Sunday, August 27, 2017

Sand County Almanac

"During every week from April to September there are, on the average, ten wild plants coming into first bloom.  In June as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day.  No man can heed all of these anniversaries; no man can ignore all of them.  He who steps unseeing on May dandelions may be hauled up short by August ragweed pollen; he who ignores the ruddy haze of April elms may skid his car on the fallen corollas of June catalpas.  Tell me of what plant-birthday a man takes notice, and I shall tell you a good deal about his vocation, his hobbies, his hay fever, and the general level of his ecological education."
              A Sand County Almanac 
              Aldo Lepold

This summer I re-discovered this wonderful book when I ran across a copy at a thrift store in Northern Virginia.  My own copy long since loaned to someone, or perhaps given.....
It is an important book to read, at any age of Life, but, at this stage of my development, I am finding it soul-fulfilling and rather like meeting an old friend again, after all these years.  An old friend who has discovered pieces of Life that I am just now getting to.....


Twenty-three years ago,  my dear husband, Rob rode in his first Century bicycle ride.  This is 100 miles of bicycling.  In one day.  In August.  In Texas.  Wichita Falls, Texas.  With 12,000 other bicyclists (no, this is not a typo.  You read it correctly. 12,000.  Some years over 15,00).

He has been riding in this event every year since then.  Sometimes I tag along, Collies in tow (not riding, only joining in the celebration....and worry....); sometimes our sons-in-law ride with him; sometimes he goes alone and makes new friends in the thronging, sweaty crowd of deranged (and later, after 100 miles, delirious) bicyclers from all over the country.

The first year he chose to do this, I went along justincase he needed someone to accompany him to the ER.....It's always good to have someone identify the body....

While he rode, well, of course, I went shopping.  Thrift stores, garage sales, interesting grocery stores, and huge plant nurseries.

Remember.  It is August. Always the fourth Saturday in August.  In Texas.  Everything is suffering in this heat.  Dry heat. 100-degree heat.

Certainly nothing is blooming, and the plant nurseries are eager to unload any and all of their summer plants for pennies on the dollar.  Please adopt these and take them to a Better Place where there is shade and water and cooler temperatures. Have Hope for prettier days next spring, where, if they survive, they will bless you with their blooms in the greening-up of April.

I always have Hope, especially where plants are concerned.  Once released from the bonds of their plastic pots and tucked lovingly in the soil with a layer of leaf mulch,  I can almost hear their sighs of relief and contentment.  Their promises of Springtime blossoms and adding beauty to Eden......

Amid the brown and crunchy perennials gasping for life in the 100+ heat,  enter this:


Garlic Chives.  Blooming their little hearts out.  Potbound and pleading for a good place in the solid earth.  I planted them in the backyard.  They have migrated to the front yard. I have shared and Shared them with many friends who love their garlic smell and their welcome blossoms when everything else has given up in the heat.  

And every year, the fourth Saturday in August, they bloom.  Their leaves grace our salads, and the flowers adorn our vases.  I call them my Hotter'n Hell Flowers.  And I pretend that we are still as young as we were 20+ years ago, as the Earth has turned round and round, and the bicycle wheels spun hundreds of miles.

So.....Reading Leopold's passage again......What does this marker Tell about me?

Mostly, I think, it speaks of the change of the seasons and the anticipated relief of the oppressive heat with the coming September.  And of a 70-year-old man who continues to throw his leg over a bicycle and ride beyond his physical limit.  And who brings me presents of coffee cups and cookie jars and Sonic coupons.  Of Life.  Life that continues with the Young and delights the Old.  Of noticing.  And appreciating.  And always looking forward.  





Sunday, June 18, 2017

Father of the Year....I Don't Think So......

There are many things that the Fatherofmychildren cannot and will not do.  He is incompetent in several.  Refuses to do the remainder. Things that Most Dads just naturally teach their offspring, he sees no use in instruction.

In the beginning of this Parenting Odyssey, and, admittedly, even during the most demanding times of the children’s growing-up, I struggled  with these Deficiencies and Imperfections in his plans to bring the girls up correctly.  My heart saw only the holes in his efforts. 

Dancing.  He never danced with them.  Never.  Not even at their weddings.  Not even in the living room with their tiny feet on top of his…..He doesn't dance.  He plays the music people dance to.  He has a trumpet up to his face while he watches their circuits around the dance floor.

But he does smile so sweetly when the children “twirl” for him, spinning around like dervishes, their  skirts flying, their faces bliss.  Bliss because of his blatant approval and appreciation for their skill and beauty.  They always knew they were beautiful in his indulgent eyes.  

Grilling.  He has never cooked a meal outside.  INside, for that matter.  The man does not cook.  He doesn't even honestly appreciate the skills that it takes to get a good meal together.  He will eat anything.  And have seconds.  But he takes no pride in the preparation or even the end result.  

He bought me the biggest grill I would allow on the deck.  He hooked it up to the maximum safety standards and makes sure that it is fully turned off after the meat is done. He savors the meal. He compliments my efforts.  But do not ask him to do anything more than push the electric igniter to begin the process.  

He does know how to French Braid our daughters’ hair…..When I went to Europe with Emily’s Girl Scout troop for 6 weeks, back in the ’80’s, Kathryn was left in the care of her Dad. The 10-year-old child would only allow her hair to be brushed and French Braided at this moment in time. No exceptions.  No deliberations.  No discussion. So, he took instruction from me, detangling spray and comb in his left hand, and mastered the skill. He became proficient. And The Baby had less angst (at least about her hair) while her mother traveled the world without her.  

Mowing.  Mowing the yard.  It’s a big yard.  Almost 1/4 an acre.  All clipped with a push mower because of all the twists and turns he must make around my flowerbeds, water gardens, and various trees I’ve planted.  But he never saw fit to teach the girls how to propel the mower across the lawn.  He always insisted on doing it himself while they “stayed inside where it is cool.”  They married men who mow religiously and bore sons who mow.  

He is the Finder of Lost Things, our very own St. Anthony.  Irritating, sometimes, when all one wants to DO is rant and rave about how she “cannot find ANYthing around here.”
But he calmly processes the possibilities of where the Lost might be, and always, Always discovers its hiding place. He finds Lost Things. And he soothes our defiant, ruffled feathers…..Unfortunately for those of us who would like to remain angry and frustrated because we insist it aids in finding things. 

Shooting a gun.  The girls never held a gun in their hands until they were grown women.  Never. They never felt the kickback of the wooden stock against their shoulders.  Never felt the thrill of hitting the Mark with their keen eyes.  Never experienced the rush of holding the smooth steel of a pistol in their hands. 

He does know how to bathe a baby and change a cloth diaper.  In the ’70’s this was a skill that many fathers left to their wives.  There was still a bit of designated “women’s work” that hadn’t eased its way into the realm of masculinity at that time.  Rob never considered these tasks, these opportunities, to be relegated  to just one parent. He folded and pinned on diapers  better than any professional.  

He has fallen way short of the Dad Things most people expect.  He doesn’t meet the bar at all for the qualifications of Traditional Dads.  He barely disciplined the children or raised his voice.  Told them more than once, “If you do that again, your Mother is going to spank you.”  Never prepared pancakes for breakfast or took them to a ballgame.  Took them camping, but once they were asleep, escaped to the car and dozed. Always deferred to me regarding pets, but always dug their graves and played the role of minister when they died.  Never engaged in decorating for Christmas, but drove us thru ice and snow to celebrate the holidays at Grandma’s.  

Nope.  He’s not the Dad we all read about and admire.  But I write this to tell you that I have never met a better Father.  He raised two very intense and entertaining women who continue to improve the planet and show the world what Love looks like.  I’ll take that.  Anytime.


Happy Father’s Day, Rob Bailey.












Tuesday, June 21, 2016

They were playing with some plastic Army guys, when I overheard Emily tell baby sister Kathryn, "Bang! Your guy is dead! I shot him!"
"No, he's not dead," Kathryn told her....."His Dad was with him."
And that was when I realized what an impact you had on their lives.
Nothing bad can happen when Dad is with you. Nothing. You are protected from all evil and all pain. Dad takes out splinters without even a pinch. He gives you his time and understanding and listens without judgement. Winds can blow and rivers may flood, but as long as Dad is with you, nothing bad can happen.
You came into this job with no real background or training. First you loved. Loved tenderly and sweetly. And then you discovered these children were intriguing and funny. So much like you in their kindness and patience. So much like me in their ability to wind you around their tiny fingers. So very unique in sharing their talents and gifts with the planet.
I can recount several really Good Parenting moments where you are concerned. With each daughter, you remained calm and allowed them to take responsibility for their lives. With each of them, you offered wise advice and a chance for God to work within. And you laughed. You took such great joy in seeing their sense of humor develop and widen. You never failed to make them laugh.
As grown women, they still laugh with you. They still Flirt with you! They still want to coddle you and take care of you. They want to show you off to their friends and brag about your musical ability and the miles you have ridden on your bicycle. They beam with pride when they see your influence in their hearts.
Our daughters chose men of integrity to marry. Men who love passionately and love kindness.
I always knew they would.
They had a wonderful Dad to set the bar high. You cannot settle for just anybody when you have lived all your life with a man who loves you beyond measure and beyond limits.
Thanks for showing us ALL how to be a Dad. Your methods are the best.
And.....you make us laugh.

Saturday, May 28, 2016

What I Expected



Forty-five years ago, I expected a lot.  

I expected that my body and my charms would make you stay home from work.

I expected that I would be able to cook anything, since I already knew how to make biscuits and chocolate cake.

I expected that you would agree with me.  On everything.

I expected that our disagreements would always progress to loving forgiveness.

I expected that you would be very famous one day.

I knew that we would always have plenty of money.

I expected that I would be able to drive a stick shift after only one lesson.

I knew that you would never be ashamed of me…..Or cringe in embarrassment…..

I expected you to be romantic, and to be able to ride a white horse and sweep me off my feet.

I expected you to always be healthy and never wind up in hospital.

I expected you to get over an argument in an hour…..a head cold in a day….

I expected to never have to mow the lawn.  Or clean the roof gutters.  Or paint the up-high part of the house.

I expected you to always know how to fix anything. And never call the repairman. Or even Want to call the repairman….

I expected that you would agree with me.  On everything.

I expected you would like the same tv shows as I do.

I knew that you would always love me.  I knew that you could hate me, too.  

I expected that we would always look and feel young and beautiful.

I expected that our children would grow up without issues.

I knew that we would never change, and that our goals in Life would never change.

That was 45 years ago.  That was when I knew everything and had the world under control.  That was when I did not take blood pressure medicine or megadoses of ibuprofen when I “did too much in the yard.”  That was when I weighed 20 pounds less and my hair was 10 inches longer….and actually blonde…..That was when my arms didn’t sag and my bosoms were taut.
And, even though it would be wonderful to revisit those people from 1971 again who so confidently walked down the aisle with daisy bouquets and daisy boutonnieres, well, I do believe that I like these two people much, Much more.  I Like you.  I Really do Like you.  And I understand a lot more about you now. Even with your silver hair and those lines around your big blue eyes.  

I actually enjoy your company and your endless talk and your need to discuss politics and allthingsserious…..I actually enjoy our pillow talk at night and our attempts at solving the world’s problems at 2 am.  I actually enjoy fried mush. I love the coffee you bring me with just the right amount of cream. I actually love the fact that you are too lenient with the children…..and the dogs….and the cats…..

I hate your tv shows (seriously, I cannot Take one more episode of How It’s Made or that Saturday morning painting guy or Lawrence Welk).  I still hate getting up early in the morning, I still hate it when you insist I come inside before dark after a day working in the yard.  I hate it when you insist I stop and takeabreak.  I hate it that you pick up after me (though I DID teach you to be neat and tidy).  I hate it that you can be more logical and even social than me.

But what I hate most is that we have less years ahead of us than we have behind us……It has taken us a long time to realize what a blessing we have in this marriage.  And I realize that no good relationship comes without work and effort and just plain letting go.  But I would really like to have 45 more years with you.

I suppose that is something that can only be evaluated in Heaven.  Right now, just for the record, let it be known that I morethanloveyou.  And it truly has been a fun ride.  

Happy Anniversary.


Toni Bailey

Saturday, March 5, 2016

Robert Bailey Junior


Toni Jasper Bailey
 added a new photo.
2 minsOS X
Yesterday we said goodbye to Junior….aka Robert Bailey Junior…..He would have been 16 this summer….The summer that our first grandbaby was born.
Junior is the first and Only kitten we have ever kept from the hundreds of neonate kitties that have been raised in our home. I never name them. Never get attached. They are all destined for other loving homes. Naming them makes them Ours….
After Bailey Rose was born, and about 8 weeks old, her mother had to have surgery. I left for the weekend to go check on how this new family was faring on their own.
Earlier, we had 13 kittens in our kitchen….3 different boxes, 3 different litters, mostly the same age. They had all gone to their forever homes….except one….a fuzzy peach-colored boy. He was going to his new home the following week, all grown up, doing all the “cat things” required for him to graduate to adoption.
However, he wasn’t to be picked up until after I returned from Kansas and the new baby….So I asked Bikeman if he would please watch the kitty while I was gone. Of Course he would. This baby was no problem at this point, and just at that point of getting very cute (a dangerous situation, if you have ever fostered….).
I returned home on Sunday, and Bikeman was referring to this kitty as “Daddy’s liddle man…..Daddy’s liddle soldier…..”
“uh….hmmmmm…..What’s going ON, here,” I asked him….
“Well,” he told me “……. we’ve really bonded this weekend. “
Uh…..This baby is scheduled to go to his home this week…..
“He’s too little to leave just yet, “ I was told…..
WHAT did he Mean?! All his other siblings and friends had been gone for several days! Are we Keeping this baby?
“Well, we’ve really Bonded this weekend.”
The cat was staying. Of Course he was staying…We Love those whom we serve…..
So, we sat down with the Baby Name Book. Bikeman liked “Max”; I like “Maurice.”
We got to the “R’s,” and I said, “you know….I’ve always Liked this name….Never got to name anybody that….”
So the fuzzy baby with the lion face became Robert Bailey, Jr.
They were quite the pair, these two….Jr would sit in Bikeman’s shorts when he was on the pot. When he went to practice his trumpet behind closed doors, Jr. would run his paw under the door….Whenever he sat in the recliner, Jr. would Always be cuddled way up high on Bikeman’s shoulder.
Jr.’s purr was the loudest we have ever heard. We laughingly said he was going to strip a gear, purring so loudly….Jr. always put his front paw in the water dish when he drank……Children could pick him up and pack him around…..He was always quite tolerant of dogs, any dogs…..He never scratched…..He was always glad to have company visit…..He was Always hungry…..He was always laid back and calm…..He was very like his master…


And today, his master had one less food bowl to fill for the morning ritual of “wet cat food.” We have wept and laughed and laughed again at what this fool meant to us….This sturdy, Beautiful, sweet spirit was laid to rest in our garden, very near where this picture was taken.


Jr……Prolly the nicest cat you will ever meet. Rest with no pain, June-Bug……JR…..BabyBabyBaby….Purrbox…. Rob Junior….

Friday, February 26, 2016

Samwell

He was 18 when his baby sister died.  Cancer.  Debilitating, agonizing, excruciating.  When you are 18 and male, all you want to do is escape.  Run. As fast as you can run. Cleave yourself from these people and these hospital beds in the middle of your living room.  Seek solace and answers on another plane.  Another source of being.  Away from this pain and the agony of your silly baby sister.  This baby who should be tottering in high heels and weeping over Lost Loves instead of lost hair.....

So he moved out. Away from the sterile syringes the nurses brought and the grim faces his parents displayed.


One semester in college was all that he was willing to spend of his parents' money.

He quickly learned the value of an earned dollar and pursued his love of learning within the daily work in electronics and installation and repair.  Life got better, and the dollars increased.  He married a woman several years older with children who were teenagers.  Perhaps this could be a way to "right" his "abandonment" to that silly, sweet sister.

His father died soon after in a violent car crash.  Fifteen months later his mother succumbed to grief-induced asthma.  He was left with plenty of money inside a loveless marriage.

When the currency ran out, so did she, and he found himself alone, in his parents' expansive home. His business partner locked the doors to their company. His friends disappeared.  His grandparents, all of them, died for various reasons.

He found another job, using his talents for detail and precision, kept learning (he was always learning, that is his way), paid his bills, rattled around in the huge manor, letting the weeds take over the acreage.

He ate when he was hungry. Went to bed when he was tired. Emptied the trash and recycled his beer bottles.  Not the Life he'd envisioned for himself.  But, unlike the rest of his family, he was alive.   He was  breathing. He continued to seek the solace of the Earth and its gifts. And he learned.  He always learned.

I really have no details of how this dear spirit came into his home.  I only know that, by a series of miracles, a gangly, smiling, affable Golden Retriever strolled into his home and ensconced himself upon his couch.  Their eyes met.  Their hearts intertwined, and their souls were knit together.  Neither were really aware of what was happening.....except that, suddenly, they were skyrocketed into indescribable joy and unexpected gladness.

It was as if the dog had waked him from an endless sleep.  The dormancy and  the lethargy of a quiet life had lost their footing, and paw prints roused his heart.

The overgrown manor harbored wood ticks that greedily launched themselves onto the Golden.  Days were spent bringing the lawn back to its glory. He restored the breaches in the neglected fence.  Clutter inside the house disappeared.  His neighborhood has expanded within the realm of daily walks and trips to dog-friendly establishments.

What mysteries compile our days to change us and transform us into humans. The conundrums we view as unalterable change in the soft whisper of dark brown eyes and a moist nose.  He has quit his dying.  He has moved back in.


Friday, December 12, 2014

A Christmas Picture is Worth a Thousand Words


This picture says perhaps more than a 1000 words....When you view it, you are viewing a very intimate place in my life and in the history of my life......More than just a sweet pup curled up under the Christmas Tree on a cloudy December morning.....To understand it, in part, you must look closer....Much closer....And in doing so, you might just see a bit deep into my heart. So, if you are willing to look, I will start you off with a few guided glimpses......

The nativity scene you see on the table is our First Nativity, started 44 years ago when we were newly married, pieces added (and some, beyond repair, taken away) thru the years.....I have over 40 Nativity scenes  thruout my house at Christmas. Several from foreign countries, including Israel and Mexico and Switzerland;  several whimsical (a "dog" nativity, a "s'mores" nativity, a "snowman" nativity...); many that were gifts from friends and family and preschoolers.  I love decorating for Christmas with nativity scenes.  I think my Mom endeared me to them.  Tho she had only one, it was the centerpiece of Christmas in her home.   

When I was a child, Santa Claus scared the Dickens (pun intended) out of me......He "knew" things about me that I was embarrassed to reveal....He knew that I sucked my thumb, even tho I tried, in vain, to stop......And he informed me (via letters from the North Pole) that, should I continue to suck my thumb, I would not receive a Bride Doll for Christmas.  It wasn't so much the thought of not getting Bride-y that broke my heart.  It was the fact that I had this "character flaw" of seeking comfort in such a babyish manner......If I couldn't stop the thumbsucking, how in the World would I be able to be a grownup someday?

And, to top it off, this stranger, whom I barely knew, was aware of my shortcoming.....
When I  had my own home, I did not celebrate Santa....I wanted no part of him and his voyeurism and wiretapping...

Until I met Bruce Kotowitch.....

When I was 50 years old.

And  now I Believe......  If ever there was a Santa, it is Bruce....When it is not the Christmas Season, Bruce is Professor of Vocal Music at Lorus University in Dubuque Iowa.  His powerful baritone voice resonates in his speech; his body towers over most of us; his face says "yes" in its very demeanor.  He is one of the kindest, most caring and pleasant people I know. To be in the same room with him is truly food for your soul. I think that Bruce embodies the type of person that Santa Claus tries to bring forth.  And he overlooks my shortcomings and loves me anyway....

Bruce considers his role as Santa each December one of foremost importance and pays meticulous attention to detail. 

 His Santa suit is authentic right down to his red one-piece long underwear.  The trousers were tailored to fit a size 60 waist.  His belt buckles (he has several) were custom made of finest brass from artisans in eastern Tennessee.  His sleigh bells, beautifully tuned, are made by the same metallurgists who created the bells for the Anheuser Busch Clydesdales.  Bruce wears white eyelashes.  And his beard and mustache are real human hair.


Bruce makes sure that he is well-educated in the realm of toys and most-requested items that children ask for each year.  I do not believe that I have ever seen any child afraid or even Suspicious of Bruce-as-Santa. A bit awed, certainly.....overwhelmed by the bigness of body and spirit.....but never afraid. 

When you see him, you, too, will Believe.  I believe in all that Christmas is again, and my heart and soul slow down to incorporate its meaning.....Maybe he will come visit your home some year......


      Ah.....More about this picture.....The dulcimer hanging on the wall was made by us. By me and husband, Rob.  Many years ago, when the children were young, we visited Silver Dollar City in Branson Missouri for a vacation.  While there, I was intrigued by the beauty and sound of the dulcimers made by one of the artists.  I discovered, much to all our surprise, that I could, indeed, play the instrument, with very little instruction. Perhaps it was some of my Appalachian ancestors harkening in my ears.....For whatever reason, I became almost obsessed with the instrument, and would have stayed at that booth all day, had the children not been tugging at my sleeve. 

So, at Rob's encouragement, I ordered a "dulcimer kit" from these folks, and received it in the mail only a couple of days after we returned home. Soon I would have my very own dulcimer and be able to play those mountain tunes as my ancestors had in the hills of Tennessee.

Turns out, instead of buying a couple of pieces of wood shaped like a dulcimer that we just glued together, what we got in the mail was a box of boards!

Boards.  Several shapes and sizes.  And instructions.  I thought about crying.  But Dear Rob, as he has so many times in these 43+ years, assured me that, together, he and I could do this.  We would make this dulcimer, even though it meant many hours of careful and tedious work. 

And so, we began, one night soon after, to make some sense of the dulcimer directions to create one of my dearest treasures.

The Treasure of it, lies not only in its physical beauty, but in the memories it gave us as it came to be....

We would put the children to bed and make tea and sit at our dining room table, working on it--together--one step at a time. The process was ponderous and  painstaking and some evenings, imperceptible. I learned to admire Rob's patience.  He learned to admire my technological skills. Each night we would finish one more step towards completion, stopping to let the glue dry or wet the boards to curve into the proper shapes.

Finally, it was time to make the sound holes.  I was so eager to hear it sound, that I was content to cut simple circles into the body of the instrument. But Rob asked me what I Really wanted, if I wasn't in such a hurry.  I admitted that I loved the hummingbirds carved into one I saw in a picture book......He carved with his pocketknife, two perfect hummingbirds each facing the fret, with leaves and vines woodburned beside them. There is no other dulcimer as fine as this one we made together.
  



Keep looking at this picture, and you will see the quilts...on the floor, on the wall, on the chairs.....All made by me, at one time or another. A comfort in many ways, for the body, for the eye....for the pup.  I truly believe that quilts that have been sewn by loved ones have pieces of that person stitched into their core.  And the magic of it is that someone took Time out of their life just to bring this art into existence for its recipient.  Never underestimate the power of even the simplest of quilts.

The Christmas Tree doesn't reveal all its beauty in this picture.  It's ornamentation is a culmination of 44 Christmases, having begun in a tiny apartment in South Jersey, boxed and moved to several states and endured babies and toddlers and clumsy adolescents. Some of the ornaments are exquisite.  Made by my mother in times gone by.  Some are little handprints, little footprints, old pinecones, school pictures, vacation souvenirs, gifts from friends long passed on, plastic trumpets, baby angels, icicles, strands of old glass beads.....And then, there's the Star.

You should be able to see a bit of the Star in this picture.  It, too is 44 years old.  Made by two kids who strung popcorn and wrapped glue-y yarn around balloons and pulled ribbons thru pinecones that first Christmas they were married.  The star was carefully cut out of a cardboard box, then covered with aluminum foil.  A holder was fashioned on the back of it to loop over the top branch of the tree. We signed it, and dated it, and said we would Always use this star to put on top of each tree, each year.....

Some years I am tempted to purchase a fancy, lighted-up star to grace our tree, but I always remember those two young folks who made Christmas together, even when their budget would not allow the tinsel and shiny decorations.  And we smile and weep a bit, and Rob stands on a chair and puts the cardboardandfoil Star on.....one more year.......

Of course, the picture would probably not have held your interest were it not for that sableandsnow Collie puppy resting at the base of the tree.  He is 8 months old.  Our 4th Collie to live with us, with huge shoes to fill......His name is Tartanside A Spirit of Courage, and we call him Curtis.  His name is inspired by the Bible verse from 2Timothy 1:7 "God has not given us a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power and of courage."

He is, as Anice Terhune said of Lad, the Dearest Dog!  And I  believe that he, too, in the years to come, will make his place in the hearts of many more than just mine.  For Collies were meant to be shared in this world.  They were bred to love and teach wisdom and bring great joy.  I guess you could say that Collies and Christmas bring the same Message.  Hopefully, we can continue to spread that Word, and, in everything we do and say, we can keep Christmas all year long.








Tuesday, November 11, 2014

The Baby Has a Will

I remember when my children began to walk and talk.  Then they began to suspect that I did not know Everything.  They would walk away from me and learn new things from other sources.

Sometimes they did not come to me directly when called.

Sometimes they had Different Opinions than mine.

And they began to realize that they were separate from me.......

They were given car keys, new clothes, allowance money, and options for Freedom and Independence. 

And they messed up.  Royally.  Only to be reconciled back to Us, and forgiven and released again to try once more these wings of growth.  They pushed and they failed and they progressed. 

And we loved them.  We loved them with Complete Abandon and Joy.  We loved beyond the mistakes and the setbacks.  We were building a lifelong relationship, and everyone involved knew that it was of ultimate importance.

This month, our Collie Puppy, Curtis has discovered a broader world.  Most of the care and positive  reinforcement I have lavished upon him for the past 5 months has been for naught. 





Curtis is now seven months old.  The age when many young pups get relinquished to the local dog pound.  He has forgotten everything I have ever taught him.  He makes me doubt that I have used the proper methods for education and building a relationship.......

My Spirit of Courage has a mind of his own, and doesn't come when called anymore.  He cannot be trusted off leash from the house to the car. 




Curtis has forgotten what "sit!" is supposed to mean.  He jumps up on people.  He put his teeth on me when I was grooming him.  He ducks his head and wiggles out of the way when I reach for his collar.

Somedays he delights me in his increase of understanding and his focus on me. Somedays I cannot get him to leave my side and disconnect. 
 

Other days, he roams the room, looking for Something to do.  Rings the bell to go out, paws at the door to come in. Pokes the cats with his nose. Steals the socks out of my shoes.

People tell me that I will love him again in a few years.....I love him now!  I love his independence and his courage to explore new worlds. I love his keen mind and his attitude of importance. I love his gangly body and his clumsy gait.  I love the way he looks at me. And I love the warmth of his sweet back nestled up against mine.

I love what he is right now, and know that we will both survive the changes.  I love who he will be someday......For I can see the Future, and both of us are brave enough to go forward.






November 11. A Day that Will Live in Infamy.......


 

 



Lonnnnnnng years ago on this day, my Puzzle Piece was born.  My Ying to my Yang.....The Most Important Part of me.....The Biggest Challenge in my Life.......The person I love the most and hate the most......The Best Teacher in the World.....

Yeh......It was Long before I ever saw the light of day myself, but, truly, in a hotel in downtown Nowata Oklahoma, Robert Bailey came into this world. Accompanying him was a love of music, cats, chocolate, techno gear, bicycles, and order.......

I met this person when he was a youngster of 23.  I was 18.  Our draw was immediate. He thought I was beautiful and funny.  I thought he was handsome and wise.

 
 
 
I have watched him grow and change and stay the same.  He has patiently waited on me to discover myself and morph into me as well. 
I don't have many things to write about this person.   No real explanation except to confess that he is so much a part of me, I cannot "distance" myself from the "him" and the "me" of it.  Things I say about him I really say about me.  The two of us truly have become the "we," and we carry each other thru this life of ours.
 
We have cake to eat. And coffee to drink.  And music to listen to. 
 
I am so grateful for being able to share my life with person.  I hope he has the Happiest of Days today. 
 















 
 
 




Monday, November 3, 2014

November 2nd: The Story of Emily's Coming into this World.....

I was 20.  He was 25.  No one on this Planet was more wanted, desired, eagerly awaited than our child.  We had been married almost a year when the new life started within me.  Valentine's Day. 

Due date in early November.  November 5th.  Election Day.  I sent in my absentee ballot so as not to miss voting in my first Presidential Election. 

On Halloween, Rob and I painted appliance boxes and wore them......We were disguised as a washer and dryer.....Covering my tummy, and wearing masks, no one even Guessed it was us.  In fact, the friend dressed as Santa was suspected to be me....

That week, we drove in from our apartment in New Jersey to the Philadelphia Naval Hospital for a weekly pre-natal checkup.  I had experienced no complications at all during my pregnancy.  No morning sickness, no fatigue, no mood swings, no pain, not even any Braxton Hicks.  This morning, however, I insisted to the doctor that right under my ribcage was the baby's head.  I told him that whenever I bent over I was concerned about "breaking his neck."

"No, that is Definitely a butt," he told us.  But just to make sure, he would schedule me for an x-ray. This was a Longgggg time ago (yes, Emily, you ARE at Middle Age now....), before the routine ultra-sounds and other such fancy tests for concerned mommies.

When I saw the x-ray, my first reaction was, "What's Wrong with his head?"  The baby was definitely a breech presentation, his head not tucked and positioned downward, but rather UP and looking out (if you know Emily, you would be laughing right now. She has Never tucked her head nor sat quietly).  The head was not rounded, but rather had a bit of a "point" on the back.

"Oh, that is not a problem," the doctor assured me. "And you should have no problem with delivery."

In "those" days, 2/3 of breech babies were actually delivered. Now, all of them are Caesarean Section.

All Saints Day was upon us.  We had our one bedroom apartment all set and ready for the newborn.  The hall closet held the changing table and all his clothes.  Our bedroom housed the crib, complete with colorful mobile and new-fangled bumper guards.  Playtex bottles were clean and ready in case I needed supplements for breast feeding (not many moms breastfed in those days).  We had a high chair, an infant seat, cloth diapers, and a baby bathtub.

The phone rang that afternoon in our apartment.  Doctor Brannon was on the line, asking me to come in the next day, and asked that I bring my husband with me.  They wanted to "look" at his head. 

"Dr. Brannon," I told him, "my husband's head is as round as an orange.  What is going on?"
 
It seems that the physicians at the Philadelphia Naval Hospital had sent the x-rays all over Philadelphia.  To Children's Hospital, the first hospital devoted exclusively to the care of children.  Ranked #1 Children's Hospital in the nation (where they performed miraculous feats like separated conjoined twins and curing childhood cancers).  To Temple University Hospital, one of the premier medical centers in America......And no one had seen a head like this before.

Their conclusion......Probably the brain was protruding out of the back soft spot in the baby's head. The Occipital Fontanelle.  Up until this time, we only knew about the Frontal Fontanelle, but learned this day that there are actually two...One in front, a smaller one in back.

"We do not want to subject the baby's brain to any undue pressure, Mrs. Bailey.  So we have scheduled you for a Caesarean Section  on November 5th."

I was 20.  Up until now, I had lead a charmed and protected life.  I had been carefully and gently raised and indulged, and no "bad things" had ever happened to me. Now Life was presenting us with a dramatic and impossible canyon to traverse. I hung up the phone, held my swollen abdomen, and wept bitterly.  Never before had I worked so diligently for something, only to have it fail so miserably. 

My husband held me close and let the tears of sorrow and fear flow freely.  Then he tilted my face up to his and told me, "You have declared all your life your love of God and your reliance on Him.  Now is the Time to put that faith into practice.  We will go through this together, and trust that He has the Best in store for us."

Sometimes I really hate Rob for his wisdom.

So, what does a girl do when Life hits her between the eyes......She shops.....

We went to Fields Department Store (this before the era of WalMart).  We bought a new camera.  We bought groceries and root beer. 

Home again. Took pictures of my expanding tummy with me standing next to our avocado plant we had grown from a seed.  It was taller than I was, but not as wide......

We propped ourselves up on pillows in the bed with a "fun plate" between us-----salami, cheese, crackers----and poured ourselves a root beer.  The TV was airing a movie starring John Wayne (Rob's favorite actor) and Shirley Temple (my favorite actress).

So we watched the movie and happily ate our snacks.

At one point, while Shirley Temple is running down the walkway in pretty hat and gown, I notice that my "bulge" is becoming quite hard and turgid.

No pain.  Not even any discomfort.  The tenor is singing "Oh Genevieve," and we consume more root beer.

My abdomen returns to "normal," and, then, curiously, it hardens again several minutes later.

I mention this to Rob, and he whips out his left hand with the watch on it, places his right hand on my baby bump, and looks concerned.

After several repetitions of this "hardening/relaxing," he announces that we are "going to the hospital." Demands that I get dressed and out the door immediately.

I lumber to the bathroom, assuring him that this, is, in fact, NOT labor, just some weird game the Baby is playing.  I find a pair of pants that still stretch over my middle, cover it with a voluminous shirt (no tight maternity clothes back then), and obediently descend the stairs to the car. 

Rob is speeding.  It is midnight, and not much traffic on the White Horse Pike heading into Philly. He is driving with one hand on the steering wheel, one hand on my paunch.   Now we are on the Walt Whitman Bridge, crossing the Delaware River, and flashing red and blue lights pull us over.

Rob jumps out of the car, goes over to the policeman and tells him, "She's having contractions, and they are 5 minutes apart.  I am going to the Naval Hospital.  You can get in front of me or in back of me"  (Never before or since has my diplomatic husband been so assertive and demanding).

The policeman, answering with a panicked voice, tells this soontobe new father, "Oh......Oh.....Oh........Okay.......," and careens his patrol car to our front, setting off alarms and bells from the toll booth, escorting us down Broad Street in Philadelphia to the emergency entrance of the hospital. 

I am laughing.  Holding my solid tummy and laughing.  "Rob!  This is so cool!  We can tell the Baby about this when he is 10 years old!"

Rob, knuckles white on the steering wheel, eyes peering straight ahead, "Toni, are you in complete control?"

Swirling into the parking lot of the ER, I am assisted up the ramp, and swept into an exam room, don a backless gown, and instructed to lie down on a gurney. 

"My husband made me come here," I inform the nurse whose head has disappeared underneath the sheet covering me.  "I don't think there is really anything to rush on about."

She emerges calmly from the foot of the gurney.  "Hunny, you are dilated 8 centimeters."

I am assigned a room, taken thru the proper pre-op procedures, and am told to lie down and wait for the doctor to arrive (he too, driving in from New Jersey, across the WW Bridge). 

It was only when I lay down that I began to experience some discomfort.  Back then, labor and delivery were  "controlled" activities orchestrated only by the doctors and their nurses.  It was unheard of to allow a laboring mother to walk around.  So, I began my "practiced" Lamaze Breathing to power thru the contractions.  The attending nurse told me that I should stop breathing like that because I could "hyperventilate."  She then examined me and announced that I was in transition......And I knew that my breathing was right on track with my body. 

There were 8 babies born in that hospital that night.  Women screaming and wailing all up and down the hall.  The Lamaze Breathing technique kept me sane and comfortable and focused. I was the first Lamaze patient to ever be admitted in that hospital, and the nurses were amazed at my "Little Southern Composure." 

Because it was an emergency C-section, I was awake during delivery.  It felt and sounded like someone was cutting stiff cardboard when they made the incision. 

A girl!  Not an 8-pound boy, but a 7pound, 13 ounce GIRL! 

"Emily Ellen Bailey!" I screamed.  "Let me see her!  Let me see her head!" 

"Her head is just fine," the doctor informed me, and then I slept.

Emily's head was just fine.  My theory is that her skull had been molded in utero from so much "looking around."  By day 3, it had rounded out nicely into the pretty roundness of a
C-Section baby.

Rob got a parking ticket.  Emily was jaundiced. My long hair was matted and tangled, and the delivery nurse came over to my ward and combed it out for me.  

According to my mother, Emily wasn't as pretty as her babies, but her assessment of her head was the same as the doctors. "There aint nuthin in the World wrong with that baby," she affirmed. 

And she was right. 

Happy Birthday, Em.