Dee Blair

Florida harbors unusual residents. This morning in the lanai my sister discovered a lizard on the screen door, belly-worshiping the morning sun. The little creature watched her, reflecting perhaps, that eons ago when it was as long as her condo, she would have been a light lunch. Now those halcyon days exist only as a vague, haunting wisp of reptilian memory…

Today its miniaturized self dines on flies, and suchlike.

Kath fetched a broom to sweep it off, and gently out. But, lizard-quick, it had vanished deeper into her home. A careful search yielded nothing.

In the warm afternoon Joe and I drove steadily southeast on US 41’s lonely two-lane highway, hoping to glimpse an alligator.

We were penetrating a featureless, dead-flat landscape so vast it met the horizon. Opaque water wove random paths through sharp sawgrass and thick, shrubby vegetation as it flowed, imperceptively, toward Mother Ocean.

Leggy white herons moved in delicate slow motion through the primeval scene, leaving no ripples in those eerie ‘canals.’ Occasionally they’d spear fish, position them headfirst (so the scales wouldn’t scratch), and devour them.

Cruising along, safely inside our metal carapace, we speculated about what else lurked beneath all that brackish liquid. Tourists might be tempted to pull over for a minute, stretch their legs- and maybe munch a snack. Then they’d walk yippy-dog down well-traveled (animal) trails just off the highway, that gradually disappeared behind thick vegetation.

About 45 minutes later we came upon a state park in the middle of nowhere. Joe pulled into the pebbled lot and began to snap pictures. A ranger chatted with a small pod of tourists. I padded across the little picnic-tabled area to a slim boardwalk hugging the edge of a wide, tangled river/swamp that meandered into forever.

I walked the plank path for a bit, then leaned against its waist-high wooden railing to carefully scan the landscape. Submerged tree-skeletons rose from the black water here and there. Mysterious bubbles appeared, traveled a few feet, then disappeared. Birds occasionally screamed in the distance. Huge herons fished silently.

A tourist near me gasped and stabbed the air with his forefinger. THERE! Below me, not fifteen feet out, a monstrous gray alligator lay suspended in the water, with much of its head and most of its bumpy, armored back exposed. I yelped with shock and jumped back from the rail. God, it was a living log. Right there. I had failed to see what was practically at my feet.

Horror washed over me.

That monster did not move- not one millimeter. It didn’t blink, even once, or breathe. (Alligator eyes possess two lids- and the beasts easily hold their breath for well over half an hour.) 

Patience defines an alligator.

I felt incredibly vulnerable. In a singularly awful, gob-smacked moment I realized that that glassy-eyed Master Predator viewed me simply as fresh meat. A morsel.

The ranger, noticing my rigid posture, wandered over. Touched my arm. Pointed down. Two feet below my shoes a huge water moccasin lay coiled on a tangle of branches growing from a partially submerged, fully leafed swamp tree. It was close enough to touch. The snake slept, I think: It had no eyelids.

After a decent interval he pointed again, and said, softly, “ There’s another.” I borrowed his quiet manner - and didn’t bolt.
Four feet away from the first snake another thick-bodied, very long moccasin had stretched itself out along a different tree branch a mere foot below my path. It watched the water, indifferent to our presence. Both motionless reptiles blended perfectly with their surroundings. When I looked away for an instant I had to search for them all over again.

“Have you noticed the bubbles on the water?” I nodded. “Those are turtles, only just submerged. Some are quite large.” He pointed across the water toward thick swampland. “See that enormous log? It’s actually a granddaddy alligator, sunbathing on that muddy bank.”
I took a very long time to find it, and when I did, I could see nothing else. HOW could I have overlooked such a massive beast?

The ranger read my mind. “Perceiving what’s before you takes time, and practice. Huge swathes of Florida are crammed with masterfully camouflaged life; its sheer abundance still astounds me, though I’ve been studying, and living in, wetlands like this one for a quarter of a century.”

The sky, which had threatened rain for some time, turned black. Fat drops plopped down. Run!

Joe started the car and we drove toward Naples in thoughtful silence.

My book, The View From Sunnybank, is stuffed with over 90 true stories of people and animals and other interesting stuff. They’ll trigger laughter, a gasp or two, and perhaps some rueful nods….It makes a fine holiday gift, and every penny supports my secret garden. The View has temporary digs at Horizon Books in Traverse City, Leelanau Books in Leland, and Dog-Ears Books in Northport.

Joe and I flew from frozen Flint’s Bishop Airport straight to South Florida International Airport outside Fort Meyers.

The sudden switch- from Michigan’s crack-the-plaster low humidity and skeletal trees bent with snow, to balmy, comfortably moist air and lush vegetation- turned me into a flycatcher. Mouth agape I padded after Joe to our rental car. Languid lizards basked on warm cement walls; people wore light clothing and smiles, and Bing sang dreamily about a white Christmas while I fantasized about tearing off my heavy turtleneck. Colorful pink, white and red flowers decorated lush hedges and vines. Countless palm trees, dressed in lights, sprang from an emerald ocean of grass. A vividly blue Gulf of Mexico winked on the horizon.

Naples was a short drive south, past ‘Panther Crossing’ signs and through a jungle of vegetation that lined both sides of Interstate 75. Off came my jacket. On came the air conditioning. Sun poured down. I craved my sister’s lovely condo cave and its arching shade trees, to recalibrate…

Early the next morning we motored to the Naples Cyclery and rented two bikes for a week. In its nearly empty parking lot the store guy busied himself attaching a complicated-looking carrier to our car’s rear end.

Eighty feet away a pudgy older gent, wearing beautifully pressed Bermuda shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, was testing his newly rented three-wheeled tricycle while the wife settled up. He pedaled it along, gaining confidence. But the sleek blue machine had other ideas. Inexplicably, it turned toward me. Egad! The distracted rider, searching now for non-existent foot brakes, hadn’t noticed.

Meanwhile, back at the store’s door, wife and clerk watched the unfolding drama helplessly.

Alarmed now, the man, who kept peering at his pedals for stop-clues, began flailing pale legs while pulling at the handlebars and shouting ‘Whoa! Whoa, dammit!” But the big three-wheeler, chained to kin for too long and bored by inactivity, ignored its rider and gleefully focused on creating havoc. Always quick to respond to emergencies I stood rooted to the tarmac, fascinated by the man’s predicament and his machine’s steely determination.

There we were, two senior transplants- one futilely flailing atop wild rubber wheels, and one standing statue-still to stare at impending calamity- Yep. Dumb and dumber.
Gary Larson, that great cartoonist, would capture this absurd tableau perfectly.

I snapped out of my meditative contemplation just in time to back off smartly; guy and trike shot past, heading toward the lot’s far curb while he continued to shout futile “whoa” commands. 
I could almost taste the cycle’s disappointment.

“Brake!” I hollered helpfully, and by golly he did- the old fashioned way. White sneakers dragged along the ground, smokin’ rubber for what seemed forever. The trike, obeying physical laws, reluctantly slowed, but couldn’t resist bobbing left and right, trying to unseat the poor fellow, who hung on grimly.

Those shod feet saved the day.

Finally at rest, mere inches away from a big dump ‘n toss, the shaken rider hung his head, mortified, and, I think, mystified that things had gotten so out of hand. Well over half a century had passed since he’d ridden this sort of contraption, but still...

Glancing back at me he mouthed an apology, then slowly peddled the subdued tricycle back toward the store, working the handbrakes. His embarrassed wife unhelpfully bellowed: “For God’s sake, Norman!”

Face as red as a Florida sunset he flung out a spirited retort to all of us: “I’m a retired auto executive who rides horses, NOT bikes!”

But when I offered a stiff salute, we both grinned. He had eventually stopped. The Greatest Generation is nothing if not persistent.

I cuddled a comforting thought: I’m not the only one who, when dropped into Paradise, needs time to adjust to its big- and subtle- changes.

I’m 35,00 feet high, looking out at fluffy clouds, thinking about palm trees, the Gulf of Mexico, and, inevitably, about gardens, as I look out at the flat, marshy Florida territory, just before landing at the Fort Meyers Airport.

Naples, and my sister’s lovely condo, is a twenty-minute drive away.

Here are a couple of suggestions you may find helpful…

Some Michigan deciduous shrubs and trees, devoid of foliage, need to lose weight.

If one of your trees is sprouting whiskers -smallish branches emerging from the lower trunk, blurring its line- remove them now with sharp pruners. Dormant, it won’t notice a thing.

(Fascinating factoid: Men shave off whiskers roughly 20,000 times in an average life. Don’t ask. I read it somewhere. My mind is a sort of cluttered bin stuffed with odd bits of useless information…)

ANYWAY- Tree trunks hosting thick, leafy growth right at the base need help, too.  Tree suckers look awful in the warm season. These large, unsightly pseudo-branches rob it of nutrients that would otherwise be directed upward.  Furthermore, they give the embarrassed plant an undignified look, rather like wearing one’s pants around one’s ankles. Chop those thicker whiskers gone.

Give shrubs the eagle eye, too; prune away any weak shoots or branches that snuggle too close to, or rub against, a neighboring branch. Lop off stems that grow inward, or wander off in odd directions. My big hibiscus tree always needs some judicious snips at this time of year.

Many shrubs, like deutzia, or fothergilla, do very well if left alone, except for annual, simple inspections. (Silly me: I bought the fothergilla because I fell in love with the name. Fortunately, it is a lovely, carefree bush, gorgeous in three seasons.)

Step away and look, often.  You can’t glue mistakes back, so think before you thwack…

While thinking of thwacking, I remembered the gorgeously feathered adult bald eagle I’d seen perched at the very top of a large, leaf-bare tree just off the highway on the way to Flint’s Bishop Airport this morning. The huge predator sat quietly on a branch and scanned the ground far below for careless mice. Then its 80-inch wings unfolded; it dived-- Right then I had to look away and concentrate on driving. But I shuddered.

Life on the edge…

Suddenly, still flying high myself, I gasped! Just off my Air Tran jet’s huge wing a flock of white cranes whizzed past, flying in the opposite direction. They were so incredibly close!

Before I could properly absorb what had just occurred, I felt and heard the wheels lower for landing. A nice, normal sound.

Way back when I was a pilot in California, I used to encounter birds- ducks, mostly- taking off from Santa Barbara airport grassland lots of times, exactly when I did. We never bumped, but those threats always left me thoughtful.

Today’s close encounter of the bird kind reduced my usually complicated life down to a few simple hopes:

-I wanted to plant my feet firmly on the ground
-I wanted not to dwell on how suddenly the lives of fowl, mice and men- can just stop
-I wanted to sniff Florida flowers.

So far, it’s been a ‘wishes granted’ day for this human.  

A fearsome, ghostly adversary crept up on me eight days ago just after lunch, and pounced.

I had just finished my one daily meal and was cleaning up, when I began to shiver with cold and sudden weakness. Since morning I’d felt- vaguely stalked- by some ‘ghost of the unwell,’ but, as I’m seldom ill, I’d ignored the predatory chill in the air.

Then, suddenly, BANG! I was down for the count. For fourteen awful hours, home alone, I was as sick as I can ever remember being. My husband, 150 miles away and unable to return, rang my sister Kathleen, who lives very near. In that dark morning’s wee hours she and her husband Joe immediately brought me to the hospital, and just in time, too. I was severely dehydrated: two 1000 ml bags of IV electrolytes barely touched the problem. Lying there, shattered, I tried to upchuck yet again; they promptly injected anti-nausea medication into the IV line. 20 seconds later I felt peace for the first time in ages. The medicine was supposed to last four hours; I was desperate for another hit in two. They gave it, bless ‘em. Again, the practically instant relief was indescribable.

These little medical miracles are often taken for granted. Considering my state of dehydration, a hundred years ago I probably would not have survived.

Swathed in heated blankets I was moved upstairs and monitored all that day, and overnight. Two more 1000 ml bags of IV fluid were given.

During intermittent awakenings, they took more blood, measured my extremely low blood pressure and gave me oxygen.

I slept, on and off, for 24 hours.

In between, lying there, I had time to think.

For the first time ever, I’d felt helpless in my own home. This-Thing- was terrifyingly ruthless. (But it did vanish after that second injection. I never needed another one.) Most importantly, I’d resisted help far too long, reasoning that surely I’d turned the corner. What was left to expel?

That delay was ignorant, and dangerous.  Dehydration and collapsing blood pressure almost got me killed.

This predatory entity- probably a viral gastroenteritis- is out there haunting others. The doctor told me that in the last 48 hours they’d had three more patients admitted with the same affliction. Sure enough, I could hear another poor wretch being sick just down the hall…

30 hours later, I felt renewed. Off came those bright red hospital socks with the vivid black words- “Fall Risk.” Not any more. I frolicked around to show the doctor all was well; he happily discharged me. Hooray!

However, two days later, I had another fright. I woke up with acute lower back pain! Fearing the stabbing agony that accompanied any wrong move I sat, frozen, or crept around with a hunted look. Two miserable days passed.

The third morning, though, sitting timidly at the kitchen counter, a new feeling flooded through me.

ANGER.

I couldn’t keep lurching around like the undead.

Disgusted, I made a plan.

Information was first on the list.

I thoroughly researched my situation on the web. Turns out my vertebral discs were fine. Muscles were still attached correctly. This new spectre was muscle spasm, incurred from all that relentless vomiting. Spasm typically shows up about two days after the initial trauma.

And- it’s eminently fixable.

Joe came home: more Internet research directed us to the pharmacy for a chemical heating pad (ThermaCare). It’s a thin, wide fabric belt housing a chemical reaction in the back part, initiated by contact with air. When the belt is unpackaged and applied to an ailing back, continuous heat is released. What an improvement! I’d been staggering around with my large, unwieldy hot water bottle cinched by my jeans belt, but it kept detaching with an unnerving splat. This clever belt is light, completely invisible, and it stays put.

I was so impressed I bought two more boxes.

Two Tylenol tablets taken twice during the day really help, too. 

I’m doing the Internet’s sensible exercises to keep those upset back muscles stretched and limber. Slow and steady does the trick. A few painful motion-mistakes tend to keep me motivated.

With my attitude adjusted, in synchrony with my back, I’m much better already.

Knowledge, liberally sprinkled with self-disgust, has provided the Power to exorcize this second malevolent ghost.

Joe and I drove to Chicago last Friday to visit our younger daughter Lisa and her delightful husband, Peter. But now, at 4:30 a.m. on a calm Sunday morning, we decided to head back home early to avoid an advancing cold front packing rain and wind.

Half way through the silent, darkened downtown Joe suddenly slowed the car to a crawl, and said in a shocked tone- “Look at that!” There, smack in the middle of downtown Chicago, we beheld a coyote family gamboling in the deserted six-lane street! Overhead street lamps bathed the animals in pale white light, making them appear insubstantial and delicate.  They ignored our car, and didn’t seem to mind being observed. They knew not to sing, but played quietly, with loose abandon. Adults and juveniles appeared healthy and well fed. Their coats were thick and lush.

Fascinated, we watched for a while, wondering how this could be. But then I remembered something I’d read while living in England in 2010.

There are roughly 10,000 foxes residing in central London. (That year, in deep winter, the queen deferred to one shivering beast when both wished to enter Westminster Cathedral at the same time. Reynard slipped past her silently, wandered about inside for a bit, then sat near the big interior heaters, toasting, before eventually exiting the vast church without fuss to vanish like a wraith into the snowy evening. Elizabeth was amused, and, of course, unruffled.)

Foxes occasionally cruise my alley very late at night. So, why should I find the idea of coyotes living in a huge Midwestern city’s midsection an alien thing? After all, the vast American prairie, full of coyotes, is practically next door. 

In 2000, scientists began to tag and study Chicago’s established coyote population, and are beginning to appreciate how much these illusive animals inadvertently benefit humans.

They now estimate there are about 2300 animals living in its metropolitan area. Rats and mice provide endless protein: coyote hunting skills certainly contribute to the health of this sprawling city. Yet there is rarely evidence that they intimately share our urban environment.

Fascinating facts:

-Coyotes, unlike dogs, mate for life. Pups are always genetically matched to the same parents.

-The exploding population of Canadian geese, once a worrisome thing, is now being managed naturally, because coyotes feast on their eggs.

-Stray cats and even small dogs can fall prey to these opportunistic animals, but reported incidences are rare. There are just too many rats and mice out there to go to the trouble of stalking domestic animals.

-Families hunt together, and spice their diets with discarded pizza and other human food tossed into uncovered receptacles. Chicagoans have learned to seal their garbage cans to avoid an awful mess. They, too, are adapting.

-These animals have no predators to worry about, save humans.

-City coyotes live longer than their country cousins, primarily because cities offer an endless food supply. (Prairie prey- mice and rabbits- can be tough to hunt in winter, as they live underground with stored food, while coyotes are challenged by featureless plains and huge, drifting snows. 
With endless fresh water at hand as well, Chicago is coyote paradise.

I love to savor the realization that coyotes are all around Chicagoans, but flit, like ghosts, around the edges of their awareness.

Suddenly, responding to some invisible signal, this family melted into the darkness.

We felt lucky to have witnessed wildlife living so comfortably- and invisibly- amid Chicago’s giant steel canyons.

Who knew?

Laugh-starved? Need a fun gift for a friend? This (slightly edited) reprint of one of my columns from years ago, when I helped my daughter through the last stages of her medical residency at the University of Chicago, is included in my book, The View From Sunnybank, available at Horizon Books in Traverse City, and in other Grand Traverse area bookstores. Every cent goes toward the maintenance of my garden.

‘A delicious day is one that is not entirely predictable.’ D. Blair

Here’s a true tale, full of sound and slurry, signifying nothing.

February, 2007. I’d fed my exhausted, cold-sick oldest daughter a plump chicken dinner, and after a critical inspection, decided she needed a walk through Chicago’s charming neighborhood downtown area, a block from our door. Trapped in the bowels of the University of Chicago’s Emergency Department for weeks, she needed to breathe in clean lake air. (Her resident cold virus, losing interest, was already stalking the next susceptible nose and chest to deliver its payload of gasping coughs, fever and general nasal misery. This plan suited it, too.)

Jenny actually had the next 24 hours to herself; even her pager was peaceful, contenting itself with only the occasional burp.  A quick cell-phone sort-out with the nurses, and Dr. Jen and I relaxed into the rhythm of a lovely evening stroll. Destination? Borders Books, an invigorating ten-minute trot down Broadway.

We passed imaginatively decorated store windows; the usual mercifully muted thump-thump ‘muzak’ leaked from their merchandise-stuffed interiors onto the sidewalk. Even now, at nearly 8:00 p.m., lots of cheerful ‘thirty-somethings’ were delighting in the relative warmth. A lovely half-moon glowed in a black sky. What a welcome change from the incredible cold of the last few weeks.

Yet…something was missing. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

What happened next defied credulity. There was a whoosh of air, then a definitive, sucking ‘Plop!’ With a confident, perfectly balanced landing, a delicately pink rubber toilet plunger touched down in the exact center of temporarily car-empty, snow-slushy Broadway Street. It teetered triumphantly, then took a firm grip and did what it was designed to do--create a vacuum.

Even for Chicagoans, this was outrageous.  People paused in mid-stride, gaping in disbelief: the Broadway intersection went dead quiet. 

Here began the toilet plunger’s fifteen minutes of fame; it basked in the glow of the street lamp. For a long moment, nobody moved; then, almost as a beautifully choreographed unit, people looked up. Huh. No cars had passed; no planes flew overhead; the big buildings lining the generously wide street displayed darkened, firmly shut higher-storied windows. So, where and how…? There was no rational answer for this dubious miracle.

Eyeing the pink, alien exclamation point, many onlookers realized They! could have been targeted…Nervously, some took a step back, eyes in constant motion, trying to make sense of this rubbery visitation.  The toilet plunger hung on, stiffly erect, knowing its entrance was unprecedented. 

Abruptly, an icy breeze made the tall wooden handle sway; the wide rubber mouth sighed, disconnected, and the hapless plunger toppled to the pavement, rudely exposing an unlovely, suspiciously dark underside.

Its collapse broke the spell; everyone laughed till tears came, and as Jenny and I held our sides and roared with the rest of them, I realized that this was what I’d missed. Sometimes life should be outrageous; the absurd ‘visitation’ fit the bill. Not one of the crowd really wanted to understand.  It was enough that the impossible had happened, right here in Chicago. 

Mopping our eyes, we moved on, and, when we made our way back an hour later we noticed the plunger’s thick pink business end lying forlornly by the curb, bottom-up, and slowly filling with brown slush from the muck-filled wheels of passing cars. Its wooden handle had disappeared.

Never mind the why of it; lucky pedestrians would never forget, that, for one brief, shining moment, we’d all been plunged into the Twilight Zone.

There were so many leaves cluttering the area I couldn’t get doors open. They invaded my kitchen, and stuck to my boots, but I didn’t care. They were off a whole month early, and I raked all day to get them onto the street, grinning the whole time. Blisters formed; I raked anyway, and relived Halloween.

That night I’d become an old hag. Only pale, bespectacled eyes could be seen; the rest of me was draped in BLACK. My pointed hat covered long grey scraggly hair; expertly delivered cackles rang up and down the street as I rocked back and forth in my chair, and with a very long, gloved black finger, beckoned visitors, using my best British-accented gravel-voice, to ‘come closeh, my deahs’ for candy. I knew I’d passed muster when a group of teens paused nervously at the bottom of the stairs. One said, “You’re not a real witch, right? You’re the garden lady…”

I’d snickered with rusty laughter before leaning forward to confide that for 364 days every year I was in costume; This. One. Night- I was myself.

They’d gaped, accepted candy bars, mumbled that I totally rocked, and hurried away. It was most satisfying. 

I did stifle my cackles for little urchins, who thanked me in tiny voices, their eyes wide as dinner plates. Pint-sized witches bounced up the stairs much more confidently. “We’re sisters!”

1,100 children visited our street, down from nearly 2,000 the year before, probably because the cold drizzle dampened Spirits.

Anyway, while endlessly back-scratching the ground with my bored rake I’d savored the stupid spells I’d invented-

       “…eye of newt and mandrake root, brewed with beer and an owl’s hoot...”  

City workers banged and clanged out front, collecting huge piles of curbside leaves. Alas, there was nothing I could do to hurry up delivery of my own mountain.

Finally, hours later, just before twilight, Les came by and heaved bulging tarps through the garden gate and into the spotless gutter. This fresh dump ruined the spruced up look of the street. Hmmm… a few vigorous post-Sandy gusts might motivate the neighbors to hunt me down…Oh, well. I’d done the best I could, as fast as I could.

I looked wistfully up the empty, dead-quiet street, wishing for a tiny time warp.

Exactly then – a monster yellow leaf-munching truck materialized a block west, then trundled straight to me, trailed by a much smaller, very cool leaf-pushing machine. Its operator winked, then gestured to me from his enclosed cab to heave out the last front garden bits I still hadn’t collected; he’d wait.

I stood there, open-mouthed, incredulous.

My street had been totally empty of people and cars. Yet, here they were.

Whooping, I dumped the last heap out there; he scooped up the lot and ran them right into the maw of the giant truck, which waited, idle and panting, just ahead. Both machines chugged off while I ran alongside, pumping my arms, yelling thanks. I got a salute in return.

In a blink, they were gone.

Stuff like this makes me think of Serling. Or Stephen King’s Christine….

I’m just sayin’…

I sighed in the twilight, and decided to leaf well enough alone.
The right machines had- appeared.
That mountainous pile of leaves had vanished.
Then, the machines had, too.

The end.

Still-

You had to be there.

Emma-dog is teaching her family Dogspeak. The other day she went up to Les and chuffed. As her cheeks puffed out she put her paw on his knee.

“Hey, you’ve already been outside; do you want out again?” He went to the door and opened it. She remained sitting, and waited. “No,” he murmured, “not out. Then what? You’ve already had your evening treat, and there won’t be another.”

She sighed, a bit disappointed in him, because she’d never ask for seconds. She knew the rules.

He returned to the chair, and again she politely tapped his knee twice with her paw and gazed into his eyes. This time, though, she glanced toward her water bowl across the room. “Ahh! Water! Sorry, Emma. I didn’t realize it was empty.”

He strode to the bowl, washed and refilled it, then set it down in her place. She sighed happily, walked to it and drank deeply. Finished, she padded past him, chuffing her thanks, and climbed onto her tall-enough-to look-out-the-window bed.

Slowly, doggedly, Emma is training Les. Each brief session consists of learning to translate subtle canine cues from her ears, eyes and delicately understated body language. Every day, human comprehension grows.

She is always patient.

And I am loved. That body English is easy to grasp. When Joe and I visit Les and Sarah, Emma moans nearly inaudibly, and greets me gently but effusively. Her long tail wags her powerful body. It’s a very moving event that lasts a long time. What an incredible difference from when we first met, when she was still so rack-thin, frightened and depressed, and always careful to maintain a safe distance from shod feet. (Emma, a rottweiler/shepherd cross, was savagely abused during her first year-and-a-half of life, then rescued by her forever family.)

She appreciates everything: a passing caress, a tossed greeting, a quick smoothing of her velvety ears. She always totes her tennis ball, in case someone might feel a sudden urge to toss it for her. Sometimes she’ll stare it down, then prod it with her nose. The t-ball obligingly rolls along the wooden floor to a chair’s dark underside. She’ll insert a paw to tease it out, or ask the Boss for help; all the while she’s bright-eyed and smiling. I never get tired of watching her interact. 

Recently there’d been a curious development. When Les returned home a few days ago, Emma hung her head, wished herself Yorkie-small, tucked in her tail and tiptoed sheepishly outside, radiating a heartfelt apology. He was mystified. Had she’d upchucked in the house, or knocked something askew? Both scenarios seemed highly unlikely. But she’d certainly broken some rule. (Dogs show embarrassment, fear, guilt, glee, anticipation, sadness, wariness, curiosity, anger- but they never lie.)

He looked under the furniture, and checked upstairs to see what might be amiss, but all was well. So, what was her sin? 

Sarah, who keeps a lovely home, figured it out right away. Emma had lain on the sofa, a forbidden luxury. Short black hairs betrayed her. Usually the cushions would be set upright, but that morning they’d forgotten, and she’d made herself comfortable, rationalizing that it was probably OK, because, hey, the cushions weren’t up.

Deep down, though, she knew better.

(The good news? Emma tested a rule. Though her conscience really bothered her afterward, she wasn’t afraid. It was a- ‘just checkin,’ Boss’- moment.)

After Sarah vacuumed away the sin, they both scolded Emma and reviewed the house rules, but also realized that, by forgetting to do what they’d always done, they were culpable, too.

So it’s been satisfactorily sorted. Emma works hard to ignore the sofa, and Les and Sarah try to remember to set its cushions on end when they leave for work.

Both species are learning.

Emma knows she’s loved unconditionally.

The sofa is safe. Probably.

Life is good.

Working two or three hours daily, I’m readying my beloved garden for winter.

Two sorts of tools dominate: bare hands, and a long, sharp, serrated kitchen knife. For sixteen years I’d sawed away at my massive hostas with pruners. Ow, the blisters, the pain…Then, a couple of years ago, I’d padded into the kitchen to uncramp my hand, and had an inspiration. Hmmm…that long, serrated kitchen knife might work... I’d grabbed it and thumped outside. Wow! A few ground-hugging slashes: hosta la vista!  So. Incredibly. Easy! Ages of hard work reduced to an hour.

I find myself humming Jimmy Durante’s infectious song, “…make-- just one person happy…” as I cheerfully chop away.

Then I spend three hours on my knees scraping shriveled paint off the drained fountain pool’s floor. Last year’s sprayed-on layer had bubbled in the summer’s heated water, and now, with nothing to cover the mess, the problem is obvious. I sigh. Every single bump has to be scraped gone without compromising the fiberglass. A sharp-bladed paint scraper won’t do. So, ever clever, I choose a wooden paint stir-stick to remove the mess. Why? Its rounded edges won’t penetrate the fiberglass floor, or pierce the pool’s circular edge. And it’s easy to manipulate. When one end wears down, I simply flip to the other end. Cool.

Scrape, scrape. An inch at a time. I look ridiculous, with my knees outside the pool resting on a pad, hinder in the air, hands and torso dropped eight inches down into the pool as I clean right up to the big fountain’s base. Half a bucket of paint flakes later, the pool bottom looks much better. A quick Mr. Clean spray ‘n wipedown, and one monster fountain’s done, with four much smaller ones to go. They’ll be easy.

A fascinated resident chipmunk peers into the empty pool, then hops down and rockets around the interior, just for fun. Another springy bounce, and he’s out again, and gone in a blink.

Next, there’s the laborious task of chopping down the huge cannas. My super-duper knife topples the monsters, leaving a mountainous mess. Then I drag the wrist-thick stems and leaves to the alley for pickup. It takes a long time to pile them tidily. Finally, I dig up all their huge rhizomes for storage till spring.

Later, Les and I bring out the main fountain’s enormous cover, erect it, and bang thirty ten-inch long peg-nails through the grommets, into the grass. Hooray! My waterproof evergreen ‘tree’ is ready for its blanket of tiny Christmas lights.

Today I woke about 3 am, and, while the coffee brewed, sleepily padded outside to the alley with a bag of trash for the rubbish bin- and interrupted a fat raccoon making a mess. He’d not only scattered the nine-foot long canna stalks all over the alley, just for fun, but also managed to wrestle the big, heavy trash container to the ground, flip open the lid, and pull out the only other bag, to sort through. We studied each other for a while; eventually he clasped his hands around his belly and reluctantly turned away. There was no fear, just annoyance. (I’d spotted him in the garden once or twice in the wee hours of other nights, strolling around.)

I’d toiled; he’d foiled.  The nerve! I hissed, just to see what he’d do. Unimpressed, Fatso waddled into the night, leaving me feeling foolish, and just as annoyed. It took a while to re-gather all that vegetation into another pile, but I decided to foil more potential mischief by sticking some old mothballs in both trash bags. Ha! That’d fix ‘im.

Four hours later I went out to look; that same trashcan had been toppled again! Both bulging bags squatted glumly atop the opened lid. Ignoring the mothball stink, he’d as much as said, ‘Get stuffed, you old bat!’

I was undone with laughter!

It went like this:

Tee-boned by a truck, then mysteriously twiddled by our two vehicles’ smacked-together batteries, I’ve been converted into a power-charged, flat-as-a-pancake, nine-foot tall pseudo-person.  So, of course, my altered head and wallpaper-narrow body have been, ah, pressed into public service- these are desperate times- because I have mysteriously acquired extraordinary Power.

I, the battery-powerful Miracle-Madame, can effect huge social changes immediately, while remaining practically invisible.

One flat-handed wave-

And That’s That.

It all seems to make perfect sense.

                                                                    Dee-crees:

1.  I do declare that presidential campaigns will last precisely six months. Candidates, representing a maximum of four parties, sorted out in state and local elections, will be budgeted twenty million public dollars each to trot out their platforms, which are aired by all television news stations on Sunday afternoons for a total of three hours, as a public service. (A disinterested third party will pay the vote-for-me bills each candidate submits, so nobody’s tempted...)

Americans will mull over the ideas presented until the next Sunday, when new presentations begin.

Our President, who will serve six years, with no second term, will spend the entire time in office actually running the country, undistracted by fundraising or pandering to his or her base. All presidential decisions shall be posted monthly.

No candidate has to be a millionaire.

Those who make false statements are eliminated from competition. How? A committee of nine respected people dedicated to Truth, Honor and the American Way shall decide if there is ‘fact-distortion,’ within 48 hours. (Access to verifiable data is incredibly easy these days.) Decisions, like those of the Supreme Court, or an Umpire, are final. The threat of immediate elimination will keep ads honest. And brief.

Bonus: we, the people, will actually learn something about the folks who hope to serve us.

2. White and black and brown and yellow and red people

We’re born exactly as we are-

And That’s That.

3. The first book read to toddlers will be The Sneetches and Other Stories, by Dr. Seuss. Children will ponder Sylvester McMonkey McBean’s Star-On and Star-Off Machines, and who was what, and why….

The other three stories, Too Many Daves, the Zax, and What Was I Scared Of? are- well,

just perfect.

4. The very first word learned in school will be ignorance. A big word. But one of the most dangerous. Ignorant people say and do awful things to other living things from ignorance.

After basic critical thinking skills are mastered, there’ll be more time to luxuriate in love, compassion, generosity, fellowship, fun, and the art of accommodation. We’ll all savor our uniqueness.

5. Everyone pays for doctor visits. We do this in hardware stores, and clothing shops. Just pull out the wallet, and pay for it. The price of health care will plummet. Comparison-shopping will blossom. Word will quickly spread as to which physicians, clinics and hospitals excel. The price of every test, and all medicines, shall be posted.
Congress shall NOT have a separate health plan.

Catastrophic health insurance will cover any medical disaster.

Anyone genuinely needful- and there are people who just can’t pay- will be assisted using a generous federal, state or local government fund set aside to fully cover their medical expenses. It’s part of what makes America exceptional.

6. Lawsuits shall be filed with great care. Frivolous ones will incur a huge fine. If a civil lawsuit goes to trial, the losing side pays both bills. Nonsense will stop.

7. Schools will teach reading, math, history, geography, English, logic and a foreign language, from 8:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. Homework will be rare, because home time is reserved for the family, for jobs, for play. Everything not academic will happen after one o’clock. Schools will have sign-up sheets for sports, music, art, driver training, shop, sex education, etc. But five days a week educators will focus intensively on the subjects mentioned. Parents may drop in anytime to observe. Teachers, on the merit system, will be tested periodically to insure they keep up with the literature.  Large bonuses will be awarded for teaching excellence, as determined by the learning that is demonstrated.

A final, flat-palmed wave-

And That’s That.

I’ll drift off again, perchance to dream of profundities- such as-

                                    Do kippers swim folded or flat?