Music

Ever since I was a little girl nothing could touch me or make me cry more than listening to someone create music. Maybe it's because my favorite memories, the ones I most associate with love and security are of sitting around a campfire with my mom and dad, uncles and aunts, grandparents and family friends listening to them sing. The air would be cold, the campfire hot and I would sit wrapped in sweatshirt and blankets in my parents' arms in lawn chairs and on benches made from boards and stumps, as they sang, "It only takes a spark to get a fire going..."

When I was 15, one of my best friends, Becky, would sit at the piano in our living room and I would feel my eyes fill with tears as she played songs she wrote. Each note seemed full of emotion, passion and drama. Each hand on a keyboard seems as distinct as fingerprints. My friend, Joan, was a concert pianist, who still teaches piano. her answer machine says, "You have reached the Foster residence where pugs and pianos outnumber the people." In the early days, when I first met her, I would sit in her studio on cold winter's nights and listen as she played Debussy and Rachmaninoff. Her hands seemed to touch and leave the keyboard with an extra lilt, the presence of joy.

My brother, John, like my father, plays the piano by ear. John didn't play in front of us until he was older, but once he did I was in awe. I cannot understand how he hears what he does, how he knows where to place his hands to bring what he hears in his head to the keys. When he plays he seems to be lost in the melody as if hearing notes from another world and translating them to this one.

Today, he stopped by the family house with two of his three children, Avery and Tori. John sat down to play the piano and suddenly Avery was beside him playing along. Avery, too, it seems hears music in his head. Sitting there, listening, watching father and son lost in this moment, lost in the music, I felt privy to this other world. And, for a moment I could hear the music, too.

* Please note when listening to this video that the piano is out-of-tune. John would want me to tell you this.

It once was lost but now it's found...

Wednesday evening I met my friend Joan in Montpelier, Vt. to see the new Clint Eastwood movie and eat at Julio's, the local Mexican restaurant. On Thursday I worked from home most of the day until I had to head out to teach. On Friday, I realized my favorite hat was missing.

This isn't just any hat. It's my favorite hat. The one I've owned for years, the one that's a perfect fit. It's not just comfortable, functional and fashionable, it's a part of me, almost a uniform I don every fall. It makes me feel capable, independent, ready. If it's windy or it's rainy or my hair is bad, no problem I have my hat. I don't even have to think about adjusting it. It falls into place naturally.  Suddenly, it was missing and I felt naked, lost, exposed.

I called Julio's, actually my nephew, who was visiting, called Julio's desperate I think to silence my fears, but all they had in Lost and Found was a black Nike hat and a black Monster cap. I tried to call the theater, but they only had a 24-hour movie phone that played recorded messages of the latest show times. After listening to all the movies and times, I finally found a phone number to talk to a real person, but after calling it repeatedly, no one answered and I was transferred to the movie line once again.

I knew if I lost the hat at the college where I teach I would never locate it, but I couldn't figure out why I would wear the hat there as I do not consider it appropriate to wear when teaching. I might have worn it to avoid the rain on Thursday night, but I have a rain hat in the car for that and besides who wants hat head when you are at the front of the classroom? So I was left with scouring the house on Friday. I ransacked my bedroom, the hat cubbies in the mudroom, the basket on the vanity where my hat usually sits. My poor nephew had to hear me repeatedly whine. I've owned that hat for years and in that time, I have never found another hat that fits me as well, not just physically, but psychologically. I feel more me in that hat.

Out of desperation I ran into TJ Maxx on Friday night hoping I could find another hat that could suffice. By that time, I had resigned myself to the fact that it was indeed lost. But, I knew I had worn it on Wednesday night when I first met Joan because there was a picture on my cell phone of me wearing it. So, I decided to try the movie theater and Julio's once again.

Surprisingly, I got through to the theater on the first try, but the girl who answered said they were busy and that she would check and get right back to me. Julio's informed me about the Nike hat and Monster cap. I waited and waited some more and finally called the theater again.

"You reached the 24-hour movie phone."

I was ready to give up, but thought it worth another call. After several more tries I finally reached the girl again. No hat.

I sighed and headed off to pick up the sub I ordered at the local sandwich shop. Suddenly, my cell rang. I couldn't answer it right away, but checked the number as soon as I pulled into the shop. It was the theater, they had found my hat.

"I'll be there in 45 minutes," I told them, which is exactly how long it takes me to drive to Montpelier.

I did this even though I was suppose to be someplace else, even though I am headed to Montpelier again on Monday and could have asked them to hold onto the hat until then. Suddenly, I felt like the Good Shepherd in the Bible, you know, the one that goes out after the lost sheep. My hat was that sheep and I was ready to go the distance to bring it back into the fold.

I parked the car in front of the theater, darting in and announcing that I was there for my hat. The girl smiled, handed it to me and I placed it on my head, where it fell right into place. Welcome home, I thought, strutting out the door with a big smile. Ahh, such a sweet feeling. Reunited, complete. I felt like me again.

Fairy Photoshoot: Pug Point of View

She's at it again and even though I know what she's up to and it seems kind of strange, I feel my body tense in excitement. I start to wiggle and wag my tail in spite of myself. Oh, oh, I am excited. We are going outside. I like going outside. So much to smell. Maybe she'll give me food. Oh, oh, she has something in her hand. Oh, oh, maybe she is going to give it to the other one. I better butt her out of the way.

"Let me in, Let me in."

No food. I paw at my girl. She is slow sometimes. She probably forgot the food. Again!
"Um, hey? Remember me?" Where's the snacks?"

Oh no, she's putting one of those silly outfits on me. She seems to want me to do something. What? I tilt my head perplexed. I am thinking really hard. If I do it right, maybe she'll give me food. She's putting that box she calls a camera in my face again. I hear a click.

"Good dog," she says. "Nice picture." She adjusts the thing on my back. She says they're wings. Dogs don't have wings! I try to bite them. Instead, I turn and bite the "wings" on the other one. She doesn't like that. She growls. We spin in circles. My girl keeps laughing and snapping that box at us. She doesn't give us food. Finally we stop spinning. We rest our heads in our paws. The other one looks as disappointed as me. We think the girl forgot the snacks again. Sigh. We shut our eyes and enjoy the sun.

She calls us "beautiful." We each open one eye and wag our tails. She is our girl. She is forgiven, but I wish she'd forget the wings and remember the food next time.

Progress

I began Waffles' sweater last night. Here it is still on the loom. I am at the point where I need to add the arm holes. Loom knitting is pretty easy. I know some people don't consider it "real knitting" but it sure is fun and quick and I should have Waffles' sweater finished by weekend's end. Then I'll begin on Alfie's.

 

If I have time this winter, I think I'll try my hand at crocheting. My sister-in-law Gretchin made my niece the prettiest purple hat. She learned by watching a YouTube video, but I don't think that will work for me. I'd love to crochet a hat for the pugs! I saw some neat ones online and it would be great for photographs. I once started a "bee" sweater for one of the pugs and think I may finish it and make another for Waffles. Then if I learned to crochet "bee" hats I'd be all set. I think I'll be a busy bee this winter.

Loom Knitting

Before Waffles and Alfie there was Vader and Mira. Vader was a total gentleman, sweet, peaceable, the kind of dog who calmed those around him. Mira? She was pure joy. The happiest creature I ever met -- canine or human.

But, this is not a post about them. It is a post about their sweaters. I joined the loom knitting craze a few years back and after a plethora of ill-fitting hats for the whole family, I finally succeeded in making the pugs sweaters. I adorned Vader's with brushed gold buttons and Mira's with a knitted, orange flower. The two wore the sweaters every time we went for a car ride, fall and winter. They held up incredibly well. I have them stored in plastic bags. When I took them out the other day I noticed they still had their hairs tucked in the weave and even smelled like them. Even if they fit Waffles and Alfie I think I would still start afresh. Those were Vader and Mira's sweaters. Alfie and Waffles are getting their own.

In the years since I first took up the loom, I have learned to do some traditional knitting at least enough to make a yellow washcloth bearing the Star Trek emblem, and a pink one bearing something that resembles a one-legged flamingo. I gave up before finishing the one with Obama's face. But now doggie sweaters have become a necessity. While Alfie is a furry bundle, Waffles is thin and sleek and is already shivering. I am still not skilled enough to take up needles to complete this endeavor, so out come the looms again. Waffles' sweater is going to be white with red, fun fur trim and Alfie's pink with gold. I am not sure yet about the embellishments. I'll post pictures when I'm done.

Writing Prompt: Thursdays

Thursdays are my weary days -- my wet dishrag days, where I have little incentive to do much. Mostly, it is because on Thursday evenings I teach, which means the day is spent in preparation -- correcting papers, putting together lesson plans.

I come away from the class, late at night rejuvenated. I love to hear what my students have written, but I don't relish the preparation. Usually, on Thursdays there are other things I should be doing -- writing articles, conducting interviews, personal errands, but because the class looms at the end of the day I can never begin much, can never get too involved. That makes me weary. I don't like boundaries; I like the freedom to take flight.

I choose to teach on Thursdays because of this. So I can get as much done earlier in the week as necessary, so that Friday -- my favorite day -- looms ahead. Thursdays are nice days, in fact, I have always had a fondness for them, but they are slow days, deflated days, sometimes stressful days, depending on how much I need to prepare and how much else I have to do. They are sisters to Sunday afternoons only with work to do. They are not days of rest, but days with only one particular focus, one outcome, and a long steady stretch leading to it. I like the freedom to take side roads and byways. I like to be open to possibility.

Tonight, after class I will feel differently. Thursday nights infuse me with energy. I always wish I could bottle this and bathe in it on Thursday mornings, so I would wake refreshed and effervescent, ready to zoom forward. It doesn't work that day.

Writing Prompt: When do you feel tired?

Alien World

Tonight I saw my almost 9-month-old niece Ellie. She is the daughter of my brother, Mark, and his wife, Gretchin. We were meeting at the AT & T store to upgrade our I-phones and she arrived in a purple coat and purple hat that her mother had just crocheted for her.

She stared out at me from among the largest set of eyes I have ever seen. I wish I could tell you the color, but they may not have made up their mind yet. They are still baby eyes and not yet set, but are wide and deep, holding pools of foreign knowledge.

It is easy to look at a child this young and think that like Brad Pitt in Benjamin Button perhaps we age backwards, losing wisdom as we go. As with my pugs, I can't be sure of what goes on beneath the surface, what this child is thinking or trying to say. Mostly she watches and observes, like maybe if she applies enough effort she will be able to record enough details to remember later what she now knows for sure.

I have never met a child, no matter how innocent they appear, that looks like a blank slate. They most certainly have their own way of thinking and communicating. Who tells them what's funny? And, yet they laugh. Who tells them what's frightening? And, yet they cry. We are as foolish to try to explain their thoughts and actions with our emotions than we are to apply them to a dog. Children this young are still their own creatures. If, like a camcorder, they record our actions to learn, than I think we may be overwriting a previous program.

Do children lose a little bit of who they are every day, becoming in chameleon-like fashion more like us? Is our subconscious world of dreams and emotions and our penchant for imagination simply the remains of a world where we all once lived? One we leave, step-by-step, behind us as we learn to talk and walk and mirror our adults?

In many ways it is harder to discern my niece's thoughts than it is my dogs because the mirror is too close. Her likeness makes me jump to too many conclusions. I think I can anticipate her needs, but then she looks and stares and nestles her face into her mother's chest and lifts her head and looks at me from behind impossibly long lashes. I deduce she is playing shy, but is she? She looks too sly, but I do not know. Like Alfie's paw brush of Waffle's face, Ellie is talking in ways I may not understand. But, I love to watch and wonder and stare into those swirling orbs while the portal is still open - before the color sets and this alien world is lost to me.

Writing Prompt: The Fingerprints of God

The apocryphal Gospel of Thomas includes a passage that reads: "Split the wood and I am there; pick up the stone and you will find me there."

I understand these words, for it is in ordinary moments that I find God. I watch my pugs at their dance: a commonplace conversation to them, the mysterious, the profound to me. I am on the outside as they talk, privy to something beyond my understanding.Alfie grabs a toy or a rose petal in her mouth and Waffles comes for it. Alfie bows her head to the right, lifts her left paw and gently brushes Waffles' face. Waffles approaches and filches the bone or the toy or the flower from Alfie's mouth. Sometimes Alfie relinquishes it as if this is the expected outcome, sometimes she engages in playful banter. They speak. I bear witness.Sometimes it is just animals talking, sometimes in their conversation I see the fingerprints of God.Writing prompt: Where do you find the profound?

Smelling the Roses

On these soggy, autumn afternoons she drifts to the back stoop, you on her heels. You almost trip her as you rush the door. What are we doing you ask? What exciting thing is ahead?

She basks in autumn's dance between slate and rust, gray and gold, not moving from the steps. Sun breaks through like a spotlight, illuminating forgotten corners of the yard. You wander off to investigate, discovering mushy piles of fallen leaves and other smelly things. You savor their wet, earthiness. Nothing could be better. Your girl is nearby.

You check on her often, sometimes with a glance. Sometimes running back. She fusses with an object on the steps. You race to her. A container, holding pastel petals. You sniff. Are they good to eat?

They might be. These soggy, autumn afternoons with her are drenched in possibility. Life smells of food and fun. You bury your nose in velvet. Heaven!

Response to The Face of Memory

I received back several lovely responses to the writing prompt: "What does memory look like to you?"  One of my favorites, and I assure you this is not simple nepotism, is by my sister-in-law Gretchin Gifford. You can read it on her blog: http://yourmomisstrange.blogspot.com/2012/09/memory-writing-prompt-from-pugs-... Gretchin is a new mommy and a graphic designer by trade, but there is more than a little writer in her. I am still thinking of her phrase "fire by the friction of major and minor chords."