Welcome Abigail

The night before you joined our family, the moon went into a total eclipse for the first time on a Northern Winter's Solstice since 1638.   Three hundred and eighty two years ago.  Can you even imagine that?  Probably not, because we're still working at counting past twenty.  But, Rembrandt and Rubens were still in their prime.   The great Shakespearian tragedies were little over forty years old.  The steam turbine was a new invention.  Between then and now,  generation after generation of people celebrated Christmas, Hanukkah, or Ramadan, lost loved ones, celebrated births, made their way, day by day, year by year, hurt by hurt until when we are now.  Tuesday, December 21, 2010.  The day our earth turned back toward the sun, if only for one more second of light. 

The morning before you joined our family, your daddy gave you a bath while I ran the dogs.  The shining full moon set over Mount Susitna and the Cook Inlet.  The temperature didn't rise above ten and I moved footstep after footstep as I've done for forty-six years, but never so hopeful or purposeful or contented or happy.  At one point, and I am not kidding you, the sky kept singing.  I looked up and four songbirds were in nearby spruce serenading away, one less than a foot from my reach.  As if in farewell, they leaped from the tree, dove forward, and made their way west.  One day, one morning, one song, no different than other days, other mornings, other songs, other than for this.  The birds were trumpeting you.

The hour before you joined our family, I was in the car driving us to meet your father for our adoption celebration.  Every moment I thought about you brought tears to my eyes, even the moments when you are not at all happy with me (too soon for bed time, too little jumping, too much medicine) and when I thought of the one person I wanted to share this moment with, it was of a best friend from high school days who knew how much you would mean to me, but has been long out of touch.  It's funny isn't it?  How something as powerful as becoming a new mom makes you yearn for everything that has gone before.  Friends, grandfathers and grandmothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins.  Those that loved us with unbreakable devotion.  Everything I want for you.

The minute before you joined our family, I turned around and we were surrounded.  With grandparents (did I tell you your Grandfather sung "Honey Honey" over the courtroom sound system?) and sisters,  co-workers and colleagues, friends and children.  They were all here for us Abigail.  Some, I know, joined us on their darkest of days, to welcome you to our family.  To herald our joining.  To say God speed or namaste. To give grace.   To share in a moment that went like an instant, but will build our entire lifetimes.

The moment you joined our family, Abigail, I lost my voice.  Me! Your mother, who can make a mountain out of any mole hill.  I couldn't even say my name.  I wonder if it's because it doesn't mean everything to me now.  I don't just get to be Joan.  I get to be your Mom.

Abigail Lorraine Marie Wilson.  What more can I say than your name?  For you are here now.  Three hundred eight two years in the making or in just a moment?  Who is to say?  But, today, the birds sang.
I join them in chorus.  Welcome home, Abigail, my beautiful daughter.

Things I Didn't Know

I didn’t know how cold I would be in my chair without your back to keep me warm.   You were my little hot water bottle on long days of writing.   I didn’t know how quiet this house would be until your toenails stopped touching the floor.  I didn’t know how distressing two perfectly matched shoes were when found just where I left them.  I didn’t know how someone so small would leave a hole so big. 

I didn’t know windshield wipers really needed to be watched closely from the inside of my car and are worth a bark or two to keep them at a distance.  I didn’t know that eating ice cream would be so lonely.  I didn’t know that vizslas come best in sets of three, one always available to give another a rest from catching sticks or chasing rabbits, but not from eating ice cream.  That’s a group event.

I didn’t know how glistening your eyes were, the way they sparkled in green and gold, until I closed them for you, lifted you from the pavement, and carried you home.

It’s funny, isn’t it, how hard I fought against us?  First I tried to keep you from being conceived, visiting the woman who bred you, looking at your father tied to a stake, reeling and wild.    I knew when I left, we would meet.

You were nine months old when your first owner returned you.   We spent the summer together, running, playing, making you “ready.”   I didn’t know the tears that flowed when I left you in your new home would be the ones I long for now.

You were two when you came back.  And remember the other couple who kept you just one night before I found you again in my kennel, confused, shaking?   I didn’t know how many people could turn you in, like you were nothing.  I didn’t know, because to me, you were the farthest thing from that.  There wasn’t a day that you didn’t look at me wondering when I would get it.  You kept coming back because there was only one place you belonged. 

I didn’t know not to let you out of my sight that morning.  Of course, now, I do.  It was warm.  The scents of a rabbit or a coyote, whoever our visitor was, must have been fresh.  It’s the only reason you would leave me. 

I didn’t know how beautiful you were.  It wasn’t just your face; it was your energy and boundless love, love you rained on me every hour of every day.  If I left you, even briefly, I could tell you were in mourning.

 I know the feeling. 

 I didn’t know I would know the feeling.

Your Yes Vote for Judge Postma

I promised myself this would not be a political post, but I am breaking my rule for Judge Richard Postma, up for judicial retention in the Third Judicial District, State of Alaska.

I consider an individual’s decision on how to vote his or her personal business.  But in light of the attack against Judge Richard Postma by the Alaska Judicial Council (which ignored the high scores he received from attorneys, law enforcement, jurors, and court staff) and the minimal press coverage advancing the fact that the critics of Judge Postma were often against his efforts to improve court administration, I really believe it is important that I post this note.

I have known Judge Postma in three capacities over the last six years:  (1) as a work colleague at the Attorney General’s Office; (2) as an assistant district attorney appearing before him in numerous court hearings, including trial (by the way, he disclosed we were former work colleagues in court appearances); and (3) now as a friend since I have joined his retention efforts.   As a former colleague, I can tell you he was held in universal high esteem at the Attorney General’s Office.  As a judge, he is one of the best judges I have appeared before. Judge Postma is smart, ethical, courteous, fully knowledgeable of governing case law and rules, and keeps the halls of equal justice open to all, irrespective of race, poverty, or any other inappropriate factor.   As someone I am privileged to call friend, I can tell you he is not at all full of himself, is a wonderful family man, has a quick sense of humor, and is there for other people.

The press has paid minimal attention to what I believe is a truly critical issue in this election, which is the deprivation of due process of law  for Judge Postma by scheduling his hearing before the Judicial Conduct Commission for after the election and not giving him the opportunity to clear his name from unfair critics.  The Judicial Council in turn held a hearing with a minimal notice on a Sunday, presented Judge Postma with criticisms he couldn’t verify or fully critique (because the Council has no obligation to disclose evidence), and voted against his retention, ignoring, as I said, the high judicial scores that certainly speak in favor of retention.  As I noted before, Judge Postma has consistently stood for improving standards at the district court level by not pre-signing court orders (a common practice in the court), questioning the calendaring system (in which some clerks believe the judges work for them and not the people), and minimizing efforts for inappropriate judge picking by both attorneys and the calendaring office.  I have appeared as a judicial candidate in front of the Judicial Council myself.  While I have no personal problem with any member, I can tell you that I believe the process gets skewed.  Well-qualified candidates (myself excluded) are not advanced and block voting often occurs.  And as I said, the process of Judge Postma’s retention recommendation hearing before the Council was suspect.  Something is fishy when the Judicial Council schedules a hearing for a Sunday, forgets to publish it as a public hearing (which Judge Postma requested), and then attempts to exclude for a period of time the few people who knew about it.

As a last topic, to my Democratic friends.  Please don’t be swayed by the fact that Judge Postma is a Palin appointee or represented by Mr. Van Flein.  I have never heard Judge Postma utter a political word.  He is truly, in my eyes, nonpartisan.  And to my Republican friends (yes I have some), please don’t consider it a factor that I consistently vote blue.  This election has nothing to do with party affiliation.  It solely is about retaining a great judge.

In conclusion, I believe your vote for Judge Postma will make a critical difference for his retention and the preservation of due process of law.  If you have any questions or concerns, please contact me. You can also review www.judgepostma.com for more facts.

Transitions

As I mentioned, I took four dogs and a cat to the vet on Wednesday.   I saw a vet I’ve seen only once or twice, because my vet of ten years is transitioning into a life of retirement.  It’s amazing what even a vet knows about your history; for example, that ten years ago a remarkable dog named Cletus came into my life when I thought my heart was going to break in two.  That nine years ago an equally remarkable puppy I would name Emma, for my grandmother, was at that same vet’s office looking for a home.  Anyone who knew my grandparents should not be surprised by her name if she were to witness Cletus’s immediate taking to Em.

My old vet knew Emma’s entire story.  She was a rott-cross puppy rescued from her own mother when that mother (who spent her life tied down by a chain) killed one of Emma’s litter mates.  He knew that when she was with me no more than two months she was diagnosed with ventricular stenosis and would die before her first birthday.  He was there when I brought her in at eight months of age and reported that Emma kept getting stronger, beating me and Cletus to the top of every hill at Kincaid Park.  He put a stethoscope to her chest.  He called in one vet and then another.  And then he told me the heart murmur and stenosis we diagnosed by echocardiogram was completely gone.  “These things happen” he said, with a scientist’s trust in coincidence, but he gave her pat as I gave her a prayer, the same one I’d been saying since the moment of her diagnosis.  “May the Lord bless you and keep you…”

My new vet knew none of this.  She didn’t know that when six years later an x-ray of Emma’s left elbow showed it never properly formed, I took Emma in for acupuncture (which she hated) and tried to teach her to swim in summer lakes (another act Emma met with equal disdain) to ease up the strain.  She didn’t know a lot of things, when she looked at me with a face of judgment I never faced before.  Am I bad pet owner?   Letting her get a little too big, not being able to afford the daily double does of rimadyl she prescribed, let alone take her in for liver testing every eight weeks.   She didn’t know a lot of things.  Transitions.

But what this vet didn’t know, Emma did and still does.  She’s the first dog to greet me in the morning, reaching up from the floor on my side of the bed to kiss my dropping arm.  She’s the most devoted when it comes to sitting by my side, no matter my task.  She reaches her malformed leg to me time and time and grabs me by her paw.  She gives a rottie growl that I didn’t initially know was a sign of happiness.  And in her eyes is nothing but understanding, nothing but love and loyalty and all the reasons I’m grateful to share my life with this one blessed dog.

At the same time I brought Emma to the vet, I brought along a rescue vizsla Willow that’s been with us two months now.   She’s a sweet dog, but poorly bred, a nervous Nellie unsure of herself every step of the way.   She jumps to my face as often as she can try and has a tongue like a snake’s that reaches out for human warmth.    She treats the windshield wiper of my car as if it’s going to attack her.  I know she won’t be ready for a home until I can be assured no one will return her.  This is the second time she has returned to my fold.  “Can she keep weight on?” the new vet asks.  “No, she is a constant 45 pounds.”  “She runs hot, doesn’t she?”  “Yes.  Any ideas for her wellbeing?”  “Yes,” the new vet says, “she needs to be with a marathon runner.”

Do I tell her?  I’ve run Chicago four times, New York, Boston, Portland, Trail’s End, Crow Pass, and Mayors’ Marathon.  Close to a marathon a year for the past fifteen.  I don’t, because with a year of inconstant running, my body doesn’t look like that girl’s anymore. 

Transitions.

I will be the first person to say that I’ve made too many excuses when it comes to my running.  But it really was the first thing to fall and the rest of a busy life was there ready to steal it away.   I keep trying, because if you are a runner, or ever were, you know there is nothing like the peace it brings.  Time for you, your dogs, your mountains, your heart.  When I would try, Emma was there with me, at my side, as the other dogs ran ahead.  When the hill became too steep, whether uphill or down, she would drop behind, and it was I who waited for her.  Emma was the first to show gratitude through those eyes, those beautiful brown eyes.

This morning, the cool in the air and the first frost called to all of us to run.  As I loaded up the Element to go to our favorite trail, I looked over to Emma sure I wouldn’t take her.  I wanted to run the entire way today, Gasline to Powerline, up to the last rise before the Glen Alps turnoff, and I knew she couldn’t make it.  But, when she made the beeline for the car and jumped in the back door like it was her to place to be, I knew I wouldn’t be leaving her behind.  Plans can change.  Mine would for her. 

We were the first car in the Upper Huffman parking lot.  The three vizslas jumped out my front door.  I opened the side door for Cletus, and the hatchback for Emma.  By now the dogs knew their way.  Walter, O’Malley, Cletus, and  Willow headed for the first hill and  I followed.  I turned around and saw that Emma was by the car, refusing to move.  I called her to me, and eventually she made her way to the first rise before the drop to creek level. There she stopped and went to lie down in the alder brush.  She told me once before, but I heard her now.  We made our way back to the Element.  I opened it up and she jumped in.  I gave her a pat, turned my back, and the rest of us took to the trails, ready for our hill.

There comes that moment when to go forward, to transition into your new self or the self you once were more wholly and deeply miss, you have to leave the old dog with bad elbow behind.  There comes that moment when even she knows you’ve got to go on without her.  The entire way up the hill, Willow frolicked happy to be with her non-marathoner.   O’Malley and Walter searched the brush for ptarmigan, and Cletus, cognizant of Emma’s absence, took up my side.  

We pushed, pressed on, me for the one not with me.  And when I got to the last rise, the one I said I would run no matter what, the silhouette of a young cow moose was at the summit, stopping me in my place.  Truth be told, for one brief moment, before I wondered if my eyes were tricking me, I saw her there.  My rott-cross puppy who kept beating me to the top of every Kincaid Park hill.  Her tail wagged.  Her heart healed.  And her love…boundless.

Dinner with Richard

Yesterday was my first day not working, but working under a tight writing deadline.  So after taking Abbie to day care, I took four dogs and one cat to the vet in the morning.  There, I was somewhat belittled by a new vet who couldn’t understand that I actually have to budget money for visits and couldn’t afford the two surgeries she thought might be of assistance (this after spending $500 on Walter’s stomach flu the week before).  I went running with the tribe (cat excluded).  I wrote for the afternoon.  Then, at about 5:30 in the afternoon I thought I’d better make dinner. 

One thing to know.  I don’t make dinner.  I can cook three things – tuna casserole, hamburger and beans, and something looking like lasagna, but none of them well.  But with a first day off work I thought, belatedly, this is what the person at home does.  Think of others or at least try to think of others.    I turned the oven on to 375, a fitting temperature for just about anything, microwaved one potato and one yam for five minutes, and thought….I better go check my chickens.

I had let Wrigley, the barred rock, Chickago, the New Hampshire Red, Rhodie, the Rhode Island Red, Kate, the black sexlink, and Catherine, the Polish Sussex out for the afternoon.  With the dogs inside and resting after a good day’s run, this is usually a safe escapade. My little chickens run like little dinosaurs into the sumac brush and spend their time kicking up dirt and roosting on branches.  But, it is not a safe escapade when you realize a little too late that Emma, our reclusive Emily Dickinson of dogs, came in from her afternoon’s nap, opened the front door (her usual trick) and let loose the three bird dogs.  Each of the vizslas made a bee line for their favorite sport, chicken chasing, about ten minutes before I realized the door was open and they were missing.

It’s somewhat of a scary venture when you turn from the front lawn and into the back and wonder what chicken carnage you might face.  And today, like most days, there was no problem.  I called to the dogs, each of whom came running, placed Walter, Willow, and O’Malley inside the garage, and called to my chickens.  Out scampered Wrigley, Chickago, Catherine, and Kate and they quickly entered their yard. 

Rhodie, however, was AWOL.  About this time Richard and Abbie came home.  I explained my plight.  Richard said, “you know a chicken will always find his way home.” I said, “that’s what you said when Omelotte went missing.”  “I stand corrected,” he countered, “a chicken will make its way home if it is mobile enough to get home.”  “And there lies our crux, honey.  I am going chicken searching.”  The thought “wasn’t I about to make dinner?” never crossed this chicken rescuer’s mind. 

I do have a secret agent for chicken rescuing, the same dog who sends them running, only this time toward me.  O’Malley runs from the open garage back door into the sumac brush.  Her nose, which is to the ground, leads her in circles and loops, and back further and further into the brush when the cackle erupts.  “Bawk,bawk, bawk, bawk.”  She chases little Rhodie nearly up into my arms.  Crisis averted.  Chicken, a little worse for the wear, rescued.

And this is when O’Malley runs to the front yard barking.  Our two neighbor girls and their father are here to invite Abbie to go swinging.  And so out little Abbie comes squealing with delight and calling to “EllaGrace” like their names are one word.  I accompany her, of course.  First to the swing, then to the climbing tree, then the clubhouse, then the tree house, and then to the stick tree.

When we return an hour later, Richard asks me if I know how long I was gone.  “Long enough to climb four trees,” I respond.  “Have I told you I haven’t worn my watch since the moment I stopped working?” 

Abbie and I try to tell Richard everything we did. “Abbie climb tree, Daddie.”  Our progress is stopped by the beautiful dinner he has sitting in each of our places.  Spaghetti with chicken (not our chickens) for Abbie.  Baked yam and pork for me, with a glass of wine thrown in for good measure.  I make such a terrible cook and I married such a lovely one

“What did you do today?” he asks.

“Well, I went to the vet, went running, wrote my thesis, and then posted my first blog.”  I read it to him.

“That’s awesome,” he says, “but are you going to tell the truth?”

“Of course I am, my version of the truth.”

“Will you admit your butt has been growing bigger this year?”

“As long as I can say your stomach should have its own zip code.”

“I’m kidding, darling.”  I know he’s not.  I’ve seen my butt.

“Me too.  Yes, I’ll tell the truth.  You made a lovely dinner.”

Inaugural Post

E.B. White once wrote a reader of Charlotte's Web, "All that I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world."

E.B. White has said a lot of things that I love.  And lately, well before the sun rises, I get up to begin the day with his words.   I sneak away from a sleeping husband and similar child by flashlight's ray with "Essays of E.B. White" in hand, sit on the livingroom leather loveseat (big enough for me and two dogs I've come to be surprised), and place a warm blanket around my shoulders.  And with these things, dogs, and persons in place, I sink back in time.  Sometimes to a 1956 Allen Cove, Maine farmhouse with a Crawford 8-20 woodstove in the kitchen.  At others to an Autumn 1947 pighouse where I pray, despite the odds, that one small pig will triumph.  Whereever I am, I am in the company of a friend, someone who saw that small events can be just as consequential as large ones, universal in their themes.  Someone who lets me know by his observance of raccoons in trees or dachsunds on a snow bermed, covered fence that all, no matter the sadness life brings, is well.

I've been thinking.  If E.B. White can tell the world through his books that he loved the world I can tell a few people the same through this very small blog.

But, for right now, this blog is for one lover (me) of the simple and afficianado of small beauty, whereever it may be, second tree from the mailbox, second white birch from the dogyard and chicken coop, second hump from McHugh Peak's winds.  .

To small blogs and small things and the world that I love...