Deck the Dogs

Merrrry Christmas (almost). My sister asked me what the collective noun might be for “Christians.” I suggested “a hypocrisy.”

Featured News

1. Ember found a new pet.

2. We had a power outage so I dug out camping supplies from my dark basement, and—voilá—bright as day.

3. Here’s what I’d look like if I faced you without my skin on.

4. At the dentist two days ago, I bit the assistant. It was her fault. She told me to chomp down as hard as I could to secure the newly cemented crown, so I did, gradually, until I heard, “Finger. Finger. Finger!” Maybe next time she’ll remove her digit first. Though I tried to hurt her technician, the dentist handed me a Christmas present when I left: a gold-foil-wrapped bottle of wine with her name on the label. Do you know how much time you have to spend under the drill to get booze from your dentist? (Anyone want a bottle of dental wine? I don’t need it.)

5. ’Tis the season for Bay Area dogs to be dressed to the nines. The last few weeks it’s been chilly here (not by Midwest standards, mind you, but it’s dropped into the low forties), so neighborhood pups out on walkies have been wagging by in stylish jackets of red flannel tartan, key lime fleece (with hood), and formal business-suit-grey Merino. Wimps. What’s wrong with your own fur, man?

Homework

Ember’s teacher has given students the strict limit of spending no more than an hour a night on homework. Mostly we can keep to that, but now and then there’s just not enough time. Two tendencies of Em’s make matters more challenging: she works slowly and methodically because she wants everything to be right, and her curious mind flies off in fascinating directions, all of which she wants—nay, needs—to look up on the Internet, and right away.

One assignment was to replace selected words in a Christina Rossetti poem with her own. When faced with a project like that, Em gets paralyzed by the infinite possibilities, and insists on weighing every one before committing words to paper. She’d already hand-written a list of countless possible words.

“But I still need a three-syllable insect,” she insisted. “And it has to be a kind that no one cares about.” I wasn’t sure about that second requirement, but we looked up the first. After 15 minutes online she had over a dozen brand-new six-legged nouns, including katydid, cicada, walking stick, bumblebee, lightning bug and dragonfly. When I opined that she finally had plenty to choose from, she vehemently disagreed. I had to break it to her that she’d gone well over her daily time allotment, and she must wrap up. She was mad. “I was having fun. And now you’ve ruined it.” 

It was the third thing I’d ruined for her that day, apparently, so I figured it was time for a little remediation. After giving her context, I showed her this video:

Now she has something else to say when she wants to blame me for things I have nothing to do with.

Since she was really into doing that poem, I decided to let her run wild, and to hell with protocol. At last, after two-and-a-half hours she was willing to put down her pencil.

Rosetti’s Version

Hurt no living thing: 
Ladybird, nor butterfly, 
Nor moth with dusty wing, 
Nor cricket chirping cheerily, 
Nor grasshopper so light of leap, 
Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat, 
Nor harmless worms that creep.

Ember’s Version

Hurt no living thing:
Canary, nor bumblebee,
Nor skunk with stinky scent,
Nor tiger stalking sneakily,
Nor katydid so hoarse of song,
Nor gawking crow, nor quokka smile,
Nor chubby slugs that throng.

Check out her alliteration (which of course was not intentional). And the assonance of “chubby slugs”! [Editor’s note: I’d forgotten the word “assonance” (actually, maybe I never knew it) and had to consult our resident linguist, Lulu, who in turn had to ask Google.]

Even after putting her poem away, Emmy’s busy brain kept percolating with more ideas. During dinner: “Should it be ‘tiger lurking sneakily’?” While brushing her teeth: “What about ‘wren’ instead of ‘crow’?”

We must be related. I, too, obsess about my writing and have a hard time releasing it into the universe. Take this very post: I’ve scheduled it for publication multiple times—it’s finished—but I keep switching it back into draft mode so I can tweak it yet further. And I, too, never know when new ideas will strike. Sometimes while walking down the street, for example, I might say, “Hey Siri, remind me to title my post, ‘Deck the Dogs.'”

Anyhow, all that poetry put us way behind for the rest of our usual school night ritual: dinner, dessert, shower, The Great Pottery Throw Down, snack, tooth-brushing, reading, and tucking into bed. At last I turned off her light. As I began to leave the room, she called out with energetic anticipation, “Now what?”

Now what? The reason I started this post in the first place was to wish Small another happy birthday today. I can’t believe it’s been a year since last year’s Bloggy paean. This one, however, will be more of an ode-lette.

Small, A Year On

A few days ago I figured out how to add annually recurring events to my Google calendar. I considered setting up a “Call Ma” alert for her birthdays, but I decided against it because:

• I was afraid if I did that, it would jinx things and make her not exist any more.
• Imagine how distraught I’d be, in some year hence, to come upon the reminder when there’s no Small to call.

I never forget her birthday anyway. 

Here are some of the reasons I’m glad my wee mither is still kicking.

Bulletins

I look forward to her daily morning emails. She’s been sending them to all of us “kids” for a few years, to let us know she’s woken up and and is fine. She never writes anything in the message body, but only the subject line. Her bulletins can be…

• Informative: “A mouse-sighting this morning!”
• Surprising: “I just had a summons to jury duty~ YIKES!!”
• Disturbing: “This morning, the dentist will attempt to discipline the tooth that is eating itself.”
• Touching: “Today is Dad’s and my 73rd anniversary.”
• Sad: “The last day of summer. Alas!”
• Impressive: “I think I’ll make some brownies today.”
• Succinct: “A&W” [alive and well]
• Helpful: “Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit.” I always know when it’s the first of the month, since this is invariably her message on those days. Except for March 1, 2016, when it was “Rabbit Rabbit Rabbi.” And on September 1, 2020, it was “Rabbit Rabbit Eabbit.” I’ve lost the drawing I did for her of an eabbit so this’ll have to do:

• And yesterday: “One final day of being a mere child of 93 !”

Emails with Substance

On rare occasion, when the situation warrants, she sends us all a fully developed email, with actual words in the body as well as the subject header.

[Editor’s note: with her macular degeneration, about which she is incredibly brave, typing is hard, so you might notice a typo or two.]

ADMIISSION OF IDIOCY! — LONG VERSION

I came home after my 11:00 app’t,  ecstatic over not needing a shot.   I dealt with my e-mail  —   but it involved MULTI corrections and re-corrections,  due to lessened vision.

Time passed.  I tried to read  — but words were hard to make out. .   I noticed that my bedside  lamp seemed dim.  My glasses were pressing heavily  on my ears. in an un-accustomed fasion.    I wondered, grumpily,  why the return of clear vision was taking so long.

Finally,  in mid-afternoon, I glanced in my bathroom mirror —  and saw that I was still wearing the (very) dark glasses that are necessary at first, — rather  than what I had been assuming were my readig glasses. Instant recovery!!   DUH!!  (but funny)

My Very Own E-Mails

And then there are the times she sends a subject-only missive just for me, such as “I LOVE YOU” and “’Night night, dear daughter!! — WUV, Mama.”

Phone Calls

Though I am unable to call her every single day any more, we talk a bunch every week about lots of things, but mostly:

• Daily trials and tribulations. She loves offering advice, and while I don’t always tend to welcome such help, I appreciate that she likes dreaming up solutions to life’s problems. They’re like puzzles, and she loves herself a good puzzle.
• Bashing of the former president, most recently for his idea of scrapping the Constitution so he can be president again.
• The weather, doctor appointments, mutual acquaintances, whatever strikes our fancy.

Generosity

I’ve said it before: if it weren’t for Ma, I’d never smile because I’d be toothless. I also wouldn’t have a Bose alarm clock, comfy mattress, shiny new stove, or—this year—Christmas stocking stuffers.

Love

I won’t imply that my mother is enamored with me all the time. I can be a real pain: opinionated, prickly, defensive, impatient. Still, I wonder if there’s another person on the planet who loves me as much as she does. She’s certainly always there for me.

Influences

I don’t always do what my mother wants me to do. I take her advice maybe only ten percent of the time. But here are things I continue to do exactly as she taught me so long ago:

• Fold towels in thirds.
• Wrap presents with neatly creased edges.
• Make hospital corners (when I feel like it).
• Arrive on time.
• Be polite (except when I’m grumpy).

In Summary

She often makes the nonsensical declaration that “I’d be of more use to you if I were dead.” She’s referring to the bit of money that should be heading our way at that time. What she doesn’t realize is that, even if the amount were enough to wash away my financial worries, which it’s not, her wits, brains and humor are of much more value. Plus, who else would send me good malapropisms for my collection?

Stick around as long as you can, Ma. Once life isn’t fun any more, I will allow you to cross the rainbow bridge, go to a better place, swim the mighty Jordan, head for the glue factory, make your way to the last roundup, kick the bucket, go belly-up, breathe your last, cash in your chips, join the choir invisible, shuffle off this mortal coil, hand in your dinner pail, give up the ghost, blow this popsicle stand, ride the pale horse, take your last bow, and kiss your arse goodbye. Just know that the world will be a darker place without you.

In the meantime, I’ll see you in April.

Happy 94th birthday, Total Smallness! I hope that I get to write another one of these for December 9, 2023!

This is what’s written on the back of the 11.5″ x 15.5″painting: 

France
Barbara Allison
1st—and only—painting
Acrylic, 1970 
Won first prize at MacDermotts’ “show” as “best virgin painting.”