Tip O'Tail Rinker March 1995-Dec. 18, 2006

My best dog

When I first saw Tip, he was playing with some of his brothers and sisters at the old animal shelter.
He came from a litter of 10 puppies whose parents were a border collie and a German shepherd.
He was a roly-poly ball of black and white fuzz. “Babe,” the movie about the pig that learned to herd like a border collie, had come out earlier that year and everyone was entranced by the beautiful, intense dogs.
I had learned that working border collies had short names (one of the border collies in the movie was Fly) because it made it easier to give commands.
So my dog became Tip. His full name was Tip O’Tail because he had a white tip on the very end of his tail.(I thought I was being original, but turns out another of his siblings who went to live at Bryce was named Tip as well.)
I thought Tip was the answer for my broken heart.
A month earlier, I had to put down my English Springer Spaniel, Coalie. He was the first dog I had ever owned. I loved that dog so much. He was beautiful and smart and when he looked in my eyes, I felt like he knew what I was thinking.
Losing him hurt so badly. I vowed I would never have another dog - the pain of losing one was too great.
Turns out, the emptiness of my home was greater still.
And while I immediately liked Tip, I knew I would never love him the way I loved Coalie.
Well, the fuzz ball grew into this tall, lanky dog that resembled more of his shepherd heritage than the border collie. His black and white coloring was that of a border collie and his legs were speckled and slender, but his head was magnificently shepherd, with the long nose and pointed ears. And his tail had gone from tiny to a thick, dramatic curl still accented by the white tip.
Tip and I did everything together. I was working at the newspaper when I got Tip and he was a frequent visitor in my office. He was a fast learner, quickly mastering obedience class and learning a few extra “tricks.”
After the vigor of youth mellowed a little and we established our relationship, I realized one day that my prediction that I could never love another dog was entirely wrong.
He wasn’t flashy like my Coalie was – everyone always ooo’d and ahh’d over him. People were a little intimidated by Tip immediately because he was a big, tall dog. But he won them over quickly with his charm and intelligence.
My mom started calling him the “gentleman” dog and that was a description that fit him to a T.
Tip knew instantly when I was upset or troubled. He would sit beside me and put his head on my knee and look up at me. I can’t tell you how many tears I shed on that dog. When I had to deal with the death of my grandmother, Tip was my comfort. When work got me down, Tip and I would hit the road. I put hundreds of miles on that dog who was always up for a walk.
I got a second dog when Tip was about 3. It was the only time Tip and I quarreled. The first night I had Major at the house, I let Tip outside and when I went to let him back in, he was gone.
I called and called and he would not come.
Finally, I got in my car and started driving around the neighborhood. It was pitch black and I could see nothing beyond the street lights.
I was sobbing, driving in the cold of November with the windows down yelling for him, when I spotted that white tip on his tail. I got him in the car and threw my arms around his neck and begged him never to do anything like that again.
He never did. Not even when I moved down the street and introduced him to a home that had another big dog, Brownie, and three cats to boot.
In the past year, Tip started slowing down. Almost 12 years old, he was getting stiff and he wasn’t that interested in chasing balls, but he still looked for squirrels in the trees and would chew on a stick or two.
He slowed down considerably in the last two months - to the point that he needed help getting up and eventually walking. We didn’t think twice about doing these things for our “big dog.”
Eventually, our lives were shaped by taking care of Tip. It became very clear that he would not make it to his 12th birthday in March. I prayed and prayed that he would go in his sleep. I did not want to have to make this decision again.
Unfortunately, he had a stroke and his condition worsened. I really wanted him to make it through Christmas, but it became clear to me that I was giving my desire to hang onto him greater consideration than ending his life in a dignified manner befitting such a good, noble dog.
We made the decision on a Sunday and we met the vet at Marty’s farm the next day. I couldn’t stand the thought of taking Tip to the vet and leaving him there. I wanted him to have a proper place to rest in peace.
Tip enjoyed going to the farm. In the spring, we had all four dogs out there as a treat. Someplace where they could run without leashes and not get into trouble. It was fun to watch the town dogs turn country.
I held my best dog while the vet administered the shot and Tip quietly slipped away from me.
When Coalie had to be put down, I ran away. I couldn’t be there for his last moments. I can’t say I regretted that, but this time I needed to be there for Tip. To make sure he wasn’t scared.
I couldn’t understand why God wouldn’t answer my daily pleas to take Tip and keep me from having to make this decision again. I think maybe there was a lesson to learn.
On Tuesday, I went to work like usual. I had emailed my workmates and asked them not say anything to me about Tip. I am an emotional person and I knew it would take nothing to start the waterfall of tears that I had been shedding for two days straight.
When I went home at lunch to let the dogs out, which I normally do, I cried because there was not big black and white dog waiting for me, but I felt something different – some shift in my grief.
The Ump and I spent a quiet evening at home together. Talking, but not talking. And before we went to bed I told him that I realized that while I still miss (and always will) my best dog, I felt at peace with what had to be done. Though the sadness remained, the sting of his death was gone.
Maybe that was the lesson. I was looking at the situation as if death was the worst possible outcome. It was not.
I was watching a show on TV about heaven the other night and one woman they interviewed who had had a near death experience said that she saw a staircase that was lined with playful, happy dogs and cats. That would be heaven for me. To imagine Tip and Coalie at the feet of my beloved Grandmom is the sweetest heaven I can imagine.
Goodbye, Mr. Tip O’ Tail. You were a great companion, a compassionate heart and my best friend for nearly 12 years.
March 1995-Dec. 18, 2006.

Holiday hurricane

Valley Words 12-10
cle rinker

(sorry for the delay - it's hard to hit even self-imposed deadlines this time of year. expect spotty delivery of columns until we are through with the holidays...)


Fa-la-la-la-la. La-la. La. La.
I sing while I live in the eye of the holiday hurricane.
The initial stage of holiday preparation – dragging decorations from the basement, attic and anywhere else I stuck stuff last year – is over. I survived the forward edge of the holiday hurricane. The Ump even helped somewhat.
He is not a holiday elf. Since we have married, I my attitude about the holiday season has changed somewhat.
When my friend Richard lived here, we did it up. His house, my house, the newspaper office. No door was left unswagged. No window uncandled. Christmas music rolled down every hallway and invaded each open ear within caroling distance.
We watched every Christmas movie at least once and some – Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown and How the Grinch Stole Christmas, for example – we watched over and over. Holiday Inn, Christmas in Connecticut, White Christmas, A Christmas Story…
I usually watched A Christmas Carol alone because I enjoy the black and white version from the 1930s which is closer to the Dickens’ tale than the more recent versions like Scrooged with Bill Murray. As far as Richard was concerned, the campier the better. More lights, more ornaments. More merry.
He moved away in August of 1991 and that Christmas I was unable to put up a Christmas tree in my home. It was too depressing. I went to Richard’s apartment in Charlottesville and helped him decorate his tree, but I was miserable.
The next year brought a solution for my holiday blues. I threw my first Christmas party. Richard came from Charlottesville and I got over my holiday malaise. The tradition of my holiday party was born then and continues to this day.
Initially, the guest list was confined pretty much to workmates. Then some church people started coming and then neighbors. Now it is “our” party and the guest list that once featured about a dozen people has now grown to dozens of people.
The Ump still struggles with his inner Scrooge this time of year, but he has embraced the holiday party – inviting all the people he works with as well as some friends.
I conquered my biggest challenge so far this season.
I just didn’t want to put up a Christmas tree. Not because I am depressed, but because I was feeling limited by the traditional tree. Normally, I put up one real one and three or four fake ones with different themes and ornaments.
For weeks I struggled to find a different centerpiece for my holiday cheer. On a cold Saturday morning, I stopped at Fort Valley Nursery to buy some pine roping and I talked to Terry about my desire to do something different. While we were talking I spied this large pot full of what looked like tall, thin, bright red sticks.
“What’s that?” I asked, and Terry told me the barren bush was a Red Twig Dogwood. In the spring and summer, the bush has leaves like a dogwood some sort of compound flower. In the winter, after the leaves have all dropped off and the weather gets cold, the twigs turn bright red.
I was inspired by this bucket of red twigs. It wasn’t quite a Charlie Brown moment, but close. It took some trial and error before I decided how to make this purchase the center of my decorations. The best aspect is that after the holidays, we can dig a hole and plant it.
I’m not sure what the Ump thought initially. I didn’t let him see the twigs until I figured out how to decorate it. He never liked all the different trees all over the house anyway, so I think Christmas twigs fit his holiday spirit much better.
The other side of the holiday hurricane is about ready to hit. First the party. Then more gift shopping. Then packing for his home and my home. Oh yeah, the other side is going to hit.
Until then, however, I will continue caroling in the eye of the storm.
“Oh, Christmas twigs. Oh, Christmas twigs. How lovely are your branches…”

And now a word about Harry

I stood in line at the funeral home waiting to speak to the family who had lost their loved one a few days earlier.
Harry was the janitor at the newspaper I ran. I think he worked there 15 years or so. Until his knees got too bad for him to make it to the second floor of the old house that serves as the newspaper office.
That’s not true. Harry actually climbed those stairs many years after his knees got too bad to be climbing. He came up with ingenious ways of moving things up and down the stairs, and it sometimes took him several breaks to make the trip.
I probably should have advised Harry to give it up sooner. He had retired from his full-time job and was just doing this on the side. But the truth was I liked having Harry around.
As manager of the office as well as the newspaper, I was responsible for a wide variety of tasks. I was most comfortable handling the ones that involved interviews, editing, layout and design. I was much less comfortable being the principal decision maker when things blew up (furnace), died (printers, computers, stamp machines) or when natural disasters struck (flood, blizzards and lightning).
My boss (and his boss) were always there to help me, most certainly. But they were rarely at ground zero. Harry was usually just a phone call away.
His area of expertise was the realm of fix-it. Not technological band-aids, but carpentry, fuses and the like.
I loved decorating the office for the holidays and we usually did it with gusto. Harry was the clean-up crew. We would come back from vacation and all the ornaments, garlands and lights would be neatly put away and life returned to normal.
Harry made shelves, he patched holes, he made sure we had plenty of toilet paper and towels. He usually showed up right before it was time to leave, so he could shoot the breeze a little while – usually with Cathy, Connie or me. He told jokes and stories. He made us laugh. He brought his grandkids with him sometimes. He always talked about his family.
Harry left the newspaper first. I’ve been gone just four years and, in one of those weird coincidences of small towns, I now work with Harry’s daughter – same company, different departments.
Harry was not the kind of guy that someone would write a story about. He would never expect that. Yet, his story is the kind that is told a thousand times every day by people who do the right thing at the right time for the right reasons. People who keep doing the right thing over and over in a non-miraculous way. Reliable, honest, good people.
It’s because of people like Harry that our lives run smoothly and we never have to worry about whose going to take out the trash or set the mouse traps in the attic. He knew what to do and I didn’t have to worry about it after I asked Harry to take care of the problem or project.
I don’t know Harry’s whole story. Only the chapters that intersected with mine. Harry always asked about my parents. He told me about his children and grandchildren. We shared pieces of our lives and he was part of mine for many years.
I remember him once telling me not to be in a rush to get married. “A good man is hard to find,” he told me with a grin.
Not always.
It was not hard to find Harry. He was always there for us.
Just like the good man he was.

Take a hike

Can I just say: Thank goodness the election is over?
Do I hear an amen?
I think it does not matter if you are from a red home or a blue home, you have to be happy not to be assaulted by modern politics.
Can you remember when politicians at least tried to be civil? Commercials at one time were about the candidate who purchased the time. Now the ads are denunciating diatribes about opponents which end with a car salesman quick whisper: I'm Joe Jones and I sponsored this ad. These postscripts sound more like a 12-step confession than boasting.
If I could have voted for someone reasonable besides George Allen and Jim Webb - based solely on their advertisements and the way they hacked at each other in the press - I would have.
How can this train wreck be stopped? Did we create this political climate? Can we undo it?
I like to think of Virginia as a civil commonwealth of mostly genteel Southerners who are not so deep in the "south" as to be considered anything less than politely progressive.
Am I dreaming?
Those two did not behave like gentlemen. And they were not alone.
When I was a child, I remember being instructed that even if my family did not support the man who was President of the United States, we always spoke of him with respect. He's the president, after all. The leader of the free world. Commander in chief. It is possible, I was taught, to disagree with someone without tearing him down. In fact, building yourself up by standing on someone else's forehead is against the basic tenets of most religions.
In today's world, when Election Day is within shouting distance, politicians drop their napkins and start wiping their hands on their opponents' pants.
I miss manners.
I miss well-written dialog that could make you laugh days later when you remembered the exchange. The humor in most TV shows, movies and popular entertainment is based on sarcasm and poking fun at people. I laugh, too, sometimes, but it's cheap laughter that disappears like soda fizz.
I miss going to a grocery store where a bag boy not only bags my groceries and puts them in my cart, but rolls the cart to car and unloads the bags. I don't think I ever experienced this as an adult, but I do remember the boys who took the groceries to our car when I was a kid.
Remember when somebody actually pumped your gas? And would wipe the windshield and check the oil, too? And even the pressure in your tires?
Do I sound like Andy Rooney? Hope not - yet. I think he still has 35 years or so on me. Though I know it is possible to be a young curmudgeon.
But I find myself sounding like some “grown-up” complaining about the young whippersnappers these days.
I long for gracious living.
I wish for letters in my mail box and real popcorn at the movies (not the stuff brought in already popped and sold from a machine that looks like it should be able to pop popcorn.
And each Election Day that passes, I miss voting for politicians who make me proud to be an American.

Someone's knockin' at my door

Tuesday was a busy night on Court Street. We served 85 trick-or-treaters on Halloween night.
Some really cute kids tramped up my sidewalk. Pirates and princesses. Dracula and Dora. Assorted animals and anime.
Some costumes were questionable. One girl had her arm in a sling and a bandage with "blood" affixed to her head. She was walking a perky dachshund who also was sporting a bloody bandage.
"Get it? She was in an accident and her dog was too!" the mother asked me in a shrill tone that indicated she may have been dipping in the candy bag a little too often.
Umm.
Then there was the young woman of about 15 or 16 who seemed to be dressed as a teen-ager carrying a paper bag.
"Trick or treat," she mumbled. I kinda felt like she was robbing me. What was I getting for my carefully packed colored bag filled with special treats?
In the first place, no one says that line right. It is supposed to be "Trick or treat?" The homeowner is supposed to have a choice of either giving them candy or being on the receiving end of some sort of trick.
This girl just wanted the candy. I gave her some.
The rest of the story is that her BOYFRIEND smiled and thanked me as they walked away. He had a BEARD. Not a beard attached with a string, but an official goatee. No costume. Facial hair of the adult male variety.
Who knows? They may have been on a Halloween honeymoon.
Halloween is a weird holiday.
I'm not sure "holiday" is even the right word.
The roots of Halloween actually predate Christianity and are associated with early Celtic rituals celebrating the beginning of winter. Witches and evil spirits were believed to roam the earth on this evening, playing tricks on human beings to mark the season of diminishing sunlight. Bonfires were lit, offerings were made of dainty foods and sweets, and people would disguise themselves as one of the roaming spirits, to avoid demonic persecution.
Halloween was not introduced to the United States until the 19th century and, in my opinion, it is little more than a reason to dress up and/or eat lots of sweet confections.
I saw a story on TV news about a school system that had banned any recognition of Halloween.
Ridiculous.
I know there are some hardline Christians who may be concerned about the "evil" overtones of Halloween. But, I can't imagine how they see this largely confectionery festivity as a threat to anything besides teeth and gums.
Oh, there was the kid who tripped on his cape, fell out of a van packed with children and landed on his head on my front lawn and promptly started bawling until I gave him two bags of candy. Costumes that are too big are a real threat.
I pity today's school kids.
In an effort to sanitize life - make everyone equal and comfortable and non-threatened - everything is reduced. Christmas break is now winter break. Easter break is now spring break. Do cafeterias still serve fish on Friday?
It's probably against the rules to put jolly green Leprechauns on the class bulletin board for St. Patrick's Day. And chubby Cherubs sporting a bow with love-tipped arrows are likely to offend the portly and the unloved, so let's chuck Valentine's Day too. After all, "St. Valentine" implies some kind of religious connection. And we don't want to upset any parent who might freak out over Cupid's lack of clothing.
Mother's Day is likely to upset those without a Mom at home - likewise Father's Day and Grandparent's Day could be injurious as well.
If you come from a different country, you could be offended by Flag Day with all the Stars and Stripes flying - ditto for the Fourth of July, though that falls out of the school-ruled season.
And what about Columbus Day? Was he a good-guy hero who discovered new worlds or a not-so-nice guy who helped grab the Americas from their native inhabitants.
Under every rock-solid reason my generation was given to celebrate - by doing things like drawing four-leaf clovers or turkey hand-tracings - is some kind of wiggling worm trail of political correctness.
We had better watch out.
It is one thing to teach children about diversity and empathy for an ever-shrinking world and it is another to eradicate the cultural traditions of our short heritage.
Pretty soon the American flag will have no red or blue. It will just be white. Surrender.

Color at the courthouse

Auspicious autumn

The sun is stair-stepping its way through thin strips of clouds that stretch upward from the mountain tops.
Dark is a recent memory. I had to turn the pole light on to get the newspaper. I have a habit of running out in my barefeet to grab the paper which means dodging acorns littering the sidewalk like painful mini land mines just waiting to bruise my tender flat feet.
Squirrels have turned our yard into their personal winter warehouses. Every flower bed has mysterious holes that have been not so carefully covered by squirrels more worried about quantity than quality.
Between the oak tree out front and the walnut tree beside the driveway, we have variety and abundance to maintain a thriving squirrel population.
Every time I open the front door, squirrels scatter like furry insurgents searching for a place to hide. Sometimes leap-frogging over each other in their haste to reach their lofty lofts.
Fall is here.
I can feel it in the air. That electric crackle of cold to come. The rich, earthy smell of rotting leaves triggers a shower of autumn memories. My mother has always loved fall. Sweater weather. Bold red oaks and fiery orange maples. When my brother and I were kids, she packed us in the car - sometimes with Aunt Ruthie or Grandmom - and we took off for Hot Springs to see her favorite, perfectly shaped maple tree wearing its autumnal splendor.
As a young journalist, I was assigned a story about fall in the Valley. I met with a US Forest Ranger who explained to me - for the first time - that the color we see is always in the leaves. We aren't actually seeing them turn red, orange and yellow - we are seeing the leaves lose their green camouflage. Shorter days bring an end to the photosynthesis process which created the green chlorophyll in the spring and summer.
The bright reds and purples we see in leaves are made mostly in the fall. In some trees, like maples, glucose is trapped in the leaves after photosynthesis stops. Sunlight and the cool nights of autumn cause the leaves turn this glucose into a red color. The brown color of trees like oaks is made from wastes left in the leaves.
Not a very romantic way of viewing the colors of fall. I think facts must be full of chlorophyll.
When I left work today, I marveled at the tapestry effect of the trees dotting the mountains at the Edinburg Gap. The sun, already weak and sputtering at 5:05, tried its best to throw a few rays on the mountain. The light gave the impression of an Old Master tapestry - gloomy at first glance, but a second look revealed warm colors - reds, oranges, golds, yellows, browns entwined to create the blended look.
It's my habit to pay attention to my surroundings. Next to my typing fingers and my percolating brain, my wandering eyes are great contributors to my written rambles. An art class in college instructed was my wake up call. The professor embarrassed me when he looked at my drawing of the model and pointed out that the face I had drawn was all out of proportion. The ears were too high, the nose too low. I wasn't imitating Picasso. I was looking superficially.
It was an eye-opening (literally) observation for me.
There are a lot of perks that accompany living in the Shenandoah Valley. One of those perks is being surrounded by museum-worthy vistas. Green fields dotted by hay bales. Gently folding mountains that encircle the Valley with maternal majesty. Delicate Dogwoods in the spring. Sunny black-eyed Susans, whispy Queen Anne's lace and blue cornflowers that line the rural roadways, nodding pleasant hellos as cars whiz by. Frosted pine trees, glowing with snow and ice against slate gray skies.
We are lucky to sample all of the seasons in our Shenandoah Valley. Nature is giving us quite a show right now. Take a moment to look at it with open eyes.

Issues? Who has issues?

It has become a favorite phrase.
"She has issues." "He's a really nice guy, but he has issues."
"Issues" is a bland seven-letter word used as a blanket to cover a world of quirks, problems and malfunctions in one all-explaining two-syllable word.
I'm not sure if the etymology of the word "issue" would explain its current use. The closest definition in the Merriam-Webster dictionary is one of the last ones which reads that issue is a vital or unsettled matter or the point at which an unsettled matter is ready for a decision.
As a writer I am interested in words as stand alone creatures. I like to trot them out in the show ring of my mind and move them through their paces. This is a long-established hobby. As a child I would find the biggest books on the bookmobile, lug them home and then spend days pestering my mother.
"What does this mean?"
"Wait let me spell it for you."
"Mooommm, what is this word?"
Since she was enrolled at Concord College at the time, she probably did not need to explain Greek mythology to a third-grader. But with her assistance I probably was youngest readers of The Golden Fleece, the tale of Jason and the Argonauts, in the history of the Athens, W.Va., bookmobile.
But I digress. Back to the "issue" at hand.
My husband has adopted "issue" with enthusiasm. He sprinkles it liberally in his vocabulary in reference to certain topics upon which we disagree. Thus these topics become my "issues."
For instance, according to the Ump, I have many "issues" when it comes to eating. In fact, I can probably trace this whole "issues" thing back to a time when I mentioned that I am not the only person in the world who has texture issues about certain foods.
"What's that?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
"Well, you know. When you don't like the way something feels in your mouth," I tried to explain to a man who has never met a vegetable he didn't like - except parsnips. And not liking parsnips certainly is not a big deal. I have never seen a meal plan that called for a lot of parsnips.
I, on the other hand, have not been able to get beyond certain impressions set in childhood. I despise the stringy feel of the banana. I do not like the mealy texture of lima bean innards, nor do I like having said bean pop in my mouth. Asparagus feels slimy. So does certain seafood.
These, I explained, are texture issues. He latched onto that explanation and now anytime I object to any type of food, he trots out the term "texture issue" and I feel like a boob.
It has migrated into other forms. When I complained once because he poured milk from an open container we bought at the beach into the open container of the milk in the refrigerator at home, he scoffed at my protests. "Oh, you have an issue with that? Is that a texture issue?"
I tried to explain that it is, in fact, a botulism issue, but he does not believe it. The man has never looked at an expiration date in his life. So pouring milk with one expiration date into a container with a different date is not cause for pause in his mind.
Shortly after we started dating in 2001, I decided to fix dinner for him one night at his home. In the refrigerator was an army of expired food just waiting for the opportunity to attack. He still complains because I threw away a jar of mild pepper relish that had a 1998 expiration date. "It was fine!" he declared after he discovered I deleted his favorite garnish. "It hasn't killed me yet."
I explained that he only has to be wrong once for that argument to lose its punch, but he wanted to make the whole incident into one of my "issues."
He likes to think that he has no "issues" but he does.
I am simply too polite to make an issue out of them.

5 good years

Just when I think I have truly given up all hope that the Ump will become a romantic person, a little flicker rises from the ashes.
Hope truly does spring eternal, I guess.
As our fifth wedding anniversary approached, I braced myself for an underwhelming celebration.
You see, it is football season. And if it doesn't happen on the football field during football season, forget about it.
My birthday is on Aug. 29 - less than a month later is our anniversary. The Ump forgot my birthday this year, so I was fearful of a repeat performance. Well, he didn't exactly forget it. We celebrated with family on the weekend before my birthday. And I received flowers at work on the Thursday before my birthday (on the following Tuesday - which made for a lot of explaining to the girls at work. "Yes, they are my birthday flowers. No it's not my birthday..."
I didn't want to seem ungracious when I thanked my husband for my flowers, but I could not resist asking him why he sent them so early. I should have kept my questions to myself.
"I was afraid I would forget," he told me. "I wanted to get it over with."
I know he didn't mean it the way it sounded, but...
So on the morning of my birthday, I waited for him to wish me a happy birthday. I told myself not to prompt him. Give him some time to wake up. He'll remember.
I was like an exotic hunter waiting for the tiger to fall through the blind and into the pit.
And he fell right in.
He didn't remember until he went home at lunchtime to let the dogs out and listened to a message from my Mom on the answering machine.
I know it's silly, but it did hurt a little. No wife likes to play second fiddle. Especially not to a game.
I was hopeful that our anniversary would not be a repeat occurrence. And it was not.
He remembered to wish me a happy anniversary - even sang me a little song. You know, the one that the waitresses sing in chain restaurants: "Happy ann-i-ver-sary. Happy ann-i-ver-sary. Happy ann-i-ver-sary. HAAAAAAAA-py ann-i-ver-sary!" At least he didn't clap.
I'm not delusional enough to expect candles and rose petals or anything like that. Definitely no romantic dinner.
You know why? Because our anniversary was on a Friday night. And Friday night is football. I sat in the rain watching a game by myself on our anniversary.
At halftime, as I was walking down the stairs I heard the announcer say "And happy anniversary to..." and for a moment I thought the Ump had told them to announce the fifth anniversary of our blissful union. But our names were not called.
First thing in the morning, when I arrived at work, there was an email in my inbox from the Ump's best friend - he was the best man at our wedding. He wished me a happy anniversary and told me that he knows how much the Ump loves me and that it is evident how much I love him.
I was really touched by that email. I sent it to the Ump. "Isn't this nice?" I wrote atop Marty's email.
His reply. "Yes, very nice. Thanks for five good years."
I choked.
Thanks for five good years? I wrote him back. "That's something you tell your insurance agent or your Congressman. Not something you tell your wife!"
Five good years.
That's what you say when someone asks about your lawn mower. "Well, it's given me five good years."
He did amend his statement later that day. I received a beautiful bouquet of flowers (on our actual anniversary) and the card read Thanks for five great years.
I guess great is better than good.
It was not until Sunday that we exchanged anniversary cards after our anniversary breakfast.
I was shocked to open my card and find a rather lengthy passage that he penned himself. I usually push him to express his feelings, but this year (with the football over-riding everything, I didn't make that request.
Tears welled in my eyes as I read:
"Five years to some people may be a short time and to some people a long time. For me it has been five of the best years of my life... We can't relive yesterday or live tomorrow. We need to live one day at a time and enjoy and cherish the time we have."
If only all men (my man) could clearly comprehend that sharing their feelings is an emotional gemstone that women will replay and polish in their minds - especially when the romance tank is on empty. It's better than a present.
And maybe I was a little hasty. A little too quick to be critical. Words are my passion it is easier for me to express my feelings.
And you know what else? They really were five good years.

The day the water broke

From the title, you might think I am going to tell a cautionary tale of pregnancy.
Not so.
I am going to tell you why women bug their husbands to do things and then somehow manage to keep from saying "I told you so" when it all goes horribly wrong.
I have been suggesting firmly all summer that we need to have the handyman come and do a number of things at the house. We have a leaky faucet in the bathroom. The buzzer on the dryer will not shut off on its own. The furnace needs to be cleaned and readied for use. And the water spigot out back twists to a 45-degree angle when you try to shut it off.
The Ump is a terrific husband, but he is not a handyman. There are certain things he can do, but other things he tries often go awry. I'm not complaining, really. I lived alone for 18 years and I was a terrible handyman. If he mows and does yardwork, takes out the trash and runs the vacuum cleaner every now and then, I am happy.
I have no aversion to calling someone to take care of things. The Ump, however, does. It's called "not wanting to pay someone to do something that he might be able to figure out how to do if he ever finds enough time to take a look at it."
On Monday night my usual board meeting was canceled, so I was looking forward to getting a few things accomplished before the Ump got home from football practice. I let the dogs out, changed my clothes and came back outside.
Tip was standing by the outside water bowl which was full of walnut leaves.
"I'll get you some water, old man," I told him. I reached down, turned the spigot and nice, cold water gushed into the bowl.
After about 10 seconds, I turned the handle on the spigot and - true to form - the whole spigot turned 45 degrees while the water continued to run. Unfortunately, it did not stop at 45 degrees, but kept turning and the water kept gushing.
It became quickly apparent that I had a problem.
I herded the dogs into the house by frantically waving my arms and yelling for them. They thought I lost my mind, I am sure, but they willingly went into the house to get away from me.
I ran down the stairs and into the basement to see if I could figure out where the cutoff valve was located.
I spotted it fairly quickly. It was not far from the outside basement door.
While I dragged a chair across the floor, I listened to the water rush like Niagara and heard a cash register ringing, ringing, ringing in my ears as I imagined the Ump freaking out over the water bill.
Standing on my toes on the chair, I could just barely reach the valve, but my hand was not strong enough to turn it.
I jumped off the chair and ran back upstairs to get something that would give me some leverage. Panting, I pulled the closet door open only to find an empty space where the tool box should be.
"ARGH!!!!!" (That's the family version of what I said.) I grabbed the phone and called the Ump, knowing he would not have his phone with him on the practice field and he did not.
Then I called the school's main number thinking that maybe someone would be in the office. I got the automated answering system which was absolutely no help whatsoever. I looked up the number for the athletic director - seems like she is always at the school - no answer.
Normally, our next door neighbor helps me in times of distress, but he was not home (I ran there first). His truck was gone which might have meant that he was out on a fire call.
FIRE DEPARTMENT. They work with lots of water all the time. I called the non-emergency number. No one answered.
The water continued to blast across the sidewalk and I essentially was spinning around in the kitchen looking for something, anything to use as leverage to turn the valve. The handle of a wooden spoon was too big. So were several other utensils I brought down (one at a time, for some reason. I should have brought the whole drawer.)
My final attempt was with a plastic chopstick - which fit, but snapped in my hand.
I felt like I was going insane. I've heard of water torture, but I don't think this was what they had in mind.
Racing from the house to my car, I took off down the street thinking that maybe there would be someone sitting outside at the fire department. As I shot through the intersection of Court and Muhlenberg streets, I saw a police car and thought POLICE! I had a brief image of wheeling around in the street so the cop would see me and follow me up the hill.
Fortunately, I realized this is REAL life, not a movie, but I did do a U-turn and when I did I realized that Phil was at Beth's shoe shop.
Beth has been a great friend of mine for nearly 20 years. One of the bonuses of being a friend of Beth is having access to some of Beth's very handy friends. Phil helped me on several occasions before I was married.
I screeched into a parking space and yelled at Beth through her open window and asked if Phil was there.
"There's water everywhere; it's going everywhere!" I yelled as she ran upstairs to get Phil.
Phil - while he is a handyman - only has one speed. And it wasn't fast enough for me. He was just climbing into his truck as I took off up the street.
I parked behind the house and started walking up the driveway when I saw Phil drive by the house and head up the hill.
"PHILLLLLL!!!!!" I screamed as the water gushed across the driveway and down over the bank.
I ran into the street. I probably was pulling my hair out, I don't remember.
I started running up the street when I realized what had happened. Phil was parked at the top of the hill in front of my old house, a block away - where I lived before I got married five years ago.
"PHILLLLLLL!!! Down here. I live down here," I screamed and jumped up and down and waved my arms.
He heard my voice, but didn't know where it was coming from. He walked across the street as I ran further up the road. Eventually he looked in my direction and I saw him react - almost like a cartoon character - in surprise. He climbed back in his truck and drove down the hill.
If I could have run behind him and pushed him from the truck to the basement, I would have done that. I felt like one of those little dogs that dances around its owner's feet trying to get a treat or something.
Phil lumbered into the basement, stood on the chair, reached up and grabbed the valve. He gave it several quick turns, the water cut off and that was that.
As he drove off, I collapsed on the sofa, thinking that I should have a prescription of Valium or something. Maybe in a little glass box with a hammer so I can smash it to gain access in emergencies.
After I told the Ump the whole dramatic story from start to finish, of course his first question was how much water I thought ran out.
"We would have lost a lot less if there had been one single tool in the house!" I shot back at him.
He looked sheepish and said "I know, I know."
"I guess we better make a list and give Melvin (the handyman) a call," he said.
Yay.
It is so important for a woman to have a man who loves her, a man who is good around the house and a man who is a solid financial provider.
The trick is to keep the three men from finding out about each other. (hee-hee)

New toy

There is a certain advantage to being married to a man who hates to shop.
Nine times out of 10 I get to pick out my own presents.
Which is why I am currently blogging on my bed with Peanut sleeping beside me on a pillow. My birthday present was a superfast laptop computer with a lot of bells and whistles (not all of them, mind you - too expensive), As it is this computer is more expensive than my first car. Granted, I bought my first car in 1984 and it was a 1974 VW Super Beetle. I think the battery on this computer is actually stronger than my VW was. Hopefully there is no battery acid associated with my laptop. The battery in the VW actually ate through the floorboard of the car (the battery was located under the backseat of the car).
The Ump does not enjoy any aspect of shopping. He is such a man about it. He parks as close as he can get to whatever store we are going to so that he can quickly escape once the shopping experience is over/ Don't even think about suggesting comparison shopping by going to more than one store before making a purchase.
He just hates shopping.
Our first Christmas together he went shopping with some friends who were shopping for their wives and girlfriends and I got a very interesting collection of gifts (including a heart-shaped diamond necklace that I had actually asked for). But I don't think he enjoyed the shopping experience even with his friends because that has never been repeated.
This weekend was the Edinburg Ole Time Festival. I didn't even bother asking him if he wanted to go. I knew the answer.
He told me later - and I quote - that he would rather have all his teeth pulled than go to that festival. Without Novocaine.
Ouch.
Recently, I forced him to go to a real shoe store where he could get his foot sized and purchase good shoes that acually fit his foot size, arch etc. He was able to find two nice pair of shoes - unfortunately the price of the shoes nearly sent him running out of the store in his sock feet.
In addition to his stance on shopping, he also is - shall we say - frugal.
He gets it naturally. He made me promise to never tell his mother how much we spent on shoes that day. I believe he was worried about being disowned.
So, the moral to this story is that you don't always want to try to change someone. I made several attempts at trying to get the Ump to shop with me and I made two discoveries:
1. I hate to shop with him. I can't enjoy myself at all.
2. I am guaranteed to enjoy my presents if I tell him what I want. (Which was his point all along. I just had to get beyond the "Well, if he really loves me for who I am, he should know what I would enjoy as a present..."
I might not have totally reached that point (the romantic in me refuses to go away), but I am really enjoying my laptop.

Turn, turn, turn

So. I turned 45 last week.
So what? Well, I just can't believe it.
I've never been one to mbe particularly bothered by my age. My issue was never with being that age - but ideals I had of where I should be in my life by the time I reached a particular age.
I had the same reaction when I turned 25. And again at 35. Seems the "5s" give me the most problem.
My birthday was Tuesday, but it was not until Saturday that the familiar wave of overwhelm washed over me. I tried to battle it by organizing the house. Under certain circumstances I can battle the blues with normal household tasks. Closet-cleaning is a remarkable vaccine for depression - must be the Virgo in me.
I gave it a gallant try. I sorted socks and reorganized my nightgown drawer. I did several loads of laundry and washed the bathroom floor. As soon as I stopped, the feelings I was trying to dodge caught up with me,
Even the Ump could see my mood shift.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said with a big sniff. I wiped the tears away.
"Really, what is wrong?" he asked again.
"I don't know. I feel sad. I just want to cry," I told him, regretting it instantly because No. 1 he hates it when I cry and No. 2 because he feels like he needs to come up with a way to cure my problem.
On the one hand, it's nice that he cares enough to make an attempt. But one thing I have determiined to be true in my short married life is that men and women approach these things in very different ways. A woman is sad. She wants to share her feelings with someone, get a little sympathy or empathy or even a cup of tea. Other women know this and that is how they help their women friends, sisters, daughters, moms etc.
When men see their women upset, they want to fix the problem. They offer suggestions. "Don't cry. That won't help anything." Or "If you don't like your chubby legs why don't you start walking in the afternoon or work out?"
Valid suggestions, but they do not make women feel better. Sometimes we just want to wallow in it. Wade right into the swamp of sentiments and let our selves sink into melodramatic mush right up to our noses.
The key is to know when to take a breath and haul ourselves out of the muck.
So, I turned 45 last week. I had lunch with friends on Tuesday. Cried on Saturday. Ate cupcakes on Sunday.
It's all good.

It's not Kansas, but it's not H*ll, either

So I have been in customer service for a week and three days.
The first three days were the worst and were reflected in the previous blog.
On Monday, my temporary job became much better defined and now I am (gasp - dare I say it?) actually enjoying being on the phones.
All I have to do is help college students register for services. It's not rocket science and it sure isn't the all-encompassing job that the other customer service representatives are doing.
I have real admiration for these women who spend their day dealing with customers over the telephone. What freaked me out when I was training with Mary was knowing that when the telephone rang, somebody had a problem. Folks seldom call to say "Thanks just for being there for me!"
Just hearing the ring made my heart beat faster. I felt like the lab rat in college that we trained to take a drink every time he heard a bell ring.
I like listening to the reps handle the calls. They are so cool and professional. Always polite even when the caller is not. Remember I was wondering why the reps are all women? It is because of that nurturing side. I can just imagine the Ump taking one of these calls.
Ump: "What do you want?"
Customer: "Um, is this customer service?"
Ump: "Yeah."
Customer: "Well, I have a question about my service."
Ump:
Customer: "Are you there?"
Ump: "Yeah."
Customer: "I said I have a question."
Ump: "I heard you."
Customer: "Well, do you want to hear my question?"
Ump: "Not really."
Customer: "What?"
Ump: "Listen, you're wasting my time. Do you think I want to listen to you whining all morning?"
Customer: "Uh? No. Sorry."
Ump: "That's more like it. Have a nice day."
Click.
I have had my share of comical moments,
One of the first questions I have to ask is what complex the student lives in. My mistake was to say "Where are you?" on one occasion only to have the student reply "In my apartment."
I also have to ask the students to come up with a password so they can access their accounts.
Me: "OK. I need you to pick a password between six and 10 characters..."
Student: Silence
Me: Hello?
Student: "Yes?"
Me: "I said you need to pick a password."
Student: "Am I supposed to tell you what it is?"
Me: Eyes rolling heavenward "Yes, please."
My favorite password yesterday was Misthang. One boy had a password that was rather rude. I wanted to ask him what his mother would say about that password.
On several occasions someone's boyfriend or girlfriend would do the communicating for them. And once I had a conversation with a Mom who was talking to me on one phone and her son on the other.
I've learned to take things in stride, just like the women around me. I hear them get off a tough call and share the details like soldiers sharing war stories. Their camaraderie is not part of the job - just who they are.
I certainly have not attained their level of confidence, but I can mimic it and so far that has worked for me.
I will be happy to return to my cube after my tour of duty, but I will miss hearing those war stories.

A terrible change of pace

I am in Hell.
Well, maybe not Hell. Maybe lowercase hell. Maybe purgatory. Whatever. It sure ain't Kansas, Toto.
Last Wednesday I was temporarily reassigned from the marketing department to customer service.
There is a lot of pressure to be creative and to meet deadlines in the marketing department. I used to agonize about these details. Fret. Worry.
I long for them now. I miss my old cube. I miss Carol peering through the window to see if I'm at my desk. I miss talking to Brian through our adjoining wall. I miss my old job.
Customer service is a whole different ballgame.
Now, certainly I have had to deal with the public during my working career. At the newspaper, I had to handle many angry calls about stories that were written (or not written) etc. I even had people come to the office to register their opinions or complaints.
What makes this so different is that I not only have to learn what products we are selling and to whom (we serve more than 100 colleges and universities in the southeast), but I have to learn an entirely different telephone system.
Customer service uses a headset and computer. Managers are able to see who is on and off the phones and how many calls are waiting in the queue. Big Brother. Actually, more like Big Sisters. All of the employees in customer service are female with the exception of the vice president. Tech support has guys, but none in customer service. I'm not sure what that indicates. Maybe by the end of my tour of duty (three weeks - or so I'm told) I will have figured it out.
This is not a case of old-dog-new-trick, either. I know I could eventually figure this out. It's just that there is no time to really learn. The need is immediate.
Fortunately, I am training with a good friend. We used to work in the same department before she was moved to customer service and I was sent to marketing.
Mary has been very accommodating and kind. She can sense that I am uncomfortable and out of my element and she has done everything she can to make me comfortable short of giving me Valium and an ice pack.
On Friday, I took a call for new service and as I clicked through the screens and tried to find the information I needed while keeping all the correct windows open and pay attention to the customer, I became overwhelmed. I froze. I took the headset off and told Mary she had better finish the call and I sat in the chair we crammed into her cube for me so I could watch her work.
I felt like I let myself down and Mary down. She kept apologizing (a general, empathetic apology) .
She looked at me and suggested we walk out to my car. I had mentioned that I had animal calendars in my car that I thought she might be interested in, so we walked outside for a little break and that helped settle my nerves.
I have never watched the clock so much in my life. My left wrist is going to have bulging muscles because I keep twisting it to see how much longer before the day ends. That is just a miserable feeling. I have never experienced that before. Even when I had issues with my job, I didn't pay attention to the clock. Now, everything is about the clock. How long you stay off the phone. How long your call is. How long you take lunch. How long is your break. When, oh, when can I go home?
I feel like I am in a car hurtling downhill without any brakes on a curvy dirt road through a forest and the only thing anyone has told me is don't hit the trees.
I don't like the sensation of not having control over myself at work. I ran the newspaper, so I was in total control. At this job, I was moved to marketing without anyone consulting me. And I was volunteered for this temporary job without anyone consulting me.
It's not that the company doesn't have the right to do that - they do. It's just weird. Especially for a control freak like me.
Oh well. I'm trying to do the old 12-Step suggestion "act as if" everything is going to be fine and it will be.
I never thought I would miss my cube.

Love at the beginning and the end

I attended both a wedding and a funeral this weekend. Wedding on Saturday. Funeral on Sunday.
Both ceremonies were emotional. One joy-filled, the other deeply sad.
That's why I found it interesting that these two life events shared the same passage of Scripture. (One that happened to be read at my wedding as well).
It is I Corinthians 13:1-13. In case you do not know the words here they are. Some of the most poetic words in the Bible

If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a tinkling symbol.
And if I have prophecy and know all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.
And if I dole out all my goods, and if I deliver my body that I may boast but have not love, nothing I am profited.
Love is long suffering, love is kind, it is not jealous, love does not boast, it is not inflated.
It is not discourteous, it is not selfish, it is not irritable, it does not enumerate the evil.It does not rejoice over the wrong, but rejoices in the truth
It covers all things, it has faith for all things, it hopes in all things, it endures in all things.
Love never falls in ruins; but whether prophecies, they will be abolished; or tongues, they will cease; or knowledge, it will be superseded.
For we know in part and we prophecy in part.
But when the perfect comes, the imperfect will be superseded.
When I was an infant, I spoke as an infant, I reckoned as an infant;
when I became [an adult], I abolished the things of the infant.
For now we see through a mirror in an enigma, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know as also I was fully known.
But now remains faith, hope, love,
these three;
but the greatest of these is love.

Love was the centerpiece of both ceremonies.
Scott and Danielle looked like a fairy tale princess and her prince. Beautiful and handsome, so filled with love that it overflowed the sanctuary. When the ceremony finally ended (it lasted an hour - I told them that I could have been married four times in the time it took them to get hitched once) and they walked up the aisle, I finally relaxed my face muscles. I had been grinning happily the whole time. So much so that my face ached.
The couple served communion to those who wanted to partake which I thought was a particularly touching act on their part. How much closer can the average attendee get to the bride and groom during the ceremony? I resisted the urge to squeeze them both.
I work with Scott, the groom. A tall, handsome fellow, he is a graphic artist or designer who is deeply talented, smart and funny. His best man also is member of our three-person marketing team at work and is equally talented, smart and funny. We usually have quite a good time. Cindy and the boys. Or maybe its the guys and the old lady. I don't know. I do know that working with them has opened my eyes on many levels. So I was happy to be able to share this "event" with them.
The second event was not as joyful. The funeral of Hank - a man who worked for me when I ran the local weekly newspaper - was sad, but sweetly sad. Hank was a wonderful man. You know those people you meet who seem to glow from the inside out? People you identify immediately as good. Hank was one of those people. And his wife Mary is the same way.
They took very good care of each other, tending their marriage like it was the only garden where they could grow food to sustain them. But they did not keep their love to themselves - they shared it with their family, friends, community - the world.
Hank was 81 when he died last week. In December of last year he traveled down south to help rebuild a home damaged by Katrina. Can you imagine?
I can hear Mary calling him darling and I see him looking over his glasses that were always either perched on the end of his nose or dangling by a chord around his neck.
Mary has been treated recently for cancer. In fact, she got sick before he did. They found his after hers.
When I leaned in and kissed Mary at the funeral, I told her how sorry I was and how I thought it was such a sad ending to such a beautiful love story.
"I know, I know," she said to me as she patted me on the arm. "I love you."
For such a tiny word, love is so complicated.
Nothing inspires me the way love does. I was so moved by these two ceremonies - I feel deeply affected by them. In fact, I have continued to think about them and explore in my mind what I witnessed.
But now remains faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

Me and the ocean - friends forever.

The Rinkers go on vacation

The Ump and I went on our longest vacation to date - five days (well, 16 hours were spent on the road).
Our honeymoon was a mere two days. We've been to Pittsburgh (two days) and Colonial Beach (four days), so this was the grandaddy of all vacations for us. No dogs, no Internet, no Woodstock.
It was nice.
We drove to Myrtle Beach where we had rented an oceanfront condo at an extremely reasonable price from a friend. My idea was for us to drive through the night so that we would get there and be able to go directly to the beach. I figured if the Ump could stay up all night driving a snow plow for VDOT that he could drive me to the beach in the middle of the night.
He did very well. It is an eight-hour trip and there was very little traffic - even on I-95.
As a show of solidarity, I stayed awake and talked and sang along with the radio to keep him alert. That worked until about 4:30 a.m. when he said he was fighting sleep too hard. So we pulled off the road and took a nap for about a half hour.
First stop - WAFFLE HOUSE in North Myrtle Beach.
Waffle House is not jut a great place to eat flat, segmented waffles. It is a microcosm of its community. That might be a little too deep - but our breakfast stop did result in some information. We got a tip on where to turn to find our condo and I was reminded that South Carolina doesn't have terribly stringent smoking laws. Of the five of us sitting in the "non-smoking" section - three were smoking.
When I was in elementary school, we went to Myrtle Beach every other year with relatives. We stayed in Litchfield which is south of Myrtle Beach. That area is now a gated-community.
We stayed in North Myrtle Beach which is a little looser with "gentleman's clubs" called things like Crazy Horse and "adult" stores and Hooters mixed right in with the family entertainment and bazillion golf courses, driving ranges and miniature golf courses.
There was a surf store on every corner along with pancake houses and Baptist churches. I am sure that this is some kind of snapshot into the southern psyche - food, religion and nakedness - but I wouldn't know where to start. We only sampled the waffles.
Our plan was to rest, lay low, eat dinner out somewhere every night, shop (my idea) and go to Broadway at the Beach to see the Ripley Aquarium (also my idea).
The aquarium was very cool. They have a moving "power walk" that pulls you into the main part of the aquarium where you can get a close look at sharks and colorful fish. There is one section where the aquarium extends overhead and you can see the bellies of the fish as they swim overhead. Creepiest the manta ray which wore an evil smile beneath its graceful wings. There was a pool where you could reach into the water to touch the manta ray, but it never got close enough for me to reach it and I wasn't about to reach out so far that I could tip right in. One of the staff told us that it happens all the time.
It was mesmerizing to watch the fish swim - sometimes in unison, sometimes narrowly missing each other like they were obeying the traffic signs on an invisible watery highway.
For me, this trip was about getting to see the ocean. I haven't been since 2002 and I was sorely missing the frothy waves and sandy shore. I don't bake in the sun anymore like I used to, but I love to sit under an umbrella and watch the changing tides of the ocean as well as the tide of people who roll by the shore.
Eventually, my parents bought an oceanfront condo in Nags Head and I came to love the solitude of that area which was not as developed as the main part of the Outer Banks. Myrtle Beach is packed. I was on the beach by 7 a.m. to stake my territory. Most folks came out late morning, so early morning was my favorite time of day.
The water in Myrtle is warmer than Nags Head and the sand is much softer. One happy bonus of this trip was smooth feet and heels. I'm thinking about getting a litter box full of sand and putting salt water in it to keep my feet in this condition.
I had a terrific time. I think the Ump did too. He had very low expectations for this trip - he wanted a change of scenery and an opportunity to rest - which he did.
In fact, he would have been just as happy to stay home with the dogs. He fretted about Peanut the entire time we were gone. He knew that Peanut's dog sitter thought that Peanut has put on a little too much weight and he was afraid she wouldn't feed him.
"We're gonna come back and he's going to look like a greyhound," the Ump said one night before we left.
The truth is we have loved Peanut with a little too much food, I told him. "Think of it like this - Peanut is going to a spa where he will be fed green beans as treats and he will get daily walks."
When Peanut returned home from his "vacation," he ignored us for a day. On the second day, when he finally jumped back up in "Daddy's" lap, the Ump told him that we would never go away again and leave him with someone else.
I guess our next vacation is going to have to be in a dog-friendly condo.

The Ump and Pea

This is how the Ump and Peanut spend their evenings. Sick, isn't it? Who would have ever imagined that this 15-pound, grumbly old dog would charm my equally grumbly husband? Maybe that is the connection. They are both grumbly. Both have greying mustaches.
Whatever the case, I love them both.

Like the corners of my mind

I had to dust off the top of the pie safe in our bedroom today and for some reason I opened the door and looked inside.
The name is a misnomer for there are no pies safely stored inside. Inside are a hundred or so CDs and my yearbooks from high school and college.
Something told me to pick up one of those yearbooks, so I selected 1976 - probably my favorite yearbook from high school.
It didn't occur to me until after I started leafing through the pages that the yearbook is 30 years old. Thirty years. How could I be 30 years away from ninth grade? It feels like - well, not yesterday, but certainly not 30 years ago, either.
Of all my yearbooks, this one is the best because the yearbook staff was led by a free-spirited English teacher - Mike Hippler - who was pretty much fresh out of college. I never had him as a teacher, but he was a friend of my mom who was a guidance counselor when I was in the ninth grade, so I got to know him a little.
Once thing that is for certain is that there was no such thing as being PC in 1976. This particular yearbook not only has great candid shots, but it is full of original writings by students on topics from why the SCA was just a big scam to what it was like hanging out in the smoking area. (Imagine that - a place for students to smoke during the school day!)
When I pulled the yearbook out I thought I would just look at the pictures of a couple of friends. Instead, I experienced a through-the-looking-glass moment. My memories received CPR from this well put together annual and the shaggy-haired guys and mini-skirted girls came to life in my head.
My ninth grade picture highlights my lack of hairstyle, my mouth of braces and my first pair of teardrop-shaped gold-rimmed glasses.
I laughed at the "fashion" section which featured platform shoes and sandals, flare-legged and hip-hugging pants and shirts with wild designs. I'm sure I saw Jessica Simpson wearing something that looked exactly like that in People magazine.
1976 was the year of the bicentennial, but that was barely mentioned. There was a double spread of headlines from that time period - Jimmy Hoffa, Olympics etc.
The Eagles were the favorite band and M*A*S*H was on both the favorite and most hated TV show lists. Everyone loved Robert Redford and Barbra Streisand. And for some reason the yearbook staff thought Monty Python had an extra "e" = Pythone.
I read a lot of the things that my friends wrote on the pages. Many were just the "stay as sweet as you are" type signatures that I garnered from kids I admired, but didn't know well. But some of them were achingly wonderful from real friends - only one I have seen since graduating from high school.
Several kids from high school went to Bridgewater College. One of the guys I had a crush on in the ninth grade ended up going to BC and we stayed friends. He frequently brought me home for the weekends when he went to Covington to see his girlfriend. His ninth grade greeting to me in my yearbook was just so nice for a high school boy. Kevin O'Dell Bailey.
My ninth grade year was also the first time I went out on a date. My first date was in September of 1975. It was wonderful. We went to see one of the Pink Panther movies. He wasn't driving yet, but we lived within walking distance of the movie theater and Grandmom picked me up after the movie.
Jim got his driver's license later and we went out in February of 1976 to a Sadie Hawkins dance at his high school. Jim lived in the city and I lived in the county, so we went to different high schools. I did not want to go to this dance because I was very self-conscious - braces, glasses etc. But he kept calling and I finally caved because I really wanted to see him.
Oddly enough, my mom was out of the state on this particular night. So I borrowed her platform shoes and wore my pink pantsuit. Very hot. I know I saw Jessica Simpson wearing it on MTV the other day. Except my pants had a very high waist and an incredibly flared leg.
It was a great date. We started "going together" after that and dated all the way to Thanksgiving of my senior year. He went to college and met some girl and they both dropped out of school. He really didn't want to go to college. I encouraged him to go because I thought my folks would let me marry him if he was a college grad. Oh well.
I could ramble on like this forever, but I will stop for now.
If you happen to be dusting off your bookshelf, I encourage you to pick up that old yearbook and take a look. There will be some sad stories and some happy ones. Some weird things and it might help you remember a time when what was important to you was radically different from the things that matter now.
Kevin and Jim, Susie and Cindy, Mark and Ruddy, Randy and Calvin. They are a lot clearer in my mind right now. I think I'll park them at a picnic table in my mind and visit them again before they take a bow and drop behind my memory curtain until the next time I run across one of my yearbooks.

It's Thursday

Thank you, Nan, for giving me a gentle reminder that there are a few people out there in the blogosphere who notice if I don't grind out a column or two.
It has been since June 20, yet it feels like yesterday.
The Ump and I have been very busy. I don't think we have had an unencumbered weekend since his birthday celebration at the end of April.
Then came the rain. I enjoy a good storm now and then. The sound of driving rain on the roof, even wicked lightning and claps of thunder so deep it resonates in my chest are a welcome change of atmosphere.
What I don't enjoy are the seemingly endless days of cloudy, rainy skies. I would not last in the parts of the globe where night rules the day. I am definitely photosensitive. I need the sun to feel good.
One of my cubemates at work enjoys the rain. Revels in it really. He's 25. What does he know?
The Valley was in desperate need of rain, so I did not complain too loudly. At least I didn't have to spend the evenings watering every plant in sight after a day of evaporation.
Today was gorgeous. One of those after-the-storm kind of days where the humidity was low, but the clouds were still plentiful. The sun made her presence known as well - darting between the clouds.
They were the kind of clouds that my brother and I used to look at and try to identify a shape. I wish that back then I understood how precious spending that kind of time with your kid brother is.
We spent a lot of time fighting and arguing and not appreciating our siblinghood. But there were moments of deep companionship - moments that will drift through the halls of memory and get caught in a ray of light causing me to examine it more closely.
I spent hours drawing and cutting out paper horses and building a castle for Scott (my brother). I made knights for the horses and created epic battles. Our dad worked at a paper mill, so we always had plenty of high grade posterboard on hand.
Recently, in an email, we discussed Myrtle Beach which is where we vacationed as children. Every other year we traveled to Litchfield Beach to stay in a house for a week of close living with various family members. In the case of some, I knew the local librarian better. But by the end of the week relationships had been established and letter writing promised. (Remember writing letters to people. Pen pals, for heaven's sake. Talk about delayed gratification. It took nearly a month to get a letter from my German pen pal.)
The Ump and I are headed to Myrtle Beach in the middle of July for some well-deserved rest. We will suffer separation anxiety over leaving the dogs behind, but I am anticipating some days of glorious freedom and beach roaming.
Maybe I'll even get the opportunity to take the Ump to some of my old stomping grounds, lo these 30 years or so.
We've never been to the beach together, so it will be an adventure to see if the Ump can actually kick back and relax if everything is removed from reach - no school, no farm, no football, no umpiring, no bus driving.
I am sure our trip will be fodder for a column. Maybe two.

How lovely is the lily

I smelled it the instant I stepped from the car.
The sweet, tangy scent swam on the humid evening air, sliding on the warm breeze - an unexpected surprise.
Before I dragged the groceries out of the car, I ran around the side of the house. Its vibrant pink petals atop the rich green stem, the stargazer lily is truly a star among the plants at our home.
I always thought that the stargazer was a lily born in an exotic place. I know the ones in my wedding bouquet came from Holland. They almost did not arrive in time because I was married 11 days after Sept. 11, 2001, and a lot of planes weren't flying then.
I've told the story many times that the one thing I knew for certain about my wedding was that I would carry stargazer lilies. I couldn't picture my dress. Or the cake. But I could picture my bouquet. And, actually, it turned out much better than I imagined.
So when I saw a box of stargazer bulbs at Wal-Mart, I was taken aback. Could I grow my favorite flowers on my own? In my very own flower beds?
Turns out the answer is yes. Stargazers are not an exotic lily, although their colors can be quite tropical looking.
On a Saturday morning when Kenny was at the farm, I planted my six bulbs alongside the house in a place I hoped would not attract attention from the dogs or the legions of squirrels that seemed to be digging everywhere in our yard. I think we have a special breed of squirrels that suffer from memory loss because they seem to be struggling to find the walnuts they buried last year.
Four of the lilies came up fairly quickly. Then a fifth. And, finally, last week, the sixth has poked its head out of the mulch. I don't know if it is going to bloom this year since it is so far behind the rest. It was covered by some extra mulch the Ump had put down in the side flower beds.
The plants budded and then it seemed like forever as the long, slender flower grew and grew. Eventually, I could see a hint of the color and for the past two days I have been waiting for the flower to unfurl.
I drove right by, but she lured me with her sweet fragrance.
As you can tell, I grabbed the camera to take a shot. In a few days maybe there will be multiple flowers to photograph.
I am going to plant a whole bunch more next year - maybe even some different color lilies in a different area. But I am going to very carefully cultivate my stargazer patch and so I can relive one of the happiest days of my life all summer long.

My beautiful stargazer lily. 

Can you spare some change?

In the marketing department, we try to convince people that change is good. More is better. Leave that old slow dial-up behind for faster, better, newer broadband and, oh bytheway, what about wi fi? Are you prepared to go wireless?
If your job has anything to do with technology, you might be more comfortable with the idea of change because change is constant. One upgrade leads to another and so on and so on ad infinitum.
But when you move away from the desk is change as friendly and forward-moving? I feel like I'm clenching my hands and closing my eyes while Fate waves her fickle wand and randomly moves the pieces on my chess board.
My much beloved boss left last Friday. Nancy was a friend too, so I feel bereft on both fronts. It felt like our little department had finally settled into a rhythm. We all dance to different music, but we had achieved harmony sometimes. Will we again? Probably. Just the beat that was Nancy is gone.
In a fit of boldness a couple of weeks ago, I switched pocketbooks. For years I have carried a small purse - some not much bigger than a checkbook. They all had long, thin straps that I could wear comfortable over my shoulder and across my chest. I have very sloped shoulders off which regular bags slide uncomfortably and inconveniently.
Mom and I were in a shop in Lewisburg, W.Va., when I spotted a very light green leather rectangular purse about three times the size of the pocketbook strapped across my chest.
In marketing, this spring onion green is a very hot color. That might be what drew me to it. I am looking at the world through marketing eyes these days.
I bought the purse and Mom bought me the matching wallet.
It is cavernous. Everything from my old purse barely covered the bottom of this bag. I found myself getting frustrated as I groped around trying to find my keys or my sunglasses.
There's a special pocket inside for two cell phones or a cell and a PDA or IPOD or whatever.
I really like the purse, but somehow I feel fake. Like it's a change I didn't really need to make.
Even the Ump noticed the difference. When we left the house the other day he said "Don't forget your lunchbox" pointing at the green purse.
Pretty funny, but I didn't laugh out loud because I still feel unsettled about that damn purse.
And if you think I feel unsettled about that, imagine how I must feel about the whole job issue.
I know everyone says change is good. Maybe. But the best kind of change is an unexpected quarter in the bottom of a cavernous purse.

Telling the story

I was raised in a family of storytellers.
Every meal and gathering were replete with tales of yore. I could describe the farm where my mom visited as a child like I lived it because I have heard the stories so many times. It was at the feet of my mom, grandmother and aunt that I learned how to communicate. Those women fired the imagination that has served me well throughout my life as a writer and communicator.
My father is a storyteller too, but of a different ilk. His stories are often elaborate jokes or tales about funny incidents that are embellished every time he opens his mouth. I learned at his feet too. Dad always said I inherited my mom's intelligence and his ability to (curseword alert - but it is a direct quote) bullshit.
As it turns out, the Ump is a bit of a storyteller himself. I guess that's one of those things we have in common.
However, my storytelling is based on listening. I think his is based more on witnessing the event.
I never really thought about the difference before, but there is one and it could be the difference between men and women. Women get their information for a story from using their various senses. A woman's story is going to have details. Lots of details.
If I find out that someone has fallen ill, my story is going to have all the background on the illness, who is flying in to be at their bedside, who in the family had the same illness, etc.
The Ump might tell me that so-and-so is getting a divorce. He does not know who is getting the house and who is moving out. He doesn't know what's happening to the kids or the business or anything. He doesn't report on whether it is a trial separation or a real divorce. No details.
However, ask him to tell you a story from when he used to go out with his friends after a football game and he can give your more details that you ever wanted to know. But that is because he lived them, not because he ferreted out the information.
I look beneath the surface level of what we observe and try to find out why the event happened. I try to imagine what is going to happen next.
I think that is what made me a good journalist. I always try to think forward, predict the future or prevent problems. As a child, I became very hypervigilant in order to prevent arguments between my parents. If I knew they were going to argue about a bill, then I would hide the mail so that it wouldn't get found until after the evening meal. I did that because I could see how that story was going to end.
Now, as a journalist, I could make the stories end the way I wanted them to end, but I could tell it in a way that I felt would make the reader fully understand the situation. I tried to find all the details I could and, when the situation called for it, I allowed the reader to make up his own mind.
If it was a feature story, I had more leeway - more room to spin the tale.
Recently, I got the opportunity to work on my company's corporate museum that tells the story of the birth of the company in the early 1900s up to the 1960s.
So that visitors would understand the story, I had to learn about the history of the company and about the museum pieces and how they functioned. I didn't want to just sit things out on a pedestal to look at, I wanted to create a place that told a story and I think that is what I accomplished with the help of some very talented people.
It was a good assignment for me.
I miss working at the newspaper because I think there are many stories in our community that aren't being told anymore.
I guess that's why I am writing here.

Milestones

The phone rang and when I answered it, I heard Olivia's cheery voice on the other end.
After a few opening pleasantries, she got down to business. "How do you make spaghetti bake?" she asked. "What temperature and how long do you keep it in the oven?"
I told her how I make it and when the call ended I sat down in the chair beside my kitchen window and looked at fading blooms on the weeping cherry next door.
When I moved away from home, I frequently called my mother and grandmother for instructions on how to make certain meals - it was a connection with home. Familiar food sometimes made home seem closer.
To have Olivia call me and ask the same kind of questions I asked at her age was a sweet surprise. I was pleased she called and, well, somehow proud, I think. I called my mom and grandmom not just because they were excellent cooks, but because I loved and respected them. Could Olivia feel that way about me?
Technically, I am Olivia's stepmother, but she was already 18 when I married her Dad, so I really was her dad's wife more than a parent.
In the past five years, my role in Olivia's life has changed and evolved and grown. I think I have become an advisor and mediator, interpreter of her sometimes inscrutable father and I have become the one who reminds her of birthdays and other important dates. We have settled into a comfortable friendship that warms my heart.
Last weekend, Olivia graduated from Radford. We made the trek south on Saturday morning, arriving in time to pick up Olivia, her boyfriend and her cousin and his fiance. Olivia looked radiant. It might have been the chilly weather, but I think it was that she was excited to graduate.
Following the ceremony, we returned to the small house on Claytor Lake that she shares with her boyfriend. Olivia wanted all of her family to break bread together in celebration of her milestone achievement. We had a lovely time and enjoyed sitting on her screened in porch watching boats race on the glassy water.
It was a big week for the Rinker family with the Ump turning 50 (officially) on Monday and Olivia graduating on Saturday.
My joy came from sharing these important milestones with two people I love dearly. It was a good week, indeed.

There she is! You wouldn't believe how many Radford graduates had long brown hair and wore sunglasses. 

What do those guys wear under their kilts? 

Dad and daughter. 

Olivia - the graduate. 

Birthday bash or bust

It was a stealth operation of the highest order.
The Ump's 50th birthday would happen in 2006 and I was determined to give him a party to remember.
Unfortunately, many speed bumps dotted the road to a Happy Birthday, not the least of which was that I would have to greatly manipulate the truth to try to pull off a surprise birthday party.
There are very few things I don't tell the Ump - and most of the things I keep to myself aren't terribly consequential. So cooking elaborate lies and maintaining them for months turned out to be quite stressful. I don't know how Congress does it.
At the beginning of the year I secured the perfect location for a birthday party. Not far off Route 11, there is a family "cabin" that is used for different gatherings. Not my family, mind you, but a rather prominent - and especially large - local family. The cabin looks rustic but it has every amenity and then some. Large rooms with large tables that can accommodate dozens of people at a time. The perfect place.
I made up my mind early on that I would hire a caterer for the event because I wanted to invite about 50 people and I didn't want to spend the entire time cooking and cleaning.
The flip side of that coin is that catering a meal is not cheap. And I knew that Kenny would not want me to spend a bunch of money on him - especially since he has been working so hard to get us to a virtually debt-free (minus the house) state.
Fortunately, my job the past two months has required me to spend many extra hours at work - including two full Saturdays. I made enough in overtime to keep me from raiding our savings or putting anything on a credit card.
The most delicate work that had to be done was weaving a believable story that would get him to the cabin without figuring out what was going on.
In several stages, I created this multi-layered story with the help of his best friend Marty. I love Marty, but he is not the best conspirator (ask his wife!). However, he really tried hard and I think did an excellent job, even making a few embellishments of his own.
So the story was that I would have to work on this particular Saturday. And Marty and Roger wanted to take Kenny out for a special birthday dinner on that day. This was a delicate matter because I knew that the Ump would expect me to be ticked off that the guys were taking him to dinner without me. But I needed him to "go" so I made sure he understood how stressed I was about finishing my work project.
Then I had to come up with a reason to get him to the cabin. A friend of ours who is getting married in a few short weeks also happens to be a member of the large family that owns the cabin. So weeks before my event, I told the Ump that there was going to be a bridal shower at the cabin in the afternoon and that I needed to attend. I said that I would leave work and go straight to the cabin since the guys were going out to dinner.
The rest of the story was that Marty's wife was going to be out of town (true) and that she had a present she wanted Marty to drop off at the shower on his way to take the Ump to dinner (false).
I thought this was particularly clever because the Ump would not be suspicious when he spotted familiar cars at the cabin.
Complicating everything was the fact that I had to invite people who are around the Ump all the time and somehow keep them from spilling the beans.
I felt like the guy on the Ed Sullivan show who kept a dozen plates spinning on long poles at the same time, running back and forth between them to keep the plates from falling and breaking.
I can't say how many times I almost gave it all away myself by saying something like "Oh, I didn't mail Olivia her rent money because we'll see her this weekend."
But the thing about the plate spinning guy was that while he kept those plates going for quite a while, inevitably one or more of the plates hit the floor.
After weeks of plotting, the day before the party finally arrived. I was feeling especially proud of myself because the work project had ended ahead of time and everyone was pleased with the results. I could have the party with a completely clean conscience. Well, except for all those little white lies.
The Ump had a game in Page County that night and didn't get home until after 8 p.m. I was in the kitchen fixing him a late dinner as he got out of his umpiring gear. From the laundry room he asked me what time the bridal shower was going to be.
"Five o'clock," I told him, smirking as I chopped the lettuce. "I'm going there straight from the museum."
"Who is giving this shower?" he asked and there was something about his tone that I just didn't like. I did not dare look up. I kept chopping the lettuce for his salad.
"I don't know. Some of the women from the family. Christina is the one who invited me," I said, continuing to work on the salad.
There was a pause as he came around the corner and stood at the stove. "Are you planning something?"
ARGH! My heart sank. Can I convince him nothing is going on? How can I do that? It is one thing to create this elaborate fairy tale, but it is an entirely different matter to stare someone in the face and lie.
"Are you planning a party for my birthday?" he asked, and I could hear smile in his voice.
What could I do? I looked at him and steeled myself to shoot lies at him like a machine gun, peppering him with enough denial to persuade him to forget about the party idea.
I couldn't do it.
I wanted to so bad. But I could tell by his face that it was over.
I burst into tears.
"Don't cry. Don't cry," he said, immediately alarmed by my reaction. He reached out to put his arms around me and I punched him in the stomach. He stepped back a little.
"It hit me when I was driving over the mountain," he said. "It was like a vision. I was thinking about Saturday and what I had to do and suddenly everything just fell into place. It just came to me. I wasn't thinking about anything specific - I just suddenly knew it. Knew you were planning a party."
I can't say how deflated I felt. I had carefully nurtured a little flame into a full-blown, full-on flicker and in one unfortunate trip by himself with time to think, the Ump doused my flame.
I cried off and on for a half hour.
He ordered me not to tell anyone else. He wanted folks to think he was surprised because they were excited about surprising him. Why he couldn't have come to that conclusion for me is a mystery. Had the roles been reversed, I would have pretended that I did not suspect anything. In fact, I have done that twice - not that he had any idea I knew. Oops.
The party was great anyway. After we ate an excellent dinner, we went to the longest table and his friends took turns roasting him. It was an Ump lovefest. I think his parents may have enjoyed it more than the Ump did, but he did enjoy it.
I told one of my favorite Ump stories, but I couldn't tell the gathering of my feelings because I get too emotional and that would have been a definite downer.
But I can write them.
I threw the Ump a surprise birthday party (which he really didn't know anything about) for his 45th birthday. We been dating less than three months. I did surprise him that time.
Truthfully, I am the one who was surprised. I could not have imagined at that party five years ago where my life would be today. On our first date, I felt like something very special was happening. But I had been fooled before and I was in no hurry.
So here we are five years later and my life is so much richer. By marrying the Ump, I have my own family which includes my stepdaughter Olivia. She is a real treasure. I was so worried about being someone she could accept in her father's life. Because she went to college a couple of weeks before we married, it took a little longer for us to define our relationship, but she always supported the Ump and I as a couple. Something that meant a lot to him. And to me.
I love my in-laws. They remind me of my Dad's family. Country folk. Salt-of-the-earth. Two people who have welcomed me and made me feel like part of the family.
If I could have said these words the other night, I would have had to choke back tears because these things mean so much to me. Listening to his friends recall stories was great, but it was even more touching to hear how much they respect him as a teacher, as a friend, as a good man.
My heart swells with pride just thinking about the man he is and how fortunate I am that some strange guy we both know suggested that the Ump ask me out. One casual comment led to the most significant event of my life in the backyard of my friend's house on a cool September evening in 2001.
Happy birthday, Kenny. I could not love you more.