Kindness

Yesterday was a day of so much kindness I'd like to bottle it for the new year!

The kindness of friends and family, always Number One.  The Airrosti doc lets St. Lucia wander all over his office space until he actually does the treatment on my feet--when said saint jumps all the way from the floor to the table to sit protectively on top of me. The kindness of strangers, like the men at the car wash. 

Freda took Luci for a long walk in the sunshine.  When Luci hears Freda's voice on the phone, she 'bout knocks me down with her joy.   She would if she were much more than eleven pounds.

Meanwhile, my little Virginia grand-pup Tucker got into a bar of dark chocolate left on the coffee table.  His heart was racing, his pulse over the top.  One large bar of dark chocolate can do that to a small dog.The initial charge for the emergency vet was $2500--though they kindly refunded about half that because Tucker didn't need much more than an injection of potassium and overnight observation after he threw up the chocolate bar. 

It's often the little things that can turn a day.  A phone call, a word of reassurance, a listening heart, a letter or email, a waggy tail.  

As I go about my errands this morning, I hope to encounter and deliver more patches of kindness.  

Christmas Eve 2022

Jan just sent me this, said it reminded her of me.  I wonder why?

For almost two years, Luci has been everywhere with me, as you know.  I've met such kind people in grocery stories, craft stores, Lowe's, and thrift shops, dog lovers everywhere.  Central Market has been one of our favorite outings--and that counts for a lot right now. 

Last week, I was accosted by a security guard.  Well, to be honest, I was first asked if she was a service dog and I didn't lie.  I now know that there are certain instances in which a white lie might be forgiven in the big picture of things, but in the moment, feeling secure in my favorite grocery store and being in the middle of a conversation with a dog walker from Columbia, I went with my natural instinct to tell the literal truth. 

But then he got preachy and followed me to the check-out to be sure I left. 

Some workers know Luci by name.  Just last week, a woman who rescues dogs said how nice it is to see a dog in a store, "like at home in France. There, dogs go to restaurants and grocery stores all the time."

So I was taken by complete surprise when I was lectured in the middle of a pleasant encounter with the sweet Columbian woman who wants me come to her house for Columbian soup.  Until the run-in with the security guard, it had been a  "happiness is a warm puppy" kind of day.  I was so angry I cried in the car, but only until I got home, resolved to do what I can to make her officially what she already is unofficially, my support dog. 

I texted one of the docs I've been seeing about my feet, asking if he felt comfortable writing a letter attesting to her status as a service dog. Without hesitation, he said yes and a letter arrived in my inbox the next day!  

When I first took her to Central Market two years ago, I asked first.  "Sure, she's welcome!" one of the checkers told me. "We aren't allowed to ask."

Apparently the guard didn't get the memo.  

I remembered a kindness in Biloxi in September. Later than I usually stop for dinner and a bed, I was exhausted enough to ask the manager of a Waffle House if I could bring Luci in.  "Of course," he said, winking.  "I can tell she's a service dog.  Wherever you go, just tell 'em she's a service dog and they can't do a thing."

So now, just in time for Christmas, I have a service dog!  

Happy Holidays Everybody!

My Texas family is among the throngs of people waiting at airports today, but here are my four sweet grandkids in Virginia at Aunt Day's and Uncle Tom's house:

I opted to save my trip to Virginia and my trip to Georgia until after I get some resolution of my foot pain.  I went to Airossti for treatment #3 but was too inflamed with CREST to do the treatment, so will resume it this week.

Luci and I on my one pain free day since Thanksgiving--thanks to steroids, but my doc does not want to prescribe more due to possible side effects. 

Apparently, my feet are "crunchy" with scar tissue; next step an orthopedist who specializes in feet.

Meanwhile, Luci and I have a tiny tree and a warm house on this cold cold morning, water but no hot water, and so many beloved friends and family members.  We wish you all a happy healthy peace-filled holiday!

My guy Marcus

Marcus wants to be a journalist.  Here he is filling out applications to colleges, writing essays.  He's already been accepted to VCU where his brother Jackson is.  They've visited several colleges and he's hoping to find one that has an outstanding journalism program.

He's editor this year of his high school paper, plays football and lacrosse, and is an all around wonderful boy, all six feet plus of him.  

He and his dad went to Buffalo this weekend to watch the Buffalo Bills play.  The whole family loves the Bills.  Whenever they are on TV, they all dress up in their jerseys, even puppy Tucker.  

Home for a Quarter of a Decade

When I moved into the "cottage district" of Alamo Heights 27 or so years ago,  the owner happened to be pounding a For Rent sign into the all rock yard of this then-pitiful little concrete block house just as Mary Locke and I were driving by. 

She was driving me around looking for apartments a few days after I had moved out of my Married House in Helotes.  I had no money at the time except for my skimpy UTSA salary and couldn't even imagine renting anything in posh Alamo Heights.  The owner showed me a lease agreement, and the rent was $700 a month--which at the time looked exorbitant.  

I think of that  today when I hear of the soaring rental rates and the number of young people moving in with their parents.  Even on salaries way higher than mine was then, so many cannot afford houses. I talked with a woman at the vet's office this week; all three of her children at various times have come back home.   "They are all in their twenties, all college educated, one a Marine," she said.  "We've never had an empty nest."

So I looked at the $700 and felt dismayed.  The house was ugly, yes, with peeling wallpaper and an orange cracking kitchen and painted walls that looked like they'd been done by stoned painters with no masking tape.  But I could see potential in it, felt it somehow needed me for restoration.  I already loved it, but today I wouldn't trade it for anything. 

Mary Locke suggested we call my parents and see if they could help--which they didn't hesitate in saying yes to!  

This morning, as I was driving back from my coke run, the trees spilling gold and orange leaves on the ground under the umbrella of limbs on my pretty street, I got a flash of the street when I first found it.  Back then, all the houses were small like mine, or at least middle-sized.  There were spaces between them for visiting and parking.  

Year by year, more large houses have taken the place of smaller ones.  Lots that used to give some houses a nice patch of yard have been taken over by large houses.  Two houses, one of which is super modern,  have filled the space where my late-friend Allen used to live in an historic Alamo Heights house.  He always claimed it was the first house in '09.  In some cases, the spaces between houses is minimal, as little as four or five feet.  On every street, large new houses have appeared as if overnight, the little houses beside them dwarfed and shabby looking.

And yet, when I moved in here, the dwarfed houses were charming.  Lights glowed in their windows.  Yards may not have been much more spacious, but it felt like it because they were crammed so close to other houses. 

It was an amazing neighborhood back then.  It still is for lots of reasons, and I love it dearly.  But "cottage district" is now a misnomer.  

People flock to Alamo Heights and pay top dollar for properties in part due to the reputation of the schools. The houses today are larger and closer than I'd have thought space allowed.   Some of the original houses do indeed look a little sad beside their shiny neighbors, but not all.  It's a quiet wonderful neighborhood of dog-walkers and friends and cheerful-seeming people and pretty lawns. During this season, many of the houses are wrapped in festive colored lights.  

I wish sometimes that it was like it used to be, a neighborhood of bungalows and cottages with large yards and no mega-houses blocking their sunlight.   But time marches merrily along and that's the way it is.  

My first Christmas on this street (as a $700-a-month renter)  I was complaining to my parents about the drab condition of my house, about not being able to fix it up for their upcoming visit.  

"I think you can do anything you want to with this house," my daddy said.  "Let's call it your Christmas present!"

Without my having a clue, they had purchased this house!  I remember walking around in a daze for days.  I had a house, a home, a yard!  

It's now covered with stucco, the rocks are gone, and flowers of every color attract butterflies.  The walls have been painted many times, the bathroom and kitchen updated, wood floors installed.  It has a casita in the backyard that was home to writing groups for many years.  It is--for what I love and need--perfect!  

I wish this for everyone, young and old, single and married--a home, a canvas, a place of peace, a yard for a dog, blooming plants, and, on this December day, a yard filled with golden leaves. 

Bridge to Competence

I've been a semi-hermit the last couple of weeks--due to seasonal allergies and a flare of foot pain.  Increasing my competence in little things keeps me from sinking into some murky bogs.  Learning, I realize, has always been my best bridge. 

Let me wax philosophical for a minute: when I struggle to learn something challenging, I think back to those few of my former students who struggled to read.  I particularly remember a junior high school Title 1 remedial reading class I taught at Mark Twain fifty years ago.  Some of my students barely spoke English. Others may have been dyslexic--though I had no particular  training in teaching either. I was a second year teacher (and only did this gig for a year, in a broom closet with six students per period) so I borrowed some materials from the real reading teacher and did it by the seat of my pants.  

Never mind that the district should have done more training--or at least quizzed me on my knowledge. The students and I were holed up in a windowless room and I sat beside each student, witnessed their frustration, and made up games and exercises to build a bridge between the indecipherable words on the page to meaning. On a good day, someone saw a light at the other side of the bridge and delighted in reading a word or two.  

As a young teacher, I had the natural energy of a 25-year-old and I tried to make it fun.  Now I realize, knowing more, that it must have been extremely frustrating for them to learn to decode words--a skill that had been easy for me. 

I was reminded of these classes last night as I was trying to complete the five-day challenge in the Book Club.  Previous lessons had prepared me for finding the right papers and threads, measuring, poking holes, and attaching covers.  But the previous books had been way simpler and easy to follow, so I had the satisfaction of competence from the get-go.  These coptic bindings made me feel like a kindergartener sitting in on a college lecture.

I watched the video over and over, stopping to copy each move, but my stitches looked atrocious. Luci jumped in my lap and got tangled in the long thread.  My thread kept wrapping around various items on my table.  Then the needle slid off the thread to the floor--three times.  I pulled the stitches out twice and started over.  I was in over my head and my wonky stitches didn't lie. 

At the end of the night, I had exactly what I had at the beginning: eight stacks of signatures with holes poked in the right places, a cover I'd made by gluing gel prints on book board, and the extra flourish of signature wraps, also made of gel prints. I was so deflated by my many failures (at something that looked so easy) that I planned to email the club tomorrow, tell them I'd take a sabbatical.

This morning I put the components in a box so I wouldn't have to see them ever again. 

But they niggled at my mind every time my eyes fell on that dumb shoe box. 

I'm sitting on the bridge still.  I'm intent on getting the book made and making it to the other side--to competent book binding.  

I don't need another blank book--that's not the point.  What I need is the feeling of following through and mastering it, even if it takes tutoring from Day when I see her next.  

As a quilter who gets math better than her mama, she's always been there for a quick tutorial when I want to change the scale of a book or figure out a tricky measurement.  She makes it clear with algebra and geometry and drawings and texts me a series of short videos.  I needed her today!

"Bring it when you come next and we'll figure it out together," she said--this being more of hands on project that can't be demonstrated with math and drawings. 

So until I see her, or get the courage to try again on my own, I whipped up a tiny easy book tonight, just for fun.  It was simple enough that any child could do it, but it renewed my enthusiasm and determination.  It was quietly reassuring. 

That was my bridge for today.  That and watching a fascinating video for an intricate Chinese Thread Book--the making of which will be my reward for finishing this  mess of a coptic binding.  

 

Bridges #4

I haven't tried that.

Mostly, I've learned whatever I know by trial and error, books, and people smarter than I am in whatever it is I want to learn.  Every day there's at least one life lesson.

Maybe soon I should try the Pooh method of education and go find a bridge over a river.