Your gratuitous dog photos on a foggy morning
Wisconsin Writers
The Circus
It’s nice not to be in charge. This is why being a non-custodial grandparent is so much fun. You don’t have to be responsible. You can be funny. And silly. And a little crazy. You can speak with affectionate irony, and not be worn down with worrying about whether they turned in their homework, washed the slime out of their water bottles, and picked up their damn backpacks off the hall floor.
So, it’s good to have the boys’ mom around to do the enforcement. I can get back to being the fun one.
And we did have fun yesterday, even at the grocery store. The boys were barely reined in racehorses pulling at the bit. Naturally, they were in charge of the shopping cart, which is potentially disastrous, but people were in a mood to smile indulgently when I apologized and rolled my eyes, calling out “Say excuse me!” to the boys and “I’m so sorry,” to innocent passersby. The boys were polite nevertheless, and, if I may say it, so adorable it was impossible to be annoyed.
The eleven year old is particularly endearing at this stage, with his straight dark hair falling across his big brown eyes, and his shy, accented English. He’s not careful, like his brother, and at the stage of boyhood perfection: childish, wide-eyed, charming, and full of mischief. Very much like a puppy. When they’re together, the fourteen year old reverts to that phase, too, and together we become like a small traveling circus, with me as Ringmaster.
There were so many carts and people. As I moved rapidly through produce, grabbing the last few things I wanted, I looked around for them, and there they were on the far side of the section, waiting for me, and happily waving their arms to draw my attention. Their happy faces filled me with joy, and I forgot to be tired.
Children really do make Christmas.
I’ve joked a lot about having a week-long nervous breakdown when they’ve gone. But I’m going to miss them.
Gratuitous Dog Photo; Nostalgia Entry
Le jour de gloire est arrivée
Well, tomorrow.
What we affectionately refer to as the French invasion begins tomorrow, when our daughter and younger grandson arrive for Christmas. Today there will be a certain amount of bustle as beds are changed, the house is cleaned, flowers are refreshed and we stock up on coffee for our daughter, and bake Christmas cookies for boys.
Also the dog hair must be vacuumed from the back seat of the big car. And Eli, who is responding to the warm winter in true long-hair fashion (he is half long-hair), is blowing his coat. He will need to be taken out to the orchard and brushed. Brushing him near the house makes visitors suspect we’ve had some kind of massacre of enormous bunnies.
I still cannot find the fragile glass icicle ornaments I pack away so carefully each year. Most annoying. They add such a magical shimmer to the tree. And, of course, our appliance debacle continued yesterday, on our first cold day in weeks, when our five year old furnace motor found a dark spot. Whatever that means. I am hoping the new part arrives today.
Meanwhile, only three days of school left for our long-term visiting grandson. Last night he meticulously wrote thank-you notes to all his teachers, and together we put bows and gift tags on his Christmas gifts. He will return home with his family before the new year.
All the bustle is fun and carries the requisite note of Christmas cheer. But there is cooking to be done, and wrapping, and still a few elements of shopping. Ah, and all the bed linens to be washed.
Speaking of cheer, there is one other note of preparation for the coming festivities: A case of champagne and the big bottle of whiskey.
By the end of the night, grandma may require a wee dram.
In any case, she will have earned it.
Update:
My husband, upon reading the above: “You have started calling yourself ‘Grandma’ and referring to yourself in the third person?…Also, where’s this whiskey?”
Saturday’s gratuitous dog photo
Auggie explains that he would like one of the turkey hearts sitting on the counter.
And yes, of course. Do you think I’m made of stone?
Your gratuitous dog photo
Accidental Christmas Tree
I have mentioned my friend from sixth grade before. We met at age eleven, and our friendship was cemented soon after. Our math teacher commented on our report cards that we giggled too much in class. We have a deep mutual commitment which has lasted these many years, and although we are very different personalities, we seem to share a general tendency toward lunacy.
We don’t live in the same town, but close enough, and I was on my way to her house yesterday to see her Christmas decorations, have some lunch, and, because she really is a good friend, drop off some papers pertaining to a small dilemma (See: accounting; loathe.) I was a tiny bit late, so I was tooling along the country roads at a nice clip. 1
However, as I turned down her familiar rural road, I noticed that the rickety farm market and petting zoo that has been there for decades was selling Christmas trees. I slowed, and saw there were some good-sized trees. For the next mile I debated whether I should buy the tree myself rather than going on a family outing. It was too far to come on a school night, and the place wouldn’t be open after dark anyway. And honestly, after a basketball game all an eighth-grader can think about is eating.
So after a pleasant few hours of lunch, conversation, and admiration of decorations (my friend has, among other things, a magnificent hand-carved Italian creche with bespoke lighting), we turned to the subject of trees. “Want to come?”
She did.
It was a balmy December day, almost 50 degrees, which in Wisconsin means mud. We pulled into the dirt drive of the place. There were no other customers, but an eclectic collection of barnyard animals in pens all around: turkeys, various sorts of chickens, a donkey, a sheep, several types of goats, emus, and at least one vociferous pig.
A guy with a shovel looked up from where he was standing.
“Are you open? We’ve come to look at Christmas trees.”
“Nah,” the guy answered cheerfully. “I’d rather shovel pig s*&t.”
He set down his shovel and came to speak with us. “I have to tell ya: Did you see that trailer driving off?”
We confessed that we had not.
“That was the boss. He’s gone down to the other field with a load of manure. His wife has cancer, and it’s her treatment day, no one else is here, and I’m not allowed to touch the electronic stuff. So, you’d have to pay cash. That’s all I’m allowed to do.”
I did not have cash.
“But,” he continued, “you can go up to the quickie mart on the corner where they have an ATM.”
I agreed that we could do this, but suggested we look first so we knew how much we would need. So we tromped down the drive through the mud, I in my new black suede boots, to look at the trees.
Balsams have been hard to come by, lately. I like frasiers; they’re very pretty trees, but there’s nothing like the scent of a balsam. There was a blight a few years back, and it takes years to replenish. But here was a lot full of them.
We picked our way through various forms of manure. “Watch out for the poop!” became the mantra.
We found a tree. Just eight feet. It had a sparse side that could be turned toward the window, but it was the right combination of fullness and height. Just as we were calculating the purchase price with tax in preparation for our trip to the cash machine, the farmer returned with an empty trailer, and we were spared a trip to the quickie mart. Total cost: $66.
The checkout was a strange little place, with a greenhouse/gift shop that had a slightly creepy Miss Havisham vibe, but we soon escaped outside, where the tree was netted, and ready to go.
“I can’t put the tree on the car,” the farmhand informed us. “Liability.”
An emu lurked preternaturally in the distant trees.
My friend and I looked at each other. “We only have to go a mile,” she said. “Tom is home, and he’ll have something.”
“I got twine,” said our man, helpfully.
This is probably the moment to point out that we’d had champagne with lunch.
The tree was very light and I settled it on the roof of the car and opened the windows. Our friend handed us twine and without touching anything, explained how to weave the twine among the branches for extra security. Having never done this before, I was happy to have expert advice. We bumbled along for fifteen minutes or so, because I really didn’t want to have to ask Tom for another in a lifetime of favors.
It wasn’t until we were finished and ready to go that the farmer reappeared, and started to laugh. “I think you’ve forgotten something.”
We looked at each other, then at the car, and light dawned. We’d tied the car doors shut.
The farmer chortled. “I’ll get the scissors.”
“No,” Julie said. “We can just crawl in from the back.”
Now, I have a small car, as anyone who has seen photos of my German Shepherds’ sweetly bent ears can attest. But I am reasonably agile, and the whole thing seemed simple enough. I climbed in the back, and as I contemplated my move, I realized that the space was more limited than I had anticipated. Fully aware of my audience, and possibly somewhat compromised in my judgment, I crawled into the front, only to find myself stuck with my feet in the air, my head on the front seat.
I started to laugh, and could not stop. I lay helplessly, unable to move and barely able to breathe. Tears ran backwards down my face.
My friend was in the back seat doing the same. I could hear male snorts outside.
“Move the seat back,” called the farmer. But that meant getting myself in a position where I could reach the button on the outside of the seat. Finally able to move, I wriggled my way to find the button, and then found it impossible to get my legs under the steering wheel. My knee landed on the horn. There was another lengthy bout of deranged laughter.
When we drove away, securely entwined, we all wished one another a Merry Christmas.
Julie, unwilling to copy my methods, sat in the back. “Well,” she said, “we just killed thousands of cancer cells.”
A mile down the road, Tom waited on the driveway with scissors to cut us out, and a ball of twine to re-tie the tree.
Our plans for a post-basketball family event would have to be something else.
We went out for sushi instead.
- Sidebar: I tend to amble when the dogs are in the car because I don’t want to toss them around, but when I’m alone, I like a good corner. This has softened my views on round-abouts of which Wisconsin has far too many for no particular reason. But they can be fun. ↩︎
Small Oversight
Life can be busy sometimes, what with eighth grade basketball practice, slope intercepts, multiple broken appliances, Christmas preparations, and hauling ten eighth-graders to and from an escape room. So somehow, we have managed to wait too long to buy our Christmas tree.
I bought a small one for the library as I do every year, and mostly handled it myself. But our main tree, the one that has to go to the ceiling, is more of a family project, and finding the right time to shop for it has been tricky.
I expressed my concern to my husband last night. “We live in Wisconsin,” my husband pointed out. “The land of Christmas trees.” And it’s true. The trees are harvested in August, then stored underwater in river beds until it’s time to ship across the country. But somehow the supply seems more limited than usual. We always buy our tree from a family who set up at the motel parking lot. They are from “Up North”. They are cheerful guys with rosy faces and thick Wisconsin accents. They are part of our tradition, and when their postcard comes every November we welcome it as a sign of the season. But when I drove past yesterday they only had two sizes left: Too small and WAYYY too big. The local Optimists Club, who sell trees to raise funds for scholarships, were also down to a dozen or so small, but pretty trees. Same with our family-run nursery, and the cut-your-own lot a bit out of town was already closed.
Now, as a confession, last year, when our worries about dried-out trees and fires were fresh in our minds, I bought a splendid fake tree from Balsam Hill. It looks very real, probably, and as a bonus, all the lights are already on it. I am stickler for lights, and yet it is a job I dread in both the putting-on and the taking-off of them. But somehow, for this Christmas with the family coming from France and Washington, it seems wrong to have a fake tree as our main tree. I just can’t seem to do it. And so, it’s still sitting in its box in our attic, doubtless inhabited by singing mice.
We will have to go on a tree hunt tonight after the basketball game. (What is the opposite of “undefeated”?)
It may come down to the fake tree after all.
Gratuitous Dog Photo
Essential (as opposed to gratuitous)Dog Photos
I am still in a state of wonder over Auggie’s recovery, and seeing him here in his usual pose on the couch fills me with emotion. He is vigorous and joyous, insatiably hungry, and insatiably ball-mad. I have already lost track of the exact day we got the cone off him, so I went back to look at the photos on my phone, which I use as a diary of my life.
That’s when I came upon these, from the day the collar came off, less than a month ago. Until the stitches were out and healing, he was not allowed to come on the bed. This was upsetting to us all.
Until this moment, Auggie had never allowed Eli to love him before.
Dogs are pure soul.
Here’s Auggie this morning, all snoozy and safe.
I am grateful beyond words.
No One Told Me There Would Be Math
I had a busy night planned. It involved cleaning out a cupboard where mice had been and sanitizing and rescuing the framed family pictures that had been stored there when I repainted the stairway a year ago last November. I was planning to hang the pictures—about a dozen or so—in the repainted hall. I wanted to tackle this disgusting job so I wouldn’t be ashamed in front of my cleaning lady. (It was, in actual fact, another clever procrastination technique in my novel-writing avoidance scheme. But I digress.)
Instead, as I was elbow deep in sanitizing wipes and thinking words that would have shocked my mother, my husband called my grandson from upstairs—and me—to come into the kitchen. My husband has a mischievous sense of humor, and is fond of calling me on the phone from upstairs, or summoning me from various tasks to show me something entertaining. I was not amused. “I am in the middle of something,” I said, forgoing the opportunity to explain the precise substance I was in the middle of.
“This,” he said, “is serious.” He then read aloud an email from our grandson’s math teacher.
Only yesterday we were celebrating an excellent report card. But something had gone awry in the past four days since grades were closed, and we were exhorted to ensure that tomorrow’s test did not reflect yesterday’s quiz.
My husband, whose confidence in me is sometimes misplaced, assured my grandson. “Grandma is great at math. She will be able to help you.” Some of you may recall a note from a few days ago in which I explained my loathing of accounting. Which is math.
I need to say that it has been…some time… since I did basic algebra, and when I saw the graphing equations and the formula for slope ( y=mx +b) I was a bit shaken. The required physics course I took in college was affectionately referred to as “Physics for Poets”. There was no math. Opera singers don’t use much algebra, either.
So we turned on the lights in the dining room. “Get pencils and paper” I told my grandson. He brought two sheets. “That’s not enough.” There was no way I was wasting my precious writing notebooks for this.
And so, we began—both somewhat irritable—to review the past two weeks of eighth grade math. He was gleeful when I made a mistake, and sullen when I was right and teacher-y. And that gave me insight into how to help. So, I told him I couldn’t remember how to do it—which was sometimes true—and he had the fun of explaining to ignorant me just where I had gone wrong. Sometimes I genuinely was wrong, and sometimes I had to be right to explain where he had gone wrong. Old Person Sidebar: Why don’t they teach kids multiplication tables anymore?
But I have to admit, even if he dramatized how much he hated it (“Why do I have to do math? I’ll never use it.”) I was positively joyful that I could access the algebra file drawers in my brain.
Later, I told my husband the kid had better never take Calculus because I wouldn’t be able to help him. We giggled.
After two hours, we had gone as far as we could in one evening, and when my grandson came back downstairs in his yellow pajamas, he had hot chocolate, and I had two whiskeys.
I feel I earned them.
***
And now your gratuitous dog photo.
J.F. Riordan 