If I Close My Eyes



If I close my eyes, her lovely face swims before me and I vividly remember the first time we met. Lightly grasping my wrist and checking my pulse in the military hospital ward, she unconsciously  brushed a stray strand of straw colored hair behind one ear; such a simple fluid gesture. Noticing my steadfast gaze, she smiled with such youthful radiance, I knew my heart would forever belong to her.

If I close my eyes and breathe deeply, the memory of jasmine and rose comes flooding back to haunt me. Having accepted my offer to dance, she placed her delicate hand in mine and guiding her to the dance floor, the orchestra began a long, slow waltz. With my arm around her tiny waist and her head tucked close, the intoxicating perfume carried my away until only the two of us remained.  The magic of that night stays with me to this day.

If I close my eyes and listen, her lilting laughter once again fills my soul. It is the sound I heard I proposed to her bent upon one knee. It is the melody I remember as she tossed the wedding bouquet. It is the music that filled our daily lives and made dark days so much brighter and what my heart aches to hear again.

                Every day I visit her, sitting quietly, stroking her hand. Some days are better than others, but most are not.  I have become the keeper of our past, regaling her with pictures of our children and grandchildren in the fervent hope one may spark a glimmer of recognition if only for a moment. She stares without seeing or knowing, a helpless prisoner of Alzheimer’s. She does not know me, but when I open my eyes, she remains and always will be the woman I will cherish forever.

The Local Laundromat

For some, it is a weekly trek. For others, it’s a monthly one. I’m talking about time spent at a local laundromat. Whatever preconceived ideas one may have of them, I can guarantee those thoughts are probably wrong.

While completi20160807_105728ng construction on our house, it became necessary to find such a place since we wouldn’t be out of the RV for at least two months. Left with no choice, I found one not too far away located in a strip mall flanked by a feed store on one side and a Mexican restaurant on the other. I entered with a measure of trepidation  only to be pleasantly surprised. The place was spotless, maintained by a crew of ladies who greeted me warmly as I walked through the door. The walls were lined with at least 100 washers and 100 dyers, most of them moving and shaking at full tilt. An abundant number of roller wire baskets languished to assist moving wet clothes to the dryer. This became my home away from home for at least ninety minutes for the next two months.

It didn’t take long to realize life in a laundromat offers a slice of life often overlooked. There seemed to be a predisposed routine and order easily overlooked if one didn’t stop to appreciate it. It must be noted laundromats are a constant hum of activity; a symphony of sorts. There is the constant drone of dryers, the perpetual jangle of change machines spitting out quarters and the monotonous vibration of washers furiously wringing out any and all moisture during the spin cycle. Oddly enough, I have yet to visit a laundromat without at least one TV hanging on a wall tuned to either a soap opera or political talk show with no sound emanating whatsoever.

Through trial and error, I discovered weekday afternoons belonged to the moms. Generally, they arrived in groups of two or more with children in tow. Those were the noisiest times as children, finished with their snacks and sodas, began bouncing off the walls, racing around the linoleum floor, even using those rolling wire baskets to do so.  Sundays belonged mainly to the men. I can only surmise they needed a respite from those same children bouncing off the walls at home. In any case. the atmosphere seemed quieter although the melodic symphony of the machines remained.

What I found interesting after all this time was there seemed to be a general rule of thumb concerning accepted protocol which showed surprising results.

  1. Women arrived with their laundry in proper containers, usually separated into whites or colors.
  2. Depending on their marital status, it was a hit or miss how the men brought in their laundry. If they were married, they came prepared. If they were single or divorced or unmarried, everything arrived in a single garbage bag which would be summarily dumped into one washing machine.
  3. If there happened to be a group of three or more men, it took all of them to feed the quarters into the washing machine. I don’t know why…it just did.
  4. Women were able to complete several tasks at a time. Feed the laundry, corral their child, separate the whites and dole out snacks all without breaking a sweat. They could also fold clothes with one hand.
  5. I caught men more than women watching a TV they couldn’t hear or, if they were solo, intently watching their clothes in the dryer. Again, I don’t know…they just did.
  6. Men do know what those dyer sheets are for…who knew?
  7. I was pleasantly surprised to learn men folded their clothes as well, if not better, than many of the ladies. (Garbage bag men not included.)  I watched many of these gentlemen snap a crease into their jeans that would have made a retired sergeant proud. Socks carefully paired together; underwear gingerly flattened; t-shirts and button downs hung carefully.

Today, my last day, there was an aberration in the force. A young man took his position next to his mother directly in front of me as I was finishing up. Imagine my astonishment when he proceeded to roll a random pair of jeans into a makeshift log, INSIDE OUT. His mother missed this obvious transgression or I’m sure she would have boxed his ears. I hurried out before she discovered her son’s faux pas.

Our gas line is being installed next week. Our washing machine and dryer will be brought from storage. I will be able to do laundry any time I want in the comfort of my home. Waiting for the rinse cycle to complete, I can mosey into the kitchen and fix a sandwich. That heavy gallon of laundry detergent will remain on a shelf, conveniently near the slop sink. I won’t be weighed down with $12.00 of quarters. I can close the door to make the drone of the dryer inaudible….

I’m going to miss that laundromat.




Riding with a Rat

They come with the territory. Anytime there’s feed for horses or cattle or even dogs, they’re going to arrive to see what they can salvage from the smorgasbord. You may have the cleanest barn in the neighborhood, which we do, thanks to my OCD husband who blows out the barn aisle at every opportunity.

For the first time last evening, we saw a little unwanted guest. I, of course, am using that particular adjective loosely. Anything larger than a chipmunk should be charged rent. I heard my husband yelling, “Did you see him? Did you see him? You almost stepped on him!” That was a tidbit that I didn’t need to hear.

It turns out the interloper ran from the front of the barn all the way to the other end and disappeared. The little bugger. I never got an eyeball on him.

“Was it a mouse or a rat?” I’m not sure why that really makes any difference but it does. We horse people are a weird lot. Mice….hmm. They’re cute. Rats! It’s like the elephant in the closet.

“It was about this big.” He held his hands apart about 6″…. yep that’s a rat.

“Well he’s gone now and honestly, all the food is in a metal container. I wouldn’t worry.”

We headed up to the house without a second thought.

The next morning, my husband decided to mow the front lawn before noon. I don’t know about you, but I love the sound of a mower. It brings back childhood memories; the smell of fresh-cut grass, the distance hum of the mower and the memory of my father whipping around on his riding mower with his favorite farmer’s cap perched on his head. My husband is the same. He loves his zero turn, taking great pride in making sure the lines are even and level. Wanting to complete the lawn before the sun got too hot, he was in a particular jaunty mood, turning corners on a dime, zipping right along. Not only was my husband enjoying the ride, so was the rat.

Of course, the stowaway wasn’t discovered until my husband stopped to blow off the debris that collects in the filter. While he’s at it, he blows everything off. That’s when he discovered “Harold” literally flying off the mower when he got caught in the crosshairs. Then the real fun began.

In an effort to hide from both from my husband’s blower and further airborne torment, “Harold” darted into, of all things, our garage which was only open for the guy working on our base boards. In hot pursuit, my husband followed, cornered him and revved up his blower again. Once more, “Harold” was sent airborne, flying in a perfect five foot arch before landing outside the garage. His little legs working overtime, he scrambled toward the screened portch in the back of the house, my husband unsuccessfully trying to send him airborne into our neighbor’s pasture.

I heard a frantic thumping on the door.

“Get Charlie! CHARLIE! Come here Charlie! Rat! Get ’em boy!”

Charlie is our jackshitz…part Jack Russell, part Shitzu. Now you would think any dog with Jack Russell blood would take off like a lawn dart after such a prize catch but after leaping out the door in excitement, all Charlie could do was look up at my husband as if to say, “Yea, so? What am I supposed to do about him?”

“Harold”- unable to climb up the screen eventually took off toward the back yard and tried to disappear into the brush, with my husband, blower revved up to the highest rpm level, right on his tail, no pun intended. I would like to be able to say there is photographic documentation of this. An airborne rat is not something you see everyday. Unfortunately, as with most delightful escapades, it’s a visual one can only imagine.

Ah, life on a farm. It’s never boring.


He showed up one afternoon and settled down to watch us from a safe distance. We had recently purchased this farm and had begun the cleanup process…an endeavor not for the faint of heart. In order to entice boarders to our facility, we had to erase years of neglect starting with permanent residents who made it quite clear they resented having their solid webs being vacuumed out of existence.

“Where did he come from?” my husband enquired.

“Who?” I answered, not taking my eyes off a particularly defensive wolf spider.

“That dog over there.”

As if aware he was the subject of discussion, the dog lifted his head, thumping his tail once.

Being a sucker for stray animals, I stepped down off the ladder and slowly walked over to him. Curious but not certain of my intentions, he quickly stood up and walked a few steps away.

“Man, boy, do you smell!” I exclaimed. It was obvious that although he had remained in the area, he belonged to no one in particular. He wagged his tail some more. Yes, I do . I’m really happy you noticed and you’re still petting me!”

As time went on, we gleaned a little more information about him from our neighbors. General consensus said he’d turned up almost four or five years ago, most likely dumped. A “hitch in his get along” indicated he’d been struck by a car. He’d survived all those years going from house to house, becoming a familiar fixture enough that he earned a minimum of at least three names we know of: King, Romeo and Buddy.  He answered to none of them, choosing instead to drift, friendly yet aloof.

Most definitely a chow mix, he captured my heart immediately. His warm eyes were hopeful but he remained aloof. I’m not ready to trust you but I think I’m willing to give you a chance.  I withdrew. He settled in again.

At the end of the day, as we walked up to the cottage, the dog followed at a safe distance. Later, when we piled into the truck to drive to the hardware store he ran after us for nearly half a mile, desperate to keep us in sight. It was heartbreaking.

That was the pattern for the next few days until finally, after bribing him with canned dog food and his own kibble bowl, he approached us. Yes, I think you are the ones I have been waiting for. I stroked his head as he looked up me with limpid brown eyes. His tail never stopped its slow,  metronome tempo.

“Man, boy, do you smell!” I exclaimed. It was obvious that although he had remained in the area, he belonged to no one in particular. He wagged his tail some more. Yes, I do . I’m really happy you noticed and you’re still petting me!”

As time went on, we gleaned a little more information about him from our neighbors. General consensus said he’d turned up almost four or five years ago, most likely dumped. A “hitch in his get along” indicated he’d been struck by a car. He’d survived all those years going from house to house, becoming a familiar fixture enough that he earned a minimum of at least three names we know of: King, Romeo and Buddy.  He answered to none of them, choosing instead to drift, friendly yet aloof and watchful, until we came along.

We named him Shadow, for obvious reasons for wherever we were, he wasn’t far away. He didn’t run, he ambled…slowly, deliberately. Once in awhile he would break into a slow trot but it never lasted too long. He was an old soul wrapped in a thick chestnut coat; a master of casual cool. The neighbors across the street owned four boxers who remained contained inside a chain link fence, a territory they guarded ferociously. On a regular basis, Shadow would cross the street, antagonizing those boxers. Deliberately, and I suspect with canine relish, he would meander next to their fence and nonchalantly pee as you please, oblivious to their frenzied barking.  He may have been neutered, but he still had balls.

There was an instinctive gentleness about him. On a farm dotted with mature oaks, squirrels are abundant. Surprisingly, baby squirrels drop out of trees on a regular basis. One afternoon, Shadow came ambling up from the barn carrying what we thought was an old shoe. What he dropped at my feet was a baby squirrel he’d gently carried up from the barn. Left alone, the squirrel wouldn’t have stood a chance. To this day, I don’t what compelled Shadow to carefully cradle the helpless animal in his mouth to drop it my feet but four weeks later, we released that same animal in a nearby tree.

Perhaps Shadow fell in love with our walking ottoman, Abby or reveled in the constant pestering from Charlie, our ADD Jack-Shitz.  People often remarked how lucky Shadow was to find our family. The truth is, we were the lucky ones. He’d experienced first hand the worst behavior humans are capable of yet retained the sweetness of a gentle soul. He deserved so much more than life had given him. It may have taken a few years to choose a permanent family but when he did, he remained loyal and protective to the very end.

The truth of the matter is this. One doesn’t find these creatures. These wonderful animals, whether they be feline, equine or canine, find you and our lives are so much richer because of it.


Three Little Wrens

Spring and early summer means birds nesting, hidden eggs in some hideaway, the loud chirping of mother birds and the eventual shallow squeaking of the babies when they respond. This is especially true in barns. I mean, what bird could possibly resist? Shafts of golden straw and hay, strands of long hair from horse rubbing their manes on fences all woven together with Spanish Moss from nearby Oak trees.

We were lucky to have two separate nests this summer…of course, when the mother flew up from seemingly nowhere, it caused our hearts to jump. Fortunately, she situated her second nest in a less conspicuous stall and we were able to monitor the babies from a safe distance.

One morning, while emptying the water buckets to refill while the horses were in the paddocks, we were alarmed to discover what I previously thought to be a “road apple” turned out to be drowned wren. Could it be the mother? We crept into the unoccupied stall to check out the now fledgling babies. Immediately three gaping mouths reached upward to receive food, obviously hungry.


As animal lovers, we were worried without their mother they wouldn’t last much longer. Immediately, we googled “what to feed fledglings”. Isn’t Google wonderful? I never realized I’d done it wrong all those years ago. Under definite no-no list was bread and water. Surprisingly, soaked dog kibble (very soft) or crushed meal worms. I opted for the soaked kibble and a small syringe, all the while reminding myself their stomachs were half the size of a pea.

Frankly, we didn’t think they would last throughout the night but we tucked them in, made sure their nest remained intact and placed a small wool towel around the base.

The next morning we were greeted with three gaping mouths and high pitched squeaks. Hallelujah…we hadn’t killed them.

About two days later, we heard what was definitely a mature wren chirping quite loudly. Who knew suchIMG_3898 a small bird could emit a sound 10x its size? We continued to feed them but since we were now being scolded, we let the male bird take over…or what we thought was the dad.

Doing night check the following evening, we noticed the wee three amigos perched together on the stall door. We had watched the activity from the previous day. Obviously IMG_3901the parent had encouraged his entourage to spread their wings. It had only taken 24 hours for them to leave the comfort of the only home they had known up until then and begin their journey into the great beyond. Fortunately, we were able to photograph them before they disappeared entirely.

We are happy to report, the next morning they hopped from hay bale to hay bale before flying to the window and taking that final leap into the unknown. I’d like to think we played a small part in their success if only with a few meals.