From the Orphanage

Wow. It's been over a year since I last posted. That's a whole lotta water under a whole lotta bridges, not the least of which is the 45th President of the United States. He's giving us an interesting ride. One wonders what Buck would have to say about the State of the Union.

In January, my Daddy suffered a recurrence of the lung cancer and was facing another round of radiation in March. He really hated that prospect, almost as much as he hated  the three-armed gowns he had to wear at treatment. (I swear, for being such a brilliant human being, he simply could not figure out to get into those gowns! Baffles me to this day.) He was down to about 120 pounds -- and he was nearly 6 feet tall. He had no appetite, no interest in much of anything, and no hope.

So, in the evening of Tuesday, March 7th, he called me -- somewhat later than usual -- to ask if I would take him some Ensure the next day. I said sure, even though I was scheduled to take him to a doc appointment on that Friday, just two days later. He asked what time I thought I might get there and I replied, "Around midday." I told him I'd see him tomorrow and we said our goodnights.

I arrived on his front porch around noon that next day, and his door was locked. His door was never locked when he was expecting me. I had left my key at home, so I rang the doorbell. I could see through the top of the cafe-curtained front window that the lamp beside his chair was on, and I could hear Rush Limbaugh on the radio; I'm too short to be able to see what was going on in the front room, though. I waited and waited, calling his landline (and leaving a message) and his cell. I thought maybe he was in the bathroom -- he had been suffering unpleasant GI issues -- so I continued to wait, knocking every so often. After 30 minutes, I called the apartment manager, fearing that he might have fallen.  She came immediately, unlocked the door, opened it, and immediately pulled it closed.

She had seen him in his chair, with his head slumped on his chest, and blood coming from what she first thought was his nose. She called 911 and advised me not to go in.

Ambulances, fire trucks, police cars, EMTs, detectives, and ultimately the Coroner swarmed the retirement village -- not a rare sight, unfortunately.

We waited on the porch as the police investigated -- thank God for Miss Carolyn! When the Officer came out to call the Detectives, he said to Carolyn, "There's a gun," and I buried my head in my jacket.

I learned a lot about how law enforcement operates that day, and I will say this -- Little Rock's LE forces have some of the most professional, most thorough, kindest, and most compassionate people in the world. They explained each step they were taking to me, right down to the fact that they had to find the bullet in the wall (fortunately the lady next door was in the hospital, so she was spared all the drama. And bullets.), and that they had taken Daddy's driver's license because, technically, it belongs to the State (which I suspect is just a ruse for identification purposes).

My family arrived with flashers blinking and started making calls. Blur.  A long/flash-forward afternoon.  And, suddenly, I was an orphan.

I wrote the obituary -- it ran in the Sunday paper:

Lee Arthur Clayton of Little Rock moved to Heaven on Wednesday, March 8, 2017, in time to have lunch with his beloved wife, whom he hadn’t seen since 1977. Speculation has it that they enjoyed a “Seedy Bun” cheeseburger from Minute Man.

Art was born in Dumas, Arkansas, on April 3, 1929, to James Vance Clayton and Hattie Nuckols Clayton.

A graduate of the University of Arkansas and a member of Kappa Sigma Fraternity, Art joined the Navy, served in Korea on the carrier Sicily, and remained in the USNR (attaining the rank of Lieutenant Commander) until retirement after 20 years. He had quite a diverse civilian work life in the financial industry at Commercial National Bank; Stephens, Inc.; First Commercial Bank; and Union National Bank. He was appointed by the Governor to complete his father’s term as Arkansas State Treasurer in the early sixties, but decided not to run for that office as successor. His favorite place to hang his hat, however, was the Yarn Mart, where he spent a happy decade running the business end while his wife, Shay, handled face time with clients. He spent his retirement years engaged in keeping up with technological advances, working at several retail establishments, doing a little traveling, and enjoying family.

 Family was his Joy.

An only child, Art was predeceased by his parents and his wife, Shay Foshee Clayton. He is survived by his daughter, Terry Clayton Paulson and her husband Walt; grandchildren Shay Rafferty and husband Tim; Veronica McClane and husband Nick; and Stephen Paulson; along with great-grandchildren Jack and Clayton Rafferty; Walter Arthur (Mac) McClane; and Will, John, and Lizzy Paulson. 

His family is certain of one thing -- he is eternally grateful that he will never have to endure another “Spring Forward/Fall Back” or presidential election. 

The family will greet friends at a graveside service at 2:00 pm on Tuesday, March 14^th, at Forest Hills Cemetery.

A whole lot of memories fought to get in that obit, but there was just so much room. Plus, I got to share a few more at the graveside service (in the sleet!):

I have had the great, good fortune in my life to get to rub elbows with some brilliant people. Two of those brilliant men in particular played a significant role in molding the woman I am today – one is the man I’ve been married to for nearly 39 years, and the other is the man who raised me. 

My father was a certifiable genius. He loved taking things apart to see what made them work, and researching them on the Internet. He always got in on the ground floor when any advance in technology was launched. I can’t begin to count the number of computers he went through, going back to the days when he had to use DOS to program a Tandy to welcome me with “Hello, Terry” on its screen. Amateur astronomy was one of his hobbies, so I grew up reading Sky and Telescope just for fun. He spent countless hours holed up in what Mama and I called “the LaBORatory,” tinkering with things and visiting with friends on amateur radio. And he always built the radios. He and Mama had one of the first Pong games on the market, and one of the first digital clocks that ticked out hours, minutes, and seconds. He said it was a graphic way of watching your life slipping away. Daddy could be a bit of a pessimist. 

He was also a kind and loving father. His work life allowed him to spend a lot of time with me in my formative years, and he didn’t completely recognize that I was a girl.  He taught me how to shoot a pellet gun (Sometimes out the bathroom window. Daddy had an odd dislike of sparrows.) He taught me how to throw a spiral pass with a football. He would take me out to the airport where we would park at the end of the runway and he would teach me how to identify private aircraft by their structure – I can spot a forked-tail Bonanza right off the bat. We loved to cruise Lake Maumelle on the party barge named FUBAR Maru that he owned with some Navy buddies, but, I was well into adulthood before I learned that “FUBAR” was not exactly the acronym of Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition. He taught me how to recognize features of the night sky in unusual ways – for example, the Pleiades is an open star cluster that resembles a martini glass with a bent stem. Every elementary school age child should know all about martini glasses, right? He showed me how June bugs would make a funny popping sound when you tossed them into burning charcoal, and how to catch lightning bugs. He made fudge every time it snowed. He made really good fudge. 

Daddy wasn’t exactly gaga over children, but I was an exceptional child, as were my children and their children. He would tell that to anyone who asked about us. And to some who didn’t ask. We are convinced that he fought the good fight these last few years just so he could be around for us. And that is why, although his exit was not exactly what we would have chosen for him, and we will miss him, we rejoice that he has found his peace. 

See you later, Daddy. We love you.

Younger Daughter also gave a eulogy -- it was lovely. Oddly enough, she, too, talked about his love of birds. She also recounted how, one Christmas, she and Elder Daughter gave their "Boompie" a Beta Fish, thinking he needed a little low-maintenance companionship. He refused their gift! (Boy, that one really got under my skin -- I told him he should have taken it, flushed it, and told them that it had died. Sheesh!) So, they took it home with them and named it "Eyore," their pet name for their grandfather.

And, the memories keep on coming.

I don't like this orphan business, but it's taught me a lot with all that has followed in dealing with the government, and the military, and banks, and . . .  . I have come to the conclusion that we should never die -- it's waaaay too expensive and complicated.

Heartbreak at Moogie's Manor

We spoiled him mercilessly for the last few weeks of his life, cooking steak and burgers for him every few hours so he wouldn't starve. We soaked up all the love we could manage, then we let our precious pup, our Bouie, trot across the Rainbow Bridge on November 3rd. He was suffering from untreatable, diffused carcinoma of the liver, and even though he gave it a valiant battle, he let us know that he was ready to move on to his next adventure with companions, both old and new. The following is my Facebook post on that sad, sad morning:

"We held our Bouie as he crossed the bridge this morning. We took turns last night lying beside him on the floor -- he was always a floor kind of guy. He ate some rotisserie chicken for breakfast after a last walk with his best friend, and his canine family. He was so weary and weak that it didn't take long for his great, strong heart to stop, peacefully and painlessly. I told him that we'll see him soon. His best friend wrote a beautiful tribute to him. I love you, Bouligny Voodoo, forever and always. Au revoir, my precious puppy."

Here is Pepper's:

Somehow, my house, usually full of joy and activity, is very lonely and empty today. My best friend and soulmate, Bouie, went to heaven today. He was very sick with cancer and was becoming uncomfortable, and so we went yesterday to duck camp and walked around the fields and blinds for one last time. 
This was a great dog. He was a superb hunter, retriever and flusher, yes, but he was also a loving friend to all who knew him. He had ultimate patience, and let grandkids pull on him, run over his tail with bikes, all without complaint. When we went hunting, he knew the minute we stopped the truck where we were. He was excited and alert, wanting to miss nothing. When the alarm went off in the mornings of a hunt, he was first up, ears perked, pacing, ready to go. And he could go all day. Strong, fast, and bright, he hunted like the champion he was. 
From the time I drove to Texas to pick him up, as a strange, gangly, somewhat homely puppy with a pointy head and a long nose, he was skeptical at first, but soon became my best buddy. I can't say I walked him every day, but I bet I got 90%. It was our thing, to walk every morning and every evening, to run miles on the neutral ground. We would go to Bayou St. John twice a week and practice duck dog jumping and retrieves. We would practice marking and retrieving two, three, four birds. I taught him how to flush in one week, and he was one of the best at our hunting camp.
When Katrina hit and we moved back after a long evacuation, the City Park golf courses were closed, so we were able to run almost every weekend along the cart trails and through the woods, chasing whatever was there, and diving into any lake, bayou or creek that looked inviting.
This is the prayer I whispered in his ear as he went to sleep today:
"Dear Father, please welcome our boy Bouie, into your house, into your arms, into your heart. Please make him strong, fast and free again, without pain. Find some folks around heaven who will take him on walks, play fetch and retrieve with tennis balls and dummy ducks, and play catch with popcorn and pizza crusts. Every now and then, let him run through a park chasing white birds until they fly, and diving into water at full gallop. However you hunt in heaven, please take him along. He is masterful at it, and he loves it so. Most of all, Lord, let him find friends who love him, and who he can love. He is really good at that, and he loves it most of all."
Goodbye, my great friend."

An anonymous friend sent us this lovely Memorial Candle and "Bouie's Prayer." It warmed our hearts.

Some favorite Bouie moments:

 Bouie Puppy splashing in the waterbowl.

 On sentry duty

 Sweet face

 His favorite nap spot in Little Rock

Our hearts still hurt, and the girl dogs are still confused -- although they are very cuddly and mindful of where we are at all times.  My chest is tight and my eyes are a little leaky right now. There are just some family pets who creep into your very soul. He was one of those, and his absence physically hurts.

I brought Bouie's ashes home last Friday, so he is here with us again, resting in a place of honor where he can watch over all his loved ones.  So, cheers to you, Bou Boy!  See you soon.

One Family's Meaningful Farewell Tribute

There is a charming obituary in today's Arkansas Democrat-Gazette announcing the passing of a delightful lady, Ms. Freeda.

Included in the heartfelt tribute to Ms. Freeda was a treasure trove of information about her well-lived life, such as:

Freeda sledgehammered every rule of eating healthy to obtain a nice long life. She had a passionate love of peanut butter cookies, cornbread and buttermilk, pecan pies, candy bars, and Diet Coke. She lived to be 80.

And then there was:

Freeda disliked very much any Texas or Alabama football team and considered any game those states won as rigged or otherwise not on the up-and-up. She disliked very much the end of football season, her middle name, and McDonald's.

My favorite passage, however, is the opening one:

Freeda . . . passed on August 12. A fact that is not lost on the family is that she died before she could see Hillary Clinton elected, just as she had hoped.

What a delightful, intelligent lady!!! Her family closed with this:

A service will be held . . . where it is asked that you bring your Razorback spirit. In lieu of flowers the family asks that you instead go fishing. Watch a Razorback game. Eat a well-made pecan pie. And love.

I do believe Miss Freeda was a lady whose acquaintance I would have loved to have made. Rest peacefully, Ms. Freeda. And a raucous Wooo Pig Soooieee from Moogie's Manor.

No Longer Exiled in Portales

There's a hole in the internet.

It's the spot once occupied by Norman "Buck" Pennington, who self-identified as "a twice-retired guy (USAF and IT industry) who lives in a motor home, semi-permanently docked in Portales, NM."  I mean, don't you just intuit that a huge spot would be occupied by a guy who's twice-retired, and lived in "interesting" accommodations?

Back in 2011, when I nominated Buck for the "Stylish Blogger Award," (an honor which he politely declined), I described his blog as "Buck's ruminations on most anything that crosses his mind.  And beer.  And cigars.  And music." But there was much more to that blog, and to Buck, than just those few throw-away words.  Much more. I mean, that list doesn't even mention planes, or Buck being a "sensitive seventies kind of guy" (on occasion -- ;-) ), or HOCKEY, for crying out loud!

I first started following Exile in Portales when I ran across one or another of Buck's comments on some blog (probably conservative or satirical. Or both.) back in 2009 when I first started exploring the Blogosphere. It wasn't long thereafter that I began to think of Buck as an actual flesh-and-blood friend. We emailed, we were both Grammar Nazis, we sent each other jokes that shouldn't have been put out there in the Blogosphere to serve as ammunition against us or our families at some point in the future, we commiserated, and gave advice to one another. He schooled me in the phrase, "get off my lawn!" Shoot, he and Andy even taught me how to make the Internet do italics and bold!

I got to know his family -- he adored his family -- and shared his pride in their accomplishments. He got to know my family. He put up with all my posts about our dogs. He rarely failed to post a comment on my posts whether they were about politics or weather or birdfeeders. I could always count on a visit from my friend, Buck.

But, he fell through that hole in the internet late last month, and now he's off on a new adventure in What Follows Next. He's truly no longer bound by physical limitations, or Exiled anywhere in this plane of existence.

I can expect no more visits from my friend, Buck.

But, I can visit his place from time to time and maybe read his Blog from its beginnings. And I can look for updates from his sons on how they plan to carry out Buck's last wishes: to be cremated and scattered at a bunch of fun places.  Well played, sir. Well-played.

I'll miss you, buddy. Enjoy Happy Hour, wherever you are. *clinking of glasses (preferably Waterford)*

Being "Thankful For My Family" Doesn't Begin to Describe How I'm Feeling Right About Now

 The funeral was yesterday.  My heart broke for those parents whom Fate had led to sit in front of an open casket, draped with both a folded American flag and an Arkansas Razorback flag, bearing the body of their 24 year-old son. My heart broke for his siblings.  My heart broke for the love of his life and mother of his child. For his son and extended family. For his brothers and sisters in arms. For his church family. For every parent in that room.

The slide show celebrating his life brought both tears and laughter. The three different preachers got their message of salvation across. The music was both iconic and touching, ranging from "Amazing Grace" to Kenny Chesney to Christian rap, among others. I must admit, I've never heard Christian rap before. It was interesting.

The whole service exhausted me. And it terrified me, as you will see, with good cause.

SIL#2 and Younger Daughter sat beside #2's mother in the front row.

The evening before, Wednesday evening, my precious young family was on I-30, on its way to the visitation, in stop-and-go rush hour traffic.  #2 was driving their 6 day-old Toyota Venza while YD sat in back with 10 month-old Grandbaby#5, without wearing her seatbelt so she could more easily tend to #5. (The car was their second brand-new car in less than a month, by the way, because the first one turned out to be a genuine, irreparable, dangerous lemon. This one was much better.)

SIL#2 had come to a safe stop, along with the flow of traffic, and (fortunately) within a reasonable distance from the car ahead of him, when YD saw him coming. She flung herself over the baby the split second before she felt the impact.

Daughter was slammed around the back seat; SIL#2 smacked his head on the windshield, even though he was wearing his seat belt. No air bags deployed. Thank God for a strong car seat -- a little fear was the worst that the Grandbaby suffered. The new car was, of course, rendered not drivable, but SIL managed to get it limpingly to the shoulder anyway, and without being driven into the car in front of them..

The unlicensed, non-English-speaking driver, with no insurance, who plowed into them at 50 mph in stop and go traffic told the State Trooper, before he was taken away on a stretcher to be treated at a hospital at taxpayer expense, that he had just consumed "solamente tres cervezas." (Only three beers.) And, we all know that "solamente tres cervezas" probably means several mas cervezas than tres.

Is my rage showing?

Pepper pulled into the driveway from running with Grandbaby#1 just as I was pulling out, so he hopped in the car with me and we got to the kids, during rush hour, in record time. I took #2 an ice pack. I'm not sure it helped him, but it helped me to be able to do something.

Today, the day after that sad, sad funeral, just remembering that phone call from Younger Daughter and its aftermath has opened the spigot on my teary faucet. I have sent up countless prayers thanking my good God for sheltering my family and preventing what might have been. My Facebook post thanked God and Toyota for their safety. The kids went to the ER later Wednesday evening with #2's father and his wife and checked out fine, but for the whiplash. They took a goofy photo there that showed them trussed up in neck braces, grinning and flashing thumbs up. YD texted the pic to me and Elder Daughter, captioning it as this year's Christmas card photo. I think the good drugs had kicked in by then.

They were stiff and sore yesterday, and SIL#2 still has a pretty impressive goose egg on his forehead, but they could have been so, so much more worse off. I can't imagine the panic that SIL#2's mother must have felt when she got that call from #2 explaining why they couldn't make it to the visitation.

The stress level at Moogie's Manor is running pretty high right about now, and we can't really put all of this behind us until Tuesday. We will bury that young man in the VA Cemetery on Tuesday -- the first day available for a burial. Pepper worked his contacts to smooth the process for the parents. Thirty-five years of military service pay off in the most unusual ways sometimes.

So. I need to turn my thoughts to happier places in my mind. How about more Spring flower pictures?

This is the bed in the side yard.  We put in the geraniums and croton earlier in the week. The pop of color makes us happy.

This is another view of the bed. The Son and his family gave me that Bottle Tree for Christmas. I really like it. Annnnd, I've added a couple of bottles to it since Christmas!  ;-)

I love the white azaleas beneath the Japanese maple at the top of the driveway.

This is the white dogwood and its companion Japanese maple beside the front door as seen from the dining room windows. I took this pic yesterday because gazing at this natural beauty reveling in the filtered sunlight gave me such a sense of peace.

Tell your loved ones how much they are loved. We are not promised tomorrow.

I hope this is the end of that Case of the Creeps I posted about in March. I think I'll go play in the dirt some more.

Operating With a Heavy Heart

I've been AWOL.  Not really sure why. All I know is that I've been very introspective the last week or two. I've reached a stage in my life where time seems either to stand still or move past like a blur.

Last Thursday, my Daddy celebrated his 85th birthday!  Well, we celebrated it -- he tolerated it.  Pepper and I took lunch to him and had a nice visit.  He even agreed to come to our house on Sunday for a belated cake fest with his grandkids and great-grandkids. (Daddy has advanced COPD and requires three lung treatments per day, plus oxygen, so his trips out are few, even though he still drives during the day.) Everyone was going to be here -- what fun!

Except . . .

Except that  the previous Saturday, SIL#2's 24 year-old stepbrother was gravely injured in a horrific motorcycle accident.  He had been in what was supposedly a medically induced coma in ICU, undergoing tests and surgeries to stabilize his battered and broken body.  His father posted photos of the Crotch Rocket, before and after, on his Facebook page.  If you hadn't seen the Before photo, you wouldn't have been able to tell what was being featured in the After photo.

Daddy had already gotten here when Younger Daughter called.  They had been summoned to the hospital and wouldn't be able to come over.  Four hours later, Chris was gone, leaving behind a shell-shocked and grieving family, including a three year-old son.  He survived deployment to Iraq, but not Interstate 440.

Time stood still for his family for more than a week.

Now, time paces inexorably forward and the healing struggles to begin.  The family has a very strong faith and knows that they will all be reunited in the next plane. But, even holding onto that promising certainty, they are hurting. And we hurt for them.

Elder Daughter is also hurting for the loss of a college friend the day before the accident -- a sorority sister who always stood beside her -- and who left this world by her own hands.  She grieves the loss of her friend, yet the friend's passing gave Elder Daughter the impetus to communicate with their pledge class, and, in the process, to exorcise -- in a healthy way -- some demons she's been carrying around for years.

So, even though it's Spring and life is popping out all around us, a cloud hovers over the sun.

Still, I just walked down the hall and spied a little stuffed hippopotamus (or "hickeymapotus," as Elder Daughter used to say) hanging out by a door, where Grandbaby #4 left him yesterday in all his toddler busy-ness.  How can seeing that not bring a smile to the face?  There is joy yet in this sometimes cruel world. And, I intend to hold onto that joy.  So, here is the picture I posted to my Facebook page yesterday while the party was going on, captioned, "Pants and shoes?  I don't need no stinkin' pants and shoes at Boompie's 85th birthday party!"

And time marches on, clutching joy in its weary hands.

Don't you just want to smooch that precious, innocent face?

A Sad Farewell

It's a sad day in Moogie's World.

Elder Daughter and family are in New Orleans for a huge Family St. Patrick's celebration -- it's been planned for at least a year.  A friend has been house/dogsitting for them. We got the call while enjoying lunch after the local parade -- Pippi, ED's 11-year old Chiweenie, was in serious distress.

We raced to get there. I cuddled with her as I lay beside her on the floor, and told her what a good girl she was as she labored to breathe. Younger Daughter got there to hold her and get ED on speaker phone. Little Pippi Lou Puparoo left us after she heard her Mama's voice and responded to it. We were all a sobbing, rattled mess.

Tyson, ED's boxer boy, came home with us because he knows our pups, and will be distracted by them. He's very confused. (Although, it's not particularly unusual for Tyson to be confused. He's more of a lover than an intellect.)  And, he's a little frightened by the doggy door. I hope our pups convince him it's not going to get him.

I'll never forget the vision of a tiny, frisky half-dachshund/half chihuahua months-old puppy prancing toward me with those Dobby ears flying and tail wagging to beat the band the first time I met her. Pepper gave her a taste of his hamburger on that trip to Fayetteville -- that was her first "people" food.  We didn't tell ED for awhile. ;-)

Farewell, our Pippi Lou (or "Pickles," as SIL#1 calls her.) You'll forever remain in our hearts and memory.  I choose to remember you as that little puppy, and as patiently tolerating your Mother as she took picture after picture of you so that you could forever be our Pippi Rudolph:

Thanks for the love, little Pippi Burrito. We'll miss you so.

Coming to Terms, With Attitude

I picked up my precious Rosie's ashes from the Vet's office the day before yesterday -- on Valentine's Day.  The "Heaven's Pets" people had snipped a lock of her black and white curly tail and sealed it in a bag.  (I had forgotten they do that -- I learned when we lost Wendy.)  It took my breath away for a moment when I first pulled the translucent black cloth bag out of the envelope containing the Certificate of Cremation and a copy of "The Rainbow Bridge" personalized for Rosie.  But, then, I pressed the little bag to my chest and felt a wave of peace pass over me.  I'll have a little bit of my puppy with me forever.

Early Wednesday morning, she came to me in a dream.  She saw me and pranced over to me with Red Ball in her mouth and nuzzled my hand!  I could feel it as plainly as I feel my fingertips on the keyboard right now.

We did the right thing by letting her go.

Someday I'll post the limerick I wrote for her when she was a puppy.  My children thought I was nuts.  (Still do.)

So, I think I'll try to remember her like she was in the picture above, when she had spunk to spare.

And, Pepper told me that if I get to missing her too much, he'll walk around in circles on the bed, then fall off, and wipe his face on my clothes.  I may take him up on his offer just to watch it.

But now, so as not to be a totally maudlin Debbie Downer, I'll share the new philosophy that I've recently adopted -- kind of Moogie's passive-aggressive version of GOML*:

Sorry.  Have a lovely day!

*Get Off My Lawn

Roseldy Poseldy, Cutest of Puppy Dogs . . .

Pepper and I held her as she crossed over the Rainbow Bridge this afternoon.  She was peaceful and ready to go, having shared my turkey wrap for lunch, plus having snarfed down several treats after the sedative.  They gave her the hiccups.

Now she can see again, and chase Red Ball, and Sit Pretty, and she has a voice again so she can yap at passersby.

And she told me that she'd be waiting for us at the Bridge, and will show us around when we get there, along with Wendy and Chewy and the others who preceded her.

She hasn't steered me wrong in 17 years -- why should she start now?

(Believe it or not, I'm not crying in this pic, taken this morning in the good light -- I just have a bad cold.  But Younger Daughter told me last night that I needed to have a picture of just Rosie and me, especially since I'm the one usually taking the pictures of Rosie and somebody else.  I think she was right.)

Farewell, Rosie Posie. We love you more than you can know.

Lagniappe 2001-2010

What does it say about you when you meet a guy and his dog in cyberspace and grow to feel like you actually know them? 

Then the dog develops a painful, crippling disease and you go through it with his guy. 

Then you spend all Sunday morning alternately sniffling and weeping.

Farewell, Lagniappe.  Have fun running and tussling with other dogs until your buddy gets there to join you.  Be sure to have some ice cream and popcorn on hand.

Not-so-Mysterious and Pride

So there was a mysterious, unexplained let's-dance-all-around-it contrail spotted and videoed off the California coast last night.   Just some 30 miles off the coast, some say.

I know what it was.

Young Kim Jong Un is feeling frisky and wanting to stretch his 27-year-old, 4-star General-ish muscles.  Even though he's not an Admiral (that we know of -- yet), he apparently has command authority over the NorK submarine fleet. 

That has to be what it was -- NorK missile fireworks to entertain the Young Un.

And to send a message to our Young President who will be visiting Young Un's backyard shortly.  I hope the State Department is paying attention.

On another hand, some friends threw a "Going to Officer Basic Farewell Party" for The Son on Sunday.  I was in Little Rock and actually got to attend!  He'll be at Ft. Sill -- that's close enough to be able to get home for Thanksgiving, a long Christmas break, and occasional weekends until he finishes up in April.  I'm pretty proud of him -- and of his precious family for supporting him.  So, these are Moogie's kids -- a pretty handsome group if I do say so myself!

Good luck, Kiddo!  Cock some cannons and kick some butt!

Another Weekend of Conflicting Emotions

I'm back from a successful wedding dress shopping trip, scheduled many months ago.  Younger daughter can now check "The Dress" off her list!  It was a happy, wondrous, magical, tiring, and very sad weekend.

I got to experience an unplanned gathering of my children's long-time friends, some of whom I haven't seen in years.  Some of them have children now, and I even got to hold one of them -- just a couple of months old -- in my arms! 

They fell right back into easy "black girl/white girl" friendships. (Remember, they went to public schools in Little Rock, Arkansas -- they are very comfortable being friends with people who may not look exactly like them. They even had a "Black Girls/White Girls Club" in high school and all of them had "names" from the other race. Younger Daughter's black-girl name was LaTacoBella; one of the black girls' white-girl name was Muffy Buffington.). A few guys even showed up.  The group was made up of both locals and several who have re-located at a distance.  They reminisced, they watched old home movies, they pored over high school yearbooks, they laughed, they cried, they "slumber-partied," they drank too much, and ate too little.

At twenty-seven years of age, they buried one of their own.  She looked like a sleeping angel.  They "called the Hogs" at the cemetery. 

And, they celebrated her too-short life as only they could -- together again, as she would wish.

Rest in peace, sweet Casey.  You're not in pain any longer, but you will be missed.  And never forgotten.

Southern Roots Run Deep

The photo is from the National Cemetery in Vicksburg, but it calls to mind my weekend sojourn into family.

I just got back from a quick turn-around trip (7 hours behind the wheel on both Friday and Saturday -- one forgets how very long Mississippi is!) to northern Mississippi for a family funeral. There are so few left from my father's split-age generation that I daren't miss any opportunity to see my cousins who live in far-off places.

Rush, the younger son of my grandmother's twin sister, passed away in March, and since his immediate family is scattered all across the globe -- literally -- they decided to wait until mid-summer to hold the commitment and memorial service in a quaint Episcopalian country church founded by Rush's grandfather in the 1800s. Each of his three daughters did a reading of scripture during the service, one son-in-law played hauntingly beautiful Irish pipes that echoed around the nave, and Rush's foster son from Togo served as pallbearer for the cherrywood box of ashes that Rush's wife had carried with her aboard the plane from their home in D.C., fearing all the time that TSA would give her enough trouble that she would be forced to cause a scene.

(Having lived with Rush in countless countries during his career in the Diplomatic Corps -- on at least three continents, in both hemispheres -- Joanna is gracious, but also very world-wise, and I wouldn't want to get crossways with her about something that touches her heart. Fortunately for them, the TSA chose this occasion to act with restraint and respect.)

At the cemetery, all of Rush's grandchildren bade him farewell with a single rosebud, barely opened, to symbolize his new journey taken without them.

After the ceremony, as is typical, everyone had to search out the headstones of departed loved ones and share memories of good times long ago. One of the daughters -- the one who lives in the Netherlands, I believe -- seemed a bit uncomfortable, and wondered aloud whether it would seem inappropriate for her to take a few photographs of the gravesite and headstones. I overheard her and assured her that, not only was it appropriate, it was practically expected, seeing as how she was in the south, and that's simply what we do.

And that opened a floodgate.

Several family members, in multi-national and geographically diverse accents, expressed astonishment about some of our southern traditions, such as "bootlegging" into "dry counties," like the one in which the gathering took place. (In which our family, being ever prepared, had engaged to take care of that small impediment!) The cousin who grew up in Arkansas but settled in Minneapolis chuckled every time he went outdoors from the air conditioning and got a first-hand reminder of the humidity when his sunglasses fogged up. Listening to them recount their observations, I just had to smile.

My favorite of those observations had to do with deeply-ingrained southern "manners;" the practice of treating mourners, even those we don't know, with respect and dignity.

For all their sophistication and exposure to many cultures, they were genuinely amazed that, as the funeral procession slowly made its way from the church to the cemetery, cars going the opposite direction not only slowed, but pulled over and stopped in respect until the last car passed. Another cousin, who grew up in Arkansas but made his home in Boston, just laughed and noted that, "back east," the other cars would pass the funeral procession and maybe honk a few times just for good measure.

It made me proud for them to acknowledge and appreciate this very important facet of just who "the southerner" is.

Perhaps that's why Rush and Joanna chose to return to his southern roots to join those of southern dust. Southern roots and a southern send-off make for a dignified first step into the next adventure.

And a pleasant memory for those left behind.

My Baby's Bittersweet Journey in the Circle of Life

These are photographs that sat on my office desk some 28 years ago until I had the privilege 3 1/2 years later of leaving the practice of law to be a stay-at-home mom full-time. (Aren't those newborn hospital photos the absolute worst?)

In four short days, this precious bald-headed baby girl will stride purposefully down an aisle in a cathedral, dressed to kill, and with a death-grip on her daddy's arm, to change her name and her life.

I wish I had volumes of words of wisdom to share with her; guidance that my mother passed on to me on my wedding day. But my mother (and her mother) had already moved to heaven before my wedding day, so I had to wing it.

Plus, I don't remember a lot about my wedding day, except looking down that long, long aisle and wondering who that handsome man was standing there, grinning at me. (To be honest, he didn't grin much, because I had gotten a serious case of the inappropriate giggles the evening before at the rehearsal and he was afraid to set me off again!)

It turns out the handsome man was that fellow I had fallen in love with, and who would share a goodly number of years with me -- nearly 32 now -- through good times, scary times, funny times, and bad ones, too. The fellow who would give me that precious baby girl.

One of the scariest times we survived was nearly losing that precious baby to meningitis at eight months of age. She spent her very first Halloween on St. Vincent's pediatric floor, hooked up to an IV instead of a trick-or-treat bag. But our family was one of the lucky ones -- we got her out of the pediatric ICU and onto the regular floor in a week's time, and then we got to take her home with us another week later. We got to take her home, and she grew up happy and healthy, with only a residual, partial hearing loss as a consequence.

In four days, she and her precious fiance will exchange vows without one of their best friends and groomsman standing beside them. Last Thursday, he became one of the unlucky ones and left this Earth before they could say, "I do." Or, "goodbye."

How do you comfort a child for that loss during the week that should be among the very happiest of her life? How do you comfort a young man you've grown to love when he has to dress as a pallbearer a week before he dons his wedding tux?

As I had to wing it at my own wedding, I'm winging it today in the comfort department, too, relying on my faith and hers -- and the overwhelming love of their circle of friends. She and SIL2B#1 are trying to view this loss as part of the Circle of Life; their friend's spot in line at the altar will remain open, and his photos will sit in a place of honor at their rehearsal dinner. They will laugh and cry and celebrate life.

Then, the next day at her wedding, I'll wing it yet again as Pepper and I try to let her go. Only this time I'll be standing in the front, watching as he walks down the aisle toward me. And I'll probably wonder who that beautiful, poised young woman is; the one who is lightly grasping the crook of his arm, nearly floating beside him.

But, when she smiles at me -- that radiant smile only worn by a young bride -- I'll know who she is: she may be becoming someone's wife, and hopefully someday she'll become someone's mother, but she'll always, always be my first-born baby girl.

And she darn well better never forget that she's my baby!

Pics to come.

Thankful . . . And Home.

It's hard to get caught up after a funeral and a family Thanksgiving. And yet more driving. All told, this trip wound up being about 2,000 miles, including one oil change and one nail in a tire.

Life as we have come to know it in the White House rolls along: The Young President telegraphed our offense to the opponent -- at West Point yet. Egad. Who knows what's going on in Honduras!

It's cold in New Orleans, but the Saints are 11 - 0!! (There will be no further discussion of Razorback football until the Liberty Bowl.)

The first hint of Mardi Gras takes place tomorrow night when my new, all-female Krewe, the Krewe of Muses, holds its holiday bazaar. Wine, frivolity, and shopping -- what could be better!

Why, the Saints being 12 - 0 will be better, of course! Beat the Redskins, Who Dat Nation!

I threw in a shot of Bouie hard at work at duck camp last week, decked out appropriately, of course. He's always been the dapper dresser. Steve took the pic -- I think it's calendar quality! Bouie didn't get to fetch any ducks, but he did get two 20+ pound geese, one of which was still alive and flapping! He didn't have to kill it (fortunately!) -- he just managed to get hold of its neck and hauled it back to Pepper for the ultimate dispatch. (I'd post the pics, but . . . you know.)

Duck gumbo will taste pretty darn good on Christmas Eve.

A Reluctant Farewell

This has been another week of conflicting emotions.

My sister-in-law Pamela (she graduated to "Pamela" from "Pam" shortly after her marriage), having been born dead some 58 years ago and resuscitated, was saddled thenceforth with cerebral palsy and epilepsy, and then grew into diabetes and Crohn's disease, among other unpleasant things.

A few months ago, in August, she had a discussion with God and her husband -- a genuine saint if ever there was one -- and then made the decision to forego any further blood transfusions or hospitalizations. They all peacefully began to make preparations for her transition from this life to the next, beginning with getting her set up with a home hospice service. She was positively giddy when she called to let us know that she had been accepted into the hospice program, and that she really liked the ladies who would be her caregivers. You would have thought she'd won a trip to Disney World.

My other sister-in-law and her daughter traveled to see Pamela in the early fall for the last time -- they had a nice visit.

My husband was not so much at peace with Pam's decision. He and his brother plotted ways to make her continue the fight to stay alive, because, well, that's just what you do -- you stay alive. Or you throw money at problems and they get all better.

They wanted her to continue the fight -- until they came face-to-face with the magnitude of the task of staying alive. Her husband, an R.N., emailed a complete synopsis of her various diagnoses and treatments, together with a list of the medications she had to take daily and their out-of-pocket cost.

The cost was pretty staggering, but the cost was not what helped them accept Pamela's decision. The fact that she would be faced with transfusions every single month and still hurt and be worn out; that she no longer had the strength to sew the blankets that she had lovingly stitched and donated to babies the world over; that she couldn't sit long enough to attend worship services; that she could no longer make her fingers work well enough to play the organ their beloved aunt had given her -- those things helped them find the peace in her decision.

But when the call came Monday evening from her weary husband, my strong, brave man still wept for the loss of his baby sister. We both shed hot, bitter tears for our loss.

For Pamela, we rejoiced.

I told Pepper that Pamela was probably playing the organ -- or even the oboe, if she chose -- or dancing with Aunt Del. He sniffed and said, "No one can really play the oboe. But, I can picture them dancing."

She never could really move the way she would have liked to here on Earth. Now, I'll bet she's in the Top 20 of "So You Think You Can Dance -- Heavenly Edition."

We lay her to rest in a few days, even though she's already found her way to eternity. And I seriously doubt whether she'll rest at all -- there's too much dancing to catch up on.

Art, Puppy Love, and Inexplicable Horror

My friend Dale is one of the nicest guys I know. He always has a smile on his face and proudly sports a tattoo of #3 for "Dale Senior;" family vacations regularly include a trip to Talledega. He and his interesting Uncle Iggy have done our heavy yard work for six years now -- he even kept up the yard while we were evacuated after Katrina.

That was a tough time for Dale -- those post-Katrina days. Not only was his home flooded (his young family lived in a FEMA travel trailer for over a year, but they still managed to add a precious baby girl to their two sons during that time!), his family's business -- a successful Nursery and Landscaping Service -- also flooded and had to start over from the ground up. To add to the misery, his younger cousin -- a strong, young soldier -- was killed in action in Iraq.

Thankfully, though they'll never get over the loss of his cousin, both the family home and the business have now fully recovered and are doing well. Dale has even added a hobby to his rather full schedule that came about as an offshoot of his late uncle's Bonsai-training business -- he has become an artist!

Yesterday morning when I took a check out to him for doing the yard, he said, "Wait a sec, I've got a present for you!" and he ran to his truck. Beaming and grinning from ear to ear, he proudly handed me this beautiful copper-wire sculpture of a hummingbird hovering near a hibiscus blossom -- just like the one in my back courtyard!

My smile and admiration of his piece pleased him, and he told me that he knew he had gotten good at the complex sculpture when his teenage son recognized the flower as a hibiscus and wasn't embarrassed by his dad's hobby any more! Ah -- the coveted approval of one's own!

I'm honored he chose to give me a piece of his work -- I think he could sell it! Now I can't wait to put it in a pot of mums on the front porch to show it off to the neighborhood, but I'll have to plant some mums first.

The non-artistic pic? Bouie had a close call yesterday when his rear leg got twisted up in the plastic mesh in the front yard. I mean seriously twisted -- I barely managed to cut the tight mesh off, and I was afraid he had hurt his hip or tendons! His poor puppy leg swelled badly, but we don't think he did any permanent damage. He didn't seem to mind the cold compress and baby aspirin too much, but he really ate up the extra attention he got from a concerned dad. See above.

So, on a day of surprises -- both good and bad -- life went on, for most of us.

For others, it was cut short, unexpectedly and treacherously in an upscale Dallas neighborhood.

R.I.P., Mary and Spud. Thanks for sending Bouie to us. And may God have mercy on your souls.

Dealing with Conflicting Emotions

I'm an only child who either had to cultivate or "marry into" sisters. I'm also a sports-loving, political junkie who is concerned about the path our country has wandered onto. So, this weekend has been one of mixed emotions for me.

The Mainstream Media refuses to give the Tea Party movement and its brethren their due; the President is trying to change the face, focus, and emotions of 9/11; my blood sugar did a jumpsy-doodle this morning; we're still under a flash flood watch in New Orleans . . .

And three years ago this morning, my clever, mischievous, funny friend lost her 18-year battle against breast cancer that began when she was only 31 years old. She was surrounded by love as she peacefully left for the next stage in this God-guided voyage that we call existence -- her family was at her bedside; my family was there to hold their hands and watch their backs.

In 2001, at the same time I moved to join Pepper full-time in New Orleans and a few months before 9/11, JB and her husband made a calculated quantum step in their lives: they sold their house, quit their jobs in New Jersey, and moved halfway across the country to be closer to their families in Arkansas. They purchased, updated, and operated a B & B in the mountains on the Spring River, and dreamed of opening a coffee shop and bookstore someday in the quaint "old town" section of their adopted village. Their older daughter summed it up perfectly -- Only her Mom would give up everything familiar to throw slumber parties and drink coffee for a living!

As her illness progressed, JB had trouble keeping weight on ("I'm quite svelte!" she would say). So, often, when I would visit and we could chase her husband out of town, we worked on crossword puzzles together in front of the television, and ate fudge and popcorn for supper with ice cream for dessert. Good for her figure, not so good for mine. We did that kind of give-and-take thing for one another, except that she couldn't stay awake late enough to suit me and I couldn't get up early enough to suit her. She would let me sleep in though, that cultivated sister of mine, and I knew that she would be sound asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, so we engaged in our antics mostly during the in-between hours.

On Thursday, the day after she left us, we decorated the Inn (and Words bookshop, which had opened a few months before), with billowing-pink-ribbon-bedecked grapevine wreaths. That send-off seemed especially appropriate for a woman who had come up with the idea to support and encourage literacy by starting a "Children's Kite-Making-and-Flying Festival."

Then we ate a lot, and celebrated her life and creativity and passions over the next 4 days. We continue to do so everyday from afar.

This morning, I posted a photo on my Facebook profile of the two of us taken on a misty evening in New Orleans a few years ago -- neither of us would've passed as "beauties" in that particular snapshot, but we were together so it is likely that we were having fun -- or at least on our way to saving the world. The caption I posted captured something "right," I think:

"Moogie's best buddy, JB, when selecting a photo to display or publish, would always , admittedly, select the one in which she was the "cutest." So, to honor her memory, still very much alive since 3 years ago on this day, and as a nod to her quirky sense of humor, I chose to publish a pic in which neither of us looks exactly her best!"

My post made her younger daughter "LOL" and engage in one of the world's very best emotions: laughter through tears (an expression that JB was very proud to have "borrowed" from Dolly Parton's character in Steel Magnolias on a regular basis).

So, this weekend has been sad for me because part of me is no longer here -- but happy that my friend no longer suffers the pain of that wicked earthly malady; sad because I can't call her on the phone to have a long-distance cup of coffee in the morning, but happy that she is out there somewhere, plotting a big adventure for the two of us when I catch up with her.

And, it's been happy because the Saints won their season opener against Detroit in the Dome today, 45-27! She would be happy that I'm happy about the Saints even though, in my estimation, she never developed an adequate appreciation for football.

So, because JB always signed off our phone conversations by admonishing me, "You take care of you," I'm going to indulge myself in a little Saintly happiness. And I wish an end-of-weekend happiness for you and yours, too, because JB would like that -- along with a little fudge and popcorn for supper.