a breeder in New York state after Mira died. Waffles came to me from my friend Joan after Vader died. Both like to curl up with me on the sofa at night. And, finally both are very beautiful.

NW Elvis's Birthday Girl

Surprise

Sometimes there's nothing better than a surprise, at least when it's a good one and I had a wonderful surprise today when I received a package in the mail. As I told the sender of the package, Jane McMillan of Little House Home Arts, it was a day of drudgery and deadlines when suddenly there it was a box marked "Orvis."

I had been thinking of buying a dog bed from Orvis, but this was a small box not a large one and I couldn't remember ordering anything from Orvis including a dog bed. What could it be I thought, worried as I opened it that it might be a joke or evidence that I was losing my mind. It was neither. It was a thoughtful gift from a friend.

I first met Jane at an art show I didn't now many people so I wandered over to Jane's table where she was working on a quilt and found a friend. At first I was just happy to chat and hear about the work she was doing, but soon I found myself laughing and smiling and just enjoying her stories. Jane has one of those warm, friendly faces reflective of a warm, friendly heart.

Inside the Orvis box today were two candy corn pincushions that I had inquired about. I love candy corn and when I saw these on Jane's page, I had to have them. I figured Jane was busy when she didn't respond right away. Little did I know she had a plan. I am always misplacing my needles when I work on my collages so these items are a gift in more ways than one. Jane's generosity may only be matched by her creativity.  She has a number of other wonderful pincushion designs on her web site at www.littlehousehomearts.com.

You should check them out. You might find something there that surprises and delights you just as I did.

Our Life Raft

October has been a busy month filled with work, illness and fun. Every day and night has held some scheduled activity and I am tired. So, tonight when my mom and I were supposed to go to a concert in Barre, Vt. I was happy instead to relinquish the tickets to my brother and sister-in-law and stay home with my niece and nephews.

We watched saved episodes of The Voice and Dr. Seuss' The Lorax and I wrote some blog posts and sketched on my I-Pad, something that immediately attracted the attention of my niece and nephews.
My niece, Tori, watched as I drew a washing machine for my post about dog hair and decided that she wanted to draw a slide. She made me find an image of one on my computer that she could use an example. I loved how her white lines on the pink looked like a scratchboard sketch. Then, it was my nephew Avery's turn. Avery's cat "Sleepy Little Panda" wandered out of the house two days ago when a door was left ajar and has been lost ever since. I found him sketching a black-and-white cat on the I-pad and when I asked him what the picture was called he said, "The Panda." He is quite the artist!

Kids are great and the dogs loved them, too. When their folks arrived home they found us all in a huddle around the t.v., lights dim, a makeshift bed on the floor for Tori, Avery and me on the sofa with Waffles draped over my  thighs and Alfie over Avery's. Raine had his own chair.

Sometimes when I am napping in my bed, pugs pressed against me I feel like we are adrift on our own little raft. It sort of felt that way tonight -- the kids, dogs and I all piled in cozy blankets and pillows in the warmth of our own company. We were safe in this little boat in this journey of life because we were together.

More of my trees

I had to run into Jo Ann Fabrics last night to buy some supplies for a photo project that I was working on for my new web site, which meant I found myself in the K-Mart Plaza once again and near the strip of trees that I love so much. This time I had my camera with me and I lost myself for about an hour taking photos in the parking lot in the dark.
Unfortunately, I did not have a tripod or anything to lean against, but I shot away with a freedom of someone who had nothing to lose. I loved the strange nighttime colors cast in ochre and sepia tones. I knew that even if the shots were blurry and unfocused that I could use them as backgrounds for my collages, so there was nothing I could do wrong.
At one point, I looked up in the sky and caught this neat shot of the yellow berries against the glowing moon and midnight blue sky. Motion blur actually makes the berries look doubly thick  and I love the interplay of yellow and blue.
I know several people passing by were looking at me funny, not sure what this crazy lady was doing with her camera pointed at these dark trees on a dark night in a dark parking lot, but I hardly noticed them. I was caught up on my own lovely island and I am thankful that the camera allowed me to capture a little bit of the magic and bring it home with me.

See the full gallery on Posterous

And, more on dog hair...

You know when you mention something and then suddenly you start encountering it everywehre? Well, that's what happened to me with dog hair today. My dogs are with me all the time and they travel with me everywhere, yet, suddenly yesterday I became obsessed with the dog hiar I found in my car. Not sure what triggered it, but once the cat was out of the bag I couldn't put it back in and today, I was finding pug hair everywhere.
I went to put on a pair of jeans I had worn the day before. My jeans are always too long so I usually have to roll them up to wear them. I went to adjust the cuff when out fell a pocketful of dog hair, pretty gross considering the jeans had only been worn once and washed prior to that.
Next, I went to wash the afghan that sits on the end of my bed. I put it in the wash, no problem. Then into the dryer. When I went back down to the cellar to take it out and fold it, I noticed a problem. Not only was there still pug hair in the weave of the afghan, but it was also completely covering the lint trap. I had enough to sell it off as wool.
So, if anyone's interested I know where I can find you an abundant supply of pug hair, perhaps enough for a winter's coat.

And, this is how dog lovers get ready for a concert...

Yesterday I was supposed to meet my friend Sheila at 4:30 p.m. in Montpelier, about a 45-minute drive from my house, to attend the Brandi Carlile concert. At 3:50 p.m. I went out to my car, put the key in the ignition and stopped. I couldn't go get Sheila in this vehicle it smelled decidedly doggie.
 I quickly realized that the two doggie car seats in the back of the car didn't help, so I unbuckled them, took off the two loops that attach to the seat belts and carried them one at a time into the house. Then I went back to the car to see if the smell was any better. It was, but the site wasn't. The backseat was caked with dog hair.

Up until a few months ago I had a lovely vinyl car seat cover. I say lovely because it brushed off with ease and even though the pugs travel with me a lot, my car managed to maintain a semblance of cleanliness and decorum. Then, on a rare trip with Joan in my car as opposed to her van, her constant traveling companion Mister Egg had an accident on my seat cover and even though it was vinyl and washed right up, the smell just didn't seem to leave. I threw out the seat cover and bought another. The problem was the car store didn't have an identical replacement. As a result, I had to make due with a fancy car seat cover with suede patches that act just like dog hair magnets. Now, instead of a few stray hairs here and there, the back seat of my car looked like it might be transforming into a pug itself.

I remember when my brother first brought home his pug Buffy. The breeder had told him pugs never shed. It took only a few short days to realize that she was being sarcastic.

Anyway, my backseat, now affectionately dubbed Fido, looked like it needed a grooming and rather than take off and meet Sheila at the appointed time, I decided to give it to her. I went in search of a vacuum in the garage. Since it was garbage day, this meant negotiating an obstacle course of trashbags and various other garage paraphernalia to get to the vacuum cleaner, but I did it. I then proceeded to stretch the cord as far as it would go befroe realizing that it would never reach the backseat. After a reverse trip through the the "trashy" obstacle course, I jumped in my car, threw it into reverse, turned the car around and backed up into the driveway. This time the cord reached, but even with my perserverance the vacuum did little to clear all the hairs away. It did, however, tidy Fido's appearance to an acceptable level and 15 minutes later I found myself on the road and my cell calling Sheila. "I would have been earlier I assured her," but I had to vacuum the car. I couldn't be one of those crazy dog people whose car no one wants to be in," I said.

At that point I looked down at my black coat and saw that while cleaning the car I had managed to dirty myself. I now was sporting a second coat of pug fur all over me. "I'll be there soon," I lied, as I pulled over to the side of the road to grab the lint brush from the trunk. If only I had had time to stop for an air freshener...