Right on Time

 

It was about three weeks ago that I began to suspect that what I didn’t want to happen was going to happen.  Sophie was going to have puppies.  It wasn’t that I didn’t intend it to happen.  I just didn’t intend it to happen now.  “Next year,” I told everyone who asked.  After all, that’s one of the reasons I got Scout.  But he’s not even a year old yet and there’s all the stuff I have to do before I breed them.  Things like getting him registered and doing some genetic testing and letting him grow up a little more and seriously preparing myself for all it takes to raise a litter of puppies.  But back around Easter, Scout either opened the front door or Sophie opened the door for him and when I came back from the barn one afternoon, there they were.  Together.  I had been so careful and the time was almost up for anything to happen.  “Well,” I told myself, foolishly, “he’s so young (seven months) that he’s probably not very fertile.  It will be okay.”

I kept an eye on Sophie and she didn’t seem to be getting big around the middle.  Her girlish figure remained in place, and I thought I had dodged the bullet.  I did not need puppies right now.  My plans for next year seemed to be back on track.  Then, a couple of weeks ago, I noticed something different.  Sophie was making milk.  Well, darn.  But she still didn’t look like she was having puppies, so I told myself that she probably would only have three or four.  “I’ll make the best of it,” I said.  As one of my smarty-pants young friends said, “You know when a couple is in love, they find a way.”  When she said it, I couldn’t reach her, so she didn’t get smacked.

So, I was suddenly faced with preparations for the blessed event.   A plastic wading pool was first on the list.  I had seen a stack of them at both Dollar Stores just last week.  Did I mention that we are having a heat wave in Middle Tennessee?  No plastic wading pools were to be found.  Finally, I found one at another store 15 miles away and had it held for me.  One problem was solved.  I put it in the corner of my bedroom and spread nice, clean newspapers in it.  Sophie watched me from her resting place on my bed.  She expressed no interest whatsoever in getting in it.

In fact, as time grew closer, Sophie expressed a strong opinion about where she wanted to have these puppies.  Not that she knew that’s what was going to happen, but her instinct was strong to find a hidden, dark spot for the big event.  She dug a hole under the ramp at the end of my front porch and insisted that this was the spot.  When we blocked that entrance, she dug a hole under one of the big shrubs in the corner of the yard.  When I made her stay in the house, she took up residence in my bed.  This was not going as smoothly as I had hoped.  But, there were only going to be a few puppies and everything was fine. 

Last Sunday, I knew things were eminent.  She was acting very needy and was stuck to me like Velcro.  She had slept beside me in the bed for two nights, right against my side.  It was like being in bed with a heater running on high.  I enlisted my neighbor, Clay, to keep an eye on her while I was at church and had lunch.  “I don’t know nothing about birthing no puppies,” he said, in his best Butterfly McQueen imitation.  He is quite the comedian.  I got a text from him as I was on my way home.  Sophie is on the bed asleep, it said.  I left her there and the other dogs are outside.  She was still on my bed when I got home.  I showed her the nice wading pool with its newspapers.  She wasn’t interested. I explained that I had driven all the way to Shady Grove to get the thing and she was going to have to use it.  I put on my shirt with the words, It’s fine, I’m fine, everything is fine.  There were only going to be a few puppies, after all.  Did I mention that it was Father’s Day?  Sophie is always a little dramatic.

At 1:00, I checked on her.  There were two puppies.  When she got underway, she meant business.  She was busy licking one puppy and the other was already making his way to his first meal.  By my next trip, there were three and then suddenly, there were five.  My plans for just a few puppies were circling the drain.  By mid-afternoon, there were nine loud and healthy puppies in the middle of their bed and Sophie was looking at me like, “What just happened and how long are they staying?”  I began to think about where I might get some goat milk, in case I needed to supplement mom’s supply and I was glad I got the larger size pool instead of the little one.

The next morning, I persuaded Sophie to go outside and I inspected each one.  Five girls and four boys.  Seven sable and white and two slightly unexpected tri-colors.  White around their necks, tiny white feet and a little white tip on every tail. Sophie is a great mom, attentive but perfectly willing to allow me to handle her offspring.  The puppies have full bellies and seem to already have the hang of taking turns at the milk bar.  So far, extra milk has not been needed.  Scout is fascinated by them, but Sophie growls at him if he gets too close.  So he sits at a distance and stares at them, whining.  I keep telling him that soon enough they will be old enough to play with him.  And I keep telling Sophie that they will be okay if she leaves them long enough to eat and potty.  After I posted the news on facebook, one of my sarcastic friends called to congratulate me on having just a few puppies.  I’ve never been good with math! 

As I lie in bed at night and listen to contented puppy grunts and watch tiny feet and tails waving in the air, I am reminded of a Brandi Carlile song.  “It wasn’t right,” she sings, “but it was right on time.”  I had forgotten how those tiny babies can heal my heart.  Who needs pills when you can smell puppy breath? It’s been a rough few weeks around here.  But like my shirt says, I’m fine, it’s fine, everything is fine.  Maybe these puppies are just what I needed.  Maybe now was right on time.  Sophie thinks so. 

Stitched with Love - Two Legacies

 

Last week, my little community lost a special man.  David was one of those light-bearers, someone who not only was dedicated to family and friends, but who also worked tirelessly in the community at large.  He was my co-worker for around 30 years, not only at the library, but also in several community organizations and projects.  I hired him the day after he graduated from high school and, when I retired, he eventually took over my job as library director.  Just over a year ago, he was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer and although he fought it to the end, he lost his battle.  The miracle he hoped for didn’t happen in the way he believed it would, but the actual miracle was that he was able to stay at home in relative comfort, visiting with, making peace with, and loving his family and friends right up to the end of a life well lived.

Several years ago, David had surgery and was laid low for a few weeks at the end of December. Anyone who knew him knows that sitting around doing nothing was not in his DNA.  So he decided to make a quilt.  Not only was he going to make a quilt; he was going to teach his young nieces, nephews and cousins how to make a quilt.  This trait is why I put him in charge of the Summer Reading Program at the library.  I didn’t have it in me to deal with hordes of small children three times a week, and I certainly would not have entertained the idea of making a quilt with children.  David would and did.  He also, as part of the summer program at the library, had the children make a quilt top featuring the theme of the summer program for that year.  I may not have done everything right during my years at the library, but I hired the right person as my assistant!

David learned to quilt from his grandmother, Gertrude.  I knew Gertrude, and the rest of the family, well from the earliest time I can remember.  She and her husband, Bud, worked for our family since my daddy was born; he on the farm and she in the house.  I played with all her grandchildren when I was little and our families were inextricably intertwined. One of the main things I remember about Bud was that he always plowed our garden with his mule.  All the other plowing was done with the tractor, but my folks believed a mule did a better job with a garden.   I remember much more about David’s grandmother. 

I used to watch her wash clothes in the basement with the wringer washer.  I yearned to put the clothes through the wringer.  It was just fascinating to me, for some reason.  I don’t know why, because I had very little interest in any other household chores and was usually busy with my pony or the dogs or playing in the branch down in the holler.   But I really wanted to run stuff through that wringer.  She wouldn’t let me – I’m sure she had strict instructions not to let me do that.  My mom had a friend when she was young who got her arm caught in a wringer and I grew up hearing stories of that happening to careless children.  Sometimes she would put her big brown hand over my little hands and let me “help” guide the clothes through.  I can still see it in my mind and I can remember the clean clothes smell from the tub.  I also remember watching her iron clothes.  I don’t recall that I ever had any desire to help with that, nor did I try to help make cracklings during hog killing time.  I did love to eat the cracklings fresh out of the boiling grease until one day when I overdid it and got sick.  I haven’t eaten a crackling since then.  She made the absolute best green tomato relish and my mom said she made the best souse meat, although that was something I was never willing to even try.  It can be said that if not for her, I would not be here.  My daddy was born prematurely, at home, and my grandmother was in a bad way.  According to family lore, they laid the baby aside, thinking he was dead, but Gertrude wrapped him up and put him in a shoe box by the fireplace and saved his life.

But back to David’s quilt.  His grandmother made many quilts, but she also left a lot of unfinished projects when she died, including stashes of fabric.  So, David gathered up a lot of fabric, much of which came from remnants of clothing he and his family wore as children, and set the young people to work cutting out tiny rectangles to piece together.  They matched up the colors to make a pattern, and I can just hear David telling them what needed to go where.  Then they sewed the tiny pieces together, by hand.  I could fly to the moon easier than I could hand piece a quilt, but somehow David made it work.  He may be the only person who could have persuaded these kids to do something like this. 

After the quilt top was finished, he enlisted a fellow member of the local quilt guild to do the quilting.  I’m surprised he didn’t enlist the kids to do the quilting by hand too, but I guess he thought that was a bridge too far.  So his friend Kathy used her long arm machine to do the quilting.  The back of the quilt is just as much a work of art as the front; each child’s name is stitched into the needlework pattern and their great-grandmother’s name is inscribed in the center with her birth and death dates.  When David showed it to me and our other co-workers, it took my breath away.  What a labor of love and a special keepsake for the family.  He called the quilt "Gertrude's Legacy" - it's as much "David's Legacy" now.

In 2020, the quilt was entered in the annual quilt show and was chosen to be on the cover of the book commemorating the show.  When David became so ill he could no longer work on his unfinished projects, I helped get the quilt books ready for publication.  Happily, I got the proof for the cover of the book shortly before he passed away.  One of the last times I visited him, I took a copy of the cover for him to see and, lo and behold, he was using that very same quilt as a coverlet that day.  We talked a little about the book and a little about the library and some of our adventures there.  “We did good work,” I told him.  He nodded.  At his funeral just a week later, one of the verses that was read was from Matthew.   “Well done, good and faithful servant,” the minister said.  I can’t think of anyone more deserving of those words.

How on Earth?

 

 

This seems like a simple photo of a plant in a pot, sitting in the yard.  Indeed, that’s what it is, on the surface.  But the question is, how did it get there?  I’m pretty sure I know the answer – the name begins with an S, he has a long nose, brown eyes that melt your heart and a heavy coat of sable and white.  In other words, Scout.  I guess the real question is not how it got in the middle of the yard, but how it survived the trip.

I have four pots that contain amaryllis plants.  Some are several years old and have survived to bloom again every spring.  I have been told they will live outside if you plant them after they bloom, but I’m not sure I believe it.  So, I keep collecting potted amaryllis plants and lugging them inside for the winter and outside for the summer.  They live on the front porch and I water them when I think of it.  Plants have to be tough to live with me.

They also have to survive the four-legged members of the household.  All the dogs enjoy digging, so anything planted in the yard is at risk.  They especially enjoy digging when I have been digging, sometimes while I am digging.  Scout has been known to un-plant newly planted flowers; in fact, that happened just the other day.  I think the zinnias he relocated are going to survive.

So it should not have been a big shock when I came out one morning to find this pot sitting in the middle of the yard.  The shock was that it was unharmed, intact and still in the pot with all the dirt still around it.  How on earth did he manage it?  And why?

It’s no surprise when Scout invents new things to do and figures out new ways of doing them.  Just the other day he discovered how to open the lid of the garbage can.  He had spent the afternoon bringing plastic bottles into the living room from the recycle can in the kitchen.  I knew he had a bottle; I could hear him playing with it.  What I didn’t realize for quite some time was that he was going back for a new bottle every few minutes.  I don’t know if he thought there was a better bottle in there or if he just wanted a wide selection.  By the time I noticed what he had done, he had five or six bottles on the rug and was trying to get Sophie to play keep away.

Unfortunately, he figured out the garbage can mechanism while I was not at home, so he was able to empty almost the whole thing, eating some things I threw away because I thought they might make the dogs sick if I fed them to them.  Apparently, I worried for nothing because he seemed none the worse for the snacks.  Scout has never read the books that list Things That Dogs Should Not Eat.  And he is convinced that trash cans are just big containers for thing dogs need to play with.  That particular trait certainly encourages one to keep the trash emptied frequently.

But back to the potted plant.  It was sitting on the very end of the porch, just behind the porch swing, in the middle of the group.  This is the high end of the porch, a little too high for even Scout to reach.  So, to get it off the porch, he had to carry or drag it all the way to the steps or the side ramp.  The spot where it ended up is about fifty feet from its home on the porch.  Quite a feat for someone without hands.  I just wish I could have seen him do it.  I don’t know why he chose the spot he picked to leave it and I don’t know why he didn’t dump the dirt out and shred both pot and plant. Sophie might know how he managed it, but she is not telling.  Scout is certainly not going to say anything.  I really need to get cameras installed. 

Come to think of it, now that I know that he can move heavy containers around, maybe I can train him to carry groceries inside the house.  It’s a long way from the truck to the door and I could certainly use the help.