Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day: For Frank

Sorry that I am a day late with my yearly re-post of this essay from 2012. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

[Intermezzo] Wherein I Offer You a Few Disjointed but Heartfelt Memories of My Dead Friend Frank on Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day

Advertisements

National Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day

It’s that day of the year again.

A Small Press Life

This was originally published here on 7 December 2012. In what is turning into an annual tradition, I am re-posting it today in honor of its subject, my buddy Frank.

[Intermezzo] Wherein I Offer You a Few Disjointed but Heartfelt Memories of My Dear Friend Frank on Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day

View original post

National Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day

This was originally published here on 7 December 2012. In what is turning into an annual tradition, I am re-posting it today in honor of its subject, my buddy Frank.

[Intermezzo] Wherein I Offer You a Few Disjointed but Heartfelt Memories of My Dear Friend Frank on Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day

[Intermezzo] No Concentration, or Why I’m as Happy as Clara Bow with a Beach Ball

The winter-encrusted inhabitants of this drafty house are agog at the most gladsome of all tidings: spring is here! It is here! It is here! Glorious. Insistent. Blustery. She’s a grand dame, is Spring. I should be writing. I could be cleaning. I would, I would…but it is 77 degrees outside! The day that a season elbows her way back into our lives is a cause for celebration, not concentration.

Clara Bow

I’m as happy as Clara Bow with a beach ball!

This is where I put words about how the contented chirping of birds, barking of dogs, and mewing of small children have all joined to create the newest soundtrack sensation. Ice cream trucks, green shoots of plants I am constitutionally unable to recognize but overjoyed to see, and motorcycle engines belong here, too. Tank tops, sandals, and Margaritas for the win!

The front porch boards are warm beneath my feet.

[Intermezzo] Crosley Update: Sick Dog, Meet Synthpop

I walked into the kitchen this morning to find Crosley standing up. He followed me back to the sitting room and plopped down on his slobber-covered doggie cushion. The slow journey past the dining table and the family quilt hanging on the vestibule wall wore him out.

*

 His breathing is hard and steady, but now, in this place, it is the most reassuring sound in the world: comforting and hopeful, like the deep roar of an old blues tune.

I am working downstairs, away from my perfectly appointed second-floor studio, until further notice. Until he is bright-eyed and eager. Until he is well. Crosley rests a few feet from me, where I can see him. Hear him. Lean over and ruffle his silky ears. When he looks lonely or sad, I climb down beside him for a reassuring cuddle or to massage the flattened fur under his collar. Every time I stand up, my tank top is covered in solid trails of saliva that criss-cross my chest like routes on a map. He drools uncontrollably. The sick boy cannot help himself. I crank up Erasure and forget about my filth.

He’s tired from nearly dying, and I’m tired from worrying. His fur brother Duncan is jealous yet gentle, patient. My husband is working a long restaurant shift, hard on the heels of nights spent sleeping on the couch or the kitchen floor next to our big guy. Crosley is dearly and absolutely loved, even if just two nights ago that love threatened to swallow our hearts whole.

His freckled nose is dry and his usually soft fur is patchy and rough, victims of both the infection that nearly killed him and the antibiotics and steroids that saved his life. Crosley’s still a beauty, though, a first-class handsome fella. All of the young ladies at the vet’s office adore him. His gentleness is like a love potion, a call to devotion, it’s enough to make a person who knows better make a bad rhyme. Yes, he is that kind of dog.

We are, as that noncommittal saying goes, cautiously optimistic. He is responding well to treatment, but his rapid weight-loss has left him weak. The deeper concern is that at this point no one knows if the infection is the only thing that is ailing him. I am hesitant to type these words, as if to even address his illness or nascent recovery could somehow play with his fate. Anger the gods. Fuck everything up. How superstitious, how silly, how human! So we move forward, one delicate day at a time, aware that we are doing all that we can and hoping that it is enough.

Crosley is a very good boy.

[Intermezzo] Melt Away

Once Upon a Time, I thought preparing to move house whilst my husband headed out-of-state on an extended business trip was a fantastic idea. “I know! I’ll sort through and pack all of our belongings, edit a book, work on two short stories, create a few new web-sites, launch marketing campaigns for totally disparate projects, maintain a full freelance and blogging load, take the dogs on long walks several times a day, do yoga 5 times a week, and plan a fun event at a local gallery. I have the energy of an overzealous rabbit high on pure sugar. It’s just waiting to be harnessed. Nothing about this plan is the least bit wonky. Of course, I can cram-jam this ambitious laundry list of goals into a 6-week period. Because, because…I will it to be so.” The Chef hasn’t even left town yet, and I am already exhausted. All I want to do is take a scalding bath and weep, followed by 42 melting and aimless days in a fluffy, warm bed-haze.

John Everett Millais-Ophelia

Oh, hey there Ophelia!

[Intermezzo] I Wish Every Day Was a Sunny Sunday Afternoon in February

I wish every day was as hopeful as a sunny Sunday afternoon in February. Everything is possible, and nothing is necessary. Do I move forward with a household project, or take a nap? Do I walk around the block in a trail of sunshine, or write an essay? All of the answers, and all of my choices, lead to an open door marked BLISS.

Intermezzo: Today

Today, my return to shining good health is matched watt for watt by a hearty winter sun. Both incandescent, ready for change. Strong. The renewal of the New Year met a roadblock or two, was delayed, delayed again, the delay constantly looping. Today, creativity is back, and with it hope; they are both resplendent. I’ve re-imagined the way forward, a sturdy path with many forks. It’s beautiful.

Hope is like the light in an Impressionist painting.

Hope is like the light in an Impressionist painting.