Breakfast And Sunday Morning

I have to admit that my favorite meal of the day is breakfast, especially on Sunday morning. This day I treat myself to my favorite, ditching the instant oatmeal and banana for two eggs over medium, hashbrowns with onion, and tomato and avocado slices. Hmmmmm. Eating it all on my bed while listening to public radio's morning programs. I feel spoiled and just damn lucky to be alive.

I make my breakfast, probably in the most despicable kitchen you have ever seen in our modern world. The kitchen sits at the end of the bottom of the "T" or at the rear of the house of my "T" shaped farmhouse, an addition, so I was told by one of my neighbors. The sink is an old porcelain one-piece given to me by my friend, John. One of my graduate school pals, Dave, helped me build a 2 x 4 frame to support it and connected the plumbing.  The floors are heart-shaped pine with the varnish completely worn off. The walls are undoubtedly horse-hair plaster, crumbling in some places with wallpaper painted over and peeling. Plaster dust flotsam is airborne and you are nauseated by the horrific egg-yolk wall color faux finished in baby blue. The only window fell out a long time ago and was replaced by an inadequate storm.  The wiring looks vintage 1960s with a fuse box remaining in the kitchen.

On that long weekend, when Dave was helping me with the sink, we installed a few new grounded wire circuits from the new (yes, I said new) electrical panel in the cellar up through the crawlspace to the kitchen. This provided two circuits for my refrigerator, a hotplate and a microwave. There are no other appliances. I was able to bring the wires to the kitchen with the assistance of my first mate and talented dog, Sam. He quickly threaded the Romex wire through the crawlspace and up through the existing ax-cut hole in the kitchen floor. When Sam's head popped up through the floor he retrieved his well deserved hambone. Dave and I chuckled, "Sam, I am, green eggs and ham", while Sam darted off to some far unknown corner of the property to enjoy his reward.

The kitchen one day will get renovated and there is no ETA. It has put a cramp in my social life prohibiting my ability to entertain friends and family in the traditional sense...and probably has scared off many a man. This year I will entertain outside with a grill and chairs around a nighttime fire on the living room lawn. In the meantime I will continue to enjoy my favorite meal, Sunday breakfast.

And yes, I still feel spoiled and just damn lucky to be alive.

  

Rain On A Tin Roof

I can hear the hard rain...beating on  my roof. It sounds like someone drumming on a metal trash can, the sound large and hollow. My roof, or at least most of it, is 100 years old and made of tin. Several years ago I painted it fire-engine red, but now it is slightly faded, but you can still easily pick out my house from the surrounding neighbors from a Google satellite image.

My dogs are upset this morning because they don't want to penetrate the rain curtain which separates them from the outside. Samantha instead is lying on my bed, her body so elongated that you would think some how she had been stretched. She peers out the window through the lighted crack between the sill and the shade. I'm not sure what she sees. Maybe a rabbit, maybe a tree branch blowing in the wind or perhaps she is in a hypnotic state, the way rain can do that to you.

The rain, when hard enough, feels to me like an insulated blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon, but serving instead as a sound barrier. I could scream and no one would hear me nor I them. I feel protected. My to do list is no longer at the top of the list and my worries are momentarily forgotten. I just want to lay here on my bed and sleep. And dream of all things wonderful.

Ease Into The Morning

I have a morning ritual. It begins with my cell phone alarm going off at 5:00 a.m., then 5:10 a.m. and finally 5:25 a.m. My dogs rustle a bit, stretching and yawning. Now that the time has changed, the morning light comes up over the hillside earlier, gently creeping into my window. I roll over and shut my eyes and basque in the morning light and warmth and I begin to ease into the morning.

I get up around 6:15 a.m. and release my dogs out the back door to do their business and make my chocolate truffle coffee. The smell permeates my house and the atmosphere is transformed into what I imagine would be Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.

I go back to bed and rest some more. Now my eyes are opened and I think and listen to the radio. I don't get up early and jog or lift weights. I don't rush around doing chores. I do very little. This is my time to renew.  Because, for me, once the day starts I won't have this kind of time. I have spent years squeezing so much work and activity into my day I suppose I now feel somewhat justified in just living in the moment and merely enjoying being, in my house, with my dogs, no matter how dilapidated and worn.

This year it was very difficult for me to finish my terms on boards and committees, not raise my hand to volunteer to do more, not feel guilty about not juggling 101 projects and actually having time to think. I had to reinvent a normal workday for myself. I wanted to focus on me and working on my house. All these years my work and volunteer efforts have been the highest priority (in an excessive way). I regret none of it. It has been a great learning experience. But now it is time to focus on other things....like living.

Dog Gone It

Last night I slept alone. There was none of that quiet snoring from my old man Winston, no quiet pacing from Ziggy, and no wild-eyed stare-downs with Samantha. My dogs were gone, spending the night at Brickwood Kennel, their home away from home. When I arrived home last night after a late afternoon appointment, I reached for the door knob and didn't hear the expected scuffling from my three dogs running on top of each other to greet me. I didn't feel the pressure against the door when I tried to open it. I didn't get mowed down by a gang of dogs. I didn't get lovingly assaulted by their pawing nor repeatedly lashed by their tongues.

I miss them. All of them, Winston, Ziggy and Samantha.

Ziggy is the smallest one and the oldest one. He is also the smartest one. He was, up until recently, the 15 year old which acted like a 5 year old. He could pass as Benji's double. But lately he has slowed down. He seems a little sad, maybe jealous of Samantha, my youngest dog, a puppy. I told Dale at Brickwood Kennel that I didn't know what was wrong with him, he just wasn't himself. And she said "He IS 15 years old." I had this perplexed look on my face as if I didn't understand. I replied, "But don't small dogs live until they are 25?" And she just turned her head side to side and said again, "He is 15 years old." I then was faced with Ziggy's mortality and the fact that he could die and not in the too far off future. He was simply like me, getting older but in dog years.



Winston is my largest dog at 65 pounds. His face has grayed and sort of looks a little racoonish. He is a tan colored dog with a high back. I know he has black lab in him; I saw his brothers and sisters. I adopted Winston 14 years ago. It was one of those times I was talked into taking him home as a puppy and I just couldn't give him back, puppy smell with baby-fat rolls. I named him Winston, after Churchill. He is my reminder that I did run the London Marathon that many years ago. Now, he is also my geriatric dog. He has sore joints and has trouble jumping into the car. He takes up most of the space on my bed, has restless leg syndrome, very bad gas and snores.

Samantha "Twinkletoes" is my puppy and the only female dog I have ever cohabitated with. She is the Energized Bunny on speed. Abandoned on a farm in the County with her sister, she came to me via a friend. I remember seeing her photo in the e-mail from Toni. Everyday at work I would open it. It made me smile. The photo said to me "You are the one I've been searching for." Samantha had picked me, not the other way around. Finally after a week of looking at her photo I called Toni and said I would adopt her. When I saw her it was love at first site. I took the funny little fur-ball home. The first several days I noticed Samantha would sit side-saddle. She didn't seem to be able to sit like other dogs, on her haunches with her rear legs bent and her front legs sandwiched between. I thought perhaps it was because she was a puppy. But when I took her to Dr. Zak, we surmised she did have a deformity. She had rickets, which is a vitamin D deficiency. Samantha can not bend he rear legs as a result. But today at 2 years old Samantha is the fastest dog I know. She has totally compensated  for her disability. Not only is she fast, she is an acrobat performing handstands down my old farmhouse stairs. She is amazing.

When I think about my dogs I wonder, "Do they know how long I am gone?", "Do dogs smile?", "How come they always seem so happy to see me?", "They never care what I look like." and I think "They know what love is."

How is it that animals can seemingly give so much more to us than humans do to each other? If I died tomorrow I think I would like to return as a dog.

The First Cut

Yesterday I cut my grass for the first time this year. Around these parts cutting hay for farmers and cutting grass for the rest of us is a sure sign of spring. It is the equivalent to cutting wood for the winter. Typically I struggle with this because it is overwhelming. Not only do I have the old farmhouse but I have the old farm, about 3.5 acres of it. Undoubtedly, I am ill-prepared to handle this job. With very unsophisticated equipment (a Murray mower vintage 2002) and my "easy-start" weedeater it is a challenge.

Every year I dread having to start my mower and equipment. I spend more time trying to get my equipment started than I do mowing. It is like I tell my brothers, "You spend more time trying to start your Harley than you do riding it." Nonetheless I was going to be prepared so this year I did something different. I finally had my mower picked up and serviced...for the first time. While it cost me about $400 to have this done it was still cheaper than purchasing a new lawnmower and than having someone else mow the lawn for me.

The mower did start and I did mow. It was a perfect day to mow, wheel around cutting grass, dodging yard obstacles and smelling the fresh cut of grass. The best part of it all was sitting back and surveying the well manicured lawn, a carpet which extended my indoor living space to the outdoors. It is the cheapest renovation I have every undertaken. This year I vow to take advantage of my new living room.

In The Beginning...

It is Sunday night and I am finally sitting here at my friend and mentor's house, Dan Smith, writing my first blog. I have had this idea for a blog for a while and it is Dan who has completely encouraged me to move unabashedly forward with it. He was my instructor for an essay class I took several years ago in Roanoke and there he taught us to let our hair down and not really care about what others think of who we are and what we write about. I said, "Are you sure Dan I won't get fired for writing about this (this being the night I fell asleep and woke up in my friend's prom dress)." He said, "Trina, sometimes you just have to take a chance and say the hell with it."

As a result I am writing a blog about my escapades rehabilitating my old farmhouse and the things that happen to one in life..on the periphery. I hope you enjoy it and more than anything laugh a lot.

(Graphic: Travelpod)