Duck Puppies

Do you want to see duck puppies? I ask, scooping my niece up in my arms and jogging down the drive with her bouncing and giggling. I take her to the pond below her house. Unfortunately, the "duck puppies" are hiding amidst the cattails, but I spy them later when I return on my own. It is the season for avian births, I guess, because I have stumbled upon two happy families this week. First, when I visited a local pond to show my nephew a good fishing spot and then today at my niece Ellie's.

I have returned three times to watch the Canadian geese and their clan of seven goslings. The parents stand watch over them so diligently, the babies sticking close to the mama. One gets brave and waddles down to the shore and Mama eventually goes in after him,  the other six in tow. She gathers them back on shore, but when they become weary of  watching me, the parents finally move them, forming a single-file line across the water.

The duck's behavior is similar, but there is no papa around. Mama is a single lady in this scenario, but she keeps her brood just as close. I spy them again as I stand at the water's edge  photographing flowers. Suddenly there is a splash beneath me and the bank flutters threatening to toss me in the water. Instead, I catch my balance just in time to raise my camera and capture a picture of the moving huddle of ducks, which had been camped out in the weeds beneath me. Mama transplants them to a safer venue and soon they are a brown blotch against the weeds.

Families can be complicated, relations strained as children grow older and seek independence. These happy tribes have not reached that point yet; nature will take its course in due time. Right now they are true units, working as one. I visit and soak in their happy energy. Whether it be ducks. humans or puppies, I am drawn to the notion of tribes, the allure of babies and the magic inherent in those first steps of discovery. I wish I could bottle it all. I wish I could claim it for my own.

Clothed

I hate going to the gynecologist. No surprise there, right? Who doesn't? Going to the gynecologist ranks right up there with getting a tooth pulled, having a colonoscopy and getting stuck in an elevator with a bunch of sweaty strangers, right? The thing is to me going to the gynecologist is more than an unpleasant activity. It is the equivalent of walking through a field of deadly land mines with every unpleasant moment rife with potential emotional dangers.

First, there is the whole body image thing. When you are sitting naked with your feet up in stirrups, it’s pretty hard not to acknowledge that your mind and soul are definitely attached to flesh, a fact I often try to ignore. I’ve written about it before, but like many women, learning to like, let alone love my body, has been a lifelong battle. It’s hard enough to feel good about my figure fully clothed, but I bet even Gisele feels self-conscious laid bare under the harsh fluorescent lights of a gynecologist’s office. There is nowhere to hide, no way to suck in your stomach, no way to ignore your imperfections. It may not help that among my history of unhappy gynecological experiences, I had a doctor who loved to comment that I was as fat as she was – that went a long way toward making me feel both relaxed and confident, thank you!

Which, second, brings me to that whole relaxation thing. When a doctor puts a stethoscope to my chest and tells me to breathe normally, I often find myself holding my breath beneath clenched jaws. My body’s interpretation of relax is much like a deer caught in headlights – freeze, sit rigidly, don’t move and maybe it will all go away. I don’t intend to be difficult I try to tell the doctors. This is my version of relaxed. In the past, on more than one occasion, this has led more than one gynecologist to quietly slip me the name of a psychologist at the end of my appointment. Oh yes, one more way to help me feel “normal” and good about myself.

Third, and this is the one that brings tears, every trip to the gynecologist reminds me of what’s missing – the children I haven’t had. Bad enough in your twenties and thirties, but in your forties? Now, even the most optimistic physician acknowledges that ship has likely sailed. I know there are still ways to be a mother, but let’s face it, being at the gynecologist’s office getting an ultrasound for a fetus-sized fibroid instead of a baby, is a literal punch to the gut. I remember the first time I learned I had fibroid tumors. At that ultrasound, my mother was there looking at the screen as the nurse read out the size of the benign tumor and I realized that other mothers and daughters had the joy of seeing a baby there. We did not.

Most days I press on, keep my dreams alive, console myself with nieces, nephews and pugs, lose myself in a busy life. Sometimes in the right clothes, on a good hair day, I pass the reflection in the mirror and really like what I see. I remind myself that my life is full, it, and the body in which I dwell, deserves grace and thanks, and to be fed with faith and gratitude, but there is something about the gynecologist’s office that lays too much bare – fear and shame reveal themselves, fully exposed. My dignity, hopes and dreams sit piled up in the corner with my respectable shirt and jeans; they seem to mock me.

Such is usually the case and so I began my appointment teary-eyed, worried more about the feelings this exam would produce than the actual exam itself. And, then suddenly something switched. My inner journalist came out and I found myself asking the doctor about her life, what had possessed her to choose such a career. As she talked and I listened, I forgot that I was naked, my hopes exposed, it was just me talking, conducting an interview like I do everyday. And, to be honest, I have had some really bad interviews; ones that made me panic way more than the gynecologist’s speculum. Nothing that happened in that room could really change the feelings I had about my life. Sure, it was unpleasant and the medical tests could have some worrisome repercussions – that’s the way things go – but suddenly, I didn’t feel like such a freak. My blue jeans and black shirt might have remained folded up on the doctor’s table, but my dignity, hopes and dreams had crossed the room and folded themselves back into my body.

None of us is solely flesh nor solely spirit – we are mind, body, and soul and regardless of the baggage handed to us, we get to decide what we’re going to carry or at the very least how we’re going to carry it. I walked out of the gynecologist’s office, clothed in that knowledge, to a day that had turned unexpectedly temperate.

Writing Prompt: Lens of Faith

I want to talk about something miraculous, but religion is a tricky thing to write about. Not everyone believes the same way. Talking about God can run the gamut from being out-of-fashion to being down right insulting depending on the listener and the attitude of the one doing the talking. This isn’t a story about religion. It’s a story about a miracle that happened to me.

Back in 1990, about six months after I graduated from college and just before Christmas, I was writing Christmas cards when I noticed my eyesight was blurry. Tired eyes, I thought, but they bothered me enough that after a doctor’s appointment for some gynecological issues I was also experiencing, I decided to walk next door and see if I could make an appointment with an eye doctor. I told the receptionist my symptoms, which now also included flashes of light and a headache, and she rushed me in to see the doctor. I found it peculiar how quickly she took me and soon became frightened when after checking my eyes, the doctor asked me to come into his office. He told me I needed to head to the large medical center, 30 miles south, right away. They would be waiting for me. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You have a brain tumor,” he answered.

I began crying. “You asked,” he said.

I cried harder, remarkably also feeling like I had to apologize to him. I explained how I had been having other problems with my menstrual cycle, how stressed I’d been. At menstrual cycle, he stopped me, wrote something on a paper, and said there was a chance it could also be something else.

Dazed, I stumbled back next door to my primary care physician and told him what had happened. He called the specialist, read the note, and explained there was a chance it could be this other thing, a pseudo tumor cerebri. “Pray it is,” he said.

It was a pseudo tumor cerebri, a disorder with symptoms similar to a brain tumor – a build up of pressure behind the optic nerve. I was within minutes of going blind and required treatment with lumbar punctures and steroids. I was hospitalized and try as they might, none of the regular treatments seemed to work for me, even after the doctors discovered that Retin-A and a bad dose of tetracycline contributed to the disease. My primary care physician wanted a shunt put in my brain. My mother would read the Bible to me – Psalms 91: Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”

In the hospital this passage comforted me. I told the doctors I didn’t want the shunt. We continued the lumber punctures until I couldn’t stand them any longer. Months passed. I thought often of the Psalm, “You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday….” What was my pseudo tumor if not a terror and a pestilence? I thought.

“A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand may fall at your hand, but it will not come near you. You will only observe with your eyes and see the punishment of the wicked.” I will observe with my eyes, I thought. I will observe with my eyes.

I told the doctor no more lumbar punctures. I got better. My eye healed.

Years passed and then over a decade later one of my eyes started to bother me again. It became blurry, the vision changed. I saw several eye doctors. Most feared that the pseudo tumor had returned or suggested it could be something worse. They sent me to get an MRI, looking for a brain tumor. It was okay to have two eyes with blurry vision; one suggested something bad. I lived in fear. I attended a service at a local church. A skinny evangelist, red-faced from shouting, called me out of the audience. He told me to raise my hands and he began to pray, telling me I was scared. He could feel the presence of fear all around me. He was right! He then began to quote Psalm 91: “You will not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness…” He did not know about my eyes, nor did he pray for my healing, but I knew a miracle had happened. I was no longer afraid.

I visited my eye doctor a week later. He checked my eyes and said they had returned to normal. He said there was no explanation and labeled my condition “idiopathic” meaning the cause was not understood. “Be thankful,” he said. “Your symptoms suggested something bad, but now they are gone. What did you do see a faith healer?” he joked.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” I answered back. He did a double take, shook his head and smiled. “Well, it worked,” he said.

Today, I went to the eye doctor for a regular check up. It has been many years since I had anything to worry about. This doctor declared that while my history was outstanding, my eyes today are boring. In fact, they keep getting better. Although I wear glasses, one eye has no prescription and better than 20/20 vision. The other, although it sees better close up, is not bad at all. They call my vision “fuzzy 20/20” almost perfect. “You can wear your glasses at night when you’re driving if you want things just a little crisper,” the doctor said. “You may find yourself not wearing them at all.” I wear them as a fashion statement and as a reminder that there are some things we cannot see with our eyes. Some things require a lens of faith.

Writing Prompt: Have you ever experienced a miracle -- large or small? Something you can't explain through normal means? Write about it...

All in a day's work...

I greet my student Don at the library. He looks cool and crisp in a blue Oxford shirt. Probably in his late sixties, Don has been one of my students since I first started teaching memoir. Officially retired, he still serves as a librarian at Lebanon College. I greet him and documentary filmmaker Duane Carleton. We are to go across the green to the Ledyard Charter School for a showing of Carleton’s film, Overtaken by Darkness, about the 1986 murder of golf pro Sarah Hunter in Manchester, VT. As we walk, I chat with Duane about his film and his reasons for making it. Tall with long brown hair pulled in a ponytail and nerdy wire-rimmed glasses, Carleton seems amiable. We laugh and crack jokes about Stephen King and Duane’s own film, as we have to walk through the cemetery to get to the entrance of the school. Duane tells me how he saw King interviewed on Letterman last night. “He’s written a play with John Mellencamp,” he says, launching into details.

We climb the staircase where we are greeted by the head instructor and led into a room with familiar school desks. Duane and I joke about just how familiar they are. Their wooden surface is bolted to the molded chairs, a well for pencils carved into the wood. “I had these chairs in school,” says Duane. “Me, too,” I declare.

Don and the teacher test the DVD on her computer as students help clear out the desks and replace them with comfy chairs for the viewing. That’s what they call them; “comfy chairs,” and they do indeed look more comfortable than the desks. We sit in them and begin introductions when two representatives from the Lebanon Police Department step in. Don has invited them to come and I am pleased to recognize one from my interview and article on the force a couple of years ago. My brother, Paul, away at Boot Camp for the National Guard, is a Lebanon Police Officer, so I proudly introduce myself as Paul’s sister. After the film and a lively discussion, I have the opportunity to chat with the officers.

“How’s your brother?” they ask. “Have you heard from him?” I give them the details from Paul’s last letter. He leads the squadron in cadence and to church, has qualified as an expert marksmen. They jokingly say he has “a voice like Jesus” and alternate between calling him Vin Diesel and Old Man. He is doing well, but has a challenge dealing with the emotions of some of the younger men. He realizes that some our younger than his own 17-year-old son, Christian.

“I’ve heard about you,” the acting chief tells me. “Oh, oh,” I say. “From reading the article,” he explains, and I feel suddenly proud because it is my reputation and not my brother's that is grabbing his attention. We leave the meeting satisfied. Don has had the opportunity to share about the college and I may even get some perspective memoir students out of the day.

It is a good day work wise. Don and I grab a bite to eat at the corner restaurant and chat about our common interests – the college, Don’s writing, mutual friends. Full and happy we part ways. I walk toward my car when I remember that I want to check out two dogs I saw in a storefront window for another article I am doing on dogs in the workplace. As I gather my phone from the car, I glance another big dog. The curl to his tail suggests he’s an Akita, but he lacks the upright ears and his head is square. I turn and stroll toward the dog and its owner, asking, “What breed is your dog?”

“Akita and maybe St. Bernard,” he answers. I ask to pet the dog and gush to the owner how I was off to see about some shop dogs. “He’s a shop dog, too,” I’m told. I take the man’s card and promise to call him next week, happy to have another lead. I cross the street and grab another card from the store owner of the two dogs I saw in the window. Another article underway.

Today, I like my job. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed, often pulled in too many directions. Today, I wouldn’t give up any of my work. The teaching, the writing, this blog, all feed different parts of me. At the end of the day I loaded my car and drove home, tired but satiated. Tomorrow I will worry about how to get everything done. Today I am thankful for work I love.

Glee

I pull up the driveway. The sunny yellow house seems to smile coyly, peeking from behind a canopy of trees. A small olive valise, held closed with a green bungee cord, sits in front of the steps, like a passenger waiting for a bus. It looks as happy as the house. I am its ride. I am here to pick up the suitcase and my friend Joan to indeed take them to a bus stop, where she will catch a ride to New York.

I walk passed the suitcase into the house where four fawn pugs make a pile in the wooden box by the stove. Our friend Norma is there to housesit. The cool, dark room offers reprieve from the sun, but it is no less happy inside than out. Gryffindoor, Joan’s youngest pug at almost a year, appears at the top of the stairs, whimpering because he knows I am here and he wants to see me, but he has not yet learned how to make it down the steps. I peer around the doorway and look up the darkened stairwell to see his black form silhouetted against the light from the Florida Room. Joan is uncharacteristically on time. She pops out of the bathroom, sporting her cheerful orange tank with peek-a-boo cutout above the chest and crisp white jeans with shades of orange cuffs.

SONY DSC

She breezes about the room as Norma chatters and I laugh, the mood festive. Sometimes Joan gets frazzled before a trip, but she is relaxed today. She grabs her overnight bag and heads for the door as I promise to call Norma when Joan boards the bus. We go outside and I stop to chase a butterfly to nab its picture. Standing on the slate wall, I grab a shot. Norma offers a hand to help me down. I skip passed the suitcase, grabbing the handle and pulling it behind me to the car. We make the drive to Burlington, to the UVM campus, where Joan will catch the Megabus, talking all the way. The day is bright both inside and out.

The bus stop sits amidst a garden of flowers and we no sooner take our place than we our joined by another passenger – a dark-skinned woman, named Betsy. She talks animatedly with Joan, flashing a large grin, one eyetooth missing. “I’m just Betsy,” she announces. “Not Elizabeth or Bettie or anything else.”

Other passengers approach and the woman moves to talk with them. I delight in watching Joan. As a concert pianist she has traveled the world many times over and yet she turns to me with childlike glee announcing that the bus is supposed to be a double-decker. “Should I try up top?” she asks with an eager smile. When it finally pulls up, I note that the blue bus with golden orange lettering matches Joan’s own ensemble, now topped with jean jacket. “Did you plan it that way?” I ask.

She smiles, practically prancing to the rear of the bus to load her suitcase. She reminds me of my five-year-old niece Tori, cheerful, childish energy wrapped in a charming shell. Their eyes twinkle the same way. Joan hops on the bus, choosing the lower level after all and I watch as she makes her way to the back. “I feel like I’m seeing my kid off,” I shout as she drifts out of sight. I catch a glimpse again as she sits down, pressing her face against the glass and making a funny face. I wave goodbye to my friend, a smile plastered to my face. I know why I like this lady so -- she retains her sense of wonder. I hope I remain that young. I hope every trip always seems brand new.

I stand in the shadow cast by her and the bus, realizing such glee is infectious. It draws me back to the sunny yellow house and its occupants again and again.

SONY DSC

Writing Prompt: Gardens

I do not plant my own garden, but I revel in the gardens of others. Across from my house, in an island of pavement is a small grassy triangle. Members of the community maintain this small, patch of earth each spring by planting flowers that change as the season progresses – evolving from tulips and daffodils to daisies and irises. I await the arrival of the first buds each year, seeing them rise as the sun ascends and shares its warmth with us. It is my signal that spring is upon us. Every time I see her, I rush to inform one of the women in town, the one who helps tend this garden, how much it means to me. She seems thankful, if sedate, as I gush over the flowers.  Her own lawn is equally adorned, so perhaps she cannot digest just how much I appreciate her efforts, how tied I am to those blossoming patches of color across the lawn. They have been a backdrop for photos of my nieces and nephews, a garden hideaway to retreat amidst the fairies, a place to witness their inner men and women emerge as they strike magical poses well beyond their years. It has allowed me a reprieve from computers and deadlines, a minute field in which to roam for 10 minutes, camera in hand. It has been a place to say goodbyes, a train platform to see my dying dog off to another world.

Vader died a year ago June 1^st and for the month leading up to his death, my nieces, nephews and I would frequently tote his limp form, along with his constant companion, his stuffed “Humpie Doggie” across the road to sit him in the flowers and allow him a few moments of sun. His body carved out a small sunken dent in the hollow of the flower bed and I imagine I see it there still, although the flowers this year have arranged themselves in a different pattern. There are yellow irises now, tons of them, although last year I remember varied colors. It would be easy to say that the color has faded since Vader’s death, but it is not true. I miss him, but the world is warm and golden. Waffles and Alfie frolic in the back yard and wait eagerly by the gate as I water the tomato plants my father chose to plant this year. Life wilts and grows, ebbs and flows.

The grandmother of the boy I loved is dying in the garden room of the local hospital where my grandmother, too, passed away. He and his cousins make plans to fly home for her funeral even while she remains alive. Our lives are busy and do not slow, but the world is green and full; the sky blue with marshmallow clouds. If we had a choice, we would not leave it today. We would sit in the garden and enjoy it a spell, feeling the warmth on our faces, reveling in the life around us.

I try to remember this. So on the anniversary of his death, I visited Vader’s tree on our front lawn; the place where I had rested with him in the hours before his death, looking up at the leafy canopy, embracing the light from the sun. I stretched out on the dirt and grass, not caring if my dress clothes became grass stained and soiled and I looked up once again – thankful for his small life and all the life that has occurred in the year he’s been gone. I sat up and stared across the lawn at his garden, thinking how tall my nieces and nephews had grown in a year, how much life had changed – my niece Ellie was only a baby in a basket when she visited last Memorial Day, now she is a rambunctious toddler – “go, go, go” is her catchphrase. I got Waffles once Vader was gone, joined a Writer’s Group, gave a reading, welcomed and bid farewell to three classes of students, started a blog. I traveled to Laguna Beach, Washington D.C., Woodstock, NY. My brother went off to boot camp and my Mom had a cataract removed. I wrote articles and stories, drew pictures and paintings. My niece spoke my name. Life is full. We bud and we bloom. We bid goodbye. And, on a good day we are aware of it all and thankful for our gardens.

Writing Prompt: Return to a memory from last year. Write about it.

Creative Sparks

Heaven will be a little bit like this. People I care about will be there – mingling, laughing, sharing. My nieces and nephews will be running about, doing cartwheels in the grass. Dogs will dance around us. The light will shine brightly, the sun warmly. We will burst forth with creativity. I will speak about what is meaningful to me and people will listen. I will have a voice and delight in it. We will swap stories and guffaws with equal gusto. I will soak it all in.

Our reading at Hubbard Hall last night was a little bit like this for me. My mother, sister-in-law and my niece and nephew followed my best friend and me, the two-and-a-half hours to Cambridge, NY. My other friends, Joan and Jane, traveled from Waitsfield, Vt. to be there. Our friend, Leslie, who owns two of Joan’s pugs, and lives in Cambridge came out for an evening to hear me share a story about Joan and her pug puppies and letting them go to new homes. Six writers read posts from our blogs that we have been working on over the past year with our mentor, Jon Katz, as part of the Hubbard Hall Writers’ Project. Jon read an excerpt from his forthcoming book, The Second-Chance Dog: A Love Story. We exhibited our artwork, photographs, poems, stories, animations and writings at a reception prior to the reading. It was a night to shine and bubble forth, because in sharing our stories we encourage others to share theirs.

When I finished, I received high praise from my 12-year-old nephew, who rushed to tell me that I was very descriptive. “I could picture everything you said. I could see it,” he said. What other acclaim could I need?

Some called us brave. And, I admit my heart was thumping as I approached the podium to read my work. But, to me this was a moment to relish – a chance to be heard. I think everyone wants a voice, although not everyone wants to stand up in a room full of people to hear it manifested. The night before the reading, I had the opportunity to eat dinner with Jon Katz and his wife Maria. Jon said he doesn’t get nervous in front of crowds and that a child he dreamed of an opportunity to express himself in such a way. I understood what he meant. I have not dreamed of crowds, but of being heard. I have craved it.

When I studied religion in college, I was drawn to the image of John the Baptist, the solitary voice crying in the wilderness. The beginning of my Master’s thesis addresses this image, asking, why John the Baptist? This is what I wrote:

“Always I return to "the Voice." It is the thing to which the gospel authors return as well. Laden with symbolism, it cries out in the pages of the New Testament long after the man himself has disappeared. Can I reconstruct a man from his voice? Can I hang bones and skin and IDEAS on the words "repent, and be baptized?" Sometimes, I think, I resist telling his story, my story of his story, because I am content with his voice...the echo of his voice...the IDEA of his voice..."

It was my own voice to which I was drawn – the need to have one.

Last night, I shared my story of Joan and her pug puppies and was able to capture a moment of the love and melancholy, compassion and stewardship I have seen present in her life among pugs. I spoke about her unconventional lifestyle – transforming from concert pianist to a widow living on a mountaintop in Vermont with 10 to 14 pugs. I spoke about my respect for her in-your-face ability to live life her way and my desire to do the same. My fellow writers shared actual love stories and equally compelling tales of love manifested in parenting and caring for parents or patients, coming out as artists and poets.

Like a prophet, proclaiming his truth, we tried to share ours. Perhaps our stories weren’t revolutionary, but for the five minutes that I read and the hour that I listened to the others share, it felt a little bit like Heaven. There are many reasons to be nervous about speaking up in front of a crowd, but I think there are many more reasons to be nervous not to speak at all. Words give birth to creation. They are creative sparks.

An Artist's Journey

When I was ten years old I took art lessons with an art teacher who lived up the street. She eventually moved to a nearby house, built an art studio and opened her home up as a gallery and teaching space. I remember wanting to emulate her – not only her art, but also her lifestyle. Maybe someday I too, could draw, paint and work out of my home.

It seems to me that for many artists, the title is about more than a profession; it is about a way of life. Most artists I know are trying to carve out a living doing what they love. Most want to be surrounded by beautiful things. Many want to live a simple life, close to nature, close to the work they love.

I have been trying for most of my life to create such a life for myself and in many ways I’ve achieved it. I am a professional writer and teacher. I have managed to eschew the 9 to 5 grind. But, the term starving artist exists for a reason and I have yet, to establish the home that I have always dreamed of having as my own creative space. I’ve set out and tried a couple of times to build one, but money always proves an obstacle. Still, the dream is strong, which is why perhaps I am so enchanted when I see it realized by others.

Several years ago, I wrote an article for Upper Valley Life Magazine about two potters, Becca Van Fleet and Nathan Webb. Theirs was a love story, both as a couple and as artists. Recently married, they were building a kiln and creating their own artistic dream. I fell in love with their story and watched as they finished their kiln and set out to build a studio. Each open studio weekend I am there, purchasing a fine collection of their wonderful pottery. Today, when I stopped by with my mother and sister-in-law Leah, to introduce Leah to their work, I discovered not only their completed studio, but also learned the news that they are pregnant. Another unfulfilled dream of mine, but rather than feeling jealous I find myself delighting in seeing this deserving couple’s personal and work lives expand.

These two potters, and their dog, Lego, short for Legolas of Lord of the Rings fame, make their home not far down the road from my own property, so after visiting them today, I walked the winding dirt road from my brother’s home to my land. Though chilly for May, the world was green and lush and rich with possibility. Becca and Nathan placed a chalkboard in their new studio, welcoming visitors and instructing them on how to negotiate the space. At the bottom, they wrote “a dream come true.” The words are a sweet reminder, but not necessary – the space and property is so infused with art and love that any visitor quickly becomes immersed in the dream that birthed it. You celebrate it as your own. And, so in this spirit, I stare out at my empty meadow and dream a dream large enough to fill the space. I continue my artist’s journey and envision where it will lead.

Tour of DC

My friend Clare's friend took us for a nighttime tour of DC tonight. I cried at the Lincoln Memorial impressed by both the majesty of the statue and the weight of his words. I was touched by the kindness of Clare's friend, who unasked offered to takeus on a drive of the city. We accepted never expecting him to actually park the car and take us to see the Whitehouse, Lincoln Memorial, Jefferson Memorial, Vietnam wall, Einstein's statue and the FDR memorial. We missed seeing the statue of FDR and his Scotty Fala, although we tried to find him. Clare's friend suggested we look for pug paintings at the National Gallery tomorrow. I am touched.

On vacation

Spent today checking out of Blogpaws and into my friend Clare's life. Had a great day unwinding and getting to meet her friends. Had a wonderful barbecue in a backyard garden serenaded by a croaking frog and the chirping of robins followed by apple pie and kumbucha on the deck of another one of her friend's homes. I even got to meet a blind poodle. We ended the day over conversation and tea. Unfortunately my camera was charging so no pictures to share and not much time for blogging. I will be home on Wednesday but blog posts may be scarce for the next two days. But who knows, so please check back in..