Port Aransas - January, 2011

I’m sure there are many great places to stay in Port Aransas, but we stayed at A Laughing Horse Lodge, which consists of a collection of small brick cottages that were built in the 50s. Each cottage is different - we stayed in the Charlie Horse, also known as “Number 9.” The decor of the Charlie Horse is bright and cheery. Colorful striped curtains hang at the windows and bright patterned cushions and pillows are scattered on the beds and built-in platform couch in the living room. Screen doors are at the front and back doors, so we had the solid doors open most of the time, inviting in the spicy, ocean-scented breeze. Ceiling fans move the air in the cottage, but each bedroom and the main living area all have window air conditioners, for those times when having the doors open and the ceiling fans going isn’t comfortable enough. The floors in the main areas are clean and hard surfaced, painted a cornflower blue, just perfect for those with dogs. Each bedroom was carpeted, but we’d brought a couple of dog beds to scatter around in the living area. The Charlie Horse is a two-bedroom, one bath, with a kitchen and dining/living room, and has all the conveniences - television, fridge, microwave, coffeepot - that you would have in your own home. It was truly a home away from home.

We arrived after dark, and waiting for us were dog bowls, dog towels, and identification tags for each dog, in the event one of them might run off on the beach or slip through an open door. It truly is a dog-friendly place. An information sheet outlining dog-friendly restaurants, warning about the effects of dogs drinking ocean water and listing the phone numbers of local veterinarians was part of our information packet.




I could see the beach from the driveway - it is that close.




On New Year's Eve, we decided to have a steak and lobster dinner. I love the way lobster tails look before they're cooked.




Pam made her famous macaroni and cheese (Grandma's recipe), Harry grilled the steaks, and I broiled the lobster tails. The lobster tails actually tasted better than this photo looks. Ugh - the lobster looks like melted marshmallows. I imagine that's why I usually put paprika on them when I cook them.




And here, after a bottle of wine shared with Pam, is "Lobster Man."




The dogs had a great time, too. In between hiking down to the beach and up and down the shore, they rested up.















I love Nature's beauty.






Harry and I went to the only bar on the beach - it's been "grandfathered in" and is falling down, bit by bit. Sitting on the deck was like taking your life in your own hands - whenever anyone walked by, you could feel the whole thing sway. I enjoyed my first "Dogfish Brown Ale."










The second day we were there, there was a "blow." Sergei is demonstrating how it works. The wind was no worse than it normally is in Nebraska - but a heck of a lot warmer.




I found the seaweed on the beach fascinating. I can't decide if these little bladders are what helps the seaweed keep afloat, or if they are tiny jellyfish.




This one definitely appeared to be a jellyfish to me. The bladder was as long as my forearm.




Harry and I took a walk on the dunes. He's a lot more interested in the ships than the naturally occurring flora and fauna.







Star loved the beach. I would have loved to let she and JoLee off-leash to play, but signs everywhere said all dogs had to be on-leash.



Up away from the surf, in the dunes, the vegetation makes a mighty effort to reclaim land.



Only in a seaside town would one see blow-up Santas in ships and by palm trees.









On the way home, JoLee was so tired he slept, draped over Star. She was so tired, she didn't even care.

Fear Mongers and Fearmongering

I have to say, these days, everywhere you look, you will run smack-dab into my pet peeve: fearmongering. According to Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus.com, the word “fearmongering” doesn’t exist, so I suppose that means that I’ve made it up. This is the way I would define it: “Monger” is defined to mean a “dealer, hawker, merchant, peddler, or trader” and these days we all know what fear is all about, so when you put those together, a “fearmonger” would be someone who peddles fear.

No matter where you go in the United States (I can’t speak for foreign countries), you are barraged by fearmongering. The daily newspaper headlines are filled with dire warnings regarding the economy, wars, terrorism, crime rates, and for heaven’s sake, bed bugs.

Television shows and the accompanying commercials all tell you to fear growing old, getting fat, having a heart attack, having bad breath, not shaving close enough, or having mesothelioma or some other horrific, uncurable disease; that you might fall and not be able to get up, you might be losing your hair, that your teeth might be a bit yellow, and that the only sex you are likely to have will probably happen in separate bathtubs. And don’t even get me started on the drug advertising. I have absolutely no idea why someone would want to take a prescription drug for a skin condition when a side effect of that drug might be cancer. What, because you are afraid someone won’t like you because you have scaly skin? Go figure.

Movies are the same way. Last night, Harry and I watched a movie he requested from NetFlix - “From Paris, With Love.” John Travolta and John Rhys-Meyers starred in this convoluted story, and the movie was a roller-coaster of violence and mayhem, leaving one convinced that every person in one’s life could possibly be a spy or terrorist hell-bent on revenge. Now, that’s entertainment!

Maybe I should have been born a dog, a creature of the here and now, rather than a human being who should think deep, ponderous, scary thoughts of how bleak the future is. I suppose there are good reasons to be informed about the state of the world, and I have been told on more than one occasion that it isn’t good to hide one’s head in the sand and just plain ignore the workings of the government, politics and world news. I admit it: I dutifully vote whenever there is an election, but that’s about it. I avoid news programs (except for the weather) and I never read the newspaper (except for the comics). I promise you, when I find a news source that will accurately and plainly inform me, without bias or attempting to browbeat me into submissive, cowering fear, I will gladly broaden my horizons.

Until then, depending on the weather, you might find me in the garden, coaxing tiny green shoots of life from the ground; in the garage, happily making boxes and other things out of wood scraps; in the basement, fitting pieces of brightly colored glass together; or anywhere the dogs are, either playing with them or stroking their soft fur and quietly gazing into the bottomless well of love in their eyes. You might find me sitting on a quiet hillside, watching the sparkle of the sun dancing on a lake, or joyfully running and laughing with the dogs in the brilliant, blinding white snow the day after a big storm. And you also might find me on your doorstep, a pan of warm, fragrant cinnamon rolls in my hands.

That’s just the way I roll.

A Hike at Conestoga

I took the furkids for a hike at Conestoga Lake today. As a guilt/return favor, Harry came with us. See, I went to the Husker game with him last night (Nebraska college football, if there is anyone out there who doesn't know who the Huskers are). Anyone who knows me knows that going to a Husker game is just about the last thing I would want to do. I belong out here, not in a crowded stadium, deafened by the noise and jostled on all sides.



It was a beautiful day.



Tim had a great time. I bundled him up in his little coat, because he can't really regulate his body temperature any more.



Star taught JoLee how to wade. Even though it was only around 50 degrees, the sun was warm, and they had a great time exploring.





Everything went great until Tim decided to become his Independent Terrier Self and disappear. We all spent the rest of the hike looking for him, while he, no doubt, stood behind a clump of grass and laughed at us.













Harry finally found Tim, near the car. He'd gotten tired and decided to wait for us there. Harry put him in the car and honked the horn so I would know all was well.





A rat snake was also waiting for us by the car, sunning himself in the grass. He was a good four feet long, and although he was torpid, he could still move. As I took these photos of him, his black tongue darted out at me. He was beautiful.







So, all in all, it was a great hike. Lots of beauty, some excitement, some suspense - I suppose, when I think of it, everything you'd expect in a football game. But for me, this was much better.

The First Day of Winter

I know that, technically, the Winter Solstice is the 21st of December. The first day of Winter, and the shortest day of the year. But for me, Winter really starts when Daylight Savings time ends. On that Sunday, I always wake up at the normal time, even though it would be a perfect day to catch an extra hour of sleep. I’m pretty sure I wake up partially because my inner clock isn’t yet changed, but this year, it was mostly because you cannot change the inner clock of a puppy, and JoLee was up and raring to go.

So, this morning, at 5:45 a.m. I decided to take Star and JoLee for a good long walk, partially to wear JoLee out, and partially to allow Harry to sleep in on the last day of his weekend. I decided to walk to East Campus. Leaving Tim snuggled up to his Dad, in the pre-dawn darkness the three of us set out.

I don’t know what the technical term for the pre-dawn darkness is - in the evening, it’s called twilight - but I think that’s my favorite time of day. That time when the sun is either rising or setting is magical to me. The blue bowl of the sky glows at the horizon, either with the promise of a beautiful day, or the promise of an incredible night.

Most of the walk to East Campus is on the boring side, to be honest. A concrete sidewalk, with mowed grass on either side, and few, if any, trees. About a third of the way to our final destination, the area on the south side of the walkway becomes a small, wild tangle of trees and brush, mostly left to its own devices. As we walked along, JoLee suddenly stopped and sat down, head cocked to one side, listening. I stopped to listen too, and then Star joined us. I could hear deliberate footsteps in the dead leaves, and they seemed to be coming towards us. We stayed and waited, peering through the tangle of undergrowth to see what was on the other side of the fence. Finally, a movement caught my eye, and as we watched, a small opossum clambered up a nearby tree. There was a clump of what appeared to be leaves stuck to its rump, but as I looked more closely, I saw that its tail curled tightly around a cluster of leaves. I've never heard of such a thing, but all I can think is that the possum was adding bedding to its nest. I watched it move slowly and deliberately all the way to its nest. It was watchful, but unafraid. Simply wonderful.

So, now I’m sitting in the back yard in the sunshine. Star is so beautiful. The sun gleams on her coat, and her calm, knowing eyes squint when she looks at me in the warm sunlight. JoLee is gnawing on a piece of firewood nearby and Tim is curled right next to me on a rug. The sound of the wind in the white pine behind me soothes me on a molecular level, and the warmth of the sun soaks in through my eyelids and collects on my navy blue sweatshirt, warming me gently and thoroughly. I am totally content.

And I just wanted to share that with you.

Learning to Love Lincoln

Once upon a time, way back when Harry and I decided to get married, he offered to move to Denver, which was where I lived at that time. After some consideration, I decided I wouldn’t feel right about him leaving his shop and his family for me. I mean, Harry had owned his own business shop for twenty years: what if he couldn’t make a new start in Denver? What if he couldn’t find a job? I would feel terribly guilty. So, we made a deal. I would move to Lincoln and we would live there for ten years; and then it was my turn - we would move to where I wanted to live.

Sounded like a great deal at the time.

There’s a lot of wool being pulled over the eyes when you get married, by both parties. I pulled the wool over my own eyes in this particular case. When you’re first married, “deals” are concrete, set in stone. As our ten year wedding anniversary approached, I dreamed of the places I wanted to live. Oregon’s misty forests and crashing ocean waves were at the top of my list. My sister works for Sprint, and she was based there. Utah was a close second; I could work at the Best Friends Animal Sanctuary, surrounded by mountains and forests. Hiking in the mountains or strolls along the beach - it didn’t matter to me, one way or the other.

Ten years came and went. Harry wasn’t ready. “Give me five more years,” he said. “In five more years, I should have everything all ready.” Fifteen years came and went. Harry still wasn’t ready, and I’ll have to admit, during that year’s discussion, I was not nearly as nice. This wasn't the deal that had been set in stone. I'd paid my dues, it was my turn. With the advent of our seventeenth anniversary came an epiphany and I had to face the fact: we were never going to move away from Lincoln. I was stuck here. I wrestled with this realization, and quite honestly came very close to just pulling the plug on our relationship, packing up the dogs and a few possessions and leaving.



But when I turned 50 and dreamed up the Airstream Dream, somehow, things changed. The tension that had been building in my relationship with Harry dissipated, and for the first time, I could start to appreciate all that Lincoln and Nebraska had to offer.

Now, I am aware that every place has its down-sides; no one place is perfect. From my new vantage point and with its 20/20 hindsight, I can see that had I moved to Oregon, I would have been unhappy. I’m solar-powered, you see. I love sunshine. In Oregon's rain I would have moldered into a suicidal soggy lump. And Utah? Well, I still think I would do well in Utah. Or New Mexico, for that matter. Or southern California.

Today as I was driving the streets of Lincoln, I really saw the beauty around me. The trees are changing; Fall is in full force. Fall is my favorite season, especially in Nebraska. The humidity that saps my strength in Summer falls away, magically disappearing overnight, it seems, and the beautiful blue bowl of the sky deepens to a darker shade without the cloak of moisture. The sun is warm; the shade is cool - in fact, if there were mountains, it would be a lot like Colorado, where I grew up.



I took the dogs for a run at Wagon Train SRA today, and as I walked through the ripened fields I marveled at the crispness of the air, the fragrance of the grasses. With the sun warm on my back, I laughed out loud at Star’s antics and the bemused expression on JoLee’s face as Star ran big circles as fast as she could, coming as near as she could to careening into me, then into JoLee, and then into Tim. As I drove home, I wished I’d thought to bring my camera to capture the beauty of the farmland and the trees, the richness of the hues, the pastoral benevolence that seems to simply emanate from the rolling hills.

After seventeen years and a lot of angst, I think I can finally say it: Lincoln, Nebraska is my chosen home. It wasn’t until I contemplated leaving it that I grew to really appreciate it. It’s one of those “big little towns” that has just about everything a person could want - with a much smaller sordid underbelly than a big city. "Rush hour" lasts about thirty minutes. You can get from one side of town to the other in about half an hour. There are construction projects going on that I’m looking forward to seeing completed, and I don’t think I’ve quite exhausted my exploration of all of Nebraska’s parks and recreation areas.

I’ll be visiting other places, for sure - and I think I may find a little piece of property somewhere to call my very own, as an escape for those times when I just need to get away, but for the first time in my life, I’m calling Lincoln “home.”

He's Teething

After giving JoLee his vaccinations, Doc looked over and gave me a sympathetic grin. “He’s teething,” he said. “He’s likely to be a little irritable.”

“Poor Star,” I thought.

JoLee and Star love to play - and here’s a pictorial play session, so you can come along. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to appreciate Star’s low, throaty growls. She sounds like Cujo on steroids. And you won’t be able to see JoLee’s pounces. He strikes as fast as a snake.

This morning’s early morning session started with the “Chilly Bone,” which is basically a canvas-covered sponge designed to give a teething puppy something to chew on that would ease the pain and sooth the suffering. It also makes a great “keep away” toy, if you happen to be a 5 year old LabraPit who is long past teething.

Star nonchalantly picked it up, making sure JoLee could see what she was doing.



And here is JoLee's response. You don't think this was over the top, do you? Ha! And so it begins.















Sometimes they even looked to see where the Chilly Bone went, but that didn't really matter.


























































And now the napping begins.