Soapbox

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away… there was a Fuller Brush man.

   When I was a kid we had, in our closet, a small pink spray jar of room scent. It was called "HollyBerry" and it was made by the Fuller Brush company. We were not a family big on spraying scents in our house, but for some reason we all loved the smell of this spray, and, more than Grandma's raisin bread, it came to be the one scent associated with Christmas. Or maybe we loved it because we only sprayed it at Christmas- I don't know. But if you had cleaned downstairs, and it was nearly Christmas, you could get the can out and give one tiny squirt. Then you could sit back and watch people come through the living room and lift their heads and snif… and sigh. Hollyberry!
    And as such things happen, after a while we couldn't get it any more, and so the remaining supply was jealously guarded and doled out in miserly doses. So miserly, in fact, that when we sold the old family house, there was still a half-bottle on a shelf somewhere, and it came into my posession.
    So, for the last 22 years there has been, on the closet shelf by the front door, a small, unassuming pink bottle of HollyBerry spray. It gets hats and gloves tossed atop it or packages of batteries shoved in front of it. Many years I don't even remember it is there.

   This morning Tucker waited all the way until 6:20 AM before he came striding through the bedroom hoping to rouse someone. As I followed him downstairs he danced with excitement and I imagined he was saying Mom! Mom!! There's a can of wet dog food on the kitchen counter! I think Santa was here!!! It was nice to imagine someone excited about Christmas.
    After I fed the dogs and put them out I stood in the living room and looked at the tree. It's a beautiful tree again this year, with far too many brightly wrapped packages beneath it. I thought of how Christmas has become a somewhat empty ritual, and even at times a chore, with I have to finish my Christmas shopping ranking right up there with I have to clean out the refrigerator on the "Wonder and Joy" scale. This season has been much less stressful for me since I didn't have to work retail, hawking Christmas to other people, and I even had the time to make a few things, which used to be my favorite part of the holiday. Not bah-humbug, still… not enough fun. Not enough music (of the none shopping mall muzak variety!). Not enough childhood.
    Then I remembered the Hollyberry. I sprayed a small puff next to the Christmas tree, waited a minute, and then inhaled deeply.

    I closed my eyes and there it all was: the house on Shannon Ave with it's hardwood floors and braided rugs, large windows and warm yellow kitchen. I could see the Christmas tree, (which we cut ourselves from a local tree farm) sitting atop the wooden box my father made to raise the tree off the floor and make it easier to get gifts beneath it. I saw the old glass ornaments, including the frosted white ones that only older kids were ever allowed to hang because they were so fragile. I saw the bright plastic  bells that the little kids were allowed to hang on the lower branches, and the sturdy wooden ornament set that my grandparents made for each of their childrens' families. The tree was lit with large colored bulbs, each framed by a sparkling petal-shaped reflector that my dad made by hand in the basement. There would, of course, be raisin bread and heirloom rolled oats cookies in the kitchen, and mom was probably in the family room at her sewing machine, trying to finish up a gift in time to get it under the tree.
    Upstairs in my bedroom I was at the window, looking out on the cold night, sure I had just heard bells.

    I let myself drift on forward to the first Christmas Ted and I had together in our tiny apartment on Barclay Square. We bought tiny candle-holder clamps at a shop in German village and actually had candles on our tree, though we were so afraid to light them. We strung popcorn and cranberries and Ted carefully made a star from a piece of cardboard and aluminum foil. It was beautiful.
   Another (pre-parenting) Christmas we spent many evenings decorating fabric-colored styrofoam balls with ribbon, lace and beads. Each one is different and each year I change my mind about which one I like best. If I ever find those plain ornaments again I want to buy more: I still have all the little film canisters of tiny beads tucked inside the old box of lace scraps.
    And then of course there were the years when the kids were little: when Stephen (age 5?) decided the house needed more decoration so he drew some ornaments, a gift box, and elf, etc on a piece of notebook paper, cut them out and then taped them up all over the house to surprise us. (Surprise! There's tape all over your walls!)  Oh- and the year Katie made me the tiny angel out of paper with the sweetest face. (Of course I still have the angel and several of the 'decorations'). There was the year when the cat died right before Christmas, and I got each othem a little stuffed cat, and they loved them so. And the year the kids put out cookies for Santa and Mischa ate them while we were upstairs getting them in bed, and when we came down and saw the empty plate, for just the smallest fraction of a second…
   
    After 40+ years, the scent of Hollyberry does not last so long as it used to. After 10 minutes or so it dissipated, but by then the coffee was done and cinnamon rolls were in the oven, and one mustn't stay in the past too long anyway. I haven't opened my gifts yet, but I hope no one minds if I say that that little poof of Christmas past is probably going to be my favorite gift this year.

Tuesday I took both dogs in to the vet.
     Rocket is about 14 now, and not exactly 'ageing gracefully'. His legs shake, he is deaf as a post and seems quite senile- can no longer seem to grasp the most basic commands. He tends to pace and will sometimes circle for more than 5 minutes on the carpet before he finally lowers his old bones to lie down. But he is still housebroken, enjoys (short) walks and occasionally gets feisty and likes to boss Tucker around. And no matter how gray he gets, he's still my 'Baby dog"
    The vet drew some blood to check kidney and liver function and called to say there were some slight abnormalities. Nothing too concerning except for the slight possibility of a certain type of tumor, which is particularly aggressive and fast-moving. She suggested I bring him in today so she could check his anal glands for signs of this tumor.

Right.
     So of course I wasn't looking forward to it. It's like when you child needs a painful procedure: if they're old enough to at least grasp the concept that there is a reason for this pain, while it is still difficult to watch, you feel less guilty than with a baby, who only knows that you handed them over to someone who hurt them! It's like that with a pet. With his increasing senility, Rocket is even more confused and easily upset and while it was going to be a pretty minor procedure, I knew it would probably freak him out. So I felt guilty putting his leash on and taking him over there and of course was unable to reassure him or to explain why I was going to let them do this thing.
     Just being in the car seemed to confuse and distress him. He wined and paced until he slid off the seat onto the floor where he had no room to pace and just whined. I was talking to him to try to calm him- but of course he can't hear me. So as I drove, I started thinking about our 'agreement'.
    After we had to have the Big Dog put down, I made Rocket promise that he was going to die peacefully in his sleep. Hopefully at an advanced age, but peacefully, with no confusion, no pain and no guilt and hard decisions on my part. It would be very sad, but easier on all of us that way.
     And of course this got me thinking about Boomer and the night we said goodbye to him. I still have absolutely not one second of doubt that we made the right call, and he was fortunate enough to apparently feel quite well right up until the catastrophic failure at the end… but it still hurts to remember. It hurts to remember how much he trusted us, how reassured he was by our presence when they brought him into the room where they gave him the final injections and how eagerly he tried to convince us to just take him home and away from this place.

     So by the time I got to the vet's office (about 6 blocks away) I was in tears just thinking about my big Dog… and my Baby Dog. He paced and fretted until they took him into the back room- then tried to pull away and run back to me. I went outside and sat by the front door for a few minutes- I didn;t want to hear him squeal. That's how much of a coward I am.
     The vet brought him back in short order and said that everything looks fine so probably the slight abnormallities in his blood work are just age-related and not really anything we need to treat other than with TLC. Rocket, for his part, looked a little shell-shocked and had his tail between his legs (well who wouldn't?!)
    "He'll never get in a car with me again after all this" I joked.
    "Mom- just don't tell Tucker what went on here!" she replied.
    "What happens at the vet, stays at the vet!" I replied, and she laughed.
      I took him back to the car and this time I put him in the front seat.
    "That's how big my love is, little guy" I said as I climbed in. I thought I could pet him on the way home and soothe him.
     Uh…. no. He whined and paced and seemed determined to climb over the center console to my lap. I thought Well it's only a couple of blocks on residential streets- why not? and helped him over… where he continued to whine and (ouch!) pace. Back over to the passenger side- then back over to my side, where he proceded to get his head stuck in the steering wheel as I was trying to go around a corner (at about 5 mph, fortunately).
    We made it home, I gave him multiple treats, let him boss Tucker around for a bit and he seems back to his old- old self. But I am still holding him to that agreement we have.
    Why do I keep getting pets? It's just too hard to do this. Even 4 1/2 years after the fact, it's still hard.

    "Ask the girl" she said pointing to me, and I knew I liked her right away. (Well, it's been a long time since anyone called me a girl) She was about 2 1/2, with dark riotous curls, brown eyes and wearing a tiny replica of Belle's dress with a red t-shirt under it and purple sneakers.
    "We're looking for sticks for princess wands" she said before her mother could speak up. I was supposed to be taking my lunch break but I led them to the right area and while her mother debated, she showed me the goodies they already had in their basket: ribbons, pom-poms, stick-on gems and lots and lots of glitter.
    "Goodness, are you having a birthday party?" I asked.
    "No, it's for a craft day. Don't you ever have craft days?"
    "When you work here" I said solemnly "You have craft day every day" Her eyes sparkled, no doubt imagining all-night glitter sessions.

    I offered to show her mother something else I thought might be fun to use on their wands in another sections. Her mother said "Can you play follow the leader?" and gestured to me. I figured this was probably how they did things in pre-school, and on a whim I  held my arms out like an air plane, tipping one up and the other down and called "Follow the leader!". I heard her giggle.
     "Follow me!" I called again after an aisle or two, and started hopping.
     "We're kangaroos!!!" she shouted behind me, breathless.
     "We are the best kangaroos in the whole store!" I agreed and waved at a passing teenager (who seemed pretty sure that I was insane).

I showed her mother what I'd had in mind, and while she looked at them, knelt down.     
     "Did I hear your mommy call you Kathleen?" I asked, and she nodded. "I once had a tiny Kathleen just like you" I said "And she was my very own little girl to play with."
    "But what happened to her?"
I put my hand on the top of her head, and then lifted it up higher and higher until it was over my head. "She grew. She grew and gre and grew!!!"
    "I'm growing too!" she assured me.
     "I can tell. You may be taller already then when I met you. You'd better stop growing before your head hits the ceiling!" I was rewarded with a giggle.
    Sadly, her mother was now finished choosing her items and I had no excuse not to go have my lunch. I waved, said "Thanks for playing with me!" and walked away, filled with wonderful memories of my own tiny Kathleen and glad that sometimes, if I ask nicely,  she still is willing to play with me.

He heels in a way he never has before.

In his now-silent world, I don't know
if I represent security or if simply loyalty compels him,
but when he rises
from the tattered lambswool that has been his bed
for a dozen years,
he walks slowly to my side and waits there
as I do the ironing or wash the dishes,
sometimes with his face almost against
a cabinet or the laundry basket,
wedged awkwardly between leg and wall or shower door
and simply stands, silent, staring ahead at nothing,
ready.
Some days I trip over him a half-dozen times
when I turn without realizing that my dark, rheumy-eyed shadow
has left off his dozing and come to stand sentinel.
In exasperation I'll blurt,  "Get out of the way, pup!"
before I remember
that he cannot hear me,
has no concept of 'the way'.

In his youth, after we brought him in
from the cold of
scavenging ditches and dodging cars
he was afraid of everything:
gurgling water, fluttering sheet, busy broom-
he needed frequent and fervent reassurance that the world
was not about to turn on him again,
end the reprieve from fear we had given.
I used to wish he would just relax.
Today he regards the world with sphinx-like impassivity
wanders with unflappable calm from food dish to water bowl
to back door.
He sometimes tries to jump the steps on to the porch
as if he doesn't remember that his back legs
just don't work like that anymore
and seems stoically clueless of basic commandments like
thou shall sit before I put your leash on.
But when he leaves off one of his frequent deep sleeps
he wanders to stand at my side
in a perfect 'heel'
and follows me quietly as I move from place to place,
standing ready,
protecting me- or drawing security from my nearness-
I don't know.

I have grown accustomed to his presence.
But when I remember to, I leave off what I am doing
bend down to fondle white-fletched ears still silken,
whisper endearments they cannot hear
mindful that one day soon my shadow will be gone.
 

A true story, actually.

Her hands resemble wind-gnarled branches now,
or claws, clutching at the past
unable any longer  to grasp even self.
Mouth without words or teeth,
nonsense syllables are the only story she has left to tell.
She does not interact with the world around her,
just sits by the door at the end of the hall and rocks and rocks
hooded eyes gazing already into the abyss that most of us fear more than death.

She does not seem to see the young woman who is visiting,
just mutters and occasionally waves bent, twisted arms purposelessly
seems incapable of recognition or contact.
She has already left behind her life and her tasks,
her body and even her name.
But for all this indignity and terrible loss,
she will never leave behind the one thing that truly makes her human.

Look, Grandma. Look who I brought to see you.
The woman lifts a tiny, wiggling bundle from a basket
and holds it forward towards the wizened figure rocking, rocking in her wheelchair.

Perhaps it makes a sound the rest of us are too far away to hear
or maybe the old woman catches that distinct newborn smell
which I believe every creature instinctively recognizes.
Whatver the reason, the rocking stops,
ancient head on bird neck rises, turns,
frail, twisted arms raise in a beckoning
and light pours from her creased face as if a candle has been lit within.
The beautiful arc of her cheekbones is visible again for a moment as a mouth
that can no longer speak her own name
frames a single word, a most important word
possibly even a last word,
breathes it like a prayer:
Baby!

Trusting  the love that shines before her
the mother gently sets her child into its great-grandmothers arms
while its tiny clutched  fists wave purposelessly.
The frail body curls protectively now around this new, old thing
and though she can no longer hold a spoon, we all know
that she will not drop this child.
She does not know who it is, but she knows what it is
and what she needs to do.
Perhaps she simply recognizes someone at the other end
of the same journey.
She coos and mutters and resumes her rocking
but now it does not seem  a slipping away so much a motion that complete the circle.

Of all the things we fear to lose in life
the thing that we will never lose is the one that really makes us human
more surely than creativity or language or even self-awareness.
For love is not a thing we learn or acquire,
but are simply made out of,
a thing which we breathe as surely as air, that anchors us more firmly than gravity,
that fills our sails and carries us inexorably homeward.
It is the blood that flows, however weakly,
and the bones that shape us, however brittle they become.
It is the tiny fists that quest out to meet the world
and the crippled ones that draw in to protect and cherish.

Love is an ocean and we are creatures of the mysterious deep.
It is endlessly circulating, flowing in invisible, inexorable patterns
connecting everyone.
All of the ocean is contained in each single drop of water,
and  we can only drown if we refuse to open our hearts and breathe.