The Death and Rebirth of Mother

Those of you who know me or read this blog may be familiar with the special relationship I have with my GPS, the miraculous device I call "Mother" because of the gentle and sometimes not-so-gentle guidance she provides—take the next left, take the next left! But seriously, before Mother came along I lived in fear of traveling anywhere—of course I did, leaving for assignments, ample maps and directions and still getting lost with sweaty palms and often tears on old dirt roads in the middle of nowhere or worse on a highway with four lanes of traffic and no option to bail.

But big road trips? The ones filled with possibility instead of dictated by responsibility? Those I avoided—they were the great unknown. Then came Mother, plug in a destination and she takes you there, get lost and she reroutes you. It was the salvation I was looking for and I converted from reluctant traveler to albeit technology dependent gypsy wanderer. Sure, I admit Mother didn't always get it right, there was that cowpath she led me to on the way to a meeting of the Hubbard Hall Writers' Group, but that was largely because Mother had a fluke—map updates sent her into a tizzy, so I had to be content with her original knowledge, which for my purposes was extensive and with her I was never alone.

Mother died on Thursday just before my annual trip to Woodstock. Actually, she probably died earlier than that—hidden away in permanent slumber in the dark catacombs of my glove compartment, but I only noticed before my trip. Sure I've been coming to Woodstock for the last four years, generally knew the way, but to me this crisis was tragic. There was no way I could travel without Mother. Already late, I had to reroute my trip, heading int he opposite direction to buy a Mother replacement at the closest Best Buy. $174.00 later I came out with a new Mother, affectionately called "Ma" and a service plan in case she break down. Ma is bigger and supposedly better than Mother—I'll let you know—we are just getting acquainted, but already I know she is a comfort.

I called my friend Joan who seems to find getting lost an adventure and shared my story. She, who has no cellphone or even access to google maps, seemed shocked. What did you do before? she asked. I didn't go anywhere I admitted. I mean I traveled with you, but not on my own. My other friends have commented on my new found confidence once Mother came into my life.

Unfortunately, I think I've been waiting for Mother in other areas of my life as well—someone to show me which way to go and then I'd be off and running, someone to reassure me when I find myself in the all-too-overwhelming, fast-moving, incomprehensible traffic of life. I'm not looking for someone to tell what to do, just point me in the right direction. But I'm not crazy or helpless, I want freedom and freewill. I want adventure, but just a a padded unknown, something soft to fall on when I get a little nervous—a confident voice that reminds me I can take the next left since I can't find that at the local Best Buy, I set out on my adventures with the hope the nudge and netting will be there when I need it and I look for support along the way—mentors, friends, road signs—help is usually there when you need it. Part of growth I guess is learning to mother yourself and I am learning, choosing new directions left and right (pun intended!) But, when it comes to actual road travel don't expect me to abandoning "Ma" anytime soon—some things are too good to be true—all that guidance in the palm of my hand!

Daily Habits

The pugs hear my approach and began to rattle the wire door of their x-pens. Time for our nightly ritual. A bone and venison snack delivered to them once we all have settled on the sofa. They squeal and do concentric donut circles—smaller Waffles spinning inside bigger Alfie’s trajectory in uninhibited anticipation. I grab my water bottle and computer, sometimes a snack and make my way to the sofa, careful not to trip on these whirling dervishes.

I think perhaps this is why dogs and humans originally clicked, those wolf pups coming in from the cold and into the caves, because we are both creatures of habit in love with the familiarity of our rituals. The bone at night, a warm nose nudging our cheek in the morning. Forget the rooster or the sun, we set our time by each other. We crawl into the do-it-again moments of each other’s lives, wearing away uncertainty, creating lives as comfortable as an old shoe.

My pugs and I curl into each other on the sofa becoming one heartbeat as their bones are chewed and finished. I rest in their snores at day’s end and think, I remember this, it feels right.

Facetime with the Pugs

I enjoyed a productive and fun-filled weekend that unfortunately for my pugs took me from home. I left them in the good hands of my mother, and though she spoils them perhaps more than she does her two-legged grandchildren, they seemed to miss me. Facetime is a great invention for keeping connected, but you've never done Facetime until you've done Facetime with a pug. You know all those little pug quirks—the snorts, the snuffles, and the spritzes they do, as if they are checking you out, examining you and ruling you okay with one final spray of spritzy drool? Well, if  you don't know what I'm talking about you never met a pug. Those that do can just imagine how these cute  characteristics translate to Facetime. Does an iphone have Windshild Wipers? It should. My pugs heard my voice and approached the screen as if to come inside. Maybe this is how the pug earned its flat face? From my point of view all I see are gigantic eyes and a hint of a nose before the screen is obscured by the residue of a snuffling snort.

"Hey, Alfie, hey Waffles," I say. "How are my girls." A final sniff and I see the two running the other way, turning their heads toward the door in the silly, naive hope that I'll come wandering in.

New Shirt, New Hair, Same Old Me

A few weeks ago I was scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed when I came across the ad for this shirt. Those of you who follow the blog know just how apropos it is given the fact that I've been known to not only kiss a pug a time or two, but I've also won a contest doing so. In homage to Katy Perry, I think it's only fitting to pair my new tee with my new blue-tinted hair. Somehow both seem to shed a little light on who I am.

Alien

We all have had times when we’ve felt our pets are alien to us, species very different in their thoughts and actions. In this photograph, my pug Waffles is definitely showing her alien side. I’ve written how she reminds me of Golem and how her grandmother, Tar Baby, reminds me of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I even call her “Swampy.” When I showed this picture to my friends and family, they immediately confirmed both descriptions, calling Waffles both a swamp creature and Golem. Regardless, I love my little alien.

Writing Prompt: Where Do You Live or Our Town: Where Waffles and Alfie Live

Mostly Waffles and Alfie look at the world from the window by our front door or the passenger seat of my car. Sometimes they get to see the towns around them when we take a walk. Although they  never get out and about on their own, there is a context to their story, a place where we live. Today, the pugs took their perch in the hat-and-glove basket near the door where they can peek out the window and watch me drive away. I was headed to the neighboring town of Randolph, Vermont where my office is located, but I stopped on my way to get gas. The gas station is across from the community theater, recently saved from oblivion by a campaign to raise funds for the required digital equipment. Next to the Playhouse is Village Pizza, one of two pizza places in the downtown (the second sits across the street), where I ate dinner tonight after putting in a day of writing at the office. I have four articles due in the next week.

After dinner, I planned to return home, but I caught the sign on The Playhouse, Citizen Kane, a classic. Since putting in the new digital projector, The Playhouse now occasionally plays a classic or two on a Wednesday evening. Although the forecast predicted a winter storm, I decided to forgo work for the evening and give Citizen Kane a try. It was as good as I remember it, even better getting to see it on the big screen. I came out to a snow-covered car, however, and the trip home was perilous. As I pulled into the driveway and waited for color to return to my white knuckles, I caught a glimpse of Waffles and Alfie waiting for me at their same window perch. It was as if they had never left. They greeted me with sniffs and snorts, reading me like a diary of the days events. They may not have let the house, but they knew the scenery. They could tell where I'd been and they knew w hen I came home.  One of the things I love about dogs is they same to live wherever we are.

Writing Prompt: Where do you live?

Happy St. Paddy's Day!

A Day at Mass MoCA

A few years ago I asked two friends to accompany me to view an exhibit of Leonard Nimoy's photography. He called it Secret Selves and it was on exhibit at a place called Mass MoCA in North Adams, Mass. We had no idea what Mass MoCA was like, but gamely set out on an adventure. It was well worth the trip. We enjoyed the Nimoy exhibit, but we fell in love with Mass MoCA—an old industrial complex turned into a modern museum of contemporary art. The exhibits are fresh, unique, energetic. The building? A treasure trove of geometry, light and shadow. Pieces interesting on their own, take on a whole new life when viewed in the context of this building.

Today, my friends and I returned. We've been trying to go once or twice a year ever since our first time, but it's been a year since we were last there. It was no less wonderful. It may have been more so. One of my friends was not a big fan of contemporary art when we first went. Today, she had a hard time choosing a favorite piece. My other friend aptly declared that something about the place made her feel simultaneously stimulated and tired, a happy tired. Something about it makes me feel that happy quiet like after a yoga class. It's not just the beautifully building, the intriguing art, it's sharing it all with my friends. We haven't spent much time together lately, but today it was as if we had never been apart.

Here's some images from the day:

Pug Findings

So the day did not get off to a good start as my last blog post suggests. I decided to make the best of it by going to my office and finishing up an article on Rutland Magazine, promising myself the reward of stopping in town to look around at craft supplies in Belmain's for my St. Paddy's Day Poster (which I already spoiled by inadvertently writing St. Patty's instead of St. Paddy's, though I hope to fix it) and the local clothing store. I was lucky at both locations. At Belmain's I walked down the Easter candy aisle and found Pug & Kisses chocolates. Not only do they have a pair of pugs on the box but each heart-shaped chocolate is wrapped in pug-themed tin foil. At my next stop, Blue Moon Boutique, I found a pair of black socks, decorated with fawn pugs. I had to scold Jan, the owner, however, for not calling me as soon as she found them. She did admit she thought of me, however, when she saw them.

Mixed Precipitating

I woke up with a plan for the day that suddenly fractured because I got scared over the chance of snow and mixed precipitation; the fear of driving from Bethel to Colchester to Lebanon, NH in the span of 24 hours with snow dogging me all the way. And, I hear they’re serving dinner and I’m not sure how long we’ll be there or what time we’ll be able to leave, what time is dinner served anyway? This makes planning hard, when I need to make the three-hour window that Weather.com says I have between the rain and the snow. Snow flurries are nothing until you have to drive the windswept alley between Northfield and Randolph, where weather always stretches its coiled muscles, showing off what it can do, making night slicker, darker, foggier than it need be. And, I don’t trust my new car. It seems to slip and slide and have a mind of its own. It wants to twirl and pirouette at the slightest gust of wind—a fanciful ballerina, when I wanted a marine in full battle gear. Then the phone rings and someone’s heart is breaking and God knows I don’t have an answer for what God is doing. And, while we’re pondering big questions, who knew we could lose an airplane in a day and age when Big Brother is supposed to be watching everything. Then, my sweet sister-in-law tries to make me feel better, bless her. She says it’s hard to drive the length of the state without encountering snow somewhere and I think that’s it isn’t it—on life’s highway you’re bound for a little heartache. It’s all a mixed bag.