If We Loved like Buddy Did

At this moment I have four columns started for the Tuesday’s “Education” page. They each need tweaks I haven’t pinpointed yet, and I doubt all of them will even see print. While writing in the bagel shop this week, I turned to Facebook for a brief distraction and perhaps inspiration. Ok, ok. It was more out of habit and addiction than purpose.

Not much happens among my social network when the weather is beautiful, but my pal Carol’s post stopped my scrolling instantly. “I said goodbye to Buddy today. I held his head, and he went softly.”

I’m glad I’m comfortable in this town and in our bagel shop because my tears flowed freely. I finished my bite of bagel. Wiped my lips. Then my eyes. Then my nose. I needed more napkins for my nose.

Buddy was Carol’s beloved golden retriever. My own golden retriever is about to turn 13 and her sister, my former step dog, will be 14 in August. Both are losing their hearing and sight and have tumors scattered amidst their silvery golden fur. While mowing the lawn or riding my bike, I have found my mind writing their memorials before I even realize where my thoughts traveled. I love these golden girls, but neither of them is as great a dog as Buddy was.

Carol’s post continued, “Buddy was such a beautiful boy. I know why they call him ‘golden’. Buddy served people all of his life. He was a Counseling Dog for 10 years. He sat with kids who were sad or scared. He looked in the eyes of big strong men as they softly told him they had one like him.”

While playing city league basketball a few years ago, I wobbled out of the Hawthorne gym at half time to lean on the drinking fountain. I noticed a clipping from the ISJ on an office door. It was Carol’s office and it was an article about Buddy’s work as a therapy dog. He was handsome on his own but with his signature bandana, he was downright dashing.

The newspaper article talked about Buddy’s work during the weeks after the 2012 Newton, Connecticut school shooting and how he had come to be treasured therapy dog at Syringa Elementary and then at Hawthorne Middle School. Buddy spent time as a calming and welcoming fixture at the threshold of Carol’s office at the top of Hawthorne’s main stairs.

Carol continued, “Buddy was my companion. He loved me always. He was there for me always. He trusted me always. Buddy loved to camp with the girls. Buddy loved going to school. Buddy loved the dog park. Buddy just simply loved.”

He did. He really, really did. I saw him in action a few times and was enchanted by his panting grin. Our world would be better if we loved like Buddy did. If we just simply loved.

Be Wonder Women

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on July 22, 2014

Lynda Carter’s 53^rd birthday is this week. Lynda’s 1970’s TV role of Wonder Woman is credited as being one of the first role models of a strong and courageous woman for girls of my generation. She fought bad guys, solved problems, and worked diligently on her own and with other do-gooders.

No caption needed.

Lynda in concert last fall. I like to let people
know OFTEN that I SAW HER IN PERSON!

A friend of mine, Jessica Owens, is holding a day camp for girls ages 8 to 11 today. She wants it to be one that all of their brothers will envy when often it’s the opposite. She is planning a day of experiments and exploration, instilling a joy in learning something new. She’s going for “uninhibited excitement about the process of discovery.”  I’m sorry, was that 8 to 11? So, I can’t come then?

She wants them to end their day knowing, without a doubt, that science, technology, engineering and math (STEM) can be a rewarding career path. Throughout the day she is sharing thoughts from women whose lives have been enriched by a love of STEM and asked if I might share some thoughts. I’d love to!

I always liked math as a kid because I got it. It was easy and enjoyable until I got to geometry.  That required a different way of thinking for me, and I had to work my brain in new ways, but I did it.

I signed up for Advanced Placement (AP) Physics my senior year of high school. The class was hard. Miserable in fact, and seemingly impossible to balance with student council, volleyball and band.  I petitioned to drop it, but my principal, Dr. Carole McWilliam, wouldn’t let me. During a one-on-one she said firmly, “You are a smart young lady who can handle it, and I’m not going to let you think that when it gets hard you can just quit. Forget it. Now go on because I’m sure you’ve got some studying to do.”

I tell this story all the time and have thanked Dr. McWilliam on numerous occasions. Her encouragement-slash-scolding stayed with me.

A couple years later in college, I was a walk-on for the Idaho State volleyball team while majoring in engineering. At the beginning of my sophomore year, one of my professors told me that I should consider a different major if I insisted on “this volleyball foolishness.”  I didn’t argue with him, complain or take him to the Dean, I went to work. I earned a 98% for my final grade and through that experience I learned how right Dr. McWilliam was.

I AM a smart, young (youngish now) lady and I can handle it.

I graduated with my engineering degree when I was 23 years old, was hired by a company two weeks later and have been in the tech sector since.  I like that I solve problems and puzzles for a living, and it doesn’t hurt one bit that the averages salaries for STEM careers are among the highest.

Lynda Carter along with Dr. McWilliam were inspiring Wonder Women and so is my friend Jessica. There are Wonder Women (and Super Men) all around to encourage, nudge, and illustrate that we—YOU—can be Wonder Women, too.  

Herman, a Gift from my Dad

I’m having a yard sale this weekend. Peace be with me. 

I’m discovering I might be a packrat. Not the packiest of rats because I don’t really buy a lot of things (except ninja turtle t-shirts) but I do hold on to clothes and keepsakes.  I’ve felt guilt in wanting to part with gifts that I don’t wholeheartedly love or use any more. I’ve felt pangs of failure in wanting to sell jeans that no longer fit or mementos from my past relationship, and good ole sappy nostalgia has stalled the sorting and piling process.

I have six boxes of stuff from my folks. I go through them once a year. Sometimes, I actually make it through all of them, but most times I stop after 20 seconds and tape up the first box while wiping tears and thinking about what ice cream I’m about to have.  I’m forcing myself to go through all of the boxes this week and there will be no comforting ice cream until I’m done.

I surprised myself when I decided to give away one of the only gifts I still have from my dad.  His name is Herman and he is a 14-pound marbled blue bowling ball. I’ve never considered parting with him, but a few weeks ago I went to a BBQ at my friends Barry and Marjanna Hulet’s house. They have a colorful collection of bowling balls all over their yard.  As I came across Herman in my basement, I immediately envisioned him in the Hulet’s yard among the other orbs.

I got into bowling my seventh grade year during Mrs. Atkinson’s Life Sports class. We took lessons at the old Moonlight Lanes on Yellowstone and my mom let me join a Saturday morning league as long as I rode my bike so she could sleep in and enjoy her leisurely Saturday mornings

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My dad lived in Lava Hot Springs but was making regular trips to Pocatello to see doctors. His emphysema diagnosis was looming. He never paid child support and my mom always had a complaint into the court, but he’d still stop by to give me some ones from the bar that he called my “spending money.” Sometimes in lieu of cash, he’d bring an off the wall gift he procured second or third hand. One time he brought me a mildewy tent. He knew what I tomboy I was and thought I’d like to go camping sometime.

Both of my parents were severely overweight and never camped. Who the heck was going to take me camping? But thanks, Dad.

At age 12 and wanting to enjoy his gift, I disassembled my bed with a monkey wrench, took the frame downstairs, pitched the tent in my room, and put my mattress inside.

Dad got progressively sicker and weaker and on his next visit, I had to go to his car because he couldn’t lift my gift.  In a box in his trunk was a magical blue bowling ball he found at a Garrett Way warehouse sale. Dad didn’t leave me any spending money this time, but I didn’t think twice. He was in tuned to my hobby and even though I could barely lift him, Herman was beautiful!

Now that I had my own ball, Mom was going to have to give up her leisurely Saturday morning to drive me to league. Herman also needed holes drilled and a bag to carry him. Mom couldn’t afford either, so I rolled him into my bedroom tent until her next payday.  She ended up only paying to get the holes drilled and made me use an old piece of luggage to carry him. It worked but it was ugly.

Herman epitomizes how my dad showed his love, how my parents managed their individual relationships with me, and how they fostered my relationship with the other parent separate from their own issues. Dad was so happy to give me Herman, but he paid no attention to how heavy he was, how I’d carry him, how finger holes might get drilled or any of the ramifications the gift would have on my mom.

 

Mom didn’t disparage him, but she did communicate the predicaments his gift and lack of child support put her in. She spoke matter-of-factly of their interpersonal conflicts but simultaneously encouraged me to revel in my dad’s imperfect love and all of his whacky gifts because they were sincere and from his heart.

Herman came from his heart and has a special place in mine. When I asked the Hulets if he could join their spherical herd, they were delighted.  Perfect. I have a sense of peace in passing him on to them and in creating a little more space in my basement.  Herman Hulet has a great ring to it.

Herman and me with his new friends in the background.

The Hulets gave Herman the seat of honor before I left.
Before I left him.
Ice cream, anyone?