Don't Tread On Me

So far this year I have seen five very large black snakes. It is just part of living here in this house in the rural country side. No escaping it. If you don't like snakes or are fearful of them, well then you aught not live where I live. Black snakes, while not all that attractive, do serve a purpose. They eat mice and small nesting birds. Where I live I have an abundance of mice. Whether it be mice who live in the field, those hanging out at the dog pen mooching the dog food or those that are finding their way into the house. 

The other day I came home and there on my lawn was a phantom snake, a very long snake skin, complete and translucent. Hmmm, I thought to myself...where is the snake. Hopefully not in my house.  The skin had my dogs, Winston and Samantha, puzzled. They stood there watching it expecting it to move. But it didn't. Samantha really made me laugh. She would get close to it and thinking it had moved would almost jump vertically off the ground. Winston on the other hand methodically circled the skin inspecting it fully with his nose.

I only saw snakes inside my house once. I remember that episode very clearly. I was in the shower and I heard a noise above the bathroom door. There I had a rectangular hole above the door for a "future" stained glass piece which would one day be backlit. I poked my head out of the shower and then I saw them. Two black snakes entwined together hanging over the doorway of the bathroom. I yelled for my dog Sam. Sam was about a year old and he came to the door and did nothing. What good are you I thought to myself. Then, butt-naked I ducked underneath the snakes and got a broom. Upon my return the snakes slithered back into the recess of my wall. Ugh. I then proceeded to duct tape plastic immediately over that hole and it has been there ever since.

I'm not sure how one can keep snakes out of an old farmhouse with all the cracks and crevices you can't see. The quarter inch space below the door, the holes in the stone foundation, the rodent tunnels leading from the yard to the crawlspace, the broken plaster holes in the wall and the clear openings under the side porch. I wonder if I went up into the attic how many skins I would see. I don't spend much time in the my cellar or my attic in the summer or fall for the likely prospect of running into a snake. I guess I try not to think about snakes inside my house all that much. For now I'll just follow that old saying, "Live and Let Live".

A.K.A. or Also Known As

My three dogs are named Ziggy, Winston and Samantha. They also have many other names by which I call them. I'm not sure how this came to be.

Zigfried is the formal name for Ziggy, who got this name because, ...well, he just looked like a Ziggy, small, cute, bouncy, and playful. And he is smart. Smart in a way you don't know until he exhibits the trait through action. He can learn quickly and understand his commands more so than the other dogs. But he is smart enough to be a trickster, faking fear, sometimes shaking his whole body to get my attention when all else fails. He lets you almost put the leash on him to take him to the pen and then suddenly jerks away darting back and forth laughing at you with his prance. Ziggy is also known as Booby, Zigman, and Ziggy-Biggy.

Winston was deliberately named after Winston Churchill. I acquired him as a puppy a month prior to running the London Marathon. So, he is a reminder and a marker for that event (or vice-versa) and no matter how senile I get I'll always remember how old he is. A larger sized dog, I believe Winston to be the dullest one of the bunch, compliant at every word and a hunter of groundhogs. He just does. In his old age he has become the fearless guard dog who is afraid of lightening. Winston is also called Win, Boy, Old Man and Winster.

Samantha Twinkletoes, so named because of the white stars on her feet, is still a youngster. At two she runs circles around all of us, literally. She truly plays with all her toys, Harry the purple Goodwill monkey whose face she ripped off, Weenie the fluorescent green dachshund-like squeeze me and I'll make a noise toy, and Thurston the honking mallard duck. But her favorite is Henry, the seemingly indestructible talking green and blue dragon puppet. Henry and Samantha have great battles on my bed and he verbally retaliates with "Take that you mutt.", "I've got you now, you tailwagger.", and "There is no getting out of this one." Samantha is also called, Boog-Boog, Booger, Boogarillo, and Samantha-Doodle.

It is a crazy thing we humans do, naming our dogs but then calling them something else. But no matter what we call them, I'm sure it is the sound of our voice which they are really responding to, fawning their love upon us.     

House For Sale

New to the area, I began looking for a house shortly after I moved to Rockbridge County. I was staying at the lovely Spring Meadows Farm, a stately southern mansion, with a long driveway entrance lined with very old trees. As a poor and new college graduate, I would drive down the driveway, imagining I was some wealthy southern bell, a Scarlett O'hara, coming home. I would almost reach the front steps of the Circa 1800 mansion, and the drive would take a sudden 90 degree turn to the left and then right. I was sudddenly jerked into reality, when I arrived at the front steps of my humble abode, the tenant house. The house, a small white framed structure, had a postage stamp yard which was fenced to keep the Charolais cows out and me in. I could peer out my bedroom window and practically touch the head of a cow. Pickle  was my landlord. He pretty much left me to my own peril there, with the possum under the house and an occasional scratching sound of a groundhog.

During my tenure at the tenant house, I searched the Lexington area for a house to purchase. I could afford a house around $60,000. Soon I was presented with houses in that price range by a local real estate agent. It was not good. I remember my agent taking me through a house in which the walls were so catywampus that I got dizzy after ten minutes and had to leave. It was clear to me that my search for a house in my price range was not going to be easy. Then one day, while doing field inspections of local water systems, I had grabbed the local newspaper to read the "houses for sale" ads. There I saw the ad

FOR SALE House, barn, log cabin,

  and shed on 3.49 acres in County for

 $39,500. Call 463-...

Immediately I called my officemate John. I said, "John, I saw this house for sale in the County. Would you meet me at the office at 4:00 o'clock and come with me to look at it?" He said, "Well, I guess so if you want me to." At 4:00 pm John and I ventured out to the eastern part of the County to see the house. We traveled down a back road with pastures on the left side. After about a mile I saw an old farm road with a grass strip and a metal grate at the entrance to keep the cattle in. We drove down the windy road until there it was, an old clapboard house, with the paint mostly worn off through the years. There were cows milling around the outside of the house's worn and weary old oak fence. Cowpies and all, John and I got out of my car and went up to the side porch and began to inspect the property.

There wasn't a single functional lock on any door and the house was pretty much open. As we walked through the kitchen, with the 100 year old, two over two window ready to fall out John says to me, "There is no kitchen." And I replied, "I don't care about that", as we passed the only item in the kitchen, a rusted yellow base cabinet with an occupied birds next in the sink. We then walked into the dining area and John said, "There is no heating system." And I said, "I don't care about that." The house had three chimneys which had a place to hook a woodstove in every room, a 6" thimble centered in the plaster below every mantel. We walked into the car-part littered and oil stained hallway and he said, "The front porch is ready to fall off." As we walked up the sturdy and well anchored stairs to the second floor, I could tell the house was rock solid, so much so it was actually built on a rock ledge. And I replied, "John, I'm buying this house."

I was overcome with excitement. I had to have this house or I was going to spontaneously combust, right there and then. I felt like how one feels when they are in the beginning of a new relationship, the anticipation, the waiting, and the learning about someone new.  Under the influence of a surge of dopamine, I fell in love...it was in fact so instant...that I began to feel dizzy and nauseous...again, but with pure joy.

I turned to John and asked him if I could borrow $3,000 as a down payment for the house. And to my surprise and without hesitation he said yes, as long as I paid him back. We left the house and ventured to downtown Lexington where John and I went to, his wife and my friend, Diana's music store. There I called the phone number in the ad and spoke to the owner of the property. I said to him that I wanted to buy the house. And he replied, "Is this a crank call?" and I said, "No. I have $3,000 to put down as a down payment to buy this house, now." And with that and the help of my friend John and his generosity, I began my love affair and at times a love-hate relationship with my home. A home with "Lot's of character and potential." And that my friends I have learned means, "Needs lots of work."

Despite all the very rough conditions of the house and the associated difficulties living here, it has been an experience of a lifetime. A journey I feel sometimes which stops and starts so often that I think I'll just never get anything accomplished. But I always remember the feeling when I first saw this house. It was like when you know what you want but you can't really describe it until you see it. I knew immediately when I creeped around the bend of the driveway it has always been what I was looking for.

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.