E.T.

The snow fell heavy on Vermont today and although it was still a workday for me, it felt like a snow day and I found myself enjoying a blanketed world that had slowed down. I made a few appointments for next week, answered some email, checked Facebook and waited for a 2:00 p.m conference call with Barbara Techel, author of Through Frankie's Eyes.

I recently had the opportunity to review Barbara’s new book and will be featuring an interview with her on this blog later in the month. Although we had only spoken via email prior to this, we fell into easy conversation about writing, social media and dogs. This doesn’t feel like work, I thought even as Barbara and I made plans to have her speak over Skype to my memoir class.

Although I had articles to write, I decided to devote the rest of the day to some arts and crafts. My sister-in-law had contacted me yesterday to pick my brain about ideas for an E.T. birthday party for my nephew Avery. I suggested Reese’s Pieces party favors and promised to come up with a few things. So, this afternoon I gathered my markers and crayons, braved the cold of the garage to sort through cardboard boxes and then spent an hour coming up with a three-paneled E.T. centerpiece. I hope to buy some larger pieces of cardboard and create the bicycle and moon scene as a larger cut-out. It was fun although I found most of my markers had dried up.

That finished, I turned to completing my collage of the dogs dancing in front of the carousel. I plan on calling it “Dogs Dancing at the Carousel” and I already have one buyer for it. I added some rhinestones and glitter to make the carousel more festive and sewed tutus on some of the dogs. I am waiting for the glitter to dry before rescanning it into the computer, but tomorrow I will do so and post it here. Then it will go off to the printer and to be matted before sending it off to its new owner. Because the prints are a combination of digital and hand-drawn work, the rescanned image is the final piece, thus, I can offer more than one copy for sale. In the future I may create some limited editions and am considering doing so with this piece. We’ll see…

The world outside is white and the dogs are snoring on the sofa. I fell asleep with them a little while ago, waking up in time to write this blog. I have a busy day of writing ahead tomorrow and then the completion of the Self-Portrait Workshop. I will be posting more of my photos from that in the days ahead. Tonight is for rest and enjoying a world tucked-in.

Our Boy

You know Hilary Clinton’s saying, “It takes a village to raise a child,” well, in the case of my nephew Christian that’s what happened. This is not to take anything away from the wonderful work his mom, Chesne, has done – she surely should be applauded for the young man she has raised – but because she and my brother were only teenagers when Christian was born, a lot of us have had a hand in guiding him through his almost 17 years. To me, he has filled a void of not having children of my own, and not only is he my nephew and my godson; he has become my good friend.

He is frank and sarcastic, quick to understand the family dynamics. He still comes to my house every other weekend and most holidays. Yesterday, he was a child. He is fast becoming a man. But to his Mom and his Dad, his Nana and his Grandpa and me, his Auntie Bee (his nickname for me from the time he could talk) he will always be our little boy.

Last Wednesday, this little boy went off to a Winter Survival Camp. He is coming home on Sunday. Christian is already part of an intensive Criminal Justice Program through his school, but this camp is with adults – we discovered the next youngest person with his group is 20 and we are presently experiencing a blizzard here in Vermont. We think Christian is sleeping in a debris hut.

You can imagine how nervous we’ve all been. Chesne told Christian she would not text him until she heard from him, but after a couple of days we still hadn’t received any word. My father finally sent a text to Christian’s mentor, who is also working at the camp. Today, he finally answered back, letting us know that Christian is doing well and holding his own. This instigated another rush of texts between family members as we filled each other in on the news. I’m sure Christian will come back a little taller and prouder, a little less the boy and a little more the man. Wherever he goes he’ll be fine, we’ve all seen to that. I just hope we will be.

Blog Award

I was honored to learn that I had been nominated for this award by the folks at The Devil Dog. After my pug, Vader, died and I began considering adopting Waffles, whom I heard was a little demon, I received encouragement from Roxy, that being a Devil Dog was not such a bad thing. I am glad I listened! Thanks for the nomination.

1) Visit and thank the blogger who nominated you. 2) Acknowledge that blogger on your blog and link back to them. 3) Answer the 5 simple questions. (see below) 4) Nominate up to 20 blogs for the award and notify each of them. 5) Display the award on your blog somewhere.

1) If you could change one thing, what would you change? Only one? I would have a home of my own.

2) If you could repeat an age, what would it be? any year? I would repeat my sophomore year of college. I loved college and by sophomore year I was comfortable enough there to really be enjoying myself. Also, it was the first time I had a place of my own -- a single dorm room at the top of Miliken.

3) What is one thing that really scares you?

The thought of losing my teeth.

4) What is one dream you have not completed, and do you think you’ll be able to complete it? I haven't yet written a book, but I'm working on it.

5) If you could be someone else for one day, who would it be?

This is hard. I'm still working on learning how to be myself. Oh, I'd choose someone whom I could get a  bang for my buck"-- Angelina Jolie, for example, that way I could experience being a mom, an actress, save the world and get to be with Brad Pitt all at the same time.

My nominees include:

Pug-a-Boo: This is a relatively new blog, but its blogger Christy is not new to blogging. She wrote a wonderful blog about her pug Payton's experience with PDE (pug dog encephalitis). Her new blog is devoted to her current pugs Daisy and Donald and to her love of fine cuisine.

The Three Little Pugs: Another favorite of mine. Stella Rose and her Mommy have been supportive of my blog from the beginning and I love the antics of this funny little girl and now her new little sister Maggie.

My Body, Myself

Here’s one lesson I wish I had learned in childhood – be kinder to your body. I never had much use for mine, below my head that is. Probably because I was always a chunky child, I learned early on to be embarrassed by my body. Also, it didn’t do all the things I wished it would.

When my mother took me on a class trip roller skating, she and I spent the whole time on the floor while the rest of the class and their parents did loops around us. On the playground I was hopeless at Dodge Ball and Duck, Duck, Goose – so frightened of making a fool of myself that I barely participated. I would learn to scratch my knees to draw blood so that I could go to the nurse’s office and not have too participate in the softball games. In fourth grade, I couldn’t master the somersaults and cartwheels in the gymnastics class and instead got to be a clown at a school-wide exhibition – which, I would like to inform the gym teachers now does little for a young girl’s self esteem.

Since my body caused me shame and I couldn’t get rid of it, I learned to ignore it. My brain got all the accolades. I was good at schoolwork. So, although I yo-yoed in weight over the years – at one time, I now realize, I bordered on an eating disorder as I starved myself to be thin – I pretty much didn’t give my body any thought.

As I wrote last week, doing this self-portrait project, I look back on my childhood self and wonder why I wasn’t happier with the body I had. Sure my thighs were chubby and I wasn’t reed thin, but you can see I might have grown out of the baby weight if I hadn’t started to feel so badly about myself that I would eat as consolation. But, I look back and even at its worst, my body was nowhere near as horrible as I imagined. Now like all those who stare age in the face, I really wish I had appreciated it more.

I began, however, to pay attention to my body more, to feel more connected to my skin, a few years ago when I decided to get my first tattoo. I now have four. Unlike some people who find tattoos cheap or gaudy, I love the way they look, and like dyeing my hair, I think they offer me yet another artistic and creative outlet, a way to shape myself. My first tattoo was a “tramp stamp” on the lower back. Although, the term is certainly deragoratory, I found it somewhat liberating, figuring I could let a little tramp come out given my goodie-two-shoes existence. It is of a dog and cat with the Hebrew words “living soul” beneath it, referring to a passage in the book of Genesis. Some Biblical scholars feel that the word “soul” in the first chapter of Genesis – “nephesh” was translated to read “soul” when referring to “man” and “creature” when referring to animals, but that in the original Hebrew it was actually the same word for both. I, who value, the uniqueness of my pets, believe they do have souls  and so I chose to tattoo the phrase and the animals on my lower back. I chose a brown henna colored ink, similar to the tattoo on my wrist, which reads “Resisto Ergo Sum” –I resist therefore I am (a paraphrasing of Descartes famous declaration)– it refers to resisting all the bad stuff that life piles on you over time, such as the belief that your body is shameful or embarrassing, for instance.

Something happened as soon as I got that first tattoo, I felt connected to my body in a way I never had before. I felt grounded. My head realized that it was attached to something and I felt proud as if I had reclaimed a lost part of myself. When my first pug, Buffy, died I tattooed her image on my right shoulder with the words “True Love” on a ribbon wound around her. The final tattoo in my quartet is a peace symbol, appropriately received in Woodstock, NY. I got this one done on the fly, a quick whim as I drove out of town. I found it all the more liberating, congratulating myself on my impulsiveness.

People comment all the time asking aren’t I going to regret these tattoos when I get old and I don’t understand the question. "You’ll be all wrinkly," they say. And, I figure I’ll be that way with or without the tattoo. I think they’re underlying meaning is that tattoos belong on the young, but like a medal or badge of courage I will wear mine on my wrinkly hide and know I lived. My body will bear the marks of my hand and I will be proud to claim them and it as my own.

Addendum:

The childhood picture that inspired this post is of my brother and me in our bathroom in Richmond, Vt. I cropped the photo of my brother for privacy reasons. When we were little, like many siblings we would bathe together. Once, when we were nine and seven and had just moved to Bethel, my brother had a friend over to the house and he found a photo of the two of us in the tub. I was so embarrassed by the picture that I tried to take it away and when he would not relinquish it, I wrapped my hands around his throat and began choking him. Of course, my mother intervened and rescued him before any harm was done, but I can still remember my fury at being caught naked in the picture.

The adult shot is of me after a shower today. You can see the tattoo of Buffy on my shoulder. It was important to me when embarking on this project to take at least one photo that showcased my tattoos for the reasons given above. Also visible in this photo is my pink Turbie Twist towel. A couple of years ago, I purchased it as stocking stuffers for my mother. She was nowhere near as enchanted with it as I was and gave it back to me. I couldn’t live without them. They work better than a towel because they stay wrapped on the head with a small piece of elastic to secure them.  I guess, I’ll end now while I’m ahead. I may have just given you too much of a glimpse into my life with that endorsement.

Writing Prompt: Dreaming

If yesterday’s photo showed my confidence – me in control of my life, then tonight’s shows my vulnerability. It’s about admitting that even though my life is full of work, friends, and wonderful activity, I am lonely, still waiting for someone to share my life with on a daily basis, someone, that is, besides my two curly-tailed sidekicks. It’s not easy to admit that. I prefer the gal who looks the camera and the world in the eye, control in hand, and directs her destiny. But, truth be told, there are some things that have not yet yielded to my will (note the optimism there), some things that have yet to turn out the way I dreamed.

That’s me at five or six in my cornflower blue nightgown and mother’s wedding veil. I remember when this photos was taken. I felt so special wearing her headpiece. Funny, for some reason, this was readily available to me as a child while my grandmother had taken the accompanying bridal gown and stored it away – probably waiting until my own wedding -- until we discovered it a year ago. I would wear the headpiece and like many a little girl, dream that someday my prince would come. This photograph sits on my mom’s dresser where I see it often. Sometimes, it makes me smile. I remember that little girl as being happy. At that age, you don’t even know the whole world stretches before you. You live in the timeless age of childhood, where life exists in the moment and is played out in imagination. Sometimes I feel wistful, longing to have all those years between the two of us back, contemplating what I could do with them now. Sometimes I feel that’s what I need most – more time to find the life she expected.

I wonder if that little girl could see me if she would blame me for things not turning out as she had dreamed. I wonder if a part of me blames her for not stepping out in the right direction.

I look at the photo of me now and know that it is about more than waiting for a prince. It is about all the unfulfilled hopes we keep inside. It is about the part of ourselves that remains veiled and hidden, because as happy as we are, as strong, there is always a little girl inside. So I move forward for the both of us, making the best of each moment and filling it with all the life I can, not to keep loneliness at bay, but as an act of faith.

In truth, I’m still dreaming.

Writing Prompt: Write about a childhood dream? Did it come true? Do you know why or why not? Do you wish it had?

Me: Then and Now

Of all the pictures of me as a child this one is my favorite. I can’t really verbalize why. When my father saw it tonight he said, “This is just you.” And, he’s right. If I needed a picture that captured me as a child this would have been it. This is what I envision when I picture myself as a little girl. I was probably seven in this picture. It was taken in Richmond, Vt. in my grandmother’s backyard, which adjoined our own. This is the pasture and mountains I would look out on from my swing set. It captures not only the view of my childhood, but also how I spent much of my time – alone in my imagination, overlooking this lawn. I appear happy and slightly puzzled in this photo, but I know I was also comfortable up on my perch.

I love it when you juxtapose this shot with the adult one. Of all the ones I’ve taken for this project, I think these two show the greatest similarities. I still look the same 38 years later, right down to the haircut. How can that be? How can I have the exact same haircut as my seven-year-old self? Even my body shape is relatively the same and I still find myself curling up in this same position. I’m a little less confused looking in the second shot. Here, I stare at the camera more directly. I took several similar shots, but loved that this one shows the camera remote. To me it illustrates that I am the one controlling this shot, controlling my future. It is the same girl with a little bit more experience. Sometimes, you look back at pictures of yourself when you were younger and you wonder who was that girl? Sometimes you look back with embarrassment or longing. When I look at these two pictures, it is easy for me to say I know that girl and she is me!

Turkey Basting

I spent a long and discouraging day seeing a series of ear and sinus specialists. It seems I have an unusual knack for encountering oddballs and asses in the medical profession. Today, it was the later.

If you think I am prone to exaggeration let me take you back to one of those stories that falls into the categories – it could only happen to me and too strange to be  true. It happened a few years during an allergy appointment. At that time, I had been seeing a woman allergist for a number of years, who shared a practice with her husband. I was not fond of the woman, deeming her one of the oddballs, but since I only had to see her once a year to report on the progress of my allergy shots, I let it slide. One of the things I found annoying was the woman’s reluctance to allow anyone to accompany me into her office. I like to have someone there with me to hear what the doctor says and to remind me should I forget anything.  Yet, on the occasion that I tried to have my mother join me, I was warned first by the receptionist and then the nurse that the doctor liked to see patients alone. When I spoke up and said that I would prefer that my mother be there, the Doctor adamantly ordered her out of the room.

The doctor was an older woman, stern with a commanding air. I was intimidated, but I held my ground and my mother stayed, but this scene was repeated each time I visited her office. I mentioned the behavior to my primary care physician at the time, who became very quite and seemed uncomfortable, but said nothing. I continued to see the allergist because it was necessary to continue my course of allergy shots.

As I said, this continued for a number of years. The visits came to an end, however, one November when I went to her for yet another progress report. We were told once again that the Doctor did not want anyone coming into the office, so my mother remained in the hall between the Doctor’s office and that of her husband, also an allergist. I went in and after the usual formalities, the doctor said she needed to give me a shot. This was highly unusual and as I started to question her she breezed out of the room. A moment later she returned, shot in hand. At that moment, her husband appeared in the hallway and called in a question. She turned and said, “Honey, dinner will be ready soon. I’m basting the turkey!”

That was it. I was out of there. I returned to my primary care physician a few days later, reported what had happened and learned on the q.t. that the Doctor was retiring and may have been experiencing some dementia. It seems a number of people in the medical profession were recently in the know, but were letting her serve out her final weeks out of respect for her stellar career. Given her behavior over the last few years, I wanted to tell them this career had been a little less than stellar and maybe the onset of dementia went back a little further than they thought. I know this story is scary as well as humorous and could even have had legal ramifications, but it’s so typical of my medical experiences that I have become immune. It also set the bar. To me a good medical experience is to escape the appointment without being basted. If someone has to be a turkey, let it be the doctors and not me!

Pugsutawney

Who needs a groundhog, anyway?

Seriously, my pugs play weatherman everyday, letting me know if its raining or snowing or freezing cold by their reluctance or willingness to venture outside. I'm thinking of initiating a formal ceremony here in Bethel. It would be good for the economy, drawing tourists to town and I'd happily don my top hat, step out on the porch with Alfie and announce if she saw her shadow. Of course, I'd have to keep it quiet that Alfie has a habit of seeing a lot of things that aren't there like her invisible fly...shhh, don't say anything. Besides, I can always use Waffles as a back up, although she is happy to venture out on the back step as long as there is a sliver of sunshine in which to bask. Okay, maybe they aren't as reliable as Phil, but for those of you with money on the outcome, it might be nice to know that my two can be bribed for the right puppy snack.

What's in a Name (of a Blog that is)?

I received a great comment from a reader today who wondered about the name Pugs and Pics. When first introduced, this reader was an uncertain about the site, worried that it would be devoted to a bunch of silly dog photos, but stuck around and has become a fan. The same reader wondered if the site might be better served by another name, asking if it had grown beyond its original intent.

I say this is a great comment because this reader is engaged and had some valid points. It’s tough to choose a name for a site, and once you do, you’re kind of stuck – you’ve likely paid for a URL and built up a following, so experts warn choose carefully. A lot of writers decide to go by their name when they can. I couldn’t get the URL to my full name, so I originally was going to have a web site foe my work called www.kjgifford.com. You can still reach the writing portion of my blog from this URL.

I tried for years to get that web site off the ground and in the meantime I developed a love of photography, initially sparked by taking pictures of my own as well as my friend Joan’s pugs. When it comes to any form of art whether it is writing, photography or painting, it’s best to pursue subjects you feel passionate about. There is a different type of energy surrounding things you love. My photography teacher noticed this in my work early on and encouraged me to continue taking pictures of my pugs and other dogs. I started a Facebook site devoted to my photography www.facebook.com/kjgiffordphotography and subsequently a blog on Posterous and Blogger. When it came time to start these blogs, I wanted to attract people who would be interested in my photography, which in this case would be other pug people, hence the name Pugs and Pics.

I look at my friends in the Hubbard Hall Writer’s Project and note the name of their sites. John Greenwood chose Raining Iguanas, an unique and interesting name that has to do with awakening, a subject to which most of his writing is devoted. Rachel Barlow chose Picking My Battles and she often writes about challenges in being a mother, a wife, a writer. She picks her subjects and battles with care. Jon Katz, the leader of our group, has a very successful blog entitled Bedlam Farm and you guessed it, he writes about life on his farm with his wife and animals. And, yes, on my site I write about pugs and pics. But, as the aforementioned reader noted, it has become about so much more. Jon calls his blog a living memoir and mine has certain become one. I am only beginning to understand all that this site is about. I learn through the writing.

I have been a freelance writer for 20 years now, writing magazine articles for a variety of regional publications, and a memoir-writing instructor for 11. When I joined the Hubbard Hall Writer’s Project, I decided it was time to get serious about my own writing, which initially had a lot to do with pugs. It still does. It is my hope to turn some of the ideas found in these pages into a book one day. I’d really like to write more about my experiences at Pugdom, my friend Joan’s house and yes, these involve a lot of talk about pugs. The things I have learned there, however, go beyond that and are themes that are universal as well as personal. What do we do when we find ourselves alone in life? When things get tough? I met Joan after my family had been through a really challenging ordeal (a story for another time). I was single when most of my friends were married and starting families and I was lonely, looking for a dog of my own. I came from a small town, hadn’t traveled much and then I met this woman, who had a houseful of pugs and amazing stories to tell and had traveled the world a couple of times over. Except for her dogs and a handful of friends, she was alone, too. Her husband had died the year before I met her. An older woman with a childlike spirit, Joan chooses to live with all these pugs a top a lonely mountain in Warren, Vt. Her life can be chaotic and challenging at times, but it is never dull and she lives it her way. I admire that about her. Since I met her, I too have traveled to places I never thought I would have gone. I’m not sure I ever thought I would have traveled much at all before meeting her and I have learned a lot about what it means to be strong and I have learned my own limitations. I hope I will not find myself alone when I am her age, but for now in spite of the circle of friends and family, I am essentially on my own and sometimes that can be lonely. The pugs, both mine and the pack at her house help fill the void. I look at Joan and at other women in my life and I learn from them.

These are things I’ve tried to share in these pages. Each of us has his or her own unique way of looking at the universe and I’ve tried to share mine as well. It is often easy to judge what is best for a person – a woman of Joan’s age shouldn’t be living alone or she shouldn’t have so many pugs, a person my age should be on their own by now. She should have a home, a family. I think it is important not to judge to let people carry what they must, to help them when you can and to try to understand their point of view, even if you disagree. I think this is how we learn and grow. I also think this is a responsibility we have when we befriend someone – the responsibility to let them be who they are. I think we have responsibilities to animals, too, especially when you breed them or rescue them and claim them as your own. There is an issue of stewardship I wish to explore and how in living and loving these creatures we learn about ourselves. This is the book I would like to write someday and it all starts with pugs. But it is not limited to them. They are just the lens through which I began to see what I wanted to explore, they are my companions on this path to growth.

Pugs and Pics thus, seemed to serve this site well. When I decided to start blogging about theses subjects it made sense to use it, to attract those who might be interested in a woman with two pugs and her friendship with a breeder with dozens. Besides, I already had this name for my Posterous and Blogger sites, so my fans there carried over. My web site designer asked me if I thought I might still be blogging about pugs 12 years from now and the answer is who knows? But they will always be a part of my life. As I have written, I have a pug tattooed on my shoulder, another on my back, my license plate reads Puggies. I’ve been branding myself literally for a long time now and I don’t think I’ll ever completely leave the subject behind.

And, it’s not just pugs. I think there is something special about the dog/human bond, the animal/human bond for that matter. I think that animals and particularly dogs, which have infiltrated our hearts and lives so thoroughly, enrich us in unique ways. I think that anyone who starts to explore their life with dogs in pictures and in writing soon find that they are exploring these subjects; even if it begins with a bunch of funny dog photos. I know this is certainly the case for most of the dog blogs I love best.

In the months since I’ve had the site, it is true that my writing is changing to include my photography, art, and personal stories from other areas of my life and I hope it continues to evolve even more. The name Pugs and Pics may not be as broad as it could be, but hopefully more people like this reader will discover it and stick around long enough to see that it can be. My pugs and my photography were the starting point for this journey and I am following them where they lead. They have taught me to see my life in a new way and I hope that this blog is allowing readers a glimpse through this lens and giving them a new perspective – something all good art and writing should do.

A special thank you to my reader for inspiring this post and for sticking around and please feel free to comment. One of the things I love about blogging is this dialogue, which fosters growth.

Happy Birthday Waffles

Yesterday, February 1st, was Waffles third birthday. We celebrated by buying her a new flavor of dog food -- it seems like she doesn't like white fish and sweet potato and buying her a shocking pink toy. Alfie turned three a few weeks ago on January 8, but because I was sick, I missed the actual day. She didn't seem to mind. Neither girl seems to know they've matured. They spent the afternoon chasing each other and fighting over bones.