Gonna Make that Garden Grow

Inch by inch... row by row...

It’s Saturday night at 10:30.  As usual, the night before a Hebrew school night, I’m taking it easy, watching a little tv with my husband before an early bedtime so I can get up at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning (on the only day of the week when I have to).

I say we’re watching tv, but the truth is, he is.  I’m actually on my laptop, furiously scrolling through iTunes, and my humongous library, using key words like “tree," “planting,” “garden,” and so on.  Tomorrow is our first Bagels & Blox program and the theme is Tu B’Shevat, the Jewish holiday of the trees.  I want some background music for our planting activity. 

(Click here to listen to my one of my favorites on the playlist!)

This program has been in the works since I was hired last June.  It’s designed to be an inclusive parent (or grandparent) and child program that introduces your young one to Judaism in a joyful, musical, movement-filled way.  I will co-lead this precious program with the Rabbi and the plan is that we'll work together, building on each other’s’ strengths, engaging both parents and children.  We also hope to build a community for the parents, grow our school, and by extension grow the two synagogues that feed into our school.  But that’s looking too far ahead.  Right now I just want to put together a seamless 45 minutes program for the four children and their parents who signed up for our first session.

In the middle of the night, I wake up and realize that two of our four children have already done the planting activity, when they attended the Tu B’Shevat Seder last Sunday with their older siblings.  Somehow in my half sleep, my brain creates an alternate idea, that would not require any shopping at 7:00 am on a Sunday.  I fall back to sleep, dreaming of juice boxes and alef-bet songs.

Finally the moment is here.  I get to the synagogue early and set everything up.  The children arrive, and three of them are waiting, not very patiently, in the lobby. Little Billy is 2  ½ and he’s used to being here.  He’s a barrel of energy, with white blond curls, and unlikely to stay in one place for more than a few seconds.  He’s all smiles, as usual this morning.  Looks like it Mommy’s turn to wrangle him today.  And sweet shy Kaitlyn.  She and I are buddies, because her older brother also attends our school. She usually likes to show me her shoes, which are typically quite stylish.  She’s attending with her mom and dad today, and so far, is sticking pretty close to them.  She’s 4 and she loves arts and crafts.  Ali arrives and is excited but nervous.  She’s clutching on to her daddy, but curious to see what’s going on.  She comes in to the social hall to see what’s what.  I show her what I’m setting up.   “When I start that music that means it’s time to start, okay, Ali? Then you can come in.” I get a big smile from her.  She goes into the lobby, and I see her warming up to Kaitlyn and watching Billy zooming around. 

The Rabbi finishes cutting up the bagels and setting up the coffee, and juice boxes and it’s nearly 10:15.  He opens the back door, so Sage’s mom won’t have trouble getting her wheelchair up the ramp.  We both do a final check.  Craft materials are set, toys are near the play mat, music is cued, snacks are ready.  It’s 10:14 am.  I hit play and we say to the families, "come on in!"

We give them name tags and welcome them to the foam mat where we will start and finish our morning.  Sage and her mom arrive just then and join us.  Sage is bigger than the others, and not verbal, but is very present and very happy to be there.  Her mom helps her out of her wheelchair and into the circle. Kaitlyn and Billy barely notice.  Ali sensitively asks her daddy if Sage’s legs got hurt.  “They just don’t work very well,” he answers.  After that it’s all about Tu B’Shevat, being together, and having fun.

We begin with a welcome song, and then do a movement exercise led by the Rabbi.  I hear him say "pretend you are a seed" and a round of giggles follows. They sing another song for Tu B’Shevat and it’s time to move to the art table to make trees.  I put on the music, explain the idea, and each child finds a way to enjoy the project.  

Sage takes great delight in feeling the tissue paper crunch and crumble in her hands. Though she cannot tell me with words, already I can tell she is “calling” me over, and I come right away to be near her.  Ali and her dad carefully make a pattern of colors and name them, they take their time, meticulously gluing the tissue paper buds to the branches.  Billy and I break sticks for the others, I show him how to hold his hands close together to break the wider twigs, and he feels super strong; meanwhile Billy’s mom does the project in a zen-like way. And Kaitlyn becomes completely absorbed by the project, so deeply, we have to tear her away when it’s time for bagels.   The Rabbi, who was taking pictures, has stopped to make his own branch and is making a mess with the glue and having a great time with the families.

During snack, the Rabbi and I give each other a look.  Yes.  It’s good.  We are both full of joy.  These are the seeds we are planting now, right now on Tu B’Shevat.  The seeds of joy, love of Judaism, kindness toward others, community.  These children will know their Rabbi and Educator and remember us from sitting on the floor and from glueing tissue paper to a stick, and not just from far away on the bima or (worse) sitting in an office writing programs on a computer.

As our program comes to an end, we teach them Shalom Chaverim.  Peace friends, until we see you again.

L’hitraot!

If you would like to learn more about our B'Yachad program, or our Religious School, located in Pompton Lakes, NJ.  Please check out our website: B'Yachad School.

Fare Thee Well - I Love You More than Words Can Tell

Please click here to get some music going

Let me just start by saying this will be about the Grateful Dead, a band that I, and many others, have been slightly obsessing about. 

And no, not since they made the big Chicago concert announcement in mid-January of 2015... but since whenever it might have been that we were taken gently by hand and helped up on the bus.

Let me continue by saying I will not be ranting about... um... anything.  Not the lineup for the 4th of July shows.  (Go to any Facebook group if you want that.)  Not prices of tickets or the fact that it is IN Chicago itself, or the fact that it's going to cost an arm and a leg to go, get a room, and somehow get tickets for all three nights.  Because they can charge whatever they want and have this thing whereEVER they want and I know I won't miss it.

So what is it?  What's so compelling about the Grateful Dead that we drop everything, go out on school nights, stay in crappy hotels, drive across the country, deplete our bank accounts, and absorb social media like high school sophomores?  Why am I still writing down every song that Phil plays (albeit on my iPhone now) when I know that in less time than it will take me to get home from the Capitol Theatre, it will be posted on at least 2 sites on Facebook, not to mention the great website, Deadheadland.com.   Why do my girlfriend and I giggle like tweens when we spot Bob Weir's bus pull in to the parking lot of the venue he's about to play?  Let's take a little walk down my personal memory lane and see what we can figure out about the greatest band in the land.

Well, would you look at that... Bob Weir's Tour Bus... and isn't that John K. right there?
Yes, yes it is.  We waited for over an hour, but Bobby was taking a well deserved nap in the back, and we never saw him
emerge from the bus.  Asbury Park, NJ   Summer 2014

When I first heard the Grateful Dead, I was in the freshman dorm room of a few friends (one of whom would become my husband) and their goal was to turn me on to the music.  Wisely they chose American Beauty.  I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  I had heard of the Dead, but I only knew Truckin' and I thought the music belonged only to the stoners who cut classes in high school.  I was all about the Beatles, and the Beach Boys and Billy Joel.  Music you could sing along to!  I loved to go to concerts and had seen quite a few already by age 17.   But here was American Beauty, with it's rich textures and it's harmonies.  And yes, songs you could sing, if no one else was around to shush you. Bring on Workingman's Dead, please.  

Workingman's Dead.  So great.  Kids these days don't listen to albums, they listen to songs.  Actually I do too.  But these early albums are so rich and delicious.
(Later, my mind was to be completely blown by Mars Hotel.  BOOM.  But this blog would go on forever if we started talking about every album and every concert...)

I started buying records like crazy, but my boyfriend assured me that the records were nothing compared to a live show.  I didn't quite get that from the few poor 12th generation audience cassette tapes he had, but I was game to go to a concert, and in September of 1978, we got tickets for my first Grateful Dead concert. Interestingly, I'm the one who got the tickets, for Giants Stadium in NJ, even though we were back at school already, in Boston. (And I'm still the one who gets the tickets, all these years later!)  I'll never forget that night, my boyfriend's cute older brother, and his adorable friend drove down from Maine and picked us up at college.  I felt like the belle of the ball, in my chariot, off on an adventure.   They drove through the night, as we slept in the back seat.  We got to NJ, and I directed us to a diner for breakfast.   In retelling the story recently, someone reminded me that we ran into friends of my parents, who did not know we were coming to town.   The concert was not the OMG experience that I was hoping for, although I did love the people and I remember my boyfriend  bought me a rose from a vendor who was passing through the stadium seats.  I was hooked after that.  

So many concerts since that time.  Hundreds. More probably.  Memorable shows.  Musical elipses where I was transfixed.  Transformed.  Taken to another place altogether.  Elevated spiritually and emotionally.  Songs where the words meant so much that tears came to my eyes, or the music was so strong that I had to move away from my seat to dance in an open space.  Magical moments where words I have heard a thousand times before take on new meanings and become entirely relevant to what I had been going through. 

Then: Cal Expo May 3, 1986

And now(ish): Nateva Festival, Oxford Maine, Summer 2010

And then there is the community.  I may as well say that I do not quite "fit" into every community out there in the world.  But finding the Grateful Dead and the community of their fans was like coming home.  When we meet one another out there in the world, and learn that we love the Dead, it's like we are members of a club and we all know the rules.  I admit that sometimes people forget them, or break them. That's disappointing. But mostly I have found a generous, kind, non-judgmental, open-minded, community in the Grateful Dead fan community and that works for me.  People who don't push in line, and will sell their extra ticket for face value (or less).  People who will hug you the first time they meet you, or buy you a water BEFORE they meet you because you are behind them on the concession line and you picked up and returned the dollar they dropped.   

Will Chicago be the real end of a story that had its beginning in 1965?  Who knows.  It will be the end of something for sure, probably stadium shows for the Dead, and for me.  I do believe the kind souls who go by the name of Deadheads will figure out a way to get themselves there.  Hopefully we will get tickets through mail-order, or through the online sales, and not have to pay inflated prices.  (If I have to pay higher prices than the ticket price you might wind up reading a different type of blog soon!)

But I do know that I am going to go, and bring love and light with me.  I will surround myself with the people I love and listen to the music I love.   I'll think about Jerry Garcia, and miss him, as I do all the time, and I will love and appreciate Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann, the "Core Four," as I have for the past 38 years.  I'll love whatever they decide to play, and rejoice in the people they've chosen to play with: Jeff Chimenti, Trey Anastasio and Bruce Hornsby.

"Just dust those dusty strings off one more time..."

Another one from the Cal Expo, May 4, 1986

Yes, this happened. How could I not include it. Dec. 5, 2013

Okay, this show gets my vote for the all time best concert ever. Thanks to DD for finding this. 

Can this really be the end??

Furthur reading on this topic (just click on the links): 
Grateful Seconds  
Grateful Dead For Dummies / Endless Jams
http://www.gratefuldeadguitars.com/

Or try putting Grateful Dead into the search bar for some of my other blog posts about the Grateful Dead. 


And one last thing... who should have been included, in my humble opinion?

Update : I wrote this one week ago.  I mailed in for my tickets on the mail-in date, and now check my mailbox like a crack addict (I guess) because people have started to get what I refer to as the "pink slip," a polite rejection letter from GDTSTOO saying how high the demand is for tickets. For the record, this is the back of my envelope, on top of the album I was drawing on.  For you younger folks, that's a record album, the way we used to listen to music before computers let you magically hear it by just wishing it to play. 

Update March 7, 2015:  It's now been over a month, and I have not received my money orders back, nor have I received what I've come to call "the golden email," that email that so many people received from Grateful Dead Ticket Sales Too saying that their ticket request would be filled. I tried to buy tickets online, and struck out.  So I'm sitting here in limbo.  My confidence that I'd see my fellow fans at the show is starting to waver.  And quite truthfully I feel as thought I've been on a roller coaster ride.  Not a new fun one, but an old one that's uncomfortable (think: Coney Island Cyclone) where the highs are kind of fun, but the twists and turns hurt really bad, and to make matters worse, your best friends, who have always brought you comfort, since 1977, are nowhere to be seen, and the cause of the pain. I have finally reached stepped off the coaster.  I had to.  If I go, I will have a great time, I know.  And if I don't go, I will have a kick-ass party in my back yard, like I sometimes do on July 4 weekend.  I won't go sit in a movie theater and watch what I'm missing.  I won't check my phone every 5 minutes for the Facebook messages and Tweets to see what "final songs" I'm not hearing.  I'll crank that beloved Lewiston show (September 1980) for my guests and try not to sour-grapes it too much. 

You know what they say... If the thunder don't get ya...

Update April 6, 2015:  I received my money order back about 2 weeks ago.  It was too depressing for words.  So I didn't write any.  But it may just be that I will get to go to one of the shows in Chicago.  We shall see.  I have not given up yet.

This hangs in my hallway. The ad from the paper and my rejection letter. 

Final Update:

I didn't make it to Chicago after all. But I got tickets from a good friend and went to the two shows in California. I had a fantastic time. I watched all three Chicago shows on Pay Per View, enjoying the last one at the Capitol Theatre in Port Chester, NY with a room full of Deadheads.  

Me: Wow, so many young people are really enjoying this simulcast, don't you think? 

My son: Yea, mom. That's because everyone your age made it to Chicago.

8/28/17 - I have disabled comments on this post.  For some reason I receive about 20 spam comments A DAY - clogging up my inbox - just to this blog post.  I don't know why.  If you have a real comment, then you are a real human and you will figure out how to get it to me some other way. 

In other news, I just saw Bob and Phil play together at Lockin' via a live stream (thank you Pete Shapiro, YouTube and Lockin' Fest) and it was fantastic. 

Carry that weight

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Throw Back -- Any Day

The other night I had dinner with my parents.

Just me, and my mom and dad... it was really nice having them all to myself.  It was a rare occurrence and I was basking in all that attention.  We lingered over cocktails, and took our time over dinner as well.  We spent a lot of the conversation on my kids (how great they are) and then, over decaf, my mom took out a photo album which blew my mind a little bit.

When I was 8 and my brother was 5, my grandfather Benjamin turned 75 years old. My mom and her sister threw him a surprise birthday party at a local restaurant.  I remember bits and pieces of this, because of a significant moment... that being that I received a swat on the head from my mother for saying something I shouldn't have.

After all these years of having a memory of that night felt more like  a series of fuzzy  snapshots...my grandparents smiling, my itchy dress which didn't twirl, sitting with my older cousin Barbara who I always admired (and still do of course), saying something and having everyone laugh (except my mom), and thinking to myself, "who would ever want cigars for a birthday present?"... I finally saw the photo album of ACTUAL snapshots my dad made for my grandfather after the event.

I guess when my Pop died (nearly 30 years later!) they got the album back, which explains why I never saw these pictures growing up.

So here's a photo essay and a little walk down memory lane in a blog where the pictures speak for themselves.  But just in case, I have added a few captions.

December 2, 1967

The Clinton Inn

Benjamin and Madeleine, aka Poppa Ben and Mom Mad walk in... Surprise!

I'm guessing those little hands are my brother Geoffrey's, but they could be mine.
That's my mom Paula on the left, and her sister, Auntie Jan on the right.

In come my OTHER grandparents, Ysobl, Grandma, and Herman, Pop Pop.
It would be years before this expression would come around, but worlds did collide.

My mom, her mom, and little me, next to my cousin Barbara.

Oh, would I love to know what they were saying to each other.
I'm sure what I was hoping was:
Mom Mad: "I never make Juliet pick up her toys... do you, Ysobl?  Ysobl?"

A fantastic photo of Mom Mad and Poppa Ben.
Or, as I spelled it for years, Pop-A-Ben, probably because of the Rice-A-Roni commercials on tv.

A really great photo of my parents, and my Aunt and Uncle.
L to R: Paula Cantor (30) William Cantor (30) Jerry Spiro (52 z''l) and Janet Spiro (41 z''l)

Pretty typical shot of the grandkids with the birthday man.  Missing is cousin Mark who was a first year at the Citadel.
L to R: Barbara (15), Me (8), Pop, Geoffrey (5), Gary (12) 
Looking good in the bowtie, bro.

Back when I used to pretend I liked cake. 

I had to enlarge this because there's so much going on here.
The big question for me is... what's going on with Uncle Murray and the waitress?

And then it happened... someone gave Pop a box of fancy cigars with a special one on top, wrapped separately.
"Big deal," I said, "One cigar." This shows the moment my mom thwacked me across the head. Barbara, behind me is already laughing.

Unfazed by the head-swat, I wait for a better present to come along. Pop is cracking up, and look at the smirk on Auntie Jan's face!  Little Geoffrey is uncharacteristically sucking his thumb.

Pop-A-Ben, a big fan of the home-made cards.  Whatever my gift was, it had to have been better than a cigar.

Tucked into the photo album is a thank you note from Pop to my parents.  It's so beautiful and grateful.  We were living in Boston at the time and had driven down and kept the whole thing a secret, apparently a very tough thing for me to do.  (Probably still would be.)

 "I have had many surprises in my life but the one at the Clinton Inn was the happiest since all the family were present (except the Plebe)...Juliet and Geoff were remarkable in keeping the secret.  I asked them so many questions and not once did they slip..."

How precious these photos are...thanks Dad for taking them and thanks Mom for letting me borrow the album and scan them all.

Post script...
A conversation after writing this blog...

Me:  Mom, did you read my blog? I think you'll like it.
Mom:  No.  Where is it? On Facebook?
Me: Yes.  I tagged you in it so you can find it.
Mom: Oh, Jewel, you know, I can't seem to find anything on Facebook.  I keep getting a message that says "page not available" or "please refresh page."  You need to come and spend a whole day here and show me how to use it again. 
Me: Nevermind, Mom, I'll just email it to you.
Mom: Okay, I might have time to read it tomorrow between my Pilates class and taking my paintings to hang before the opening of my art show.

Me... (sufficiently humbled) Okay.
Next day, via email...
Jewel, great blog, I loved loved loved it. But you should add that it was Mom Mildred who gave Pop the cigars, which makes the story even worse (better?).

So here is a picture of Mom Mildred, who was Uncle Jerry's Mother, sitting next to my PopPop, not sure why.  She loved us to pieces, and was really like a third grandmother to us.

Left to Right
Unknown Aunt, My Pop Pop (Dad's Dad), Cousin Gary (with Camera) Mom Mildred (Uncle Jerry's Mom)
Pop Pop Herman was not related to either of those two women.  I don't know why he was sitting there.  

Teach them Diligently Unto your Children

I woke up this morning like I do most mornings.  About 3 hours after my husband to a friendly lick on the knuckle by my dog Scout.

It was 8:30 am and he was right, time to get up.  If I chose to ignore this gentle wake up and "hit the snooze" (that is, roll over and ignore him) then the more insidious, double-dog bark alarm would go off in about 14 minutes which is a terrible way to start the day.

I reached for my phone... come on... you all do it don't you?... and oh... yes... right.  My beloved Israel, being defended on Facebook by all my friends and bashed in the real world by pretty much everyone else. Another day of trying to stay away from, but being drawn into the conflict that consumes my heart, my faith and my people.  And trying not to take personally the vitriol, the negativity, the biases that I am reading.

And then it hit me.  I mean it really hit me.

I was meant to come back to being a religious school director at this time for this reason.  To continue the path of peace.

I have always taught peace in my schools, and urged my teachers to do so as well, no matter how we may have felt in our hearts.  Every generation MUST be taught peace, and the faith-based classroom is the perfect place to do it.  You may think that their parents are teaching their children this lesson at home, but I will challenge you with this: if that is the case, then why are we still seeing kids bully other kids for looking different? For being gay? For praying in a different building? Parents continue to teach their own biases, sometimes deliberately, and sometimes not.  It's only with mindful parenting that the cycle stops with the next generations.

But we can challenge it in the classroom.  We can send those kids home with a simple question and maybe, just maybe change the conversation at the dinner table.  Or at least the language.

It's time for me, and the brilliant teachers and Rabbis I will have by my side, to teach peace while we teach everything else we do.  Even if sometimes we feel like we want to have a different discussion.  Because that's where peace will really start.

With our children, and then, with theirs.

Not just in Israel, but in the Ukraine. (Did you see the news today?)

And on the playgrounds in the USA.

And in all places where there are people who need this now.

Strangers Stopping Strangers

For most people, it was a typical Wednesday night commute.  Not for me, since I don't live or work in New York City.  I was on the train, heading in to go to a concert, to see my favorite bass player*, Phil Lesh, in  a concert in Central Park.  So while most people were just thinking about getting home, I was excited to meet my brother and friends for a fun night under the stars, listening to my favorite music.  I knew the band Phil (we all call him Phil, with love and reverence) had put together would be stellar, and historically, New York City seemed to bring the best out of him.

The ride from my town to Secaucus was uneventful.  I texted with the people I was going to meet, and did a crossword puzzle.  At Secaucus I had to change trains for New York's Penn Station.  This is a 16 minute trip that delivers you right underneath Madison Square Garden.  It's the best if your concert is right there, but still pretty handy to get anywhere else, because it's a subway hub.  (Not that I have the slightest idea which subway lines go where, but luckily, my brother does.)

It was on that 16-minute ride that something somewhat extraordinary happened.

I found a seat right away, and gave the guy already sitting in the other seat the "mind if I sit here?" look.  He moved his stuff away, but apparently he did mind. He was wearing khakis, and a short-sleeve plaid shirt, and now put his brief case on his lap to make room for me.  He gave me a sort of put-off quasi-disgusted look, as if I just ruined his day.  (Yes, I had showered that day, and NO I was not wearing patchouli oil.) I sat down, putting my bag with the concert supplies on the floor, and my pocketbook on my lap.  He took his phone out and was furiously texting or emailing. 

As the train started to go, we sat like that, in silence, ignoring each other. I was lost in thought.  He was typing away on his phone.  

About 6 minutes into the ride the door between the cars opened, and a man came stumbling into our car. He seemed to be an older guy, pants drooping down, three or four shirts sloppily layered on, with a torn jacket over all of them. As I was on the aisle, I could smell him as he walked by, an unpleasant smell of urine and something else... beer maybe?  His hand was out, and I remember his hands most of all. Gnarled knuckles, and fingernails that were too long.  They looked like old man's hands. I saw two different sleeves, frayed and torn. 

And he was shouting this up and down our car,  "I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. Who's gonna give me my two-fifty for the 3 train uptown?"

Everyone looked down.  Or out the window.  Or at their iPhones, which don't work under the Hudson River. But I didn't look away. I looked at this guy.  Wandering on a train asking for $2.50. 

And I did what I always do.

I took out my wallet.  And if the story ended there, I would not be writing about it.

But as I was getting money out for this man in need, Mr. Plaid Shirt was taking out his wallet, and saying to me, "I'll split the difference with you."  

I just looked at him, and started to smile.  

He continued, "If you will give it to him."

I took the dollar from Mr. Plaid Shirt and took a dollar from my wallet, and stood up and yelled, "Excuse me, sir?" and the man stumbled back to where we were sitting and took the money.  He had almost left the car when he remembered to mumble, "Gah bleh you" before the door slammed shut.

Plaidman was a different person now. He smiled at me and said, "I was making all kinds of excuses in my head about why I couldn't give him the money.  I can't reach my wallet.  We're almost at Penn Station. What if it's not safe to give it him?  What if he just spends it on drugs?  Then I saw how easy it was for you to do it and I realized I could do it too. Thank you."

"Yea," I said, "It's not up to us to decide what he might spend it on, it's sad enough he's at the point where he needs to beg. I give it to him and remember to be grateful that I can."

My new friend smiled and admitted that he always wants to give, but he just walks past "those people."

Remembering the countless stories I'd heard from people who had found themselves homeless, I said, "If, God forbid, I am ever down and out, I hope my acts of kindness will come back to me.  Maybe your act today will start a chain of good deeds."

"I was thinking that maybe by helping that guy, I just prevented something really bad from happening to me," he replies.

"Oh, I never thought of that.  So if you go and have a fantastic day, you'll know you got your reward?"

"Something like that!" he says, and he is smiling now.

"I picture you walking around the city, just barely missing pianos and anvils falling on your head!  You could write a children's book about that!" I say, now really enjoying the idea of doing a mitzvah and protecting yourself from harm.

"I think that's for other people to do."

We are almost at Penn Station.  We are both standing up near the door.  I wonder if he will be empowered to give to the next person in need.  He is certainly a different person than the one I sat next to 14 1/2 minutes ago.

We say good-bye.  He goes off to his life, protected, I hope by his act of kindness.  I go off to mine, already in progress.

As a reward for my act of kindness, Phil plays a song just for me.  I hold it close as the music and words pour into my soul and fill me with joy. 

And for a little while, all is right with the world.

Photo credit: Jack Baribault

Pictured: Jack, Peter White, me, and my brother Geoffrey's back. I forget why we are showing the number one. Maybe someone can enlighten me. 



*Phil Lesh is my favorite bass player, except for my cousin, Rick Cantor.

Going to the Dogs

I have been working a lot lately.  Too much. Yesterday, on a bright, sunny May day... I was forced to wear Hanukkah socks because I was so far behind with my laundry.  I have simply had no time for laundry, or doing dishes, or getting the garden ready for planting... nothing but work.

I was sitting at my desk in my home office. Staring at the newly budding leaves catching the sun, (as I am now actually), thinking what a shame it was that I was missing this glorious day because of the amount of work I had to get done.  My "To Do" list had given birth to triplets this week, and I hadn't seen my husband since Sunday...and neither of us was away.  As I felt my anxiety level begin to run dangerously high (how much caffeine HAD I actually had??).  Scout, one of my two dogs, came into my office and began to bark at me.  This happens sometimes when he hears his buddy Taylor outside, and he wants to go and play. Or if he hears someone coming up the driveway.  Or when he needs a walk.  So I of course tried to ignore him.   Sometimes that works and he sits under my desk while I work.

Not yesterday.  Scout continued to bark at me until I got up.  I followed him to the front door, but there was nobody there, no other dogs outside.  He led me to the back door, which I opened for him.  And it was obvious what he wanted.  He ran out a few steps, and looked back at me with those puppy dog eyes (literally), tail wagging, and waited.  He wanted me to come outside too.  And right on cue, from somewhere in the house, Bear, my other dog, woke up from his second mid-to late morning nap and tentatively approached the back door.

And out we went.  I couldn't go back and grab my phone or a pile of work.  No picking up the laptop or iPad to maximize the time outside. How would I explain, "I'll be right back," to the dogs?  It was perfect outside.  74 degrees, sunny, quiet, and a few geese to chase off the property.   I sat down in the soft grass and both dogs plopped down right next to me and it was good.   It was better than good.  The anxiety I had felt a few minutes ago started to fade away.  I picked a few weeds from a patch that would soon show off my irises and lilies. I looked over at Scout.  He was rolling around on his back.  I was thinking more clearly now.  And laughing.  And letting myself be okay with not finishing everything.   Bear came back behind me and nuzzled my neck in a very affectionate way.   Our revelry was ended when the UPS guy came and the dogs had to protect me.  But it was great while it lasted.

Some people are not dog people... but those of us who are can relate.

We adopted our first dog, Jerry, in 1995 from the animal shelter, right after Jerry Garcia died. (Actually the shelter named him Romeo, but that would be pretty ridiculous, me yelling out the door, "Romeo, oh Romeo, where are you, Romeo?")  My grandmother was mortified that we gave the dog the name of Jerry, since I had two living uncles with that name, and that would give them both the evil eye (kina hora).  Jerry was a great dog, loving, snuggly, and well-behaved in the house.  Grandma and both uncles outlived him.  He died, at the young age of 11 and we were pretty miserable.

Our Jerry, of blessed memory, gone too soon, like his namesake.

When it was time for a new dog, we had decided not to get such a big dog.  Jerry was over 60 pounds, and in his final days, we had to carry him.  At this point we had moved to a new home which had a fenced in yard, and the three kids were all old enough to help with the dog care, so we considered a puppy.  We had not had a dog in the house for about 2 1/2 years.  Just a cat, Jinx and many goldfish. We made several trips to the animal shelter, but there had been a run on pit bulls, and we didn't feel we were a pit bull family.   Then on one visit we saw a dog named Solomon cowering in his cage.  The workers at the animal shelter tried to dissuade us.  "He's a little nervous."  

Bear, in the snow.  So handsome.

But we liked the looks of him.  He resembled Jerry, but not too much.  He was very big, but at this point, we weren't going to get a puppy and we were really ready for a dog. Solomon was more than just "a little nervous."  During our trial walk he was so afraid that he tried to get away from me when I was holding the leash and pulled me down onto the ground.   He wouldn't let us pet him.  He was anxious to get back into the cage.  He was malnourished, though they said he was now healthy enough to adopt.   Looking back, I don't know why we picked him.  Or did he pick us?

But we did.  And it was rough for all of us.  We renamed him Bear.  He looked like a Bear, at first, anyway, and we hoped a strong name would empower him.  But poor Bear had been badly abused by a previous owner.  He would not leave the crate.  He would not ask to go out.  We would walk him when we knew it was time to go out, but we would have to put the leash on him in the crate and drag him out, or tip the crate to get him out. And he wouldn't eat his food until the middle of the night.  He was completely house trained, and, as we learned, property trained.  He wasn't afraid of typical things like thunder, or the vacuum.  But when I brought out the brush to try to brush him, he yelped when he saw it and ran away.   He never let anyone pet him.  He ran from our presence.   He would walk nicely on the leash, but when he realized you were too close behind him, he'd start to pull away.  He liked other dogs we'd meet in the neighborhood, but could never get too close, because he was petrified of their owners.  Someone had really done something terrible to him.  It was heartbreaking to see such an outstanding dog so mistreated that he cowered when you came near him.  And he weighed in at about 65 lbs, malnourished.

For two years we saw incremental improvements.  Every day when we came home, he'd run FROM the door and hide.  He'd never sleep in anyone's room, only under the dining room table.  (I got rid of the crate, with the hopes he'd come around to joining us in the living room on the expensive bed I bough him.)  He never took a dog treat that was offered to him.  He would not eat table scraps when we did the dishes.  But here and there we saw some changes.  He let me pet him when we were outside once in a while.  And he played like a puppy with my youngest son in a very physical way.   He would come when we called him to go for a walk, and not shy away when I tried to put the leash on him.  Once the leash was on, I could sometimes pet him, even though his ears were back, and his tail was down.  When we walked Bear, he always walked like that, tail down, ears back, face down.  But when we let him run in the back yard, he was magnificent.  Pure muscle and freedom.  We longed to see that life in him at other times.

But Bear had plateaued.  I thought that if we got a puppy, Bear could re-learn how to be a dog.  I realized this could backfire, and our puppy could grow to be an aloof older dog.  But I was tired of a dog that was just fed and walked and taken to the vet once a year.  I needed dog love and so did the rest of the family.


So, we headed back to the shelter. This time there were some puppies!  Adorable puppies! A whole litter had been delivered.  To our delight, each as soft, and cute and fluffy and as the next.  We picked the quietest one (so we thought) and set up the crate and puppy-proofed out house. Scout came home the next day.

I know that every parent and every dog owner says this, but there has never been a puppy as cute as Scout. And I will never get another dog as a puppy again.  6 pairs of shoes, a laptop charger, a cellphone, 3 plants, countless magazines and newspapers, pillows and blankets not to mention all the carpets and rugs he has and continues to destroy... but this little border collie is the love of our lives, and has done exactly what we had hoped for Bear.

Puppy Scout. Awwwwww.

I come home to both of their faces in the front window and dog hugs at the door each day.  Bear had also never barked before Scout.  He does now.  Bear is still more nervous and shy with humans, but it's not nearly to the point of him needing to bolt. And when he's outside, he's almost unrecognizable as the dog we brought home from the shelter 8 years ago. He still only eats his food when we go to sleep.  But he takes dog treats from my hand, and gladly will eat food scraps when we clean up.  He lets me pet him and brush him.  And when he hears that Scout is getting a bit of attention, he is now not far behind, making sure he's not missing something.  He walks with his head up, ears perked, and tail lifted and wagging.  Bear and Scout get frisky sometimes and have to be sent outside to play.  They hate when one is gone (usually to the vet) without the other.  They love it when any of the kids come home, especially our youngest son, who plays with them and takes them on the longest walks whenever he comes home.

Actually, Scout has become much more of a challenge now, exhibiting separation anxiety when we are gone for too long, requiring me to hire someone to "visit" him, and occasionally needing sedation. He follows me around when I am home, and is sitting on my feet as I type this declaration of love to my dogs.  With no children at home I sometimes wonder if my husband and I are turning into those people others make fun of, buying all kinds of pet treats and pet toys, and planning their work schedules around  dog walks.   (I spend time on the pet aisle at Shop-rite the way I used to go down the cereal aisle when the kids were little, finding something special that would make them smile.  But don't worry, I'm still not dressing the dogs up in little Yankees sweatshirts.)

I think I'll finish my tribute to my dogs now and go and give them some human attention.  I don't want them to get too lonely.

Scout and Bear, waiting for us to finish eating dinner.

Scout, asleep on someone's bed, as usual.

Can someone give him the remote, please?

Old Friends

Bear, relaxed at last.

By the way, all our pets were adopted from the Ramapo Bergen Animal shelter.  Maybe your next best friend is waiting for you there?

Post script:  Bear died yesterday, October 19, 2017.  He was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer about three weeks ago, and hung around so we could say our goodbyes and have some time to process this news.  By our figuring, he was about 13.  At the end, he was a great, loyal, calm, soulful dog.  He never misbehaved.  We will miss him always.  

Here's a picture of him playing just a year ago in the yard with Jacob and Scout.