monster pit

Mike and my babies out for a late night walk. Rounding the corner a few blocks away from the house, they're confronted with a growling, advancing monster of a pit bull. I know this dog; it killed a cat a month or so ago on this same street. It's constantly out in the front yard while its owner dicks around in his garage. He is a monstrous animal, muscular beyond any pit I've seen, and obviously aggressive.

My sweet Betty immediately cowered behind Mike. Even Bill, who just this week backed off a huge and surprisingly aggressive St. Bernard, tucked behind Mike without so much as a snarl. Bill, the wee short-legged Jack Russell, is pretty certain he's a Doberman or Rottweiler, but the viciousness of this pit bull scared even my stout-hearted boy.

Mike was not afraid, likely because he was rising to the defense of his kids. He had a piece of Bill's very heavy and very long leash with which he kept striking the pit in the face. The dog kept trying to get around him. Mike said he came within about a foot of Betty who, being deaf, could not hear this beast's threatening growl.

I am so grateful it wasn't one of those fast dog attacks, else my dogs would be dead and my husband surely injured. Two neighbors heard Mike yelling at the dog to get back, came out into the street to join in backing this monster back to his yard. Finally, his owner strolled out onto the porch to ask what was going on. My ex-hippie, live and let live husband said "get your dog or I'll call the law."

"The law," just like in those westerns he loves so well. Mike is not a law-calling kind of person. That's me. But he loves his puppies and can see the danger for everyone in an immense, threatening dog like this one roaming the streets.

I'm not opposed to pits as a breed, but I'm opposed to the current pit culture which indoctrinates irresponsible kids with the idea that they're big men if they have a vicious dog. Viciousness is created in all sorts of inhumane ways, and the result is a serious threat to life.

My family escaped. Hope the next one does. Mike hasn't called "the law" but I'm going to. Don't know what kind of action I'll get, but the neighbors say this dog's out all the time, it has killed other animals in the neighborhood (that sweet kitty!), and now my people ~ all three of them ~ have been endangered.

fathers, forgiveness, love

Tater's remarkable essay about his father.

crazy?

My 52 year old sister didn't recognize a picture of Dick Cheney, yet she joyfully settled in for a three hour Anna Nicole special a few nights ago. My 63 year old sister pickets for (yes that's for) the war in Iraq. My stepmother never misses an opportunity to castigate Hillary and Bill Clinton, Al Gore and Nancy Pelosi, while admitting she's disgusted with her Republican party and doesn't recognize these asshats in office. My precious nephew, the one with the softest heart, the most generous nature, is a rabid Glenn Beck fan. My other sweet nephew believes O'Reilly and Beck make a lot of good points. I have a nephew very hostile to me who's crossed the line from conservative to wing nut.

The point of all of this is that none of these individuals, with the exception of the eldest sister and her husband, are able to converse in depth on any of the issues facing us in this country. Those two don't read much, just take their news from Fox. When I press any of these folks, my loved ones, on their convictions, asking for explanations behind their views, they just laugh it off and change the subject. These are intelligent, college-educated people. They are not religious crazies, most of them are pro-choice, pro-equal rights, for gay marriage or at least civil unions. When I am surrounded by all of this I begin to doubt my own sanity. Do you ever feel insane in the midst of those who love you best?

stakeout success, part II

For a moment, they just stared at us. Karen and I were eyeballing the older woman, assessing height, weight, age. She looked to be in her late '70s, early '80s, a beautiful woman with snow white hair, smooth complexion, sparkling blue eyes. She was the first to smile, looking at me and saying "I know you, you're Audrey's baby girl."

It was not my mother, this beautiful woman in the cemetary, but it was my mother's stepsister, my aunt, whom I've not seen since the 1960s. The woman with her was my cousin, and the gentleman her husband. They were delighted to see us and we spent over an hour talking and laughing and hugging each other.

It was wonderful to hear them talk about my grandfather and how much they loved him. They were leaving these flowers on my grandmother's grave for Curtis long before he died. It was wonderful to hear them discuss his fierce protectiveness over his five children, how he divorced a woman who mistreated them while he was out on a run. This was comforting, because we've often wondered if he had any idea what my mother suffered at the hands of that bastard in Medicine Lodge. I am certain now that he did not know, that he would never have left her in that house if he'd had any idea.

Curtis told them that May loved purple, so the blossoms were always selected with that thought in mind. They told us how much they adored my mother, spoke of her sweet personality, her kindness, her love for her kids, her sharp wit and intelligence. Of course we talked about her disappearance, and the shock of it, how unexpected, how certain they were that she had to be dead, or she could never have left "those little girls."

They told us they had often thought of us over the years and that, in combination with a few other incidents from this weekend, started me thinking about the depth and persistence of people and their attachments to one another. Karen and I discussed at length how we are oddly unattached, how we seem to be able to leave friendships and acquaintances with little thought after the leaving is done. Was it abandonment that created this ability to simply unplug and disconnect? It's impossible to know, but when I hear of two people I'd not thought of in 40 years telling me they had long wondered how I was doing, it's an eye opener.

The same thing happened with one of my mother's dear friends, a next door neighbor I've written about before. Dot was thrilled to see us out for breakfast Sunday morning, grabbing me and hugging me repeatedly, telling her friend that I was "Audrey's precious little girl." She told me with tears in her eyes that she missed us terribly and thought of us often. I have thought of Dot since May Day of this year, when I wrote a post about leaving flowers on the doors of neighbors. But I can't say I've thought of her in the last 32 years since I moved from home and left Elmwood behind.

At church, my sister was accosted by several people who assured her they had been missing her, she who has not lived in that town since 1972. I find it so strange, almost as if I've been living on the surface of a life that has depths of which I've been unaware. How many people are out there who think of "Audrey's baby girl" and wonder how she's doing these days? I have no friends left from grade school, from high school, college. It feels like I'm leaving a wake of relationships, connections, lost loves, all trailing behind me as I sail through this life. The really strange thing, and Karen agrees, is that we don't feel anything missing. Maybe we are more disconnected than we know, even from ourselves? It doesn't feel that way, it feels self sufficient and independent and appreciative of time spent in solitude. Lots to think about. In solitude. Heh.

But back to the newfound aunt and cousin: we've exchanged addresses and will keep in touch. I made a short film of all of us discussing the events leading to our reunion. I am humbled by the thought of people so caring that they would continue adorning the graves of people related by marriage alone almost 40 years after death. My "new" aunt, Miss Dorothy, is a belle and our belle hearts connected on a different level. I admired her superb French manicure and we discussed how badly our hair was blowing about in the damp wind. I will go visit her, because I would like to spend more time with her, find out about her life and more about my mother.

So it was grand and exciting and we were immensely relieved we didn't have to sit another day. We have new kin and I am not disappointed because I never truly imagined my mother could be alive after all these years. It was an exceptional weekend, an exceptional experience. Perhaps I'll figure out something about myself, about this strange ability to just walk away from people and places. Maybe I'll talk it over with my newfound aunt, a woman who clearly knows much about attachment, when I go see her at home later this summer. Oh, and next year, I'll be at the cemetary placing flowers on the graves of my grandparents, honoring the memory of these good people, reconnecting with a past that was lost to me.

stakeout: progress notes

The stakeout continues, the happy news being that the cemetary is only open from 8 am to 5 pm, thus no need to arrive at dawn and leave after dark. That's assuming, of course, that my 89 year old mother wouldn't leap the fence after dark to leave flowers on the grave, thus eluding capture.

It's been great fun receiving updates throughout the day from my sister. Of course I recognize her cell number on caller ID at the shop, so I'm able to answer the phone with plaintive little whines along the line of "Mom?? MOMMY?? Where have you been, why did you leave us?" I don't know why it makes us laugh so hard, but it does. Somewhere in there is the healing effect of a shared dark humor in the face of tragedy.

stakeout

Thirty seven years after my mother vanished from the face of the earth, my sisters and I will be staking out the cemetary in Blackwell, Oklahoma. It's the place where my grandparents are buried, May and Curtis, and flowers have mysteriously appeared on their graves as long as anyone can remember.

My niece, who is mildly obsessed with my mother's disappearance, the only grandchild born before she vanished, is convinced it is her, Miss Audrey, making her way to the cemetary to remember her parents every year.

According to a cousin, the flowers are always there well before Memorial Day and no one has any idea who puts them there. May has been dead since the influenza epidemic of 1918; her death is the reason why my mother and her siblings were sent to live with the beast who abused them. Curtis had to continue his work as a trainman, which kept him away from home for days at a time. He couldn't know that May's sister's husband was a pedophile of the worst kind, a violent, twisted man. These things weren't news in 1920 and if they were known, they weren't discussed.

So is it my mother appearing at the cemetary, flowers in hand, to honor her parents? Is it even possible that she could still be alive and able at 89? Given her state of mind before she left ~ unmedicated bipolar with almost catatonic depressive episodes ~ it is really inconceivable.

Still, there's that hope forever tugging at my heart, a wish to finally find out what happened, what truly prompted her disappearance beyond our belief that her despair was ultimately too much to bear. Where has she been? How has she been? Did she ever find relief from her tortured past? Ever any comfort for her wounded spirit? I just wish I could tell her that it's okay, that I understand, that I love her still. I would like to let her know that it broke my heart, her disappearance, and that it was hard, of course, but that I survived and thrived and that I love my life.

I'm doing my part for the stakeout on Friday and Saturday. I might possibly drop dead in my tracks if I looked up to see my mother walking among the headstones after a 37 year absence. The news from the crew on stakeout this morning is that the flowers aren't there yet. They're in good spirits and filled with a kind of hope that is precious, no matter the outcome.

jello salad days

Tony at EvilGanome touched me with his post about country people and dinner and jello salads. I miss simpler times, though I love my life today. Since I'm back to avoiding work today (I worked all week last week), I looked up my mother's recipe for Cottage Cheese Salad in the First Lutheran Women's Guild book of Our Favorite Recipes. This is one of those fundraiser cookbooks and it's full of recipes from the good Lutheran women I remember from childhood: Grandma Wolfe, Mrs. Dorothea Gutzman, Mrs. Gonterman, my grandmother, my mother, all of those grand church ladies.

In the front of the book is a dedication: This book is dedicated to the Modern Home. In our home today, as always, life is centered around our kitchens. It is with this thought in mind that we, The Sponsors, have compiled these recipes. Some of them are treasured old family recipes. Some are brand new, but every single one reflects the love of good cooking that is so very strong in this country of ours.

Cottage Cheese Salad from Miss Audrey
2 pkg lime jello + 1 T sugar
2 c. hot water
Mix above ingredients and let cool 15 minutes. Add in order given:
1 carton country style cottage cheese (small curd)
5 marshmallows, cut up
1 c. mayonnaise
1 tall can Pet milk
2 apples, chopped
1 c. chopped nuts
1 c. crushed pineapple

familiarity, contempt

We took the mother-in-law out to eat Thai food for her 75th birthday. The music was incredible, enchanting, magnificent. The lead guitar player, Tommy Crook, is a true virtuoso. In his early years, he ran with Leon Russell, J.J. Cale and others who were originators of the "Tulsa Sound." He was inducted into the Oklahoma Jazz Hall of Fame in 2004. He's semi-retired and plays here on Friday nights. Mike and I were early, so we sat near the stage, listening to the trio. Just watching Tommy's hands was mesmerizing.

So here's what I don't get: Tommy's my brother-in-law. He played at my wedding, he occasionally plays at our family gatherings. Experiencing his musical genius in an unfamiliar setting, it occurred to me that I often overlook the close-up wonders and treats of my life while searching for inspiration elsewhere. Tommy's underfoot, but I had to hear him in new surroundings to appreciate him again.

My life is so rich and full and wonderful if I only make an effort to take the time to appreciate it. Always striving, working toward, making plans, doing doing doing. At the risk of sounding like the old hippie I am, I think my plan for today is simply to be, to try to be fully present in the life I have, this day, this hour, this moment.

Do you do this? Overlook the obvious in a quest for something new and exciting? What do you think causes it?