My Brief Career as a Dog Whisperer

My daughter recently visited us here in South Bend, bringing with her the newest member of the family: Killian, a Scotty-Yorkshire mix. He is such a little cutie, and a bundle of energy. They drove 13 hours to get here, so Killian was a speed demon as he dashed around our backyard. He had lots of new sensations and smells and sights to keep him busy. It was fun to see him explore and enjoy our house.

All was going well and Killian and our daughter were just about ready to get some rest when some nearby firecrackers erupted. Killian was not happy. By the time the short pops finished, the poor little fellow was trembling. I have never felt a dog vibrate in terror, but Killian did. He was so frightened. My daughter scooped him up and wrapped her arms around him, but he couldn't settle down. We wrapped him in a blanket but that didn't work either. Eventually they went upstairs to their bedroom and settled down. At some point, though, the after-game fireworks from the South Bend Cubs began and there were some distant rumblings to deal with, too.

Morning dawned and a very calm and happy pup came bounding down the stairs. The day went very well, and no firecrackers appeared. The next day, Killian also was quite happy and wasn't assaulted by unexpected explosions. But in the late afternoon, after I had run an errand and while my daughter and husband were playing golf, I was the only human around to amuse and care for the dog. Things were going so well, and then some firecrackers popped in the alley across the street.

Killian began to tremble. I felt so bad for him. I took him in my arms and petted him and tried to soothe him. Nothing was working. I tried to think about what soothed my grandchildren when they were infants, and remembered one technique. I began to make little "shooshing" noises, just little whispery sounds. That seemed fruitless for a few moments and then, suddenly, I felt a pause, a gap in Killian's trembling. Soon there were more pauses. I kept whispering and holding and petting him, and in just a few more minutes, he was calm. I couldn't believe it. I am not a notable dog 'caregiver', although I love dogs, so this was a wonderful surprise. By the time my daughter returned, Killian was calm and happy again. Success.

I had one more opportunity to be a dog whisperer before they left. The next day, as they were preparing to get on the road again, something upset Killian again. It might have been a truck backfiring or something. At any rate, he began to tremble while my daughter was packing things up on the bed. I just reached my arms around him and cuddled him and began to shoosh him again. Bingo! In a very few minutes, he settled down and the trembling ceased. Wow.

My career has finished, at least for this visit. But I am so pleased that I was able to calm down the wee doggie. And my daughter has learned yet another strategy to help him out in times of stress. I'm looking forward to his next visit!

It's My Name

Many different things have occupied my thoughts over the past month, and I have not been inclined to post anything here on this blog.

Another of my mother's brothers died, leaving only one of the five remaining.

I spent time with my own siblings in Virginia, sorting through more of our parents' possessions and reliving all our years together.

Mother's Day this year was also our father's birthday, and the three of us were able to be together for a meal remembering our parents.

My sister and I took our first ocean-going cruise, sailing from Norfolk to the Bahamas and back.

The event which most affected me, though, was the sudden, unexpected death of my dear friend Dan. Reflecting on our long years of friendship has kept me in a place not conducive to blog posts. Dealing with his death has been difficult.

But celebrating my grandchildren's birthday yesterday has brought me the final few steps toward looking forward not backward, toward joy and not sorrow.

And so, I recommence my blog ponderings!

I grew up in southeastern Virginia, and my family's background is in North Carolina. Names in the South are beautiful and sometimes even mellifluous. At least where I come from, they frequently are double. (That is, relatives use one's first AND middle names all the time, not just in anger!)

This means that I never had a nickname. Never. Neither did my sister or brother. Nor did any of my cousins. In fact, when I am with my family members, I am still called Barbara Anne. None of the neighbors or friends with whom I grew up called me anything other than Barbara. None. No school nicknames, no goofy college labels. I have always been Barbara.

This all changed when I moved to Chicago with my husband and daughter. Almost from the very beginning, once I was introduced as Barbara, folks began shortening it to "Barb". I didn't understand. I always identified myself as Barbara. Never "Barb". In fact, I absolutely cannot stand "Barb". Absolutely. Things got worse when I began teaching at Guerin. There happened to be four other Barbaras teaching or on staff there at the time. And apparently everyone was going to be called "Barb", regardless.  No matter how often I referred to myself as Barbara, I was always tagged as "Barb Bess".

I ask you, doesn't "Barb Bess" just sound awful? I do not like it.

Most (but not all) of my closest friends have never, ever called me "Barb". Most casual friends do. I still don't understand the automatic shortening/nicknaming process out here in the Midwest. However, now I am not shy about correcting new acquaintances if they begin to use the detested "Barb".

I suppose it's too much to hope that this disagreeable Midwestern custom will disappear, but I just want to let everyone know I like my name the way it is. And I would dearly love not to be referred to as "Barb" ever again.

I am Barbara and I love my name.

Thanks! End of complaints!

Not Ready to be the Older Generation

Over the past few years, my cousins and I have said goodbye to most of our parents and aunts and uncles. My mother had five brothers--one still lives. She had five sisters--two are living. My father had three brothers--all have died. He had two sisters--one remains. My parents died within two years of each other. Out of eight uncles and seven aunts, I now count only one uncle and three aunts. Also part of the families were the spouses of all those aunts and uncles, because every single one married and had children. Only three spouses remain.

None of this is surprising, none of this is actually tragic, because most of these dear people lived long and interesting lives. (We lost a couple of them too soon.) But our goodbyes grow increasingly frequent (one last autumn and two since the new year) and the day is coming when my cousins and I will be the "elders". That is going to be a very lonesome day.

I am not ready to be the "older generation".  I don't suppose anyone every really is.

But I have an on-going project that is helping me work through these sad moments, and I highly recommend it. My father filmed many, many family gatherings over the decades from the 1940's through the early 2000's. Along the way, he switched from movie film to videotape, and we have an amazing archive of our family's celebrations and vacations. My project involves converting videotapes to DVDs, using a device my father bought about 10 years ago when he intended to do this very thing. Isn't it fitting that I'm able to convert his videos through a device he purchased? I think so.

As I work through the stacks of videotapes (all clearly labeled in my father's beautiful printing), I can look once again at the beloved faces of my family members, watching them smile and laugh and "carry on" as they so obviously enjoy being together. When I finalize the DVD and then watch it to check its quality, I can also hear the voices of these dear people. This is actually quite wonderful, and although I miss them all so very much, these DVDs bring me such comfort when I feel blue.

Just being able to hear my father's and mother's voices again, whenever I want, is solace beyond compare.

I am making copies of these DVDs for my cousins, for my sister and brother, and for my own children, so that we all can cherish the glimpses of people and days gone by. In that sense, I suppose, I am already one of the "elders", preserving our family history and trying to pass it on to those in the next generations.

Perhaps I am more ready than I thought!

I would encourage you to start projects like this one while you still have most of your families together. Those films and videotapes will eventually degrade and will be lost forever. You will enjoy your trips down memory lane so much, and so will the rest of your families. Then, when you become the 'older generation' in your family, your sorrow will be lessened a bit.

My Brush With Everest

The recent tragic events in Nepal reminded me of my own little connection with Mount Everest. Those of you who know me can't even imagine any association between that mountain and me, but one actually exists. Remote, but true.

Two summers ago, my daughter and I went to France to follow the Tour de France for a week in the French Alps stages of the race. She and the rest of my family gave me this holiday to celebrate my 60th birthday, and she had arranged everything so that all I needed to do was enjoy. We stayed in Grenoble for a week, using it as our headquarters.

This was our first experience using AirBnB, and our host proved to be interesting beyond our wildest imaginings. His name was Jack (pronounced as though it was Jacques) and he worked in HR for a well-known computer firm in Grenoble. We listened to his stories with amazement. (He had lots and lots of stories!)

The most amazing stories concerned his preparation for and climb to the top of Mount Everest the year before. Yes, one day he apparently just up and decided that the next challenging adventure of his life was going to be the ascent of Everest. And by golly, he did it. (He said the whole experience cost him $50,000. Wow!) We saw his photos and heard the nearly step-by-step description of the trek and climb. Who could have imagined that we would ever meet someone who had stood at the top of the world?

But that's not the connection I wanted to tell you about. The day after our arrival was not a race stage, so my daughter and I planned to spend the day exploring Grenoble and its environs. I wanted to try using walking poles, thinking they would be handy when we were hiking around the alpine roads, so we asked Jack if he had any I could borrow. He was delighted to lend me a set, and as he handed me the poles he casually remarked that these were the poles he had used on Everest. Really. I was going to hike around using poles that had been used on Everest. That qualified as pretty cool.

Off we went, as I clutched the poles tightly. We headed for the center of Grenoble (we had a rental car and I was having a very intense practical immersion experience in driving in France), parked, and took the cable car up to the fortress (La Bastille) which had protected Grenoble for many previous centuries. We toured around and had a little snack, and then it was time to descend. Instead of returning via the cable car, we decided to walk down, because there seemed to be several good routes and it was a beautiful day.

Thank goodness I had those poles! The descent nearly ended my plans to hike all over the route of the bicycle race. The vertical distance was roughly 250 meters (750 feet), and the paths zig-zagged down the face of the mountain. My daughter and I think we might even have made a couple of wrong turns! At any rate, my poor old knees would never, ever have survived the hike without my Everest poles.

We finally reached the bottom and restored our energy with a tasty lunch along the banks of the Isere. As we sat at our outside table, I looked back up at the fortress. I just couldn't believe that I had hiked down from that height! Must have been some 'Everest magic' in the poles, because I didn't experience any problems the rest of our time in the French Alps.

Considering how ill-prepared I was for the physical demands of this particular outing, I think my successful descent from La Bastille in Grenoble qualifies as my hiking/climbing achievement of the decade. Not an Everest ascent, but as close as I'm going to get!

I took those poles with me every day as we followed the bike race.

Wonders of the Night Sky

While we were talking about the partial lunar eclipse that will occur in a  few hours, my son and I reminisced about other lunar eclipses we have seen. He reminded me that a lunar eclipse occurred the night the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004. A fitting celestial salute, we both thought. As he mentioned a few other memorable lunar eclipses he had seen, I took a little trip down memory lane in the night sky.

The first lunar eclipse I remember happened one chilly autumn night when I was in first or second grade. We three children were already in bed (and most likely asleep) when my father gently awakened us and told us to put on our coats and come with him. I can still see him wrapping my little brother up in a warm quilt to carry him outside. We stood on our front steps in wonder at being out so late at night, and then my father pointed out what was happening to the moon. If we were amazed before, we were speechless then (at least for a little while--we were very young and this was a completely new adventure, so comments abounded shortly!). I imagine my father didn't keep us out on the steps for the entire duration of the eclipse, but we were there long enough to see significant changes in the moon's light.  It was just magical.

Over the years, we frequently hung out in the back yard to watch lunar eclipses. I confess that I don't know if I was ever able to marshal my own children like my father did us and show them a lunar eclipse in Chicago. It's always hard to see anything clearly in the Chicago night sky because there is so much ambient light from the city. I hope to see some lunar eclipses with my grandchildren!

That first eclipse experience opened the door for a love of things astronomical and celestial. And there is a practical family connection to astronomy. My Uncle Bob, who learned sophisticated optics while making bomb sights at the Washington Navy Yard during World War II, later used his skills to help supervise the polishing of the mirror of the telescope at Mount Palomar Observatory in southern California. We always thought of telescopes in a proprietary way as a result!

My mother took a course in astronomy when she was in college, and could rattle off the names of distant stars and constellations with great ease. I'm not sure she could pick them all out in the night sky by the time we were old enough to  be interested, but she liked to star gaze with us, too. And she aced the course.

In the last decade of my father's life, he bought a telescope which he would take to the Outer Banks each August when we rented a cottage there. He and my youngest son had some wonderful times setting up the telescope, using its electronics to search out objects to view, and summoning us outside to see Jupiter or whatever other exciting tidbit the universe had on display that night. Usually our visits coincided with the Perseid meteor shower, too, so we had both the telescopic views of distant planets and the meteors seen with the naked eye.

During what turned out to be my father's last visit to the cottage, he and my son and I sat out in the little yard behind the house and watched the Perseids. What a treat! Warm breezes, the sound of the ocean nearby, and a clear night sky across which flashed meteor after meteor in wonderful display. I treasure the memory.

My older son has introduced me to the delights of Google Sky in recent years, and I do confess a great fondness for that. It's rather staggering to take my phone, use Google Sky, and hold the phone up to identify exactly what I'm seeing in the night sky above me. My father would have loved it! And sometimes doing this is the only way I can actually "see" what's in the sky here at night.

I wish there wasn't so much ambient light from cities and towns now. It's difficult even here in South Bend to think of a place where the night sky would be particularly clear for using a telescope. There is a park with bright street lights behind my house and a very large, well-lit traffic roundabout near it, which means an overabundance of light. So I don't enjoy the wonders of the night sky as much as I could in other times and places. But isn't it astoundingly beautiful when you do find yourself in remote places where the heavens are ablaze with stars and planets? And my father's telescope is in a closet upstairs!

How Did She Do That?

My mother taught me many things, as mothers do, and I use that knowledge all the time. But there are a few little skills that I wish I had asked her to teach me, and now those are lost forever.

One of these involves a man's handkerchief.

My mother could take one of my father's handkerchiefs and turn it into a little rabbit or a frog. I am not dreaming this. Somehow, she rolled and folded and tucked that handkerchief until it became that rabbit or frog. I vividly remember her doing this transformation but I never asked her to teach me. Never. I would give anything now to be able to do this trick.

Apparently my mother kept me entirely amused by this handkerchief manipulation on a long bus trip from Washington, DC to Norfolk when I was very young. I only vaguely remember that, although she told the story often. She would pop out a handkerchief and dazzle us every now and then when I was small. Then a long dry spell set in. Once in a long while I would ask her to make that little rabbit, just for fun. But I never asked her how she did it.

When my brother graduated from college, my parents and my daughter and I went to the graduation ceremonies. Of course, the university-wide graduation proceedings occurred in the stadium, and there were many things to distract and interest my three-year-old. Then we adjourned to a smaller venue, where the actual diplomas were given to the engineering graduates.

There were many engineering graduates.

Time dragged on. We were excited when my brother walked across the stage and received his diploma. But for a three-year-old, that was all she wanted to see. We were sitting very high up in the auditorium and it would have been too difficult to leave right after my brother's moment. So my mother reached into her grandmother bag of tricks and brought out the handkerchief. She mesmerized my daughter with those handkerchief animals. Mesmerized her. In fact, my mother mesmerized everyone within a couple of rows in the auditorium. I remember people sitting behind me, beside me, and in front of me, leaning in to get a better look and asking how in the world my mother could do that. Mother created quite a sensation that day!

And I never asked her to teach me how to do it. Wouldn't I have dazzled my students if I could have produced such an amazing transformation? I had so many opportunities to learn the secret! And I let time pass me by. The further mystery, of course, is where in the world she learned this trick! What a mother.

Oh, Go Fly A Kite

Ideas of things to do with my grandchildren frequently appear in my mind, which is not a surprising condition for a grandmother. As the March winds blow through Indiana, my thoughts have turned to kites. This doesn't seem to be a very kite-conscious area, however. Conditions might be more propitious nearer Lake Michigan. I will have to check that out. But kite flying with the babies is just a tad premature, since they're only 21 months. I have plenty of time to collect my materials and plan my designs.

You see, I will be making the kites my little ones fly.

Why on earth would I make a kite? I could choose from such an amazing variety of pre-made kites. Based on what I have seen just in the kite shops on the Outer Banks, the choice is nearly infinite. Nevertheless, in my mind, the very best kites are ones that are homemade. I have the memories to prove it.

My parents built their dream house in the early 1960's, and when we moved in, there were large areas in that part of Norfolk County, Virginia that remained undeveloped, often still farmland. The first spring after we moved to our new house, my father came home one Saturday after a trip to Churchland Hardware, laden with brown paper and dowels and string. We stood, goggle-eyed, watching him spread out the paper. He proceeded to lay out a variety of rectangles on the paper and then cut them out. He built a frame from the wooden dowels and then attached the paper rectangles. After securing everything, he tied string to appropriate points on the structure. My mother brought some old sheets to contribute to the project, and we tore them into strips. Suddenly there was a box kite in our living room!

My father bundled us into the car and drove a short distance to an area of vacant land (the Greenfield Farms and Belvedere neighborhoods now cover this). We hopped out and followed him to a flat, open portion of ground. He told us exactly what to do and how to do it, and before we knew it, our kite was flying. And it was really flying. Up and up and up and up it went. What a glorious day! The kite pulled against our grips, tugging sharply and strongly. We took turns flying it, and ran around in glee when we weren't in charge. My father convinced us that making a kite was the best treat ever.

Fast forward to late April of 1990. My father was making one of his visits to our home in Chicago. He had never been there in the springtime and he had never even mentioned making kites with my children. But as luck would have it, this particular stretch of April provided absolutely beautiful, warm, sunny days, with strong winds. Off went my father to the hardware store. Back he came with brown paper, wooden dowels, and string. I dug out an old sheet. As my children watched, goggle-eyed, he cut out the kite shape, attached the dowels and string, and there was our kite!

Horner Park in Chicago boasts a nice hill, right along Montrose Avenue. It made a perfect spot for our kite flying. We brought all our paraphernalia to the top of the hill and prepared to fly the kite. My father assigned places and roles to everyone, even the smallest. My sister and my daughter trotted away from us, carrying the kite, and then let it go. Up it went. But it looped around and around and didn't climb very high. It needed a longer tail. We tied more strips to the kite and then let it go again. Now we had a climber! Up and up and up and up it climbed. I thought it might hit the airplanes headed in to O'Hare on their final approach! Oh my, what an excellent kite! To use my father's expression, we "set it back". My children were enthralled and amazed. They took turns holding the kite (with a little help), and could hardly take their eyes off it. My father rigged up a system so that we could sit on the ground but control the kite string through a stick of thick dowel driven into the ground. One of my most-loved photos shows him sitting beside this with my youngest son, both of them completely focused on the kite.

That day was magic. And I know the construction of the kite provided much of that magic. I will try my best to follow in my father's footsteps when it's time to fly kites with my little ones. Won't we have fun?

In fact, maybe I should practice a little this spring so we can fly kites next year!