My Friends

      

As I sit here watching the leaves falling, I think about the changes in my life and friendships I’ve had. Some have slipped away due to a move; a few leaving for different horizons thus losing that link that originally bound us; and some are gone due to a falling out passing their sell-by-date. I’ve had companions who have loved my laugh and my ability to have fun but turned away during my darkest hour. A real friend is there to extend a hand when you’ve fallen flat on your face; a real friend is there to hold you up when you no longer are able.

I am fortunate enough to have such friends. When my son, Ryan, died, his dying was like a rope tossed to a drowning woman; a rope tossed from a boat, speeding away, leaving no chance to grasp its ragged end. My friends, my true friends were there either by traveling miles just to hold my hand; calling every day; sending inspirational cards to keep up my spirits; or inviting me over for a glass of wine, just to listen while I cried.

Sometimes I think of myself as a bus traveling along the bumpy road of life. Some people get on and exit at the next stop; some ride for a while anxious to arrive at their destination; and others are along for the journeys taking in stride the potholes, sudden downpours, and flat tires. My friendships, like most, have evolved in a myriad of ways. The comfort they have brought into my life is like a cup of hot, sweet tea with a dark chocolate cookie. These people are my strongest alliances. When I am with one of them it’s like we’re a single creature composed of four legs and two harmonious hearts.

Manners Need Not Apply

What has happened to propriety and decorum? It seems that with the influx of technology good manners has gone by the wayside of the transistor radio and the fax machine. RSVPS to the positive matter little it seems if something “better” comes along.

Being the planner that I am, I was organizing plans for Thanksgiving back in August. After talking to my husband, we decided to invite his mother, nephew, niece, our daughter and a few friends. Three weeks before the carving of the turkey, my mother-in-law calls to cancel.  Her reason? Her grandson decided he’d rather spend the holiday with his cousins, and she willingly went along with the idea.

After several days I chalked it up to his being young, early twenties. But I was hurt by my mother-in-law’s attitude, and knew my husband would be.  Surely someone of 70 years has learned the difference between right and wrong. Her phone call and tone were as blase as if she was merely cancelling a trip to the grocery store. No apologies, just that they had changed their plans followed by asking me, “So what’s new?” I was dumfounded. I’m surprised she even bothered with the call and didn’t just text me.

What are your thoughts on this? I’m interested in your comments.

Trying to be Thankful

     Being thankful this time of year can be difficult for those who are grieving. I know as I lost my son at 29 in 2010. I didn’t really lose him, he died, it’s just so difficult to say the word. It’s something you never thought would happen to you.

Last Thanksgiving was our first one without him. I wanted the day to disappear; to somehow, along with Christmas, evaporate into a fine mist. Thanksgiving slid by in longing, want and tears.

I had been dreading the holidays in December. I had never celebrated Christmas without my son;  29 Christmases in all since his  first one. More than with anyone else. It was tempting to hide under the covers and let it slip by, but I had to be present for my daughter and husband. My children had been only two years apart  in age, and her pain was as palpable as mine.

At the time she was still working in Key West, and so we were fortunate to be able to escape to new surroundings. The beautiful scenery though was inconsequential compared to the embracing arms of her boyfriend’s family. Because of the warmth they extended to us, I was able to enjoy the day.

And so, another year of holidays is upon me, and as sad as I still am, I am truly thankful for the love and support of my husband, sister, and friends. I am thankful for my beautiful, intelligent daughter, my home, and 29 years with an amazing son.

Beagle Bagels

No, this isn’t a recipe to have with your morning coffee. But, as I sit here drinking my latte, I can’t help but think they look so enticing. They may appear more in the shape of croissants, but you get the idea. You know how a dog gets into a complete circle and looks like a doggie donut? Ok, enough with the food analogies.

But, look at them?  Whoever coined the term, “it’s a dog’s life”, never visited our home.

For the Love of Writing

I’ve recently started a writing class at The Muse in Norfolk. This is my third class thus far, and I have to say I feel as if I have found a bit of a sanctuary.

The first two classes were memoir workshops. I was lucky enought to stumble upon the class given by Patti Hinson. A very charismatic and loving mentor, she encouraged each of us to find our voice. Writing a personal narrative can be heart wrenching and possibly leave you feeling exposed and vulnerable, but in these two classes (the same five people signed up to take the class a second time!) there was no judgement or ridicule, only constructive suggestions and encouragement.

My current class, Expressions in Food, taught by Patrick Evans-Hylton, incorporates two loves of mine: writing and food. For our first meeting we each brought in a tasty nosh to share and write about. It was a delight to really savor and smell the different spices and aromas. I am happily anticipating future sessions and learning the art of food writing.

Welcome!

This is my first post to what I hope are many more. The name of my blog refers to our canine companions. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living in a country western song.  Instead of my old dog dying, though, I keep acquiring additional dogs. Four dogs to be exact: three beagles and a white dog.

It all started ten years ago. On a stunningly, crisp December morning, I set off in anticipation of getting my husband, Mike, his Christmas present, a puppy. A beagle with big chocolate-brown eyes surrounded by “eyeliner”, oversized velvety ears, and a perfectly white-tip pointed tail resembling one of my watercolor brushes came home with me wrapped up in a fluffy towel. We both fall hypnotically in love with her.

Three years later we decided to get Maggie a playmate.  A column in the paper advertising dog adoptions confirms our choice. One dog in particular catches my eye and by the end of the day, we have another beagle, Lucy.

We are peacefully coexisting and yet I strangely feel a tinge of jealously. My husband has become the Pied Piper of dogs. When he leaves the room, they follow; when he returns for something, ditto. I am realizing they think of me as the chuck wagon, and Mike has become the Alpha dog. I am starting to feel like the proverbial chopped liver.

It is now 2006, I was starting my own business; just finished graduate school, and yet, something was missing. You guessed it. Dog number three arrives, Lilly.  Ignorantly, I believe this dog will be my “baby”.  My adult children are aghast, and think dear, old Mom may need to be carted off to Shady Pines. Not only do we now have three dogs, but she is a big, and I stress the word, big, white dog.

Four years passed without any more furry purchases. Life as we know it, however, was forever altered with the death of my beloved son. Least of which we are now owners of Ryan’s beagle, Libby. She’s a beauty, my grand puppy, and I love her.