My Winter Girl

This day in spring
I sweep the summer patio
Free of your winter hair
You were
Our winter dog
'Cause on a winter's day you came
And on a winter's day you left
The corners of the patio
Still hold
Your wispy hairs
They tangle black 
In the bristles of my broom
My winter girl
You never cared for summer
But I
I cared for you
And as I sweep away your hair
I cry.

May 2013

Beloved Noodle

"...love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation." Kahlil Gibran

Beloved Noodle,

You left us on February 1, 2013, after a meal of cat food, chicken thighs and a snack of…chicken thighs, of course.

We like to think that your last moments on this plane were happy ones. You were lying on the kitchen floor, in front of the cat tree, your head on your little fuzzy giraffe blanket and you were happy that the herd was together, everybody within your sight. You had just walked and eaten a big breakfast with hardly any dry food in it. You had gone outside one last time to preside over the lake and it seemed to us that you looked wistfully over everything, as if you wanted to take one last picture with you.

And now, you were just dozing, not completely asleep, but relaxing, because the world was just the way it should be.

We took some pictures of you. Sleeping, looking around. Dirk says you gave him one really hard look even though you never liked to look people directly in the eye. I mean, what self-respecting dog likes that anyway? But I believe Dirk when he says you did. 

This morning, your last morning, you woke up and did not want your very soft breakfast cookie. You walked very slowly with us and we felt that it was hard on you. You did not sniff much, did not mark and patrol to make sure that the neighborhood was safe. It occurs to me now that you did not do the thing that confounded one of your pet sitters so much that she thought we had mistakenly said that you were a boy when really you were a girl, namely lift your leg when doing your business. Yes, you did the ladylike thing sometimes, but often you would just go boy-style and you would do it so well. 

After our walk you had to rest in the living room first, even though we were in the kitchen, your favorite hang-out spot, preparing your meal. You did come eventually but had to lie down until the food was set down. When you ate (and you did eat everything) it was done slowly, in businesslike fashion. 

And then you were lying on the kitchen floor. Not because we wanted you to. We would have wanted you on a soft, fluffy bed but it was your choice, even though your tummy was freshly shaved and we could see your bare skin, pink with black spots, so soft and smooth.

We did rub your tummy. Who could resist? And we know you enjoyed it, closing your eyes in bliss and breathing deeply and evenly. I played guitar for you even though you could hardly hear anything. But you had always, always, come when I was playing, even before you became so deaf that you would disregard our: No! No cat food! and just go ahead and eat it anyway. Or maybe you heard us but you just knew that your time on this earth was limited. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do and that goes doubly so for a lab. I like to think that you, seeing me playing, just meant that everything was o.k. and that everyone was happy and content. 

You see, we had been crying so much the day before and also that very morning that we wanted to try to give you a feeling of normalcy. You always worried about us and the cats when you felt that something was amiss and we did not want you to worry in your last hours. Not about us anyway.

Then the doorbell rang and we knew that it was time to say goodbye to you. You, the people dog, did not get up to greet the person coming in, even though you had always done so (It could have been pizza delivery!). And you did not wag your tail when the very nice lady came in and petted you. You just let her do it. We want to think that you were ready to leave and you just communicated it to us the only way you could, telling us that you were so tired and exhausted and sick. Not that you ever really let on. Even in your suffering and your disease you were subtle and graceful and so strong, too strong for your own good. Maybe you tried to be strong for us. You were such a loving, calming presence. 

You did not flinch when you got an injection that was supposed to make you sleepy because you were busy eating your snack of chicken. And you finished it even though you were getting so tired and your eyes so heavy. With the three of us stroking your soft fur you fell asleep. It was supposed to take longer, but we think you just felt worn out and welcomed the deep sleep that we bestowed on you as a last gift. 

We felt your steady heartbeat one last time, so strong and slow and true. And then you left.

We had you with us one more hour, to say goodbye. You were so peaceful, your body still warm and you looked as if you were still alive. But your heartbeat was gone and we did not hear your deep, rhythmic breathing that we always found so soothing when you were sleeping next to our bed. And it was terribly, terribly sad. 

Your body left our house covered in a beautiful soft blanket, your head rested on your giraffe pillow, accompanying you on your last journey. No toys, you were never fond of them. If it was not edible, you just did not care for it and so we sent you away with the things you would have taken if we had left it to you and with a full stomach.

We cried the rest of the day. And the next. And we still do.

The first day we took away your bed in our bedroom and washed your food bowl one last time. We could not bear to look at it. We let our friends and family know that you had left. We took a walk through the neighborhood, so awful, you not with us. But we visited all your places.

That day was very hard and we did not know what to do with ourselves, especially not in the evening when we normally would have walked you. We almost forgot to feed the cats because you all had shared dinner time.

The next day started early, very early. We could not stay in bed, something that we had sometimes longed for, especially when it was raining hard outside. But we would have felt like traitors had we slept in. 

Our last thought in the night had been of you and our first thought in the morning was of you, too. And the pain in our hearts, pain that sleep took away for a few hours, started fresh and anew and intensely again.

That day, Saturday, we went around the house, crying heavy tears. We took your leashes of the hallway clothes tree, removed your towels, your potty bags, your treats. We took all your other beds. You were a dog much loved and since you had many places to sleep, you had many beds as well.

We took the toys you never played with, the bone you only chewed on a few times. It was not edible. We removed the pet gate that kept you from eating all the cat food. We realized that we did not have to have food in the cat tree anymore since no one would take it now. We took your rain coat that you wore but were never happy about. We took your fuzzy wrap that we had fashioned for you because your tummy was shaved and it was cold outside. You did not favor it but it was as minimal as it could be as far as clothing was concerned and still keep you warm at the same time.

We took your leashes out of the car. Your medications off the counter and out of the laundry room.

We removed the liverwurst from the fridge, the only way you would swallow your bitter pain meds.

I erased the reminders for your heartworm and flea meds from my Google calendar. 

We wrote to the vet.

We responded to the many friends that you had made and took comfort in their kind words. 

All your food, all your snacks. So much food, so many snacks. The hard biscuits you would not or could not eat anymore. We could not bear to look at them. 

You traveling bed, your traveling dishes.

We did not throw anything away. That, we could not do. We just collected it all in the garage, and there it is, for now. 

We did select a few things for us to keep. Your dog tags. Your favorite leash, purple with flowers on it, with just the right amount of girliness that it still preserved your dignity of being a big black lab. The chewed on dog bone. Your favorite food dish.

We did not wash the big towel that covered your dog bed. It still smelled so much like you.

We went for a walk, your favorite walk. We always knew all was well when on weekend mornings, without fail, you would herd us to the garage so we could take you to the Indian Creek greenway, your place. You never did it on weekdays, you were smart about that. 

The rain started as we parked the car and that seemed appropriate to us. We walked your favorite walk, the one you could not do anymore in the last year. We visited the field in search of the holes you dug hunting for mice and moles. We only managed to find one. It may have been yours or not. To us, it counted. We talked about the time when you caught a baby rabbit and ate it. You were so proud. I had to call Dirk so we could bring you home, because you just refused to leave the spot where you found it. Many walks after that you would always check for more. 

When we came home we framed a picture of you that one of your pet sitters, a talented photographer, had taken. You were smiling, or at least, it looked to us as if you were.

We reminisced.

So many stories, so many happy memories. 

You, rolling around and pumping your legs into the air, covered in hay, sliding down the hill on your back.

You, running 8 minute miles, because you had to catch me when I was running by. In your universe, the herd could not be allowed to separate. No way.

You, pointing, when you saw a squirrel. 

You, on the one long car trip to Virginia we took, despite your tendency to become violently car sick. You spent some happy days with snow, cats and deer and lots of food. Family celebrations were your favorite and you loved to lie in the most inconvenient spot, so everyone had to walk around you. 

You, stealing food. A whole cake. A whole Enchilada casserole. Yes, you really did eat the whole enchilada, and you took no prisoners. Lots of cat food bites. It never made you sick, just happy. 

You, acing obedience, as long as the treats kept coming. Otherwise, not so much.

We could fill pages after pages with happy moments and memories. 

We do not want to forget. We want to hurt. We feel we owe you that much.

We do not want to sleep in. 

We do not want to order pizza or bring home Five Guys. We do not want to eat cheese. You begged so mercilessly for these foods, your favorites.

You always had a bit of a weight problem.

You were our first and you will always be that. 

We will scatter your ashes and it will be a hard thing to do. We will find a perfect morning and the herd will be together. We will celebrate your memory. We will cry. 

When you first came to us you healed us from a hurt that we found difficult to overcome. Now, that you have left, you have left us with a hurt that is even bigger. 

The house is so quiet.

We hope that your life energy and your spirit are still somewhere. 

We want you to know that you were much loved. 

Rest well, sweet girl.

The Dog Days of Spring

Summer in the South is one of two seasons, the other being winter. It seems what little fall or springtime there is it can never be taken for granted, as fall can be hot and spring often is gone before you can spell it. It’s June 1 and believe it, at 98 degrees Fahrenheit, this is summer, no matter what other folks call it. At least this is how this transplant sees it, having come from cooler climates. Accordingly, school’s out, the pools are open and it’s time to adjust to the heat by switching to summery meals.

After the daughter left for college, my cooking went into a slump. Well, not right away, as the appreciative husband liked my cooking and that kept it going for some time. But then, with an empty nest, inertia set in and dinners where sometimes haphazardly thrown together and I admit that far too often a can opener was used in preparation of meals.  I realized that something needed to change when the daughter (now an accomplished cook in her own right) returned for her summer break and requested a childhood favorite to be made which consisted of not much more than a can of Manwich sauce with ground beef thrown in, and guess what: I forgot the meat! Since said daughter seems to have the memory of an elephant, this is the one story she likes to tell when it comes to my cooking skills, despite of all the years of flawless execution I had accumulated in my favor previous to the vegetarian sauce.

Change is good but it does not always happen easily and often needs a catalyst. For me, that catalyst was a cookbook. Now, I love cookbooks and collect them, and as I leaf through the pages I can imagine what the recipes would taste like. Not that I would make them (I highly recommend this approach for all of us who fight the middle age spread)

But then I stumbled across Christy Jordan’s cookbook: “Southern Plate”. Simple recipes from the South, the kind my mom would have made would she have been born here instead of in good old Germany. Isn’t it strange how memory works? I immediately recalled hot summer days when my mother made sweet tea with lemon (no sodas in our house, since we were on a limited budget), potato salad, noodle salad…lots of different salads, actually, sometimes accompanied by schnitzels, sometimes by fried meatballs or something from the grill. And there were summery sheet cakes and tarts with plums, rhubarb, apple, blueberries (we handpicked these in the mountains of the Black Forest, a veritable von Trapp family including the singing) Ripe raspberries and plump strawberries, all grown in the huge garden my mother had. Everything tasted amazing, even though at that age I was not necessarily appreciative. We three girls were often tasked with weed pulling duty and since we could not visit the pool until the beds were freed from the weedy invasion the garden’s bounty did not impress us in the least. (Once you pay premium prices at a Farmer’s Market to get succulent berries, attitudes change, trust me)

But, I digress.  For some reason, nothing that I could explain, Christy’s cookbook made me want to actually TRY to make her recipes, not just look at them. Maybe what lured me in was that no huge investment needed to be made, not of time and not of money. Everything seemed pretty straightforward and besides, what I really appreciated, where the little asides (well, these came from her website) where the things we shouldn’t do but sometimes do anyhow (stir instead of fold or not waiting for the margarine to be soft enough) were mentioned with a little wink,  so we knew that these sins would be forgiven.

So I started out with the Banana Crumb Cake. Big Banana taste!  My husband’s office mates, employed as tasters, proclaimed that it must be a European cake because it could not possibly be American since ALL American cakes are cloyingly sweet. Little did they know! 

Again, I have to digress. In general, Europeans come in contact with the American cake species when they go to a birthday party (often an office birthday) and there is the usual offering of a commercially prepared sheet cake with 2 inches of sugary frosting. Even though I have been known to valiantly ride to the rescue of the art of American baking, the impression persists that overall American baked goods are just too sweet.

So, big compliment, as I said. Next, it was onto the Orange Supreme Cake (in our case Lemon Supreme because it took me a while to locate the Orange Supreme Mix), also a winner. At this point my husband started to wonder whether Aliens had taken his wife since my baking had languished even more than my cooking. To mix things up, I made the pork chops with the House Autry mix – a simple,  but delicious idea, even though the mix did not quite adhere as much as I wanted it to (but, that I can fix), followed by the Patriotic Punch Bowl Cake (very summery and tasty).

My husband complained about his expanding waistline (while going for the second helping).  However, undeterred we moved on to the pudding poke cake, because it was fun, fast and I already had all the ingredients. My suggestion to take the leftover cake to the office, so we could have our cake and not eat (all of) it, was not favorably received.  Sometimes the proof is literally in the pudding. 

Right now, I feel I have to control myself since I am itching to cook or bake something! And temptation is always lurking with a daily new recipe posting on facebook .  But, I am having fun and it is nice to spend some time and end up with a finished product that invariably tastes good. 

I also may have to buy new clothes.

I will take a break from Southern Plate to bake a Buttermilk Chocolate Cake from the Washington Post’s Food section, it just sounded too delicious to pass up and also, it is a little more challenging and time consuming, so I am excited about it. However, I already have the ingredients for the Lemon Poppy Seed Bread. Sigh! Somebody come and rescue me, please.

It seems, as long as Southern Plate posts, the cook may just be in. 

And she is having fun.

How I Wish You Were Here

I am watching the flight tracker. The little orange plane moves in tiny little increments closer to its destination which is NY, NY. I will breathe a sigh of relief once the status changes from "in flight" to "landed", knowing full well that there will be two more orange planes to observe until I can hop in the car and drive to the airport. This will not happen until tonight, earliest, if all goes well and no connection is missed. It's not even lunch time yet.

How I wish you were here...

As the saying goes: "Absence makes the heart grow fonder" and I guess it's true. Having to rely on Skype again just to talk about the day is harder than I thought, especially since Skype, which has performed flawlessly, returns to the old ways of interrupted phone calls, garbled roboto voices and to spite us doesn't even want to give us the chance to see each other on the webcam.

I wanted to say how I missed him in so many ways, some mundane, some more profound, but all I managed to talk about was the dog, the cats, the weather!!! But now he is on his way home and the hours stretch endlessly until I get to pick him up. Thus far I have managed to drink far too much coffee, to walk the dog, to feed her and the relentless kittens, to pick up stuff, to look at the newspaper, to google EVERYTHING. Then, to pass time I picked up my trusted Breedlove, a gift from him so I finally would have a great guitar with a lovely sound instead of my pawn shop special Ovation. You'd think that would be the perfect thing to do on a cold and gray, not very springlike day. And it felt right until I came across some of the songs we played at our last performance.

How I wish you were here...
All went well until the chorus when I realized that it just won't sound the same when you find yourself singing the harmony with the lead missing.

I was o.k. walking the dog at 2 a.m. in the morning, during a thunderstorm and I reprogrammed the weather radio when it would not function properly anymore, even found it very handy to look at the instruction manual on my iPad instead of looking for the paper version as I normally would have. I updated all my software and fixed ensuing problems, all by myself, when I usually would have just called for my trusted tech support. I built the cat condo, alone, even though the instructions suggested that it would work better with two people building. I recorded some TV programs, just because I could and to prove that I am still mistress of the remote. All these little things that he normally does, I did them and felt weirdly, oddly proud.

That is, until I picked up the guitar. It was a mistake.

And now, I just want to have him home. He is moving ever so much closer but still he seems so far away.
When I see him I will talk about the dog, the cats and the weather. I might mention the weather radio and all my other ventures.
But when I pick up the guitar and his voice joins mine I will tell him that I missed him.  
And he will understand, as always.
How I wish you were here.

To the Manor Born

Eine kleine Buettenrede zum Fasching

Der Mensch, er fasset den Entschluss
Dass er Doktor werden muss
Das Befriedigend, nicht voll
Doch findet ihn die Uni toll
Dazu noch eine Gelderspende
Und siehe da, mehr als behende
Zur Promovierung zugelassen
Ach, er kann sein Glueck nicht fassen
Hurtig macht er sich ans Werk
Doch Arbeit macht die Finger derb
Familie, Beruf, die Zeit ist knapp
Da schreibt er ein paar Seiten ab
Schwupp, hat man erst mal gelogen
Sind die Skrupel schnell verflogen
Ein Gutachten hier, ein paar Seiten da,
Der Doktorvater ruft: Heureka!
Schnell, lass‘ uns das Oeuvre binden
Niemand wird die Stellen finden
Auch wenn fast alles abgeschrieben?
Niemand straft den Freiherrn Luegen
Mit dem Doktor vorne dran
Ist er ein gemachter Mann
Weg ist nun die Barriere
Zu der steilen Karriere
Und bevor man sich‘s versieht
Hat das Volk ihn auch noch lieb
Soll die Streitkraft reformieren
Und gesund konsolidieren
Die Kanzlerin ist ganz betoert
Als er dann den Amtseid schwoert
Doch Akademia, voller Tuecke
Untersucht sein Meisterstuecke
Behauptet dann, ganz unverhohlen
Der Doktortitel sei gestohlen
Von Plagiat wird da gesprochen
Doch hier wird nicht zu Kreuz gekrochen
Er habe doch nur falsch zitiert
Und ein paar Stellen nicht markiert
Laut ist da das Wehgeschrei
Selbst in der eigenen Partei
Ein halbes Volk ist ganz empoert
Von den Medien sehr verstoert
Hat man den Herrn doch so verehrt
Doch nun man ihm den Ruecken kehrt
Und trotz sehr beredter Worte
Weist man ihm gar bald die Pforte
Vielmehr, er ist von selbst gegangen
Niemand soll mich hier belangen
Ein bisschen Busch, ein bisschen Roth
Kein Plagiat, nur Dichtersnoth
Ja, man ist schon  inspiriert
Wenn man derart irritiert
Sollten es gar welche wagen
Mich dann auch zu hinterfragen
Sag ich nur: „Ich hab studiert“
Und fluester dann:“ Nicht promoviert!“
Denn damals, vor so langer Zeit
Stand kein Internet bereit
Und entgegen boeser Zungen
Waer‘ es mir sonst auch gelungen!
Auch wenn ein Mensch sich irren kann
Ist er deshalb kein schlechter Mann
Zur Basis kehrt er nun zurueck
Versucht mit Volkes Naeh‘ sein Glueck
Und die geschichtliche Moral?
Da sag ich nur:
Es war einmal…


Ein Gedicht frei nach Busch, Roth und anderen, umgesetzt von Susanne Moers.
Etwaige Aehnlichkeiten mit Persoenlichkeiten des oeffentlichen Lebens sind rein zufaellig.
Nichts fuer ungut…
Ein Dank, und dreifach Helau (aehem, Alaaf) meinem persoenlichen Versmassfetischisten.

How Many Days

That's what I am wondering. How many days? Of uninterrupted blogging, that is.
Pamela Willis Watters has inspired me with her 365 day quest: each day a new painting! I wonder if I could do the same, not a painting, oh no, but a daily blog entry. It should not be that difficult, but it seems daunting to me. I first read about Pamela's undertaking in the Huntsville Times and that was also where I saw her paintings for the first time. And as we are talking firsts, it was love at first sight. Now we own one of her spectacular works and every day I look at the painting I admire the artistry, the use of color, the skill, the beauty.

I jokingly said to some friends that it would be easy for me to do a 365-day-project: I would see whether I could manage not to cook dinner for 365 days in a row. I definitely think I would be up for that!

But to blog every day, it means commitment, discipline and no excuses. At the same time, I think it would be a good thing to do.
First of all, I do enjoy writing. I sit down, gather my thoughts and see where they take me. Often I am surprised at the result. Second, we all need an outlet. Lately, life has been a bit bumpy and as a result, I started to feel a bit sorry for myself. But, as I have discovered, once I am starting to write I get lost in the process. 
Third, I will be doing this strictly for myself. While this blog is public and anyone is welcome to read it I am not expecting a big crowd. That makes it a pretty safe venture.

Now I just have to pick a date and then: ready, set, go.

Until then I will stumble along and pick up random thoughts along the way.

For All The Ill That Is In Us Comes From Fear

This morning I found that one of my friends had posted a status update on facebook in support of a cause and, to show support of said cause, this status update requested, that I, in turn, should paste same in my status. Otherwise, it was stated,  I would belong to the 93% who would not paste this to their respective profiles, implying that the non-posters are at best non-supportive or worse flat out against the cause.
Now, this is not the first time that a friend posts a status update like this. It is always the same: a cause, a request to paste something as your status and a veiled threat: or else...meaning if you do not paste this, you belong to a group of beings of lesser humanity, strangely enough, always to the same 93% group. It must be a magical number, 93% lesser beings. I wonder sometimes who thinks up these things. It frequently happens that I get this same request from several friends, all lovely people who mean well and who I know are serious in their support for the cause they champion, be it animal rights, humanitarian causes, gay rights, children with horrible illnesses, violence against women: you name it, it's there as a status update.
Yet, I refuse to adopt these updates.
Does this make me a lesser person? Does it mean I am unfeeling or heartless?
I think not, even though some may believe that my continued refusal to post indicates just that, a cold heart or worse, cold feet, in not revealing whether I am for or against the cause en vogue.
However, I beg to differ.
I am of the school that actions speak louder than words. They always have, they always will.
My facebook page shows that I have not clicked for breast cancer, I have not supported gay rights by posting it to my status. I have not worn purple, pink or yellow, even though, I admit that in a moment of weakness I posted a pink ribbon to my facebook profile. It was in support for the Susan G. Komen foundation who  has tirelessly fought to eradicate breast cancer. I know them well, having run their races and having supported their cause for many years. Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I am a survivor myself.

However, aside from the pink ribbon, I will not post their updates in my status either.

Bear with me here and allow me to illustrate. These days, my first husband  lives with his partner. When he told me about himself and I then told my parents I was wondering how they would react to the news. They had always taught us girls that all men are equal but they also had always been fairly conservative in their views. Guess what? It did not make any difference to them whatsoever. They knew already who he was. A good husband, a wonderful father, intelligent, giving, simply put, a good person. Now, why should his "coming out" have changed anything? Sadly enough, for lots of people, it would have. This is something that is hard for me to understand. Because, again, actions speak louder than words.

And thus,  in my book, the way to change the world begins with small steps. It begins when in your daily dealings with the world you, all by yourself, do the things necessary, to make the world a better place. Help your family, your friends, your neighbors. Volunteer at an animal shelter. If you are able, donate: time, money, blood, organs. Recycle. Listen. Reach out. Approach the world in loving ways. See the good in people, always, even though sometimes this is the most difficult thing to do. Most important of all, do not judge.
You'll be surprised how far you get in life.

So, I won't post these status updates. What I will do though, is, to live a good life and share the talents I have to make the world a better place. I will have days when I succeed and I will have days when I fail, and believe me, we all have them, the good days and the bad. One may have noticed, that I did not say: I will try...Because, and I believe this to be important, trying implies failure. As my coach once said: Don't try! Do it!

And this is what counts in the end: that you never stop doing.

For all the ill that is in us comes from fear, and all the good from love.

• Eleanor Farjeon, Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard‎ (1922), p. 174.