I brought my Sparkling Jesus piggy bank inside from the car to take a photo for my last post and Alfie and Waffles went crazy. Every time I head for the door it is a matter of intense excitement for these two. So, when I brought Jesus in and placed him on the bench in the entryway, the two just had to check him out to see what this is all about. Here, is a picture of Alfie discovering Jesus.
Joan's House
Liberated Woman
The snow pelts us like a fighter’s punch – cold, hard, relentless – it stings our face and eyes as we shuffle down the frosty sidewalk. My uncle guides my 92-year-old grandmother by the arm, plowing a safe path for her to keep her from falling. I mirror him, holding my mother upright. We take small baby steps, both of us unsure of our footing; I worry about her bad knees.
I am 45; this is the day and age of the liberated woman. Still, I wish there was someone to hold my arm. I worry should I fall who will be there to hold me up? I swallow, feeling the tightness in my throat; I have a cold coming on, probably more. It’s the third New Year’s in a row, I’ve been sick. It’s hard not to feel vulnerable at times like this. Winter in New England can be brutal, frigid, and as the temps fall below zero, it is easy for warm flesh to feel defenseless against this bone-chilling dervish.
When we get inside and warm up I call my friend Joan to check on her. She often loses power in weather like this. She answers with a hacking cough that has lingered for the last few months. She has been outside clearing wood out of the snow. It is a tedious, painful process to watch and I imagine it now as she complains to me about the cold. A former concert pianist, Joan’s hands no longer hold their former strength. She doesn’t share her age, but I know she is older than my parents. She dons fleece and flannel and with the help of her friend Jane the two wrap gloved hands over the logs, yanking and digging to remove them from the ice. Then one at a time they bring them indoors, enough to start a fire for the night.
Living near Sugarbush ski area in a house above the snow line, Joan is a native of winter, an intimate acquaintance of life’s bitter sting. She lost the love of her life, her third husband Charlie, 15 years ago, but she speaks of him with the warmth and blush of a new bride. She lives with his memory and her cluster of pugs, creating a makeshift family for herself with these creatures and the people they bring through her doors. My pugs are my family, and I mirror her, embracing her circle also.
She has a tough outer crust and I look at her with admiration. She has no one to hold her arm when the cold throws its punch. She pulls her own weight. She sees the night through by mopping floors and feeding pugs and sometimes mutters, “S.O.S. (same ole shit) in exasperation, but inside the hardened shell her blue eyes sparkle and those world-weary hands make music. She wears the face of the liberated woman and hides the heart of a gleeful child. Sometimes I look at her life, shake my head at the hardship and chaos that owning so many dogs can cause, and think she is crazy – come in from the cold, surrender, I’d like to say. Sometimes I look at her as a hero; she is not down for the count.
I go to her house, raise my face to the cold and heave wood – two, three, four logs at a time from the frozen earth. I open my heart to winter and feel ice flow through my veins. I put my foot to the gas and blaze up her slick mountain road, conquering fear. I vacation in her life and feel stronger for it. I know winter, too, and loneliness. The wind blows bitter here, but the sky shines clear and sparkles with razor-sharp stars. Nature broadcasts in high-definition from this mountain. The snow whips and stings here as well, but like a pioneer staking a claim, I feel valiant for having conquered it.
The cold’s a metaphor for life’s hard fist and when it strikes we all look for an arm to lean on, a hand to guide us through. I hang up the phone with Joan, melt into my comfy sofa and embrace the snoring pug she gave me. As a child I used to love to tromp through the snow. Cloistered in my puffy snowsuit I would slide and roll, making snow angels on the ground.
I see Joan do the same. Her angel wings brush each pug.
It is not fashionable to admit to loneliness; we just carry on. But, sometimes, I worry what I will do when my hands aren’t as strong, my knees not as certain. So, I look to my friend who still lifts logs, cares for more pets than most and wields both mop and ice scraper. I look to her and see myself in the dead of winter, amidst ice and snow, racing up that driveway to keep her company for a spell. I see Jane helping her light a fire. Joan has formed her circle, made her pack. I make mine.
It may not be the hand we imagine, but I see we are seldom alone in the storm – not as long as we’re living, not as long as we’re reaching out. I march steadily through life’s tundra, finding liberation in that.
icecle
Drafting a New Collage
I've had an idea for this collage for awhile, but have been too busy to start it. In fact, it's been awhile since I started a new collage of any sort. Being home sick, but feeling slightly better, I had the opportunity this evening to start working on this one. It is far from finished, just the beginning -- well, maybe a little more than that. I started to add details such as the pug's shoes and ballet slippers. I wanted this piece to feel festive, joyful, spontaneous and also a little romantic. It also seems to me a bit old-fashioned. Some of the dogs remind me of the romantic lovers you see coming back after World War II and kissing in the streets. I'm trying something new here as well, adding the computer-drawn pugs from my New Year's sketch to the photographic elements. I think it really works here.
Funny, how often I have run into the idea of dogs dancing lately. My friend, Jon Katz, wrote a wonderful book of short stories called Dancing Dogs and during one of the give-a-ways I ran recently a woman told me all about the dancing work she does with her dogs. I originally started my sketch of the celebrating New Year's pugs as fighting dogs, but they looked to celebratory to me so I transformed them into dancers. The Akita in this collage is my brother John's dog. I remember snapping the picture of her standing on her rear legs and resting her arms on his and thinking they looked like they were dancing. Then, I began to realize just how many pictures I had with other dogs who also seemed to be striking a pose, such as the poodle I snapped out on a "doggie spa day."
I added the children (both my niece Catherine, actually) because at the heart I think my work is always a commentary on the relationship and interplay between children and animals, only here the dogs take center stage. I love how "the girl" in the red is reaching out to twirl the ball, just as if she belonged there. I have more I want to do with this piece, but I thought I'd share it as it progresses.
Waffles in the Snow
It's cold in Vermont today and my little pugs don't much like to get their toes frozen. Alfie, my fawn, has a wonderful double coat, but poor little Waffles doesn't have much fur at all. She is lean and sleek like a little black seal. She loves to sit by the stove and roast away until she gets so hot I worry she is cooking. Still, even in the cold it's necessary for the pugs to go outside and do their duty. To entice them in this cold weather, I often throw a treat or two and while both pugs go crazy foraging through the snow, Waffles has turned it into an arctic sport -- snow fishing. She nose dives into the nearest powder and comes back up only when she has claimed her treat or is in desperate need of air. In spite of the fact that she hates the cold, she is a true athlete in pursuit of her goal. I practically have to drag her in as she plants her face again and again in the cold stuff. She usually comes in with a frozen little face of flakes. Even though I am ill and not in the best of moods of late, she brings a smile to my face. I love her perseverance. She is a trooper and if she can be, so can I.
Roots
I was born a brunette. Actually, that’s not true. I was born bald and remained that way until I was three-years-old. Then, my mother claims, my hair grew in light. I was a toe-head, but by the time I was in second grade my hair was brown and remained that way through college. It was long and brown until I was 14 when my grandmother took me to get it cut and my first perm. After that I kept it short or curly or wavy until I graduated from college.
Again, that’s not entirely true. Just before going off to college my mom and I decided it would be exciting for me to try life as a blond, so we bought some at home hair stripper and dye. We tried the stripper, which did exactly what its name implied, stripped my hair of color and then we applied the color, summer blonde, which my mom had used in the past. It turned my hair a lovely, damaged, straw-broom orange, so we re-dyed it brown, but it was so damaged that we had to cut a lot of it off and it wouldn’t’ really style well, so I went off to start my freshman year shorn.
When I graduated college, I decided to get my hair frosted blonde. My mother, a natural blonde, had always been hailed for her beauty and I think I wanted to look like her. She also had short hair at the time, so I chose to cut mine as well. I found a pic of a short-feathered cut a la Melanie Griffith when she was married to Don Johnson the second time around. I liked it and thus started my hair-dyeing journey.
Hair has always been an issue in my family. Dad never wanted Mom to cut her long hair, she didn’t listen, and I think I thus, saw controlling one’s hair as a sign of independence. I also found I simply liked change. When my brother started dating his wife, Becky, she was in school to become a hairdresser and I was her happy guinea pug. She took my hair from blonde to plum to a black disaster and back to red again. I have thus been practically every color imaginable over the last twenty years and sometimes more than one color at once. When my niece Catherine would draw pictures of her family in school, she would often color my stick figure representation with rainbow colored hair.
I say I’ve been every color imaginable, but in reality I’ve been practically every color but brown. I tried to dye it back once or twice, but always hated it so much that it took only an hour or two before I went out and added some streaks or re-dyed it a different color all together.
The other day after Christmas I decided to go back to my roots, so to speak. I went to the hairdresser and asked her to dye my hair mocha with blonde tips. Actually, I think my color now is darker than my natural color, but not by much and who can really tell, because dyed hair, no matter how well done. is always more one-dimensional than natural, and, it has been years since I saw my real hair, but for now at least I’m a brunette again.
I’m not entirely sure I feel like me yet. For years I wore my hair a cherry red color that became almost signature and recently, I managed to stop dying my hair for enough years to grow it long and blonde, which I absolutely loved and felt right at home. But the itch to change came back and I cut it shorter and red, then cut it again so that I can grow it out and now, well, now its brown. As I was dyeing it, I read an article that says that men are more likely to pick up an object dropped by a blonde woman in a tight white tee shirt than a brunette, so maybe I made a big mistake, but so be it.
I’m sure there’s all sorts of psychological reasons besides those already mentioned for my hair-changing obsession, but this is what I know for sure. It’s fun, it’s an adventure and while it offers some surprise, it’s entirely within my control. It’s a way to shake things up, become a different person without a permanent commitment – it grows back, you can color it again. It’s cheaper than buying a ticket to Paris or moving to New York. It’s a way to explore different facets of myself. It’s anything, but boring.
So in a way, getting back to my roots is a way of being a whole new me. And, I just noticed it’s even trendier than I first thought. My new color, dark brown with blonde tips, matches my dog. Waffles, like her father Puddlegum, has fawn undertones to her black coat. If you look close at her shoulders and rump, the tips of her dark fur look frosted blonde. We’ll look so cute together while out on the town, I’m sure the right pug-loving guy will stop to help us if we drop something on the sidewalk…
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
Happy New Year from Pugs and Pics!
Vader's Tree
I admit it, I've been pretty wiped out lately. I love Christmas, but with Christmas cards, parties, deadlines, scrapbooks, etc. etc. I seem to find myself sick by season's end. It has been hard to keep up with the blog. Almost all the writers I know define themselves as writers by saying they have to write. Problem is that's all I've been doing -- writing Christmas letters, writing articles, writing scrapbook captions, by the time I get to the blog I have a serious case of writer's block. Sometimes I know what I want to write about but my head is spinning and with this cold, it's just been plain stuffy. Plus, try writing something creative after you've worked all day mapping out an article on appraisers. So, I've posted Christmas cards and photos, waiting for my battery to recharge.
I've found sometimes that the best way to write an article that I am struggling with is to try doing something else. So, to re-energize I've been playing with my new Lensbaby lens. Friday, before the sore throat got too bad, I went outside and played in the snow with my nephew and his girlfriend taking pictures. I looked up at the tree in the front yard and saw this nest. I've been seeing a lot of nests this season and have even written about it here. Perhaps it's because the trees have been bare so long without snow, though there is plenty of snow now. I love nests. If you look at them closely, you can see the resourcefulness of their makers -- I have seen some garnished with plastic shopping bags and caution tape. The birds that make them are survivors, creating homes from sticks and straw, garbage and dirt. They speak of comfort, home, nurturing, and hard work.
This nest was in Vader's tree, the tree I look him to sit under before he died. Back then, in June, it was leafy and green, a wonderful canopy of life above our heads. The sun shone through the leaves, white, dazzling, beautiful. This tree is bare, the sun hidden behind the cold, blue winter sky. But there in what appears to be a blustery winter scene sits this nest, a testament to life. And, despite the cold and the stress, the deadlines and the writer's block, I rise up to embrace it.
Photo Splish and Dumble
Photo of Splish and Dumble
Here is one of the photos that Sara sent of Splish Splash and Dumbledore or Ginny and Otis as they are now called. I like their new names, what they lack in color they make up for in warmth. You can't tell they were given in love. I have written often about the names of the pugs--both the names we give them and the ones they receive. They are the thread that binds us to them, their old names to us, their new names to their new owners, and somehow These people to us as well. It is like an umbilical chord that though cut is never severed.
Why is this important? I can't quite put my finger on it yet, it has something to do with stewardship and responsibility, a lifelong promise that they were sent out into the world with love, a contract that the new owners promise they will keep. These dogs may not care which name they answer to, but they care how they are treated. The names are our seal and our promise, because I believe it matters somehow, our relationship with these creatures with whom we share our homes and hearts. it matters even after they are gone.
Blog Splish and Dumble
Splish Splash and Dumbledore
If we are lucky, the Christmas letter I send out for my friend Joan outlining the comings and goings at Pugdom each year, goes out into the world and starts yielding a response. The owners of our Pugdom pups start sending back their own cards, letting us know how the pugs have grown and changed; many send pictures. The responses started coming in yesterday. The first was from Sara, who owns two "Pugdom Pugs" -- Dumbledore and Splish Splash. Dumbledore was one of the magician litter, which also comprised Gandalf, Copperfield, Merlin and Hocus Pocus. Splish Splash was part of our "Champagne" litter -- although in the end the names had little to do with the beverage -- instead we had Reepicheep, Suteki, Sangria and Splish. Sara took in Dumbledore first and years later inherited Splish Splash from her mother. Both have been renamed. Dumble is now Otis and Splish, Ginny, somewhere along the way she lost an eye.
Sara sent a handful of photographs of the two dogs together and alone. The names on the backs alternated between their given names and the names she chose. She says Dumbledore is 10, graying on the chin and still has the nice trot just like his brother Gandalf. Splish or Ginny appears to be his constant companion.
Each year, I also find many of my cards returned unopened in the mailbox. As time passes, people move and we lose track of them and the dogs we loved. It is nice when we receive the pictures back instead.
For Christmas I received a new Sensu artist brush stylus. I purchased a Nomad artist brush stylus for my sister-in-law. I used the new stylus to create the above sketch and really liked the way it felt and looked like a real brush.
Frosty
No, we haven't built a snowman yet, this year, we just haven't had enough snow. But it has become a Christmas dream. In the meantime, I am building one on paper (or technically on the i-pad) adding to my repertoire of Christmas sketches. Enjoy!