This Was Supposed To Be About The GOP In My Uterus

Sometimes in the mornings, brought on by some odd combination of hormones and medicine and coffee, I become overwhelmed with the most bittersweet feeling of love for my friends. I don't question it, I don't write it off to chemicals and say "It's not really me" because I know that it actually IS me, it's one of the purest versions of me, and while I sit there with a goofy smile on my face and tears in my eyes, I am privy to the answer of the one question to which I can never find the words: Why do you love me?

Let me explain, if I can. You've been there, in that deer in the headlights moment, when a person in your life asks you that question, right? And you stammer, you stumble, you try to give the answer your full effort, you try to make it seem heartfelt and real and meaningful and, no matter what you say, no matter how they take it, you always feel as though you didn't get the words just right, that you didn't explain your heart. Right? Well, think about it; how do you condense a billion moments, a TRILLION moments, into words? You can't! I bet you can't even satisfactorily explain what LOVE is, so how is it that you think you can explain WHY you love someone?

So words can't explain a trillion moments, we know this, and yet I say I have the answer in that moment of chemically induced, bittersweet, emotional clarity. Do I? Well, no, not really, not in words that will mean anything to you. What I have in that moment is the signature left by each of those moments, stored in my brain in the part that I never feel I use and, in the way I need words to communicate with others, those chemicals communicate with me. It's not a very straightforward conversation and I admit that I'm not very skilled at the language, but it is the answer, as clear as that answer has ever been. And in the way that a tired mother, weary from a day of her three year old's apparently endless capacity to utter the word "why", the worded answer that my brain and I finally agree upon is "Because".

Stripping 101 . . . The Final Reveal!

As promised, this is an update post of the process of stripping Max. After the last photo it took me a few days to reduce his coat to what I like to call "The Royal Ruff" - pun fully intended:

As you can see he is as happy as ever at having his photo taken.

Finally, I got around to finishing the entire grooming process. Now, I should say that while I have all the confidence in the world that given the inclination and time I can beautifully strip the body of a Border Terrier, I have no such confidence when it comes to the head. Each time before attempting Max's head again I carefully go over all the head shots of Border Terriers in the various books I have as well as looking at photos on the internet. I have spent no small amount of time in pursuit of this knowledge needed to groom the perfect Border Terrier head, but I am sorry to say I still wind up making him look more like a Schnauzer than a Border. It's embarassing really. I've come to believe, however, that the problem is that I only groom him twice a year, and the head needs to be maintained more frequently. I'd like to say I will try to address this issue this time around, but I expect that in 6 months time I will be lamenting the same sad fact. Anyway, here's the picture for which you have all been waiting:

No, I did not cut off the tail to avoid showing you the overstripping that occurred there - I'm just a really bad photographer. But there you go. He's done, if not perfect. Over the next few weeks I will continue to pull off the various missed hairs that are far longer than the others and in about 1.5 month's time he will have filled out his top coat and look quite handsome. Until then, this is about as good as he is going to look:

Stripping 101 . . . for Border Terriers!

I love my dog, as you have surely figured out if you've noticed my presence anywhere on the internet. There is little I have touched in the electronic world that does not have a picture of Max somewhere within it's files, often up front and center as my avatar. I can't help it, he's just so darn cute! But in all the love I have for my boy, there is one aspect of having him in my life that I don't love - stripping.

For those of you uninitiated into the joys of owning a Border Terrier, or a dog with similar coat needs, stripping is the term that refers to pulling out the longer, harsher 'guard' hairs of a dog's coat while leaving the shorter, softer, 'undercoat' behind. This process allows the dog to maintain the coarseness that provides waterproofing and also loft for warmth. Were the dog still used for it's original purpose, running along with a fox hunt to 'go to ground' and bolt the fox from it's den, the longer hairs would naturally be pulled out by shrubbery, thorns, and the like leaving a dog with a coat with very little maintenance needs. Unfortunately, the Border Terrier kept as a household pet, even when allowed plenty of outdoor activity, is very unlikely to ever be able to maintain his coat as of old. This is where the owner comes in. The dog must be stripped, variable based upon each dog's needs, about twice a year.

Some people choose to clipper the dog's coat short, but this ruins the texture of the coat, eliminates the waterproofed aspect, and can allow the hairs which need to be shed to cause infections in the dog's skin. There are times when it is kinder to the dog to clipper, but it is mostly advisable to maintain the coat as decades of breeding have dictated.

So when faced with a lack of gorse bushes through which to send your dog running, a desire to do right by the traditions of the breed, and the need to maintain your dog's health, you are faced with two options: Learn to strip the dog yourself, or hunt down a groomer who actually knows what stripping is and subject your dog and your wallet to the professional grooming experience. As my dog started of his early years as a casual show dog, I chose to learn how to groom him myself so that he could always be in good coat for the next show. I can't say we were always 100% successful on that front, but I won't go into that here.

The basic rundown of stripping is as follows: Using your bare hands, vinyl gloves, rubber secretary's fingers, a specialized tool known as a stripping knife, or some combination of the above, you choose a place to begin on the dog and gradually work your way over the whole body, pulling out the longer hairs of the coat, in the direction of growth, in small clusters, sometimes just a couple of hairs at a time. If the dog's coat is fully 'blown,' meaning ready to be stripped, this process can be quite simple, quick, and entirely painless for the dog, barring a few of the more tender areas which it is generally considered kinder to clipper. If the dog's coat is not ready to be stripped, the process is much lengthier and certainly more uncomfortable for the dog. So, I generally wait until Max looks like a a cross between a hyena and a fluffy porcupine before I strip him.

Now, as I said above, you can choose a place to begin this process. In the past, I have usually chosen to start between his shoulder blades as this seems to be the area which has the fastest growing hair and so is ready to go sooner. Unfortunately, since this is a painstaking task, it is often necessary to make one full grooming last over the course of a few days. This delay has left me with a dog who looks like this:
But recently I decide that if Max and I had to go through this painstaking task I was going to have more fun with it. So this time I started out with his legs and then moved on to a small portion around his butt. Amusing, but nothing stellar:
Finally, at least as finally as I have so far progressed, I moved the work further forward and down around most of his belly as well. I'm quite pleased with the result and regret that I will have to finish up, but after the Eismann gave me a very confused look and I attempted to explain in Germlish exactly what was going on, I figure it will just have to be done if I don't wish for my German neighbors to call the loony bin on me. Still, I think he looks kind of royal with his cape, excepting the much suffering look he always gives me when I make him pose for a photo:
I'll be sure to post the final photo when he's done.

Edward Gebhardt 1962 - 2010

For years I never questioned it, my connection with my middle brother Edward. Of my three brothers, all of whom were much older than I, Eddie and I had the closest relationship. 11 years old when I was born, I found out only recently that his school was having financial trouble and he was on a half day program for a portion of that first year of my life. Unlike other boys of that age, however, he didn't take all that extra time to play and get himself into trouble. Instead he was there to assist my mother with my day to day care. Apparently he could change my diaper and feed me and was always willing to do so, even telling my mother not to worry about me, that he would take care of me. I, of course, remember none of this and have only learned it through conversations with my mother. What I do remember, though, is a brother who always told me I was his favorite sister. It never mattered that I was his only sister, though I reminded him of this often, because it was the way he said it that told me how very much he loved me. I, in turn, loved him dearly too and felt closest to him of my three siblings.

As I grew older, Edward became less a part of my life. The difference in our ages ensured that as did the difficulties inherent to a boy becoming a man in the seventies. I was exposed to recreational drug use very early due to two of my brothers' willingness to allow their kid sister to hang around. Though he always treated me kindly, I got to see Edward become angry and belligerent with his friends, with my other brothers, and with my father. I once had a birthday party with fewer guests than expected because Eddie and another brother chose the start time to get into a fist fight by the front door. More than one parent drove right by upon seeing that. Such instances and the far too adult knowledge I gained of their cause definitely played their part in who I became when I was a teenager. Watching the misery brought upon Edward by his choices gave me enough reason to avoid the same choices and the same path in life. Such as it was, Edward was still doing his part to raise me even when I was no longer an infant.

From those teen years to adulthood, nothing much changed in Edward's life. He did become a very skilled carpenter from absolutely no formal training, but he was always finding himself without the tools he needed to do his work because he would sell them for money for drugs and alcohol. Many a Christmas my parents purchased the same gift as the previous year for him. Eventually he was no longer able to keep a job for any length of time because his constant inebriation and resulting belligerence made him unemployable. The last time I saw him was when I stopped by his home unexpected. He was not immediately there, but arrived home from work already in a state of inebriation and confusion and it was only 5 PM. You never know when the last time you will see someone is, but if I could have known I would have never visited that day.

For years afterward I would occasionally get a phone call from Edward at odd hours. My mother and father have often said they could never tell if he was drunk when calling, but I could always tell. There was no trick to it - he was always drunk. I loved him and would tolerate the phone calls, but was always happy when I moved locations since I knew it would be a while before he acquired my new phone number from a careless parent. When he moved to Arizona and eventually became homeless the calls became fewer. I was not particularly conflicted with guilt at my relief. The real guilt came later when I too, through no correlation, moved to Arizona as well, mere miles from where he was sleeping, and I impressed upon my family that Edward was never to know I was in Arizona. He never did.

For the entire time I lived in Arizona I would keep up to date on Edward's condition from my parents but always afraid that I might somehow run into him somewhere. He was getting by, occasionally finding a home with someone until his behavior landed him back on the street. Sometimes he would acquire a job but it always ended badly as he could not accept being told what to do by someone, nor could he accept that he wasn't being given jobs commensurate with his talents. No intelligent employer would do so and eventually no employers at all would even give him the most menial of tasks. Days before my marriage in Las Vegas my father stopped in Arizona to meet my husband and also to connect with Edward. The broken, toothless, and slightly crazy individual my father met with and reported back upon was the last image any of us would have of Edward.

A short while later my husband and I moved from Arizona to Texas and a short time after that from Texas to Germany. I had no personal contact with Edward until about a year ago when I told a parent that they could share my number with him. He called a couple of times, the first of which we talked for nearly two hours. I believe he got some solace from conversations with me because, while I was not always willing as an adult to open myself up to the pain of actively loving him, I never judged him for his choices nor criticized his way of life. I'd seen my parents do it for years and I'd seen the lack of results. Edward was simply Edward and would, as best I could tell, always be so. In my last conversation with him we talked about the pacemaker he had installed and how he was having problems with it. I was amazed that it would be his heart which would cause him problems first, but not surprised that something besides his teeth had finally given out. I didn't expect him to live much longer.

I received the phone call at the end of last week from my youngest brother. He and Edward never got along so I was not surprised to hear very little emotion in his voice as he told me the news; Edward was in the hospital in Arizona, he had complete liver failure and near complete kidney failure, was being kept unconscious for the pain, and wasn't expected to live another 24 hours. I wasn't shocked. There wasn't a member of the family who hadn't expected this call sooner rather than later. I think the lack of overt emotion shown by any of us was an indicator of how mourning Edward had been something we had all been doing for years.

For me, the single saddest part was that this was it, the final chapter of his life. As long as he was alive I could always entertain a small foolish hope that one day he would learn how to find peace without a bottle, but now what I had known all along was confirmed - Edward's life would never be anything but what it had always been, one of misery, depression, and rage. It didn't help that I could identify with the so much of what made Edward the way he was. I have for years seen that we were both bothered by the same things in this world, and I have suspected for just as long that he suffered from the same chemical imbalances that I do. I don't know why I was able to make my way past them and he was not. It hurts me to think that his examples of how not to take on the world might have been exactly what allowed me to come to terms with all the demons that tormented him.

Two days after the initial phone call, I received confirmation that Edward's life had ended. I had encouraged my father to make it clear to the doctor that he would be doing no good for my brother by prolonging his life but would be kindest to him if he simply made those last few hours as painless and peaceful as possible. The irony that, in dying, Edward would finally get some of the peace and oblivion that he had been for so many years searching was painful to me, but it was all I could hope for him. My father passed this on to the doctor and the doctor obliged. Edward never woke up. I think I was the only one who wanted to be there with him but I knew I wouldn't make it in time, Edward would never have known I was there, and I wasn't entirely sure I could have handled seeing him. I now realize that I will have to live with the remorse that I didn't try when I was the only one in the family who would even be expected to care enough to do so.

My father made arrangements for Edward's cremation and he offered Edward's remains to my mother. She declined and I quickly informed my father that I would take them. I believe in nothing after death, no spirit of my brother looking down upon me nor any eternal soul writhing in hell. Edward simply exists no longer except as he lives in others' memories. In a show of sentimentality that belies my normal stoicism, I feel that my brother's remains should be with the person who loved him most. I may not have loved him as much as one might hope, but I loved him as much as I could.

When I was a teen Edward promised me that we would go skydiving together when I turned 18. I believed it then but by the time I moved to Arizona at 29 years of age I had long known that it was never going to happen with Edward. I went for a tandem jump on the spur of the moment at the suggestion of a co-worker, and only realized afterward that it was on my brothers 40th birthday that I took that leap. When I receive my brother's ashes I will jump again, with him for our first and only time together. For me, life has only the meaning with which I ascribe it. Foolish or not, that jump may be the most meaningful moment in my relationship with Eddie.

Frühling Melancholy

I don't really know which season is my favorite.  I like having distinct and definable seasons, of that much I'm sure, but which one puts in the most time filling up my soul is debatable.  Each season has something to recommend it.

Summer is lovely and warm and, no matter how many years I have been out of school, always feels a bit like a holiday.  Evenings last forever and I never feel too awful about getting out of bed earlier than usual because the sun is always there to greet me and promise me that it will be a good, long, and productive day.

Autumn is simply stunning.  No other death scene can compare to that which Autumn plays for us time and time again.  Each year I am witness to an Autumn I fall in love with the endlessly varying colors and  am overwhelmed by the simultaneously dry and moist smell of the leaves after they've fallen and become party-colored crisps on the ground, waiting to be turned into the fertilizer that is their destiny.  I well up when I witness the way the sunlight slants low through the trees and sets the world on fire.  I welcome the nip in the air that takes me by surprise and sends me running back inside for a jacket.  If Autumn were human he would be a Vermont woodsman and I surely would have married him years ago.

Spring is like a really good stretch.  It starts out slowly, a slight twisting of the arms and back perhaps, but leads into a great, big, full body, all consuming affair that takes control and kick starts the life back into you.  Like Autumn, it smells of leaves and wet, but under those smells is something a bit more, something that tickles the nose like the threat of a sneeze and in that last moment, just when you think you will be fine, explodes outward into a cacophony.  Spring is a riot of nature, unstoppable and awesome in its power while concurrently mellow and sweet.  It is a season contradictory unto itself.

Winter, a proper Winter, is cold.  This deceptively avuncular season, when viewed from inside one's home, says "Come outside and enjoy me in all of my frosty glory.  Witness my icy blue skies and my pale yellow sunlight."  But when you succumb to the beauty without and decide to brave what must surely be a reasonable temperature, Winter turns on you like a Santa Claus with what appears to be a bag of goodies but is only a multitude of coal.  And yet the nature lover still cannot help but wish to embrace this grumpy old man.  The sharp smell of ice in the air, the snapping of crystalline greenery underfoot, the sibilance of the wind rubbing the bare branches together like the legs of a cricket, the orchestra of silence found within a gentle snowfall - these are the gifts that Winter wishes to bestow upon those who believe the tale they see through their window.  While some may view Winter as the bait and switch of the seasons, others merely see it as the friend who drags you, protesting, to a party because she knows you will have a great time once you are there.

While I began this saying that I do not have a favorite season, one might still come to believe that I do, perhaps, and that favorite season is Winter.  And it may be that today they would be right.  You see, as I stood by my window earlier this week, looking out at the winter birds enjoying the plenty that is the feeding ground of my balcony and my landlords' garden, it occurred to me that Winter was on its way to finishing up this year.  The temperatures have risen a bit from the teens we were experiencing just a few weeks ago, February is moments from making its appearance, and while the threat of snow may still be ever present it is seldom realized.  On this evidence the advent of Spring was brought up yesterday in my German class and today I am certain that it was a topic of conversation on the German radio.  Upon my acceptance today, whilst driving home, that it might be true, that this beautiful winter might be coming to an end, I was struck by a great feeling of sadness.  As I travelled through the forest and then down the other side of the mountain that separates my village from those that more closely circle the military bases, I made sure to fully appreciate that the frost that was present when I left home earlier was still in place, wrapping my village and the fields that precede it in a cottony embrace.  And as I pondered my melancholy, reminding myself that it was a tougher Winter than usual this year and there was plenty to make me glad of the approaching Spring, I realized that it was not truly the loss of this Winter that was saddening me but my probable loss of the German Winters to come.

This Winter has the potential to be my last Winter here in Germany; certainly it will be my last that I am able to enjoy without the specter of another move in my future.  This may be the last year I get to wake up in a cloud or a world wrapped in cotton and the last year I get to look out the window and identify all of these birds I have come to know and love.  And for this, right now, I love Winter all that much more.  Spring must wait her chance - I'm sure my parting with her will be no less bittersweet.

WDYDAD? HAUSHKT Regret at Awakening

I could continue my tale with additional poetic waxing on the topic of sleep, but I think you all probably now understand how much I love the sleep and are almighty tired of hearing about it.  So, to make those of you who cannot indulge as I am able feel a little bit better, I will explain the downside of my love affair:  REGRET!

That's right, like any illicit relationship, mine with sleep has caused me great mental anguish.  Every night when I fall asleep I think of the things I will accomplish the next day and I feel like my list is reasonable, doable, and easy.  Unfortunately, when I finally awake for the first time the following morning, my list looks mountainous.  So, I do the intelligent thing and revise my list to include fewer of some activities and more of another.  Yes, you guessed it, I go back to sleep.  So, by the time I finally drag my pathetic (and surprisingly not very well rested) butt out of bed, my ability to accomplish all of those things which I had hoped to do and which seemed so simple the night before has now been diminished by a great reduction of time.  Plus, who really starts big projects at one in the afternoon?  Right!  No one!

And that is why regret plays a part in nearly every one of my mornings.  But don't be alarmed for my mental well being - my next ritual upon awakening almost always wipes away the regret and makes me feel energized to tackle the rest of the day.  Stay tuned for Part 3:  How did three hours just pass while I read the days news?

As promised . . .

I've been trying to come up with a blog topic for this, my very special, final, and promise fulfilling post of the year.  I know I had good ideas run through my head in the last few days but I wasn't able to post at the time or remember the ideas when I did have the time.  Now I am in the final hours, threatened with the failure of living up to the high expectations I know you all have of me, but I think I might just have a glimmer of hope as I have procrastinated with this opening long enough to actually come upon an idea.  So, with no further ado, I will regal you with a little tale called:

What Do You Do All Day?

How An Unemployed Second-rate Housewife Kills Time

Sleep

It must be said that I love sleeping.  I am well aware that I am not alone in this devotion and in fact might, in the orchestra of biggest fans, play second fiddle to a great number of sleep deprived parents of infants.  However, if allowed to compete only with other folks who can also sleep nearly as much as they might want, I feel I would surely distinguish myself enough to earn an imaginary trophy to place on my imaginary mantel.

As justification for my confidence in my award worthiness, I offer up the following:  Most people have fond memories of family moments on which they like to reflect or moments in their lives of which they are proud for having shone in some unrivaled way - a truly heartwarming patchwork which they like to revisit from time to time.  Certainly I have this too, but amongst my memories there are some that stand above the rest and one that stands highest of all; the only time I have ever been put under anesthetic.

Oh, what a blissfully wonderful sleep!  So cosy, so dreamless, a bit of time in my seemingly unending mental dialogue which is lost to me forever and the loss of which I do not regret.  The consciousness prior and post are there without so much as a gentle haze within.  If the drug they gave me came in a bottle I have no doubt people worldwide would be addicted.  Fortunately, it apparently comes only at the hands of a very masterful anesthesiologist - if he hadn't cost me so much money I'd call him my hero!

Be sure to stay tuned in the new year for Part Two:  Regret at Awakening