Gone Too Soon

Last year, when I was forced to take a year off from work, there occurred the most disastrous day. I can remember sitting, watching the news, and all of a sudden the most unfortunate video splashed across the screen. News began trickling in about an emotionally disturbed boy who had taken out his wrath on an unsuspecting elementary school in Newtown. I watched as people in my profession became heroes, as well as victims. 

Now it has happened again. Two more teacher victims have been taken down this week, and try as I may, I just can't stop thinking about it.  There is an epic problem in the field of education.  Teachers and students are no longer safe. 

I've always respected how the airline industry uses the term souls to account for the people onboard the airplane before takeoff. I think it's the best word to describe people - those we've lost in our schools, or anyplace in the line of duty for that matter. But the problem inside our nation's schools is teachers have not chosen the profession to be combative. In fact, most teachers are more focused on a peaceful existence, presenting topics to kids about problem solving and character, along side their lessons which also contain academic rigor. Like deer in the headlights, or lambs being led to slaughter, or Ducks Unlimited dedicated teachers are working hard today in our schools, which unfortunately have become a place for killing defenseless souls.

Goodbye to Celeste

I awakened to discover one of the chickens had been lying dead right by the door of the hen house. She was the last of the surviving Wellsummers from our original flock. We called her, Celeste. Unless we want to "cut her open," like I've just read online, or send her off for a necropsy, we won't learn the cause of death. I think she may have simply lived her life and died. Apparently, chickens can live anywhere from 11 years at the oldest to 1 or 2 years at the youngest - at least when there is no evidence of foul play.

I read this morning that some people don't name their hens because they live such short lives. I've discovered that to be true enough in practice. We haven't owned this first flock for 3 years yet, and there is only one remaining hen from that original flock. Maybe it's why I'm less attached to them as pets. For instance, we call our newer hens by their breed names more often than "pet" names. Although, I must admit I am feeling more inclined to use their names on this sad morning. 

There's another thing I learned today. People who have larger flocks perform the task of "culling." These are folks who have larger flocks, and basically want to weed out the poorer egg layers. They have criteria for discovering what the lousy layers have in common, in terms of physical characteristics. Who knew? I guess our idea to serve the older, larger birds for dinner could be considered a form of culling, but now that aspect of our backyard chicken adventure is coming nearer to fantasy than reality.

The truth is Celeste was the most onry hen we owned. She was the queen of the hens. She was the top hen in the pecking order in our flock. Today the others are looking around wondering what to do. They look a little confused, and they are acting quite subdued. Maybe they are thinking, "When do I take my turn to eat?" 

I will observe which hen takes the place of queen in the flock, and I will report back. But I have a feeling I already know it will be the Buff Orpington. Her name is, Buffy, the coyote slayer.  Interestingly, she was too shy to pose for a picture, but the Rhode Island Red, the one we call, Rhoda, was proud to step up to the camera.

One of my Best Days

Sometimes being a good mom involves something that seems trivial but is super important to your child. Take, for instance, the phone call I recently received from one of my offspring. It was a call that sounded urgent, but after conversing for a few moments turned into the question...

Mom, exactly what time of day was I born on my birthday?

I spewed out the wrong time like lightning, as if I had memorized it yesterday.  But more and more these days my memory serves me incorrectly, and just to be certain, I double checked my statement as our conversation progressed. Fortunately, I knew exactly where to look for the answer. When I got to the place where I had the information carefully tucked it away, I learned, once again, that my memory had failed me.

No worries. This was my child, one of the greatest loves of my life, and forgiveness came from within the knowledge that I had now verified the the actual time of birth correctly. 

"You were born at 2:10 PM," I stated with authority. It's interesting that I had thought it was actually early in the morning, but now as I think back, I remember that I was in labor for a very long time. I can recall going through three nurses shifts during what was my first delivery experience. After discovering the correct time, I can remember the experience a little better. It was, after all, one of the best days of my life.

Nurse Roxie

I had a bout with some sort of virus that included a sore throat lasting over a week. That's a tough order for someone in a profession that requires a lot of talking.  After working the whole week, I finally broke down and took last Friday off for rest and recuperation. It felt wonderful, even though I felt less than 50%, to lounge around in my jammies and sip tea with honey. 

It is during these times, when I am visually at my worst and physically weakened, that I truly appreciate the companionship of my doggies, Roxie and Bentley. Both of these dogs are in no way as super cool as my Hardy was, but they both deserve honorable mention for lying around in bed with me, keeping me company as I dealt with the blahs. The best moment happened when I was awakened by my scratchy throat rattle as I unsucessfully tried to sleep in, finally deciding to get up at around 6 a.m.  I placed both feet on the floor, and felt the warmth of where my Roxie had slept all night next to the bed. 

Once my feet were on the floor, she quietly moved toward the door to get out of my way. I got up and ungracefully stumbled out the bedroom door with a moan. Being careful to stay out of my way, she walked politely by my side, and we worked our way down the stairs and into the kitchen. I'm not sure which behavior comforted me more: the warmth of her body next to my bed (that told me she was there by my side for most of the night), or how she carefully walked with me as I went downstairs. In any case, it reminded me how much I value the loyalty and companionship of a dog. I hope every animal lover gets a chance to feel it too someday.

Beginner Dog Obedience Graduates

Roxie and Bentley completed their beginner dog obedience class this morning. They are fairly obedient - that is, when no other dogs are in the shopping rows of the pet store. They both can sit, down, stay, come, shake, and spin. I think it's me who is doing the spinning though. In any case, here are their blurry photos. Maybe because the lines for the doggie graduates is blurry?

Dead Men Tell No Tales

I am alive to tell the tale of my sailing adventure last night. I feel lucky, but at the same time I feel like I tempted fate, yet again, or survived something from someone's bucket list, but not mine.

It was the basic beer can sailing race. Wednesday night is a Santa Cruz yacht harbor gentlemen's race, although I question the gentlemen aspect from time to time, but that's another story. It was typical at the start and at the finish, but in the middle, it was atypical, because for the first time in my life, in plus or minus five years of this not so serious Wednesday night keelboat racing, we almost... capsized. And I mean it.

Last night's sail demonstrated the very reason why I don't bring friends who think it would be fun to tag along on my Wednesday night sailing expeditions. Are you an excellent swimmer? I often query to the tenacious ones. This is my attempt at reminding them that the ocean is a powerful and chilling force that can swallow up even the best of us, as we recently saw during the gathering of the sailors in SF for this years America's Cup practice runs, when an amazing yacht racer was lost in the grip of her freezing underwater hold. It reminded all of us, crazy as we may be, that sailboat racing is NOT for the faint of heart. Yet those of us who love the sport keep coming back again and again and again. It's a little like an addiction. We know it can kill us, but we keep coming back for more.

For about ten long seconds last night, I think it's safe to say that each of us was thinking we were going down. Even our captain commented in the midst of the intensity, "...we might be doing some swimming tonight." 

He is an excellent sailor, Captain Steve. I have sailed with this man in some major league bad weather, often with some sketchy crew (myself included). We have sailed in high winds and low, rough weather, fog, large fast swells, and long sickeningly slow rolling ones. We've been keeled over so far I've sometimes had my doubts if we would successfully tack, and we've sat still in the heat awaiting a bit of a breeze to get us going again, only to hear the rumble of the engine that had to power us back home. After all of these trips, I have felt safe in his boat, Sagittarius. 

It may come as a surprise, but last night's sail was also one of the best of my life. We had the perfect crew for what was to befall. It was so windy many of the sailboats had given up by the time we had successfully rounded the first mark, heading downwind, spinnaker up, and smoothly heading south towards Capitola. Everything was going smoothly, but we were cruising fast, as the combination of the waves and wind kept thrusting us forward. By now, most of the crew at the foredeck had dawned their foul weather gear, and they were looking like they needed to, as we pounded the surf, swiftly moving through the Monterey Bay, behind ten or so of the front runners.

Then something incredible happened. The powers of nature began to mess with our 38 Cat. We began to bob and roll, a little at first, but soon we were hitting some rolling white tipped waves, as the wind continued to relentlessly push us in a crosswise direction. All of a sudden the boom came crashing across the cockpit. It felt as if we were trying to jibe, but we weren't. Sagittarius tipped to the starboard side, and I watched the clew side of boom skim the ocean, and the spinnaker deflate and edge towards the same side. Our more experienced sailors sprung into action. Count to three and the jib was furled in. Two more beats and the spinnaker was pulled back on deck. In three more seconds, we were back on track, and someone argued, "No one's going to do any swimming tonight."

As we returned, it came a little as a surprise at the calm beauty of the Santa Cruz harbor. I like to think I was not alone feeling relieved this time to be returning no worse for the wear, chatting about how the boat's hull needed a scrub. I have no doubt, and I know I'm not alone, in the knowledge that each one of us will all be back, yet again, for more. 

Tuberoses in Bloom

Today I watched the movie, Disneynature: Wings of Life, and just couldn't help but notice the beautiful pollination attractors in my yard. I do so love a good flower. Always have. I can remember getting in trouble as a youngster for plucking them out of other peoples yards, walking around my home town as a teenager with a daisy chain adorning my head, and just recently being thrilled when receiving a lei of tuberoses upon our arrival on the Big Island at the airport in Hawaii. Now after listening to the voice Meryl Streep, speaking the words of a flower in first person, I am again enamored with the lovelies that are often so taken for granted. Sometimes, even by me.

It happens that we are precisely at the time of year when tuberoses are in bloom in my gardening zone. They bloom perennially during these warm days and nights in late July and early August. I was seduced to plant them many years ago because I believe their scent is complete bliss and makes me feel relaxed and content. This time of year I try to take the time to pay a visit each day, if only for a couple of seconds, to inhale their luscious perfume first hand. It becomes almost impossible for me to pass by without stopping and pinching off a bloom to float in a small glass of water inside my home. I think: it's true what people say... the best things in life are free.