Mother’s Day is upon us—an occasion that may have you thinking about candy, cards, brunch, and flowers. I, on the other hand, have been reminiscing about a car ride…
To get to my grandmother’s house from my childhood home was easy, and I knew every inch of the route:
Up Jackson Street and right on Winter Avenue, which you followed until you met the fork in the road. Veer left and the road wended past fairytale houses—one with a tennis court, one where I would later take horseback-riding lessons on a roan named Cokie (so called because his favorite treat was Coca-Cola)—and at the corner of the landmark pink house, turn right. Follow this road around the swamp and at the first eastside driveway past the ancient tree growing in the middle of the road, turn right.
That was Grandma’s. It hardly took 10 minutes to get there and we went there often.
Late one afternoon, we were headed for Grandma’s, but my mother took a
different route. No pretty houses, no curving road; all right angles through foreign neighborhoods. I’m sure I asked her why, and probably more than once, but I can no longer remember the story she concocted.
On our way home late that night, Mother drove the regular route. And halfway in, our car lights illuminated what she hadn’t wanted me to see: a dead dog.
Mother muttered something like, “I thought they’d have picked that up by now.” I started crying.
Mother said she was sorry I had to see the dachshund like that. She’d noticed it earlier in the day, hence had taken the long route to Grandma’s with me. I was inconsolable.
Author Susan Chernak McElroy understands. Her mother had told her early on that she’d outgrow her “craziness” over animals. But years passed, and when McElroy tried to write a tribute about her dog—crying all the while—she was ashamed by how strongly she related to her pet. She had come to believe it w
as, in her words, “a profound indicator of my lack of maturity.”
The truth is that we don’t outgrow the bond. We either deepen it by acting on it—McElroy writes books about it now, some people go into animal care or conservation. Or we hide it—“in-growing” it, as it were. But the bond remains a defining element of our identity and character.
Decades have passed since the dead dog incident of my early childhood. I can still see that dachshund lying on the pavement. And I still marvel at the effort my mother took to spare me the experience (and, no doubt, to spare herself the aggravation of a sobbing child).
Though my mother did not share the deep bond I had with animals, she acknowledged it and accepted it. For this, I’m grateful.
I’m sure my mother sacrificed much for me in my lifetime and went the extra mile for me in all sorts of ways. But the day that she drove the
literal extra mile is what I’ll always treasure as one of her greatest gifts to me.
[Pics are types of critters (besides the typical birds, cats, dogs, and horses) I’ve had relationships with, though not the specific ones I knew. Photo credits: box turtle from U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service; bunny by susang2; piglet from New Dawn Farm Sanctuary; octopus by Dave King.]
I’ve been away from my trusty Mac: searching for new digs, new environment–in short, a new life. Hence my absence from Lull. I’ll return in a few days to regular posting. But for now, I am exploring new territories and have discovered (well, I’ve always known) that I am NOT a PC and you can HAVE the new Windows (yet another reason you’re not hearing from me).
You’ve seen it already—the early-morning Parisian theft of five paintings from the City Museum of Modern Art is all over the news. Picasso. Modigliani. Léger. Matisse. Braque. One individual broke into the museum through a window and carefully removed each canvas from its frame.
ell with such self-importance? How many people will never get the opportunity to view Braque’s olive tree because one person decided s/he alone should have it? Where is the Modigliani woman fanning herself as I write?
Our search for a new apartment has begun in earnest now. I have little doubt that we’ll find something, but in case we don’t…
I used to watch older couples in restaurants when I was young and idealistic (i.e., stupid) about relationships. There was always a pair who spoke hardly a word to one another throughout their meal. I interpreted their silence as boredom, disinterest, waning compatibility. I thought it strange, sorrowful, dumb—and vowed never to find myself in their place.
Well, well, well. My quest to identify people in old family photos had some surprises. No sooner had I pulled out that little angel baby and my nearly blind grandmother (who will be 98, not 97 as I had earlier reported) started laughing.
I’m afraid I’m still having trouble putting one word in front of another and conveying any kind of meaningful post (see yesterday’s post for cause). Plus, I’m a little vertically challenged since the extraction and sitting up at the computer isn’t easy.
Had a couple of wisdom teeth pulled on Monday. Still recovering.
I’ll be computerless for a couple of days while visiting relatives. I’m taking some 19th- and early 20th-century photographs with me hoping my soon-to-be 97-year-old grandmother can identify them. For instance, this angel baby is apparently part of my family tree. Of course, after the Fiestaware disappointment, I’ll probably learn the angel belonged to the family next door. Or no one’s ever seen that pic before and I’ll be accused of playing a prank. I may have to fabricate a good story to bring to you next week…
Mother’s Day is upon us—an occasion that may have you thinking about candy, cards, brunch, and flowers. I, on the other hand, have been reminiscing about a car ride…
as, in her words, “a profound indicator of my lack of maturity.”
My husband and I met in the theatre, and though we are no longer involved with it, it still tugs at our heartstrings. 
give you a bunch of links so you can see for yourself how far puppetry can tap into our emotions and take us into another world. And how complicated the process can be prior to the performance—a process that involves many, many more disciplines than acting.
ost seems like an ad for War Horse. But for me, War Horse is everything my husband’s adversaries said puppetry wasn’t—and more. The horses are masterfully constructed, require real-life movements and sounds made by actors (approached much like actors performing biopic material), tell the story and are critical to the plot, demonstrate the innovation and magic possible in theatre today, stand on their own—without the play—as works of art, and have driven up sales in a down economy.
f of my husband. It’s my way of raising a finger to those arrogant profs and saying: “Take that!”
For those of you who have multiple jobs in multiple places listed on your résumés, I thought you might enjoy this passage from Gregg Levoy’s Callings: Finding and Following an Authentic Life.
Last night, neighbors started setting off fireworks. My immediate impulse? Close all the windows and blinds so the pooch doesn’t fret.
grocery-shopped last night. Braunschweiger was on sale and I nearly put a couple of chubs in my cart. But then I remembered: no pooch to give it to. 
