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Entries in Winchester (9)

Monday
Jan162012

Setting Sail

When I was eight I had two pet hamsters, Mike and Tina, named after the most popular and beautiful second graders I knew at the time. The hamsters seemed happy with their view of my small bedroom on 20 Woodcrest Avenue in Winchester, Indiana. But they didn't live long.

One 1970-something spring afternoon, I decided to decorate Mike and Tina's house with flowers. I chose tiny Lily-of-the-Valley from my mother's garden, propping up a few of the delicate stems in the corner of their cage.

The next morning the hamsters appeared to be sleeping in. I opened the cage door and gently poked Mike, then Tina. They didn't wake-up and they felt stiff.

My mom arrived on the scene seconds after I called for her. She confirmed my fear—Mike and Tina were dead. Before she left to find a small box I could use to bury them in, she noticed the flowerless stems on the cage floor.

"Chrisy, what are these?" she asked as she picked up the stems.

I told her about the pretty white flowers, and how they were just the right size to decorate a hamster cage. I told her that Mike and Tina loved the flowers, actually nibbled on the blossoms, so I had picked more from the garden for them before bedtime.

"Were they Lily-of-the-Valley?" Mom asked.

"I don't know."

We walked to the backyard and I showed her the flowers. That day I learned that Lily-of-the-Valley, while delicate, fragrant, beautiful and the perfect size for a hamster's cage, is also poisonous. I had accidentally killed Mike and Tina.

*****

One evening in early December 2011, my son, Parke (14), held his pet parakeet in the palm of his hand until the sick bird died. Parke was in no way responsible for Wren's death, but I could tell he felt like there was something he could have done...should have done. Parke was an exemplary bird parent. He spent time with Wren daily for almost four years, teaching the little bird to trust him, whistle tunes, and say a few words.

In hindsight, there were signs Wren wasn't feeling well leading up to his death, but Chris and I were traveling, life was busy and the signs went unnoticed. I'm the one home during the day while the boys are at school. I now recall hearing less mid-morning chirping as I put laundry away in the boys' rooms.

Parke's sadness over losing Wren was radically deeper than what I felt when my hamsters died. I had only owned my pets a few short months and they'd seemed slightly afraid of me—the experience was troublesome, but abstract. Wren's death—the dying—was heavy and real for Parke. It was painful to watch him feel. (I have his permission to share.)

Parke and I talked about grief, death, healing, heartache, religion, and belief systems—all topics we'd discussed prior.

*****

A month earlier I had purchased a sympathy card for a friend who'd lost her mother unexpectedly. I made note of the beautiful Henry Van Dyke quote on the front of the card before mailing it. My intention is not to compare the loss of a person with the loss of a pet. But as I think of the people I've loved and lost, and as Parke thinks of Wren, we both find a measure of comfort in this...

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength and I watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says, 'There, she’s gone.'

Gone where? Gone from my sight...that is all. She is as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her: and just at the moment when someone at my side says, 'There, she’s gone,' there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, 'Here she comes!'

And this is dying.
--Henry Van Dyke
Sunday
Oct172010

Spit

I was sweet on a neighborhood boy.  He was in the sixth grade, I was in the fifth.  A younger girl rarely caught the eye of an older boy in those days.  He was popular and had a little sister who knew how to make pom-poms out of tissue paper.  She was pretty and he was athletic.  They were a sibling power couple.

"Kirk's such a fox.  He's tuff," I remember saying to a friend within earshot of my dad.  "He's the best basketball player in the whole school."

Basketball is a religion in Indiana, or at least it was in the 70s, so the fact that my little Hoosier crush played the game well, elevated his celebrity.

"You like Kirk?" my dad asked.  "That kid spits all the time."

It was true.  Kirk was a spitter.  Maybe he still is.  But the way he spit as a kid was neat.  He'd walk down the sidewalk, sometimes dribbling a basketball, look to the side and spit with speed, force and precision.  He spit with equally precise frequency, like a high-pressure lawn sprinkler, ticking methodically across the grass.  It was awesome.  It also might have been a compulsion, but it melted my butter.

*****

I was looking at family video recently.  Chris and the two older boys braved a thrill ride at a local amusement park in August. The five-year-old boy [he was actually still four when the video was taken] and I are a crack team of backpack watchers and videographers.  It was the end of the day, which is my excuse for putting a four-year-old in charge of belongings.  I think he bummed a smoke from the people next to him, and karate-kicked potential abductors in the stomach.

"Spit" is a small part of the video, but I know my family will appreciate it.

Soaring and Spit from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Friday
Oct092009

When A Dog Goes Down and Why I Hate Team Sports

Sitting in the office, my back to the french doors leading to the front yard, I noticed a person running quickly towards our house in the reflection on my computer screen. I turned around and saw a tall man wearing a Snowbird baseball cap taking long, purposeful strides. He resembled James Taylor. I felt safe.

I met him at the front door as he reached for the door bell.

"Do you know who's dog that is?" he asked as he pointed to the too still, cream-colored, fluffy animal lying in the street.

I looked where he was pointing. "OHMYGOD! YES!"

Our neighbor's dog had broken through his electric fence and was hit by a car. The tall man witnessed a white truck hit the dog, throwing the dog several feet. The truck didn't stop.

I called my neighbor and spoke with one of her sons. When her son told me his mother wasn't home, I didn't tell him what had happened to their family pet. The dog was still alive but had clearly been seriously injured.  I called my neighbor on her cell phone several times over the next ten minutes, as I simultaneously fetched a towel, wrapped the dog, and had panicked discussions with the tall man about where I would take the injured animal for help if my neighbor didn't answer.

I finally reached my neighbor and she and her husband were only a moment away. The tall man and I were hunched over the dog when they pulled up in their car. Within a couple of minutes, the dog was on his way to the nearest animal hospital.

I'm not a dog person, mostly because I'm busy and a neat freak, but I have tremendous compassion for animals. We have Mary and I joke about my desire for her to wear underwear [for hygiene purposes]. Chris still claims he plans to make a hat out of her when she passes because he spent $8,000 to save her life one summer.

There's nothing worse than seeing a dog suffer. When our neighbor's dog had been hit, I was numb with fear and panic. I managed to do what needed to be done but my heart was pounding and I felt like I might faint from the overwhelming emotions. I wanted to yell at the tall man, "Help him! Fix him! He's hurting!" I might have actually yelled those things. It's kind of a blur.

It's a good thing I'm not an ER doctor. I'd be no good at that. It's not that I don't want to help—because I do—it's that the intense empathy I experience nearly cripples me. It's also the fear of not knowing precisely what to do. Analysis paralysis. I don't want to do the wrong thing, especially when the stakes are high.

Just like team sports...

**********

Volleyball terrifies me. I've never learned how to hit the ball without hurting my forearms. I'm the one you don't want on your team because even if the ball comes directly to me, I'll scream to my teammates, "GET IT!" We've declined many invitations to play on a couple's volleyball league. Chris knows better. He's seen me panic in backyard pool volleyball games. I can't handle the pressure.

It's the same with softball. I have vivid memories of playing left field for the Green Eyed Ladies in Winchester, Indiana, when I was a kid. Hated it. The ball would land and roll practically to my feet—I'd look at the right fielder and scream, "GET IT!" I threw like a girl [still do] and struck out every time I was at bat. A couples softball league is also out of the question.

**********

Had the neighbors not been so close to home, I would have managed to get the suffering dog to the animal hospital. My adrenalin kept me moving, although I was spinning a bit, and asking the tall man redundant questions and repeating, "This is terrible. This is terrible. This is really, really terrible." Babbling seems to frequently be my modus operandi .

I spoke with my neighbor and the dog is alive. His condition has been changed from critical to stable. When he returns home, I'm requesting that they up the juice on his electric fence.

I may not be able to be crowned The-Queen-of-Grace-Under-Pressure, but I'm always well-intended. If history repeats itself, I have a shot at being the next Nobel Peace Prize winner.