checkers

Walking up the stairs this morning, paused for a minute and looked at the things there. Along the side next to the wall are pictures of family. Denise and Mike when they were still in high school. Jim's sons when they were pre-teens. Jim's father holding his firstborn son, Michael. A picture of his Mom in her uniform when she graduated from nursing school, standing next to her best friend. My parents. A battered picture of me standing next to my Dad, as far I know, the only one of me in uniform with family, because you know they were not at all happy with that decision, but that's another story and better not explored here and now. The only picture of Mother's mother that has survived the years, and an email print of her with her immediate family when she was about three. My Dad's parents standing solemnly proud, Grant Wood without the pitchfork, taken only months before grampa died. And of course various pictures all my grandchildren.

On the other side, next to the rail, are pretty decorator boxes. I rotate them according to the season and color scheme of the living room.

Also, there are two candy dishes that came from Mom's house, both in shades of sage, olive, and a green so dark it's almost black, one shaped very like a swan, the other with a neck turned back in upon itself. They don’t go with anything else in the house, since my decor is neither early American nor fifties kitsch, but I keep them there because they are simply lovely and I enjoy seeing them and I choose not to relegate them to a closet or the guest bedroom.

On the third step from the bottom is a tin box of checkers. I opened it the other day, just to make sure all the pieces are there. Yep. It's complete. And so they sit and wait for someone to take them out and place them on the board in its still vibrant hues of ruby and jet, and push them from block to block, jump them from one place to another, and place one on top of the other with the joyous cry of "king me!"

But no one who comes to my house these days is here long enough to play a game. Besides, the internet is much more alive. And more suited to the quixotic attention span of a gnat that the general populace seems to have adopted.

And that's my fault. Even when we lost the electricity the other night, we did not settle down to play a game. I picked up a book and read by candlelight. Not that there's anything wrong with reading. But even Jim fell victim, and the choice was made, instead, to run an extension cord to the computer so he could play solitaire.

The chess pieces have been put away, too. The wonderful huge set of ebony and ivory we received for a wedding present is bubble-wrapped and closed in a box and stored away, because it just catches dust and tantalizes the cat to walk where he should not.

I long for the days when, by the light of the fire, we sat down on the rug and played checkers. Or chess. And actually talked to each other.

KTT no longer sleeps on the bed with us. It certainly couldn't be that he was no longer comfortable sleeping on my feet and making them go numb an hour after I lay down, so just figured it was because he was tired of me kicking him.

This morning I got up at 4 instead of the normal 5, thinking to spend an hour writing before the day kicks off with the barks from the garage and the television blaring to life. Came upstairs, not being particularly careful to stay quiet, but carpeted stairs and my cashmere-sock-clad feet didn't make much noise. Noticed that the door to the guest room was open, just a little.

Peeked in. And there was KTT, curled up on the bed next to the plush stuffed brown-and-white saint bernard. The one that used to live downstairs on the blanket chest at the foot of my bed. Before Jim decided he needed that space, too, for his clothes. (He'd already piled the chair so high you can't see the slipcover and I'm sure there's still a carpet on his bathroom floor but can't prove it.)

So either KTT got tired of having to negotiate the camouflage mountain to get onto the bed, or he missed his body buddy and decided to join him in the guest room.

Heck, if I'd known it would be that way, I'd have put that durn puppy upstairs months ago.

Sitting at the computer Saturday morning, looking out the 2nd story front windows, I watched the freezing fog roll in. Was thinking about the weather we've had this winter. An announcement on the Friday news said 49 of the 50 states had measurable snowfall, with only Hawaii not reporting. That's pretty strange, because the mountain peaks on the big Island were on that day unusually, freakishly, devoid of snow.

The government in DC was closed down for more than a week. Baltimore despairs of ever seeing the grass again. Mud slides in CA play havoc more than the norm with both traffic and homes. My poor friends in MA and NH and VT were days without power, along with more Texans than the visiting crews from OK and LA and AR could handle in less than a week.

The snowdrifts in my back yard were 16 inches deep, with a 13-inch layer solid across the rest. The only parts of puppy that could be seen when he went on patrol were his ears; quite freaky, that, to see a disembodied head popping up now and then across the landscape.

Today, a week later, there's still a line of snow out there, by the fence, where the sun doesn't reach, and a solitary clump in the street by the mailbox, distinctly gray in color, that probably fell off a car as it drove by. But it appears it ain't over yet. The weather forecasts for next week show a "wintry mix" in store for us.

I think next year, on February 1, someone should shoot that bloomin' groundhog.

blue dinosaur

Walking through wally world the second week in January, I was frankly overwhelmed at the amount of Valentine's Day items already on display. Stuffed animals of every ilk. Jewelry, both cheap and expensive. Heart-shaped candy dishes in clear glass or red plastic. Fake velvet and silk roses in pink, purple, and a red so deep it's almost black. Three aisles (count 'em, three) of cards. All geared toward a day that was over a month away.

I suppose it was to be expected. Christmas over, the only thing the retailers had to look forward to was the next holiday, and since January was sadly lacking (save for Three Kings Day) that meant February was the target.

But instead of buying something for decoration, I simply came home and opened the decorator closet. Took out three lengths of fabric, each with its own unique heart design, and created a display on the dining room table. There's the tiny brown puppy I care-mailed to Jim last year, that he so carefully packed and brought home, and the one to match that sat on the top of my computer for the month. A crazy blue dinosaur with red scales on its back, wearing yellow sunglasses, holding a red and white heart, that Jim gave me the first year we were married. A little curly red poodle, holding in its paws a fake flower, Lord knows where it came from. And, of course, the little heart valentine from my grandson that stays, the rest of the year, on the refrigerator, under the Chinese wedding couple magnet.

I'm not one to ask for flowers, they just die; or candy that after all is said and done is good for only an inch or two on the thighs. I buy my own jewelry, thank you very much. And while I do agree that it's the thought that counts, a card from Jim is mainly good for reading once or twice and then keeping in a drawer or scrapbook until the ink fades.

I do not expect anything from hubby on Valentine's Day. Because, you see, I have the greatest gift of all - a real heart. His.

small price

On Thursday around 10 am the satellite system went out. Just a little menu on the screen that said "SEARCHING FOR SATELLITE." After an hour of watching it go through all the satellites and all the spots, I decided to call the company. The nice lady told me to make sure the dish wasn't blocked.

Well, duh. Eight hours of snow had done just that. So, rather than risk his ire and climb the ladder myself, I woke Jim and told him the problem. Bless him, he got up, put on his heavy-duty coveralls, and took a broom and the small ladder outside. Two minutes later I heard a crash. The ladder had collapsed, sending him sprawling on the ground. After his conniption fit, he said, "Well, I'm glad there's five inches of snow out there, otherwise I'd have broken a hip." He came back in and got the big ladder. This time, I stood guard. Snow removed from the dish, he came back inside, got a cup of coffee and began to tell me how bad his hip hurt. He came over to where I was sitting on the sofa, pulled down his long-john bottoms, and said, "Is there a bruise there?" I said, "No." He said, "Well, kiss it anyway and make it better."

Oh, well, I figured I've kissed his ass for 15 years now, one more time wouldn't hurt. And so I planted a big sloppy one on his right cheek. He went back to bed, laughing out loud at the joke he’d played on me. At least I had my satellite coverage back. Small price to pay. Besides, it's not the first time I've been the butt of a joke.

By the way, from then on I let him sleep and used the dust mop with the extension handle, which is just exactly long enough to reach from my hand to the top of the dish.

The pic shows the roofline. The only reason there's not much snow next to the truck is because Jim was out there half the night fighting it, hoping to get to work. Didn't happen. Oh, and that's the mailbox, a foot deep in the white stuff. Just beyond it is the pasture across the street. Seems we've set a new record for snowfall down here in Suthren Country. I'd just as soon do without.

a perspective on value

In the past few years there have been days, months even, when I wondered if things would ever again be right in my life. Deaths in the family. Reconstruction on the house. Son in a war zone. Then husband. And finally they were both home but hubby was unemployed. Some days it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed in the mornings. There seemed to be no value in getting up to face yet another day of disappointment. Anger. Panic attacks. Despair.

But the little dog that lives at my house never lost hope. Each morning he got up and demanded I join him. Day after day, whether I liked it or not, we two faced the dawn. And late each afternoon he again asked in no uncertain terms for my attention. Sitting on the back patio, brushing his black-going-gray coat while he rested his white muzzle and dozed on my feet was sometimes all I had to look forward to. Watching his antics as he rolled on his back, feet paddling the air, reveling in the fresh-cut grass, was sometimes the only laugh I got all week. His soft bark the only non-electronic sound I heard each day.

His cold little nose always knew exactly where to find my hand. And then he'd do that little flip, you know the one, to make it land on his head. The only living thing in the world that asked nothing more from me than my touch. And once a day, a bowl of food.

Some say you rent a cat, and you own a dog. But I tend to the contrary. I think my dog was loaned to me by a Higher Power who knew way back all those many years and miles ago that one day I'd need the comfort of shaggy warm fur, the steadfast devotion that never questioned why lean times brought a diet of only dry bagged food with water gravy and no treats, and the unquestioning, unwavering love that only a dog can give.

I no longer claim that it was I who rescued him. And while I do not think there will be another in this house when his time with me is at an end, I will not say never. I will always be grateful for the warmth of a paw, the trust of soulful brown eyes, the joy of a wagging tail, and the value of a little heart that touched mine in more ways than I can ever count.

I am not at all surprised that DOG is GOD spelled backwards.