Sam

By Beth Alexander Walsh

     It is an unseasonably warm day for May and I am sitting on my deck. Sam is laying in her usual spot with her nose propped between the railings, and is quietly watching some wild turkeys in a mating dance. As she lifts her nose into the breeze to catch their scent, the long gray hair on the top of her head is blowing, making her look like an aging hyena. In years past, she would bark and whine at the turkeys and me, until the gate was opened; allowing her to chase them into the tree tops with joyful satisfaction. Running and prolonged barking are now an impossibility, as Sam suffers from congestive heart failure, and I wonder if our large yard is a mocking reminder of all she can no longer do. This is the twelfth spring that we have shared this deck together and I know it will be her last. As she repositions her head, and starts to doze, I think back to the first day we met.

     She chose us. I stood with my husband and our three children, ages 5, 9 and 10, in front of a cage at the Northeast Animal Shelter. She stuck her tiny paw through the metal grating, like a bargaining handshake, guaranteeing that we would take her back home with us. She was a funny looking mutt, barely five pounds with big brown eyes, and wiry hair. Her head was much too big for her scrawny body, and she looked like a furry bobble head any time she moved. Her looks were so odd in fact, that our neighbors questioned whether or not she was even a dog. We named our little alien puppy Sam (short for Samantha) and it wasn't long before the rest of her body caught up with her head, becoming twenty pounds of pure personality.

   

 I realize everyone thinks their dog is special. I've had many pets who I've adored and had a special bond, but there is something different about Sam. She has this innate crankiness that makes her even more lovable, and although there is too much to write about Sam for this blog, I will share a few of her quirks.

     She is obsessive about the placement of furniture, toys and food, and has a huge fear of water, vacuum cleaners, thunder, fireworks, lobsters and people touching her paws. She loves Christmas mornings and always insists that she be the first to open gifts! She patiently accepted our pet chickens and hamsters, and loved her bunny friend Hendrix. When the suitcases are gathered in the living room for a family trip, or one of the kids moving to college, she becomes apoplectic, and tries to hide in the car to make sure she is not left behind. She was quick to learn tricks as a puppy and her vocabulary grew to the point where we had to start spelling in front of her, and then... she learned how to spell!

     Before she became ill, barking was her favorite pastime. It became routine to know what was going on outside by the sound of her bark, growl or whine. A general bark usually meant that someone was walking past our house, while an emotional whine meant our neighbor's cat was taunting her below our living room window. A frantic howl, followed by a crash into our back or front doors, always meant that she was confronting her arch enemies; the neighborhood squirrels and our paperboy.

Sam has opened her eyes and is now staring at me. I feel it is a soulful look of mutual understanding of what is inevitable. She is frail and thin, and our walks in the yard are now slow and delibrate, and end with me carrying her back. Her tail still shows her enthusiasm whenever I walk into a room, but I know I must soon decide when to let go. I hope I am brave enough when the time comes.

     Twelve years may not seem a long time, but those years with Sam have coincided with my children maturing into adults. She has been there for all their milestones and achievements, and she will sorely be missed. I know her legacy will live on, in our individual Sam stories, to be told around the dinner table and passed down to future generations. 

Today, however, I am enjoying this glorious May day with my Sam, forever grateful that she chose us.

~Postscript

Our beloved Sam passed away on June 2, 2014.

For more information about adopting a pet, please visit the 

Northeast Animal Shelter

A Creak in the Night

By Gail Balentine

We went downstairs after spending half an hour packing Jim’s bag for a single overnight; he had changed his mind at least three times on every item he put in the bag. I knew he was stalling, nervous to leave me alone.

“There, you’re all set. Now go. Mike will be upset if you’re not there to greet everybody. You know how he gets.” He put the bag down. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But, well, are you sure you’ll be all right? It’s been a long time since I’ve had to travel for business. Besides, it’s stupid to have to spend a whole weekend 

on one sales pitch. I could just …”

“Jim,” I put my hands on his shoulders, “I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine. The doors all have good locks and we’ve lived here a long time problem-free. Go, and try to look like you want to be there.”

The next thing I knew he grabbed me, bent me backwards, and planted a dizzying kiss in true Hollywood style. When he set me back upright, and while I caught my breath, he wiggled his eyebrows and said, “I could tell Mike I came down with the plague and stay here with you. We could …”

“Down, Romeo.” I laughed. “We aren’t that young anymore. 

Go, please.”

Reluctantly, he picked up his overnight bag and headed for the door. “I’ll call when I get there. Wish the kids were still home. Wish Scout was still here. We need to get another dog …”

At that point I fairly pushed him out the door. “I promise, I’ll be fine. You’ll be home before you know it. I love you. Bye.”

Within ten minutes I was in my favorite chair, glass of wine and sandwich beside me, reading the kind of romance story that Jim loved to tease me about. I was so enthralled that, an hour and a half later, when my cell phone rang, I jumped. Jim was at the hotel, about to go into dinner. By eleven o’clock I had finished my book, two glasses of wine, plugged my phone into the charger, checked all the doors and headed up to bed. I fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow.

What was that noise? 

With a start I woke out of a sound sleep and sat up straight. I lay back down and waited. Then it happened. The floor creaked in the living room - that spot three feet from the front door that I’d asked Jim to fix many times.

Did Jim come home? Well, I decided, he’ll get a good piece of my mind for scaring me like this.

I got up, went to the top of the stairs and looked over the railing. Someone was standing in the doorway to the living room, dressed all in black. Not Jim. I pulled back, flattened against the wall, and my heart started slamming against my chest like a jackhammer.

Who is that? The grandfather clock chimed twice. “Two o’clock? A burglar?” I headed for the phone until I remembered it was charging downstairs. 

Damn! 

What now? Stop, I ordered myself, and think! Maybe he’ll take the money in my purse and … and the silver on the hutch and … and just go? A cough. He was closer - coming up the stairs. Think! Move! A weapon!  Tommy’s baseball bat? Can I get to the closet? Will he see me? Too late ….

“Mom? What’re you doing up?’ Tommy pushed back his hoodie and grinned. “Surprise!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life Stages

by Liz Ciampa

Today I walk through the city's common, which,

When I was a little girl walking back and forth

To Catholic elementary school, was a forgotten playground

Of dust and dirt left over from a public school

Of crumbling brick:  a school that soon would close.

But today, its pruned walkways and lush grass surround me

As I walk to our library with some overdue books on poetry.

On my way, to my left, I notice a boy of barely one.

It's clear he just learned to walk.  He toddles uncertainly,

But with increasing speed, towards me.  His father watches

From a nearby bench.  I look straight again and see a bearded man

Of inscrutable age:  he could be twenty-five, he could be forty-five,

Strange though that sounds.  His slanted gait allows him only to hop

And hobble down the pebbly white walkway in my direction.  I look

To my left and see the still-toddling boy in his tiny baseball cap.

He halts and stares, waiting to see what I will do.  Of course,

I wave and smile, smile and wave, as I walk.  I wait to see

The inevitable slow grin widen like a tiny rubber band on his little face.

Dad approves.  He waves too.  Now I look straight, and the man with the beard

Has seated himself on a bench to my upcoming right.  He stares as well.

I think:  there is a lot going on inside that head that is not of this world,

But he is harmless.  I wave at him too, not wanting to exclude him.  Then I wonder if

Anyone has said hello to this man today, or this week.  Now he is alert,

His brown eyes wide, focused.  He acknowledges my wave with this:

"There are good days, and there are bad days.  You know?"

I walk, nod my head, and say, "Oh yes.  I know."

(Ciampa, Liz.  Good for Everyday Use.  Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2012. Pp. 14-15. Print.)

Awake

By Law Hamilton

Slumber, removed from me.

As you roll me over,

Positioning me to a balance

On top of you.

Your warm hand on my face, sweeps hair and sleep away

“I've had my ugly days… But I have also had days where I have been beautiful, too.”

Your reassuring kiss placed on my forehead,

Needed much energy.

You were too drained to move.

I slip off, resting by your side.

Light from the coming dawn

Sets your profile apart from the darkness.

My hand caresses your face, asking

“Are you awake"?

Uncle Peter's Garden

By Mary Higgins

Whenever I pass by a garden surrounded by a white picket fence, I’m transported back in time to childhood visits to my Great Uncle Peter’s garden. My grandmother’s brother-in-law, Peter, owned the most magnificent garden of three levels right in the middle of the city. Entering through the gate below a rose arbor was a heroine’s task. Blue-as-the-sky morning glories and bright yellow flowers danced through the pickets on both sides, attracting bees and hornets like flies to an open jar of honey. If you got through that area, paved with flagstone, and then turned right, you’d be safe from the most feared of the flying insects. Huge dragonflies, which we called “needles” in those days, buzzed over with their compound eyes to take a closer look at a terrified human child. It was August when we visited. Always dressed in shorts and a sleeveless shirt, I became a landing pad for scary insects.

Turning left, one saw beds of tall and short flowers - lavender and orange irises, purple snapdragons and magenta and golden pansies. There was no place to bounce a ball or toss a frisbee. Turning right, the path gracefully descended in a gentle curve.

Here on level two flourished apple, pear, fig, chestnut and crab apple trees. Roses rambled in pastel hues as well as velvety reds. I recall a Rose of Sharon that all the grown-ups made a huge fuss over and I looked everywhere for a Rose of Mary. Not to be found but there is an herb called Rosemary. Confusing to a little girl newly turned eight. My great uncle Peter, grew evergreen trees that he carved into shapes, some being sofas and chairs - not designed for sitting.

On the middle level, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, and white as well as red raspberries waved in the wind. What was a paradise of berries was lost on this child. I was the one who eschewed any food containing pulp or seeds.

Descending three concrete steps with its white wrought-iron, a railing brought you to the bottom where it was always cool and my mom told me I “grew” goosebumps. Pole beans staked to wooden rods wound their way to the sky; the pink beans for the pasta fagioli flourished here; tomatoes and cucumbers, both of which I loved, dangled from vines; zucchini squash branched along the damp earth; and radishes and rhubarb sprang forth.

The round heads of lettuce and cabbage filled neat little rows and multiplying everywhere were leafy greens that my grandmother loved to cook: chicory, mustard greens, swiss chard, and spinach. Open beds of herbs including sweet mint, peppery oregano, fragrant basil, and sage, perfumed the air. Squatting down to tie my sneaker, the charcoal black earth smelled like mushrooms. Pink earthworms wiggled along freshly tilled soil. Looking up, I’d see the wall of the potting garage lined with long handles of rakes, shovels, and hoes all neatly hung on pegs. Down here, garden hoses, coiled like snakes, sat next to enormous bags of peat moss. My mother told me that we were visiting Peter Rabbit’s Garden (my uncle’s garden attracted rabbits) and I dutifully searched for that rabbit. No luck with that either.

Is it any wonder that my mother encouraged me to become a nutritionist? The list of vegetables I actually enjoyed eating was short: iceberg lettuce, tomatoes. cucumbers, raw carrots, eggplant and canned, not fresh, asparagus and corn. While everyone anticipated the corn on the cob from Uncle’s garden I preferred to eat kernel corn sweet with sugar - from the can.