I don’t know about you, but I feel the skunks are trying to tell us something – get ready for winter and hunker down perhaps? I don’t know about that, but maybe it has to do with the old run around.  If you run around in the street long enough, you’ll get hit by car. Not even the squirrels have issued such a dire warning – yet.

Lately, there have been so many skunks dead in the road as I drive from home to work and back. It seems I find the odious remains in every town I pass through. Worse, I think one has taken up residence near the office.

I have called a city official who said the city doesn’t have an animal control department, so they could refer me to a state approved firm to handle the smelly culprit. This is interesting, since they will spend money on brick crosswalks, but will not help wildlife (or residents) in the area like coyotes, foxes, deer and skunks.

Whether you are of a certain political party or not, the issues we face at all times is the taxes we pay to our city and other taxing bodies and the debate that we are getting our money’s worth.

So it got me thinking:  how much money does this city save? Should Waukegan (a few miles north and a lower income bracket per household) who seems to be plagued with a city government’s lack of code enforcement dump their animal control services? How much money do they carve out of the budget for this? How will that help the city’s expenditures? There would be fewer employees, less pension and health insurance expenses to start.  Perhaps then, we too could have brick walkways in town. The now former city employees can start their own pest control business. See? Win-win.

A taxpaying citizen can call the city hall and be told – go get your own pest control company to handle it.

Huh.

Now the taxpayer (who should be paying less now, right?) is out money that could have been spent on food or medicine (you know, real stuff, not fluff stuff) to rid their property of stinky vermin. Ingenious!

At first with all these skunks out and about foraging for the winter, I wondered if too, this was their mating season. No, that would be February through March as I discovered on the almighty internet.

As it is with skunks or city services, you have to admit – a lot of it stinks!

Here’s something I’m working on – feed back always welcomed!

Prologue

Candi Owens slammed the front door to their apartment. In her rage, she forgot her jacket, but she would only be a few minutes. She needed the cool fall night to get her emotions back in check. As she stormed along the path that took her to the play area for the complex’s children. This time of night it was more likely to be frequented by rebellious teenagers than the young families.

Tonight, the park was empty. Candi headed for the park bench near the monkey bars. This was her spot during the day as she watched her five-year old son Noah swing his atrophied body from rung to rung. You would never guess he was relegated to a wheelchair. He may not be able to use his legs, but his arms were getting stronger.

“Watch me, Mommy!”she would call out to her mother. She had memories of her own mother sitting on a park bench like this just across town, encouraging her to pump her legs faster in order to swing higher.

How she missed her Mom these days. Being one herself made her realize how much work her mother did every day for her and her father – the ungrateful bastard. Now all those fights her parents had after she was in bed made sense to her. He loved being with someone else and not them. Once her mother disappeared, he left his only child to be raised by her maternal grandmother. All those years she thought she wasn’t worthy of being with him or her mother. Only recently she realized it was the other way around.

How her life had come full circle.

She had a cheating husband. She could handle it better if the bills weren’t stacking up – especially those medical bills for Noah’s condition.  At first, she thought she had chased him to these other women, but again, she realized he wasn’t worthy of her, not the other way around.

Noah was the sunshine in her life.  He gave her the biggest smiles, kissed her and reached out to touch her when she was sad. She will begin finding a lawyer in the morning. She had to think of Noah now. She had to leave her husband and find job to support herself and her sunshine.

“Thinking of your mother again?”

The question made Candi jump in her seat. She glanced up at the dark figure in front of her. He dropped the hood of his sweatshirt and smiled.

“Hi,” she smiled back. “Yes, actually, I was.”

“Did you and Darrell have another fight?”

“Wow. You must be psychic. I didn’t know you live in the area.”

The man shrugged and indicated the spot next to her. “Do you mind?”

She patted the weathered boards. “Sure, as long as you’re not going to bill me.”

He chuckled, “No, this one’s on the house.”

She heard rustling in the bushes not far off and turned her head to look. There had been coyotes spotted in town. She would rather not run into one. She shivered in the cool air. She should be headed back to Darrell and Noah. Well, Noah at least.

For a moment she thought she caught movement in the bushes, but it nothing emerged from the bushes, so she turned back to her bench mate.  Pain exploded in her head. Her hand reached up to investigate. She felt something wet – water? It was warm. Even as she was falling off the bench, into the cool damp grass, her unfocused gaze registered the man that was supposed to be siting, instead stood over her, holding a large rock in his hand, dripping blood.  Her blood!

It was the last thing she remembered.

I remember moving into the house on Hickory Street. I was four, almost five and would be starting kindergarten soon. We had just returned from a trip through the Smoky Mountains to visit our cousins. I held my Smoky Mountain souvenir pencil case close as I walked into our new home.

Not long after we had settled in, we were introduced to a new member of the family – my father’s first “baby” – the MG. We had many things in common in those early days.

From the start, we both got our own rooms – mine was upstairs, the first bedroom on the left; hers was the garage. Neither of us had air conditioning, but at least I had heat.

For a while, the MG had to share her space with that trouble making Honda motorcycle. It didn’t last long though: the motorcycle plastered dad on the asphalt – and once was all it took. Dad went around on crutches for a few weeks and the MG once again had her room to herself.

I had my room to myself until Audrey came along later that year. I had pesky little brothers around all the time.

Perhaps the car cringed when our collection of Schwinns began to crowd her. She never mentioned it to us, but Dad was always telling us kids to be careful around her.  In fact, if we didn’t breathe around her, that would be best. Extracting your bike from the garage was like playing a game of Operation.

One time when Dad brought home his newly repainted 1962 black Chevy Impala, the motor still warm, three-year old Charlie Gendreau road our pedal powered hook-and-ladder fire truck alongside the car, the hooks leaving its mark on the driver’s side from stem to stern, as they say. My dad’s ability to stay composed has long been a marvel among the neighborhood.

He soon started keeping the MG under a tarp – if bubble wrap had been invented then, I’m sure he would have used that. Funny, we didn’t see that fire truck after the “Great Hook and Ladder Incident”.

The MG’s room was decorated with tools, workbench, and a pair of jacks to rest her weary chassis.

My room was decorated with a cat clock whose eyes and tail rocked back and forth with an eerie creak. It terrified me for months.

Back then, the MG was white. It must not have been running when she moved in because once Dad got the motor working, he just had to take it for a test run through the streets of Waukegan. Back then, the car was without seats. He couldn’t wait until he had them re-installed, so he sat on the floor boards, his head barely above the steering wheel.

Not long after that, he took her apart and hung her in pieces on the basement clotheslines. Methodically, he painted them fire engine red, guaranteeing her to always be a head-turner. A few times, beauty queens, politicians and grand marshals rode on her back during holiday parades.

I tried being a red head once– but that didn’t turn any heads.

Once I had my driver’s license and we attended a few Vintage Sports Car Club events at Road America, I became Dad’s navigator. Something we would do together. I even learned to drive stick with the MG – of course, being an English car, it was right hand drive. Coordinating my left hand with the dance of clutch and gas often resulted in Dad shouting over the wind – “Put! The! Clutch! In!”

He spent time with us and the car in equal measure for a while. Boy Scouts and other things that put a cramp in his MG time. As the family grew, he had less time to spend with her. She never complained – ever the model of a perfect child.

Dad never took her out unless it was a cloudless day. When those days happened, the wind would blow his hair back, his eyes protected by his aviators. Always there was sheer bliss on his face, just like his pure joy in holding each child, grandchild and great-grandchild for the very first time.

This was how Dad taught us to follow our passions and find the joy in life’s simplest and most beautiful things.

One thing that is recurring here is time.

Time wasn’t kind to Dad. An empty nest meant he had more time for his pride and joy. And while the MG never showed her age, my dad wasn’t so lucky. Carpal tunnel syndrome was the first to betray him. The tools that helped him earn a living and enabled him to delve into his passion for English sports cars were too heavy, the wrists weaker and his fingers less nimble.

Then Parkinson’s claimed its place in Dad’s body.  For the past year, he struggled to bounce back from a stroke which was only complicated tenfold with his Parkinson’s. Yet he never lost his sense of humor. And for those of us who knew him well, he told the corniest jokes. He came by that honestly – Grandpa Juppe did the same thing.

Our father is no longer held captive to an uncooperative body. He is free now to tinker with all the cars in Heaven.

Godspeed, Dad.

Yesterday, I returned home from a very busy day. My feet were propped on the coffee table and my laptop in my lap. At 6:30 p.m. my phone pinged with a notification, a reminder to do something.

Call Dad

I stared at the screen for a moment. This was one call I couldn’t make. That knowledge didn’t sit any better with me than if it said ‘make doctor appointment‘.

A year ago, I put that reminder in my phone because I realized there were some weeks I didn’t talk to my dad. Life had gotten busy again and I felt I was neglecting him. Even if the conversation was less than five minutes, at least we would talk. My dad called me more than I called him. I knew that had to change, hence the reminder in my phone.

There were times in the last year where his hearing was an issue and conversations were difficult. At times, his hands couldn’t hold the phone to talk to me.

Since Father’s Day, I hadn’t called my dad. He was either in the nursing home or the hospital. He couldn’t hold the phone, so I didn’t call his hospital room. Most of the time, his room phone was behind his head and he’d never reach it. He hadn’t gotten a new cell phone yet, so you had to wait for a sibling to call you on their phone to talk to him. But I did drive up to see him often.

Ten days ago, we brought him home to die. Four days later, he took his last breath, peaceful with his left hand raised, the fingers curled like he was clutching a steering wheel. Perhaps his last visual was him driving in his beloved 1948 MG-TC; the open road in front of them winding along the back roads on a cloudless day.

Yesterday, we had his funeral, today we laid him to rest and every time I looked at my phone today, there was that reminder – Call Dad.

I can’t make this call, he won’t answer on the usual cellular or landline line. But he’ll probably be sitting with me on the patio, sipping an adult beverage, or he’ll be leaning over my shoulder while I’m driving, making sure I’m driving the speed limit.

But I’m pretty sure he’ll be beside me when I take to the road on a journey – he never could resist a ribbon of asphalt and neither can I.

How do we define greatness?

Mohammed Ali was the greatest – all you had to do was ask him and the record books. So is it the palatable accomplishments of one’s life that most people define greatness?

How does an ordinary life compare?

Our family is blessed with many great men disguised as everyday heroes.  Fathers, uncles, brothers, brother-in-laws, cousins and sons – men who served in the military and men to taught. They are men who can wheel and deal, and others who make things right by tinkering.

Yet I’m sure our family is no different from yours.

Our large family lost one of those great men this week. His warrior life of the past 22 months is over. His soul is free at last from the pain and cancer that ravaged his body.  Now there is a hole where he once stood – next to his wife of more than two decades and behind his sons who will feel the loss of his loving and guiding hand.

He was the greatest of the greatest.  The quiet hero. The quintessential man for all seasons.

He was a man of faith who loved his family – loved doing things with them and for them.  To his mother-in-law, he was the son she never had. For us, the cousins, he was simply one of the family – as if he’d been born and raised in it. From where we stood, he was no ordinary man, but that was the skin he was comfortable in.

We, too, feel the loss of this great man. Our grief cannot compare to the depth of his family’s – his wife, sons, mother, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews.

He was a generous man, giving away smiles at every opportunity and his easy manner made people gravitate to him. I think that is where his greatness lies – in his faith, his friendships and the love for his family.

This is the greatest of legacies he has left for us.

Godspeed, Frank!

Photo by Matej Novosad from Pexels

Last week we had a near perfect storm of family at it’s best, tarnished silver and all.

My sister, her husband and their Super Dog Zeiss arrived for a visit. Since Father’s Day my father had his children together in stages as it is when some of us live out of state. It’s difficult to get all of us in one place at the same moment, but we get damn close at times.

It had been a whirlwind of visits with dad and siblings for a week, then we rolled right into the weekend and more family. It was a true celebration and one that we all needed – a wedding.

It’s funny how the generations shift – a snail’s pace to tell you slip into the next phase of role as person. Not long ago we (siblings, cousins, friends) were getting married, dancing every dance the night had to offer. Our parents’s generation leaving after the tossing of the bouquet.

Now our children, nieces, nephews are the ones getting married and we are leaving like Cinderella before midnight. But since we weren’t dancing every dance, we had time to catch up with family members we hadn’t seen in a very long (too long) time. The longer we talked, the bigger my heart felt – the warmer I felt because I connected and re-connected with family.

I can admit to becoming my parents’ generation while they step into their next step. It is that dreaded circle of life – no forever youth, no eternal midlife crisis. Instead, we all ride the rollercoaster – the ups, downs, twists, turns and loops. We hang on for dear life or throw our arms up in the air to feel the rush of the wind, to scream our exhilaration or laugh with sheer joy. That is life. That is family. Sometimes we are always experiencing life without knowing we are in the moment.

Last weekend, I was in such a moment. I knew it then, and this time I’m riding with my arms up in the air, screaming and laughing at it all.

I am more complete having more spent time with family.

Note: This photo was probably taken by my Grandfather – an annual occasion of Easter – in their backyard – “Our Family Tree” as he called it. Cousins and siblings together. Perfect, nest-ce pas? 

I have come to the conclusions that the canine species may not have thumbs, the ability to speak English (or any other human language) or the brainpower to design and build. What Man’s Best Friend (notice the capitalization – a sign of earned respect) does have is the ability to manipulate, drive us crazy and makes us feel guilty.

Now, I know there are a lot of you out there that would shame me for letting a dog get the better of a mere mortal like myself, but they have yet to meet Princess Wrigley Marie Marshmallow. Lately she has displayed her true level of intelligence.

Last week, she was sedated for a teeth cleaning and a biopsy on her noise. The cone they gave her must have been originally designed for a buffalo because it’s so large I’m afraid some windy day (like today) she’ll fly off like the Flying Nun (if you’re under 40, you may not know her, so google her).  We survived her post-op phase which lasted most of the first day.

The true test was dispensing her medications for pain and antibiotic. Usually I can hide her pills in peanut butter, but the real Princess in her came out – she turned nose in a very regal manner as if to say, “Be gone!” Plan B was to buy some liver sausage. Again, Princess Wrigley turned her nose at this delicacy. By this time I’ve had a collective six hours of sleep over two nights and was in no humor for canine snobbery.

But then something dawned on me –this dazed sleepwalking feeling and frustration was just like when our son was two and sick with something – an ear ache, teething, take your pick. He wanted to be held and didn’t want his medicine.

I was relating the issue with one of writers groups and one of them suggested I try pill pockets. Huh? Being the desperate dog mommy I was, I looked them up online and placed an order to be picked up at the store in a couple hours. There was some reluctance on her part in the beginning, but for the next few days things were returning to normal – or as normal as can be with a dog wearing a gigantic cone can be.

Then yesterday Princess Wrigley was at it again. She turned her nose at the pill pockets! I am beside myself. (My husband took the cal from the vet and he couldn’t remember the diagnosis.) She may need to be taking a medication for the rest of her life according to the biopsy results. How, by some miracle, is this going to happen?

So for now, the canine in this battle for dominance and superior intelligence goes to the one wearing the cone! I have time to plot my next course of action.

Over the years, there have been many times when I felt like I was the worst mother in the whole world.

When my son started day care, the guilt of my two year old crying as I walked away from him hung like the heaviest chain mail, keeping me stooped in the feeling that I was the lowest of low. That would last until I came to pick him up and he would tell me about his new friends as any super-gifted two year old could.

This cycle was repeated when Kindergarten started and he had to spend half his day at the YWCA day care. There was someone there he didn’t like and yet he couldn’t give a legitimate answer. I checked with the care givers and there wasn’t any problem they could see. So I toughened up and told him he had to deal with it. To this day, our son doesn’t even recall the incident or the child’s name.

Now my parental guilt has shifted to our grand-doggy, Princess Wrigley Marie Marshmallow. We do have other names for her, but they can’t be repeated here.

I find that when we know she has a doctor’s or grooming appointment she is completely unaware until we get to about two blocks from the Petsmart. Recently, she’s become more astute because she begins getting anxious the minute we cross Route 41 heading west. She is convinced nothing good happens west of 41.

The time before last I took her to the vet’s, she crapped in the car. The next time I took her, we gas-lighted her into believing all three of us were going somewhere. I felt guilty again about the subterfuge but it got the job done (without a mess in my car).

Tomorrow is going to be another one of those secret missions. Wrigley has a dental cleaning and biopsy on her poor nose which like to scab. So, it is a joint effort to get her to the clinic without extended anxiety. I know already my parental guilt will well up before I go to bed tonight knowing what is planned for her.

I think this time is harder, because she can’t talk to me, and as much as I’d like to think she understands me, I know she doesn’t fully comprehend. That makes it so much harder for me.

Once again, tomorrow, I’ll don the chain mail and chive on!

Since the snow (another four letter word) melted, the Midwest, including my little corner of Northern Illinois, has seen a deluge of rain. To make matters worse, states like Oklahoma, Missouri, Arkansas and others have been hit with tornadoes and flooding.

Today I heard of a woman complaining that the lawn care company that her home owners association uses haven’t mowed the lawn. Perhaps she can’t see the impromptu lake at the bottom of their common area making a better rice patty than a lawn.

That woman and other people like her should be concerned for the farmers. Their fields have been too wet to plant. If you think this won’t have an effect of you, think again – start watching the price of produce at the store. We’ll be relying on more imports.

But to all of us who have weathered (how ironic) these past couple months, are just tired of cold days and near freezing nights, gray skies, fog and the least favorite – rain. How do people in Seattle survive?

I, for one am hoping that when the calendar changes to June, that a switch will have been flicked and Summer will come – to stay for three or four months – I think she owes  us to extend her stay, don’t you?

The scene: Any dog park in the Midwest

“So, hello, my name is Wrigley.”

“Hi Wrigley,” said the excited pack of dogs surround her and sniff. Their noses are are up in private parts. She does some sniffing of her own.

“I’m new here and I should be up front. I am a scene stealing dog. I like to have everyone admire me. Especially the humans. But really, is that so wrong of me?” she fashions her tail into a question mark. A few of the pack that haven’t been called away by their humans sniff a little more.

“So Wrigley,” a mastiff, the leader designated by size and deep voice coaxes, “tell us about it.”

“My human daddy tells my I’m a diva, and even sometimes calls me an attention whore.” Wrigley sits a bit straighter now, her pose in full regal mode. She tips her nose down to bring her big brown black eyes to show them her  “innocent” expression.

A few male tails wag a bit faster. The bitches in the group lift their muzzles into the air and find a squirrel to focus on.  A few of them raise the fur on their backs and give a low growl.

“Ladies,” warns the mastiff, “Wrigley has the floor.” To the long-haired half-breed he begs, “Please continue.”

Wrigley lays on the grassy knoll, higher than the others, then crosses her front paws in a very lady like pose. She gives a brief soft snort, as if she needed a moment to continue.  “What galls me though, is he’s leaving for some time and now I’m living with my grandparents. I mean I know many of us are from single parent homes, but I ask you, how would you feel if your dad or mom left you with…old people?”

A couple of the bitches return their gazes to the new girl, nodding in agreement. An elderly pit bull settles onto the grass and sighs wearily, “Preaching to the choir sister.” The rest nod or sniff and sit on their haunches, a general feeling this could take a while wafts among them.

The mastiff looks at the group and probes the guest, “So what have you done about it?”

Wrigley glances over at her human, the old female, talking to a few other adults, as if debating how much to say, she turns back to face the group.  “So I start the day off at 3:37 when I nudge my head under Grandma’s hand so she can start scratching me. When she pats the mattress I jump up onto the bed and wedge myself between her and Grandpa. Finally, I maneuver my back under her palm and she scratches that as well. I give a few huffs, and then she rolls out of bed, grumbling, and lets me out to pee. I’ve tried to get her to play with me then, but she’s too smart for that. At least I get a treat out of the deal.

“Then I nap a bit and wait for her alarm to go off at 5:00. She’s looking pretty tired about then, but I try not to feel too bad for her. I get Grandpa to take me out to pee and then he gives me a treat as well. It’s like taking candy from a baby – honest. I did that once.  Geez, the fuss everyone made that time! Anyway, she leaves me shortly after that, then Grandpa afterwards.  So then I shed all over the rug, the furniture and the basket of clean clothes. I roll around on the carpet to give that freshly snowed appearance. And that’s until she returns an hour or so later.”

The mastiff, now taking on the personality of Dr Phil, says, “And you don’t feel bad for the way you’re manipulating the old people?”

Wrigley lifted her snout as if catching the scent of another dog in the refreshing breeze. She knew she appeared aloof, but it couldn’t be helped. “I have needs. So what if I put my paw on her arm and then apply enough pressure until she succumbs to my wishes. I need to be scratched, petted and loved. Don’t we all?”

The mastiff perused the lingering crowd. They’d lost a few when a couple shouts from the humans dwindled their numbers. It was really difficult to have these sessions when they were always being interrupted, but this was the only placed they could gather.  “Does anyone have anything to say to help Wrigley?”

The pit bull looked over at the white furred beauty, “I think you’ll find the more rest you give your older folks will benefit you as well. They don’t get to nap several times a day like we do. You’re still young enough to not understand that they have more time for you than our parents, but the love they gives us couldn’t be anymore real.”

“So you’re saying I should cut them some slack.”

Stretching his neck, the pit bull seemed taller than earlier, he looked so wise, Wrigley thought. Perhaps there was something to his insight. Certainly you get to be that high up in years without experiencing these kinds of things.

“How many homes have you known?” she tipped her head, studying the perceptive dog.

“Five.” He answered in a gruff bark.

“Wow. Were they ever unkind?” Curiosity overcame her aloofness.

“Just one. My first home.”

“How did you ever leave?”

“The animal police came to get me. My first owners used to beat us to get us ready to fight. I hadn’t eaten in a week and was very sick. I almost bit one of the police, but she placed a calming hand on my neck and I knew then she would take good care of me.”

“How long did you stay with her?”

“About a year, then she let me move in with part of her family. But once they had a baby they gave me to another family.”

“Are you happy now?” the mastiff inquired, noting the pit bull held everyone’s attention.

“This is best home I’ve been in. They are older, but so am I. Together we try to keep each other active, like being here.”

Wrigley narrowed her eyes and looked over at the lady she lives with now. She was smiling and pulling her gray hair from her face as she laughed at something one of the other humans said.

Really, she and the man were very good to her. Petting her, feeding her, taking her outside a lot during the day. How she loved running in the yard! It was so much bigger than her other one, and there were less people around to guard against. She already knew in the short time she’s been with them, which dogs in the neighborhood she liked and which ones she didn’t. She also met most of the people, and although the short ones scared her, like the big ones did, they were pretty nice to her. They all petted her and crooned about how pretty I was.

“You know, I guess you’re right. They’re good people. Maybe I’ll try to sleep in a bit tomorrow.”

“There you go. Sometimes you have learn things walking in another dog’s paws,” the pit bull said. Wrigley noticed the mastiff was nodding his massive black head.

“Charlie!” called one of the humans. The pit bull rose, but turned back to the group, “See everyone next weekend. Nice meeting you Wrigley.”

“Morgan, come here boy!” With surprising speed and agility, the mastiff rose and declared the meeting over just before he trotted to where his human stood.

One of the bitches looked over at the parking lot, “It’s probably time I go too.” She stretched her limber body then turned to the newcomer, “See you around Wrigley.”