Loki Lyesmith
"In the aftermath of Battle, I went into the Temple,
I found a Baby, Small for a Giant's offspring.
Abandoned.
Suffering.
Left to die."
Thor - Odin recounts how he found Loki among the Frost Giants
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Saturday, January 21, 2012
My Loki
Archie Goodwin - On The Cushings
It seems to be a particularly well placed Noun, but since it can easily be confused with the sound of "cushions", a little dog might think this whole worry and fret might be a good thing.
Cushings is not a good thing. In June 2009, I did not know that the Pancreatitis Archie has had since 2004 has caused other problems, such as the stopped up gall bladder and the IBS. Both of those problems have lead to very tiny microscopic tumors in his liver and gall bladder - aka gall stones. Urinary Tract Infection and the vomiting are the symptoms we treated with Baytril and Metronidazole, and a low dose pain medication. That was the short term. The Long Term Treatment was Prescription Diet food for IBS, low fat every thing.
ArchieBloodTestResults
It has been 18 months since we settled the last flare up, in July 2010, and as you can see by the above chart, the progress is holding steady, an increase of 227 in his ALT every 3 months. That's what is was the Summer of 2010, and the trend remains the same. The Treatment Protocol has changed just a bit, even though the symptoms are identical: Clovimax for both Urinary Tract Infection and IBS, 40mg Asperin for pain. The newest behavior is whimpering and crying in his sleep, so I am guessing the asperin is barely touching his pain.
I'm just not sure where to go with this, because it never dawned on me that I would actually have to face the end of his life. He has been my extension for 11 years, 5 months, 24 days and counting. If he ever learned to talk I would be ruined.
What is the next step? How many flare ups and treatment series does it take to destroy a dog's liver? As of right now, the Veterinary costs are running $250/flare up, $30/month in Prescription Food. That is not unreasonable, and he is taking the pills without fuss. So far we are running 18 months between Flare Ups so this might be just an annoyance until he reaches 20. *Yes, I am getting every last drop out of him**
For now, we treat. I will keep him comfortable and free from pain. He's a tad bit slower, but none the worse for wear!
Cushings is not a good thing. In June 2009, I did not know that the Pancreatitis Archie has had since 2004 has caused other problems, such as the stopped up gall bladder and the IBS. Both of those problems have lead to very tiny microscopic tumors in his liver and gall bladder - aka gall stones. Urinary Tract Infection and the vomiting are the symptoms we treated with Baytril and Metronidazole, and a low dose pain medication. That was the short term. The Long Term Treatment was Prescription Diet food for IBS, low fat every thing.
ArchieBloodTestResults
It has been 18 months since we settled the last flare up, in July 2010, and as you can see by the above chart, the progress is holding steady, an increase of 227 in his ALT every 3 months. That's what is was the Summer of 2010, and the trend remains the same. The Treatment Protocol has changed just a bit, even though the symptoms are identical: Clovimax for both Urinary Tract Infection and IBS, 40mg Asperin for pain. The newest behavior is whimpering and crying in his sleep, so I am guessing the asperin is barely touching his pain.
I'm just not sure where to go with this, because it never dawned on me that I would actually have to face the end of his life. He has been my extension for 11 years, 5 months, 24 days and counting. If he ever learned to talk I would be ruined.
What is the next step? How many flare ups and treatment series does it take to destroy a dog's liver? As of right now, the Veterinary costs are running $250/flare up, $30/month in Prescription Food. That is not unreasonable, and he is taking the pills without fuss. So far we are running 18 months between Flare Ups so this might be just an annoyance until he reaches 20. *Yes, I am getting every last drop out of him**
For now, we treat. I will keep him comfortable and free from pain. He's a tad bit slower, but none the worse for wear!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Update on Archie
We had the ultrasound today to determine what the next steps are to fix this enlarged liver and adrenal glands. Turns out everything is enlarged due to a bad pancreas and a stopped up gall bladder - what a relief - no tumors no cancer.
There is, however, early stages of Cushings, but because we have caught it now, it is completely treatable.
Archie is already feeling better with pain meds, anti nausea and antibiotics. He ran down the hallway this afternoon for the first time in 8 days. He jumped onto the couch and he ate his dinner - both firsts in about 4 days. So at least I know that I caught whatever this is early enough to fix it.
Good news all the way around. It's a good thing I let the Banfield folks in Vegas talk me into a Premium Health Plan - I only paid $490 out of pocket for a $1200 vet bill.
Monday, July 12, 2010
The Amazing Transformation of Archie Goodwin – April 2007
The Amazing Transformation of Mr. Archie Goodwin
Or… How Vegas has been better to my dog than it has to me!
Eight months ago I packed up my belongings and my dog and traipsed across Death Valley to the City of Sin. At that time, it was a quest for survival as I watched my thriving little consulting business get choked into oblivion.
Mr. Archie Goodwin had been a sheltered, fat little spoiled Chihuahua. He had a nanny to walk him. He had a neighbor Chihuahua to play with him. He was never required to be socialized beyond the limited contact with the outside world than was absolutely necessary.
Archie had acquired a severe large-dog aggression which stemmed from being attacked by a 2 year old Australian Shepherd in late 2004. From that point on, he was viciously fearful of any and all large dogs. After a time, that aggression branched out to all dogs over 20 pounds. Finally, just before the drive across the desert, it had grown to encompass any dog larger than himself.
When we got to Las Vegas, I immediately began a search for a dog sitter. I had become accustomed to indulging Archie's anti-social behavior. He loved the dog sitter and was pretty much a happy camper for the first 3 months we spent here in Las Vegas.
Around month four, there was a change in our financial situation and I could no longer afford the $125/week it was costing for Archie's dog sitter. I was in PetsMart one day and saw the PetsHotel. I found that it was significantly less money than the dog sitter and it was on the way to my office. My hours had changed and I was now able to drop him at the hotel at 7am each morning.
After the requisite round of shots and vet visits, Archie began day care 2 days a week. Hs first week in Day Care, Archie weighed a whopping 18.6 pounds. I slowly worked him up to 3, then 4 and eventually 5 days a week of day care. This option allowed Archie 1 hour of play time in an air conditioned atrium with other small dogs. At first it was very hard on him – he was essentially forced to socialize with other dogs.
At about the one month mark, Archie started to blossom and become a bit of a social butterfly. So I decided to start introducing some day camp days during the week. I started with 2 days a week in day camp and 3 in day care. I noticed a significant change in him immediately. He was happy, alert, well behaved and healthy. Eventually he worked up to daily day camp and the official social butterfly of the PetsHotel. With 3 girls to keep him company he has become quite the lothario of the Hotel! Archie is not allowed to bark at home – I have a strict "No Barking" policy and have worked hard at instilling the command in him. At the Hotel, however, he barks all day, continuously. It seems to be part of his character!! He still doesn't bark at home, so maybe it's good he gets al the barking out at Day Camp!
At the end of July, Archie had been in Day Care/Camp for a full 4 months and he seemed thinner. One evening after check out, I weighed him and was floored. I took him off the scale and reset the computer – weighed him again – and literally cried out in joy. Archie weighed 12.6 pounds! By mid-August, he has weighed in at 11.4 pounds!!!
I am completely aghast at the transformation. The PetsHotel has changed my angry fat little anti-social dog, in a sleek, loving, well adjusted social butterfly. He is well behaved and very snuggly.
Or… How Vegas has been better to my dog than it has to me!
Eight months ago I packed up my belongings and my dog and traipsed across Death Valley to the City of Sin. At that time, it was a quest for survival as I watched my thriving little consulting business get choked into oblivion.
Mr. Archie Goodwin had been a sheltered, fat little spoiled Chihuahua. He had a nanny to walk him. He had a neighbor Chihuahua to play with him. He was never required to be socialized beyond the limited contact with the outside world than was absolutely necessary.
Archie had acquired a severe large-dog aggression which stemmed from being attacked by a 2 year old Australian Shepherd in late 2004. From that point on, he was viciously fearful of any and all large dogs. After a time, that aggression branched out to all dogs over 20 pounds. Finally, just before the drive across the desert, it had grown to encompass any dog larger than himself.
When we got to Las Vegas, I immediately began a search for a dog sitter. I had become accustomed to indulging Archie's anti-social behavior. He loved the dog sitter and was pretty much a happy camper for the first 3 months we spent here in Las Vegas.
Around month four, there was a change in our financial situation and I could no longer afford the $125/week it was costing for Archie's dog sitter. I was in PetsMart one day and saw the PetsHotel. I found that it was significantly less money than the dog sitter and it was on the way to my office. My hours had changed and I was now able to drop him at the hotel at 7am each morning.
After the requisite round of shots and vet visits, Archie began day care 2 days a week. Hs first week in Day Care, Archie weighed a whopping 18.6 pounds. I slowly worked him up to 3, then 4 and eventually 5 days a week of day care. This option allowed Archie 1 hour of play time in an air conditioned atrium with other small dogs. At first it was very hard on him – he was essentially forced to socialize with other dogs.
At about the one month mark, Archie started to blossom and become a bit of a social butterfly. So I decided to start introducing some day camp days during the week. I started with 2 days a week in day camp and 3 in day care. I noticed a significant change in him immediately. He was happy, alert, well behaved and healthy. Eventually he worked up to daily day camp and the official social butterfly of the PetsHotel. With 3 girls to keep him company he has become quite the lothario of the Hotel! Archie is not allowed to bark at home – I have a strict "No Barking" policy and have worked hard at instilling the command in him. At the Hotel, however, he barks all day, continuously. It seems to be part of his character!! He still doesn't bark at home, so maybe it's good he gets al the barking out at Day Camp!
At the end of July, Archie had been in Day Care/Camp for a full 4 months and he seemed thinner. One evening after check out, I weighed him and was floored. I took him off the scale and reset the computer – weighed him again – and literally cried out in joy. Archie weighed 12.6 pounds! By mid-August, he has weighed in at 11.4 pounds!!!
I am completely aghast at the transformation. The PetsHotel has changed my angry fat little anti-social dog, in a sleek, loving, well adjusted social butterfly. He is well behaved and very snuggly.
Harvesting with Mom
My Grandmother died September 29, 2000. After 15 years of secretly practicing, quietly reading and studying, I attended my first public ritual in January 2001.
Mom was pissed.
She didn't talk to me for a couple of weeks.
Over the years Mom has become more accepting, to the point of celebrating Yule, specifically for me. It works out perfectly because I avoid family gatherings like the Wicked Witch avoids water.
Mom has made a concerted effort to channel her witchy ways into New Age philosophies. That is until she met her new friend.
Mom made the mistake (or misstep) of telling her new friend that her mother was a witch and her daughter is a witch. That is how we ended up in Psychic Eye on Ventura Blvd yesterday afternoon.
As we entered the shop, Mom says to me, "The spell isn't working, we need another candle." My purpose for visiting the book store for Handfasting books was immediately over ridden by my mother's new intentions. She had brought me here to tweak the spell she had been working.
Well, not 'working'. More like 'directing'. Mom and her friend use me to sound off their spell ideas. I probably should note for posterity that I do this under duress. When you have a Witch for a Mother, a Grandmother and a Sister, saying no to spell working of any kind is never permitted. We were raised ….. differently. We couldn't start a spell unless there was a very good reason, and only after long months of meditation and reflection, only then would we be allowed to consider "directing" the actions of our Querant. Being in this store, not to mention in the store together, was something Gran would highly disapprove of. As far as Gran was concerned, there was never enough meditation and reflection prior to spell working.
I started walking around the store looking at all the items. Mom gave me some details about the spell "not working". I started back tracking to 3 months ago when she first started the spell and the path she and her friend had followed to this point. I walked past a table of books and my hand knocked one to the floor, cover side down. I picked it up and discovered the Hand-fasting book I needed. I turned to Mom and she looked at me with surprise in her eyes. "I have to find the ladies room," she said. "You get your things and when I get back we can finish the spell."
I had two very important intentions fighting for first position in my mind. Lady Sankofa's wedding in 15 days, which I was witnessing and acting as Maid of Honor, and Mom's spell. When the book hit the floor and Mom saw the title, she realized I was going to have a hard time working both intentions at once. I wandered around the store, looking, touching, reading, thinking.
I started a collection of items at the front counter, leaving my hands free to examine anything I might need. I placed one last item on the counter and saw that all the Hand-fasting/Lady Sankofa business was complete.
A note on the set up of Psychic Eye: The layout of inventory has lost all semblance of logic for a Witch. Spell working items are separated by full spans of the store. Parchment and Ink are on one side, oils and herbs on the other and candles tucked away far in the back. Clearly, a Witch had to have firm intentions to gather the appropriate materials. I'd like to believe the shop is facilitating the art of "harvesting" but we all know this is fallacy.
As I walked around the store, I realized that as the candle waned, so did the efficacy of the spell – for whatever reason. About 2 weeks prior to this day, I had the funky feeling that Mom's new friend had some very advanced training in Witchcraft. Everytime she changed the configuration of her altar, I felt it. My reasoning for this was because of Mom. I decided to "start over" by refreshing the spell ingredients – new candle, new parchment, new oil.
I had tracked down the ink and parchment and was searching the store for the magical oils when I found Mom fingering a beautiful Angel wind chime. "Ok, I have most of the stuff *** need's, let's talk about the spell." I tore Mom away from the Angels, and focused her attention on the Ostrich and Pheasant quills. "What are you doing?" Mom asked. "Foraging" I replied. "Pick a quill for her", I said.
Mom started asking what harvesting and foresting was. I told her we were City Witches, we forage in the shops because we don't have the convenience of a woods or mineral deposit in our back yard. I had a flashback to 11 years old and explaining my Algebra homework to Mom. As I said the words, I could feel Gran frowning above and behind my shoulders.
By now, we were standing in front of the herb jars. I got an oil for her friend to anoint the candle, and turned just as Mom was taking the Wormwood jar from the shelf. To my complete shock and surprise….. or is that shock and awe?
"What are you doing with that?" I asked.
"We need herbs to sprinkle on the candle," she replied.
"Oh?" my eyebrows have disappeared into my hairline. The back of my neck is set on fire as I feel Gran's fury rising.
"That's what the witches do when we go to see them," she says quietly. The look in her eyes tells me she considers them to be "Other" witches….. not like us … not like Gran.
I am frozen in place.
"What herbs do they use, and who are these witches?" I ask while examining a bundle of Sage.
"The store you sent us to!" Mom says incredulously. "You told us to get the supplies at a store and we meet at Pan Pipes."
"Meet?" I ask. "Mom that was months ago, how often are you meeting there?"
"I don't know….." she looks away and picks up another herb jar. I can't see the label but it was on the shelf above the Cornflower. Great….it was probably Belladonna. "… we meet there at least once a week."
The irony here is that Pan Pipes – the one from the early 90's – was a location I tried to get to so that I could attend ritual and "come out of the closet". My Grandmother was fiercely opposed to any of "the girls" letting on that they were, could be, or were ever thought of as witches. It was part of the family secret. We don't talk about what Granny brews in the tea pot, the only witches are from the Wizard of Oz and we all know what happened to her.
I am thinking about how pissed Gran would be if she knew Mom was going to the very store front Gran had intercepted, detoured and downright barred me from attending nearly 15 years earlier, when Mom decides to show me the witches and the herbs.
We are standing in the back of the store and on opposite sides of the room. Mom threw the images into the space between us. You have to understand that all of this happens in a matter of milliseconds, but the detail is vibrant. I recognize each of the witches from my previous trips to Pan Pipes, but Mom's friend is curiously absent. There is however, a rather obvious presence that is out beyond the line of vision. Familiar and very hostile.
Mom came around the shelf with all the candles. "You should be more careful," I said. "Don't worry," she said, "I leave when I feel them coming."
"You know it's herbs Gran told us to stay away from, do you remember?" I asked. Mom gave me a strange look, and she said no. "She didn't want me using oils," Mom said quietly. My mind started spinning. Gran kept me away from herbs and Mom away from oils. My sister was steered away from cards, and as Mom and I walked out the door with our purchases, I realized Gran was pushing her away from the Tarot.
We spoke briefly on what her friend needed to do, and what intentions Mom was helping her put into the candle. She gave me a hug and thanked me for helping her.
Mom drove away and I thought about how lucky we are. There are very few mothers and daughters who can forage in the city in this modern day. I'm beginning to feel more and more that Gran was wrong to hide witchcraft from us, especially since she was so well practiced herself.
I think about the "parties" Gran would put together for us in the Summer. The special Parties that took place on Special Days. Gran had me "set the table" with Special Dishes and Candles. Grampa would have me bring him his Special Smells from the tin can in the drawer of his desk. Gran created a new tradition for us – one that had no connection at all with Gardner's Wicca or Sander's Witchcraft. It was truly a Family Tradition, passed from one generation to the next for the last 450 years, across an ocean and traversing 2 continents.
There are times when I have to wonder if our Coven lost it's High Priest when my Grandfather died, and just never recovered from the blow. Naturally all things that would remind us of him were banished from our reality. Magic, witches, spells, candles and incense would surely have been relegated to the deepest pits of hell, simply because they were such a source of Family Joy. I also wonder if in my Grandmother's Family Tradition, the High Priest of the Family was responsible for dedications and initiations. My Grandfather was able to initiate me at age 11, 2 years earlier than my Mother and Aunt. My Sister was never initiated.
And so, it is Mom and I who forage for ingredients to assist our friends in special "prayers" to bring a new love or help find that job.
Mom was pissed.
She didn't talk to me for a couple of weeks.
Over the years Mom has become more accepting, to the point of celebrating Yule, specifically for me. It works out perfectly because I avoid family gatherings like the Wicked Witch avoids water.
Mom has made a concerted effort to channel her witchy ways into New Age philosophies. That is until she met her new friend.
Mom made the mistake (or misstep) of telling her new friend that her mother was a witch and her daughter is a witch. That is how we ended up in Psychic Eye on Ventura Blvd yesterday afternoon.
As we entered the shop, Mom says to me, "The spell isn't working, we need another candle." My purpose for visiting the book store for Handfasting books was immediately over ridden by my mother's new intentions. She had brought me here to tweak the spell she had been working.
Well, not 'working'. More like 'directing'. Mom and her friend use me to sound off their spell ideas. I probably should note for posterity that I do this under duress. When you have a Witch for a Mother, a Grandmother and a Sister, saying no to spell working of any kind is never permitted. We were raised ….. differently. We couldn't start a spell unless there was a very good reason, and only after long months of meditation and reflection, only then would we be allowed to consider "directing" the actions of our Querant. Being in this store, not to mention in the store together, was something Gran would highly disapprove of. As far as Gran was concerned, there was never enough meditation and reflection prior to spell working.
I started walking around the store looking at all the items. Mom gave me some details about the spell "not working". I started back tracking to 3 months ago when she first started the spell and the path she and her friend had followed to this point. I walked past a table of books and my hand knocked one to the floor, cover side down. I picked it up and discovered the Hand-fasting book I needed. I turned to Mom and she looked at me with surprise in her eyes. "I have to find the ladies room," she said. "You get your things and when I get back we can finish the spell."
I had two very important intentions fighting for first position in my mind. Lady Sankofa's wedding in 15 days, which I was witnessing and acting as Maid of Honor, and Mom's spell. When the book hit the floor and Mom saw the title, she realized I was going to have a hard time working both intentions at once. I wandered around the store, looking, touching, reading, thinking.
I started a collection of items at the front counter, leaving my hands free to examine anything I might need. I placed one last item on the counter and saw that all the Hand-fasting/Lady Sankofa business was complete.
A note on the set up of Psychic Eye: The layout of inventory has lost all semblance of logic for a Witch. Spell working items are separated by full spans of the store. Parchment and Ink are on one side, oils and herbs on the other and candles tucked away far in the back. Clearly, a Witch had to have firm intentions to gather the appropriate materials. I'd like to believe the shop is facilitating the art of "harvesting" but we all know this is fallacy.
As I walked around the store, I realized that as the candle waned, so did the efficacy of the spell – for whatever reason. About 2 weeks prior to this day, I had the funky feeling that Mom's new friend had some very advanced training in Witchcraft. Everytime she changed the configuration of her altar, I felt it. My reasoning for this was because of Mom. I decided to "start over" by refreshing the spell ingredients – new candle, new parchment, new oil.
I had tracked down the ink and parchment and was searching the store for the magical oils when I found Mom fingering a beautiful Angel wind chime. "Ok, I have most of the stuff *** need's, let's talk about the spell." I tore Mom away from the Angels, and focused her attention on the Ostrich and Pheasant quills. "What are you doing?" Mom asked. "Foraging" I replied. "Pick a quill for her", I said.
Mom started asking what harvesting and foresting was. I told her we were City Witches, we forage in the shops because we don't have the convenience of a woods or mineral deposit in our back yard. I had a flashback to 11 years old and explaining my Algebra homework to Mom. As I said the words, I could feel Gran frowning above and behind my shoulders.
By now, we were standing in front of the herb jars. I got an oil for her friend to anoint the candle, and turned just as Mom was taking the Wormwood jar from the shelf. To my complete shock and surprise….. or is that shock and awe?
"What are you doing with that?" I asked.
"We need herbs to sprinkle on the candle," she replied.
"Oh?" my eyebrows have disappeared into my hairline. The back of my neck is set on fire as I feel Gran's fury rising.
"That's what the witches do when we go to see them," she says quietly. The look in her eyes tells me she considers them to be "Other" witches….. not like us … not like Gran.
I am frozen in place.
"What herbs do they use, and who are these witches?" I ask while examining a bundle of Sage.
"The store you sent us to!" Mom says incredulously. "You told us to get the supplies at a store and we meet at Pan Pipes."
"Meet?" I ask. "Mom that was months ago, how often are you meeting there?"
"I don't know….." she looks away and picks up another herb jar. I can't see the label but it was on the shelf above the Cornflower. Great….it was probably Belladonna. "… we meet there at least once a week."
The irony here is that Pan Pipes – the one from the early 90's – was a location I tried to get to so that I could attend ritual and "come out of the closet". My Grandmother was fiercely opposed to any of "the girls" letting on that they were, could be, or were ever thought of as witches. It was part of the family secret. We don't talk about what Granny brews in the tea pot, the only witches are from the Wizard of Oz and we all know what happened to her.
I am thinking about how pissed Gran would be if she knew Mom was going to the very store front Gran had intercepted, detoured and downright barred me from attending nearly 15 years earlier, when Mom decides to show me the witches and the herbs.
We are standing in the back of the store and on opposite sides of the room. Mom threw the images into the space between us. You have to understand that all of this happens in a matter of milliseconds, but the detail is vibrant. I recognize each of the witches from my previous trips to Pan Pipes, but Mom's friend is curiously absent. There is however, a rather obvious presence that is out beyond the line of vision. Familiar and very hostile.
Mom came around the shelf with all the candles. "You should be more careful," I said. "Don't worry," she said, "I leave when I feel them coming."
"You know it's herbs Gran told us to stay away from, do you remember?" I asked. Mom gave me a strange look, and she said no. "She didn't want me using oils," Mom said quietly. My mind started spinning. Gran kept me away from herbs and Mom away from oils. My sister was steered away from cards, and as Mom and I walked out the door with our purchases, I realized Gran was pushing her away from the Tarot.
We spoke briefly on what her friend needed to do, and what intentions Mom was helping her put into the candle. She gave me a hug and thanked me for helping her.
Mom drove away and I thought about how lucky we are. There are very few mothers and daughters who can forage in the city in this modern day. I'm beginning to feel more and more that Gran was wrong to hide witchcraft from us, especially since she was so well practiced herself.
I think about the "parties" Gran would put together for us in the Summer. The special Parties that took place on Special Days. Gran had me "set the table" with Special Dishes and Candles. Grampa would have me bring him his Special Smells from the tin can in the drawer of his desk. Gran created a new tradition for us – one that had no connection at all with Gardner's Wicca or Sander's Witchcraft. It was truly a Family Tradition, passed from one generation to the next for the last 450 years, across an ocean and traversing 2 continents.
There are times when I have to wonder if our Coven lost it's High Priest when my Grandfather died, and just never recovered from the blow. Naturally all things that would remind us of him were banished from our reality. Magic, witches, spells, candles and incense would surely have been relegated to the deepest pits of hell, simply because they were such a source of Family Joy. I also wonder if in my Grandmother's Family Tradition, the High Priest of the Family was responsible for dedications and initiations. My Grandfather was able to initiate me at age 11, 2 years earlier than my Mother and Aunt. My Sister was never initiated.
And so, it is Mom and I who forage for ingredients to assist our friends in special "prayers" to bring a new love or help find that job.
Canadian Thanksgiving
It wasn't until I was in the Military, on my first base assignment, that I discovered Canadian Thanksgiving occurs in October.
My entire life, I was lead to believe that September 21 was the day Canada celebrated Thanksgiving. Every year, for all of my life, two things were sure to happen in September: I went back to school and I went to Granny and Grampa's cottage for Canadian Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving in my family was very important. Both my grandparents, born in 1918 and 1922, grew up in Canada, served their country for 20+years, and struck off on the open road for Las Vegas Nevada to find their fortune – tow headed girls packed into the back seat. They brought with them their entire lives, and tucked neatly into the various suitcases were centuries of recipes and traditions passed from mother to daughter, mother to son, father to daughter and father to son for over 400 years. That is, 400 years that I have been able to trace.
Canadian Thanksgiving was done differently than American Thanksgiving. We used Canadian dishes, we lit Canadian candles, we sang Canadian songs (the Anthem was curiously missing from the line up), and we always, without fail, had turkey with Canadian Stuffing.
Ah, Canadian Stuffing, the center piece of Canadian Thanksgiving. I hated it. It had all sorts of yucky foreign things that you would only discover upon chewing. By then it was too late. Whatever that squishy thing was, it was going down, whether you liked it or not. Canadian Thanksgiving involved far too much brown sugar, maple syrup, and the dreaded baked acorn squash.
Every year, my sister and I would spend 3 days with Granny & Grampa preparing the Stuffing. First, my sister and I would tear 6 loaves of bread, 3 wheat and 3 white, into bite size pieces. Granny would season the pieces with salt, pepper and Canadian herbs. We would wrap the bowl in a dry towel and place it in the fridge.
For the rest of the day, we would paint with Grampa, or we would play checkers and chess, or we would go for a long walk.
At sunset, Grampa would start the barbeque and Granny would prepare steaks. After dinner, Grampa would light a fire and his pipe or cigar, and he would tell us stories about his Uncle's haunted Dairy Farm, the haunted Train that drove through his Granny's Hen House, or the Haunted House he and Granny lived in together when they were first married. He told Ghost Stories all night long, until Granny and Grampa carried my sister and me off to our beds.
The second day always started with a huge breakfast. The entire family cooked together, no exceptions. No one in the house was allowed to sit out the preparation. By mid day, my mother and father would have arrived. Later on, it would be just my mother, after the Divorce (that is a whole other Oprah).
Around noon of the second day, just about the time my mother would have arrived, Granny would gather us girls to the kitchen and we would begin chopping. Celery, onions, carrots, potatoes, rutabagas, parsnips and radishes, all went into the huge pot. While my sister and I chopped, mom and Granny would mix herbs and spices. They inevitably brewed coffee and tea through out the day, and the stove remained in use with a flame burning non-stop through out the process. Without fail, something bubbled on the stove, and with out fail, Granny's wooden spoon stirred the pot.
Interrupting the workings in the kitchen was my Grandfather. In and out he would move, tickling my sister, pulling a quarter from my ear. He would do magic tricks for us while we worked. He dragged us outside for breaks, and chased us around with a hose. I found a photo album once from Canadian Thanksgiving. I believe it was 1976, and my mother had put the photos in the album in order. My sister and I start out in the morning very clean and very well behaved. By the end of the day, as the light has faded, we are completely covered in dirt from head to toe, and there is a wild unholy gleam in our eyes. By the time the sun had set, we were uncontrollable. From the energy of the kitchen, to the magic from Grampa, there was nothing to do but let it ride.
My poor mother was left to corral us into the bath tub, while Grampa and Granny cooked dinner. One thing our Granmother was firm about was being clean and dressed for dinner, even after a day of untamed wild banshee's terrorizing the property.
The second night's dinner table was sparse, due to all the preparations. We almost always ate on the patio, on paper plates. After dinner, Grampa would light the fire, but all 4 women would be in the kitchen, dressing the Turkey. Grampa poured sherry for Granny and Mom, and we would all wash and stuff the turkey. I believe now, years later, that is was the sherry which contributed to the family tradition of naming the Bird. It was always, Sam, Hugh, or Ralph, the later being entirely my sister's contribution and having nothing to do with the sherry.
When it was done, usually after enough sherry that Granny inevitably dropped the turkey (every year!), Granny would wrap Sam or Hugh or Ralph in tin foil, wrapped in plastic, and placed in the fridge. Magically, when my sister and I woke up the next morning, Sam or Hugh or Ralph would be in the oven cooking.
Once again, we would retire the fire and more of Grampa's stories. Once again, Grampa and Granny would carry us off to bed.
Day three was always the same: toast and hot chocolate and then play time with Grampa. We would paint or play cards, sometimes Grampa and I would play chess or logic games, other times we would go on a day long hike into the desert. We were allowed no food, except light snacks. By 3 in the afternoon, the very solomn act of Setting the Table would begin.
First the center of the table was set. Always a Silver candle, Gold candle and the platter for Sam or Hugh or Ralph in the middle. Each place setting was done formally, and the napkins always had the rings Granny and Grampa received as a wedding gift. Small bowls and plates of olives, pickles, black rye bread were placed strategically around the silver and gold candles. Granny always placed a bell on the table, next to the salt and pepper. All of the china was unique. And all of the symbols specific, at least, I know now.
As each dish was placed in a serving bowl, we carried it to the table. Grampa always plated and carried Sam, Hugh or Ralph. At the table we would join hands and my Grandmother would say, "Orville, will you please say Grace?" My Grandfather would squeeze my hand tightly and say, "Grace, hurry up, it's time to eat!"
One year, Grampa had a Canadian Cousin come to visit and when we sat down to dinner, "Uncle Scotty" told everyone it was nice to see people observing Canadian Thanksgiving in the US, my sister and I cried out that this was just a dinner for him, we had already celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving in September! He winked at us and said we celebrated Secret Thanksgiving.
My entire life, I was lead to believe that September 21 was the day Canada celebrated Thanksgiving. Every year, for all of my life, two things were sure to happen in September: I went back to school and I went to Granny and Grampa's cottage for Canadian Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving in my family was very important. Both my grandparents, born in 1918 and 1922, grew up in Canada, served their country for 20+years, and struck off on the open road for Las Vegas Nevada to find their fortune – tow headed girls packed into the back seat. They brought with them their entire lives, and tucked neatly into the various suitcases were centuries of recipes and traditions passed from mother to daughter, mother to son, father to daughter and father to son for over 400 years. That is, 400 years that I have been able to trace.
Canadian Thanksgiving was done differently than American Thanksgiving. We used Canadian dishes, we lit Canadian candles, we sang Canadian songs (the Anthem was curiously missing from the line up), and we always, without fail, had turkey with Canadian Stuffing.
Ah, Canadian Stuffing, the center piece of Canadian Thanksgiving. I hated it. It had all sorts of yucky foreign things that you would only discover upon chewing. By then it was too late. Whatever that squishy thing was, it was going down, whether you liked it or not. Canadian Thanksgiving involved far too much brown sugar, maple syrup, and the dreaded baked acorn squash.
Every year, my sister and I would spend 3 days with Granny & Grampa preparing the Stuffing. First, my sister and I would tear 6 loaves of bread, 3 wheat and 3 white, into bite size pieces. Granny would season the pieces with salt, pepper and Canadian herbs. We would wrap the bowl in a dry towel and place it in the fridge.
For the rest of the day, we would paint with Grampa, or we would play checkers and chess, or we would go for a long walk.
At sunset, Grampa would start the barbeque and Granny would prepare steaks. After dinner, Grampa would light a fire and his pipe or cigar, and he would tell us stories about his Uncle's haunted Dairy Farm, the haunted Train that drove through his Granny's Hen House, or the Haunted House he and Granny lived in together when they were first married. He told Ghost Stories all night long, until Granny and Grampa carried my sister and me off to our beds.
The second day always started with a huge breakfast. The entire family cooked together, no exceptions. No one in the house was allowed to sit out the preparation. By mid day, my mother and father would have arrived. Later on, it would be just my mother, after the Divorce (that is a whole other Oprah).
Around noon of the second day, just about the time my mother would have arrived, Granny would gather us girls to the kitchen and we would begin chopping. Celery, onions, carrots, potatoes, rutabagas, parsnips and radishes, all went into the huge pot. While my sister and I chopped, mom and Granny would mix herbs and spices. They inevitably brewed coffee and tea through out the day, and the stove remained in use with a flame burning non-stop through out the process. Without fail, something bubbled on the stove, and with out fail, Granny's wooden spoon stirred the pot.
Interrupting the workings in the kitchen was my Grandfather. In and out he would move, tickling my sister, pulling a quarter from my ear. He would do magic tricks for us while we worked. He dragged us outside for breaks, and chased us around with a hose. I found a photo album once from Canadian Thanksgiving. I believe it was 1976, and my mother had put the photos in the album in order. My sister and I start out in the morning very clean and very well behaved. By the end of the day, as the light has faded, we are completely covered in dirt from head to toe, and there is a wild unholy gleam in our eyes. By the time the sun had set, we were uncontrollable. From the energy of the kitchen, to the magic from Grampa, there was nothing to do but let it ride.
My poor mother was left to corral us into the bath tub, while Grampa and Granny cooked dinner. One thing our Granmother was firm about was being clean and dressed for dinner, even after a day of untamed wild banshee's terrorizing the property.
The second night's dinner table was sparse, due to all the preparations. We almost always ate on the patio, on paper plates. After dinner, Grampa would light the fire, but all 4 women would be in the kitchen, dressing the Turkey. Grampa poured sherry for Granny and Mom, and we would all wash and stuff the turkey. I believe now, years later, that is was the sherry which contributed to the family tradition of naming the Bird. It was always, Sam, Hugh, or Ralph, the later being entirely my sister's contribution and having nothing to do with the sherry.
When it was done, usually after enough sherry that Granny inevitably dropped the turkey (every year!), Granny would wrap Sam or Hugh or Ralph in tin foil, wrapped in plastic, and placed in the fridge. Magically, when my sister and I woke up the next morning, Sam or Hugh or Ralph would be in the oven cooking.
Once again, we would retire the fire and more of Grampa's stories. Once again, Grampa and Granny would carry us off to bed.
Day three was always the same: toast and hot chocolate and then play time with Grampa. We would paint or play cards, sometimes Grampa and I would play chess or logic games, other times we would go on a day long hike into the desert. We were allowed no food, except light snacks. By 3 in the afternoon, the very solomn act of Setting the Table would begin.
First the center of the table was set. Always a Silver candle, Gold candle and the platter for Sam or Hugh or Ralph in the middle. Each place setting was done formally, and the napkins always had the rings Granny and Grampa received as a wedding gift. Small bowls and plates of olives, pickles, black rye bread were placed strategically around the silver and gold candles. Granny always placed a bell on the table, next to the salt and pepper. All of the china was unique. And all of the symbols specific, at least, I know now.
As each dish was placed in a serving bowl, we carried it to the table. Grampa always plated and carried Sam, Hugh or Ralph. At the table we would join hands and my Grandmother would say, "Orville, will you please say Grace?" My Grandfather would squeeze my hand tightly and say, "Grace, hurry up, it's time to eat!"
One year, Grampa had a Canadian Cousin come to visit and when we sat down to dinner, "Uncle Scotty" told everyone it was nice to see people observing Canadian Thanksgiving in the US, my sister and I cried out that this was just a dinner for him, we had already celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving in September! He winked at us and said we celebrated Secret Thanksgiving.
The Adventures of Cat-Dog!
Nesta the cat moved in to the apartment over the weekend of July 29th. No one really knew about her, that is to say, there was no evidence of a cat in the building, for the first 5 days. Archie could smell her, but he was with Xoe most of the time and couldnt be bothered.
About 9 days into Nestas arrival at the apartment, she encountered the downstairs Dalmatians. The dog to cat ratio is already 5 to 1, however 3 of those 5 are under 10 pounds each. Its the Dalmatians at 40 pounds each which tip the balance of power in the Threat Quotient for the cat!
On one of the fine afternoons which found me deep in the midst of absolutely nothing, I heard a commotion in the back yard. Within seconds, Nesta came bolting full speed through my kitchen, living room and out onto the front balcony. Hot on her heels was one of the Dalmatians. As Nesta charged past I stood up from my prone position on the couch. In the split second it took me to realize it was the female Dalmatian, Daphne, I could feel both Nesta and Archie looking at me, the only other Alpha Female in the room.
My movement startled Daphne, and she came to a skidding stop at the entrance to the living room from the kitchen.
Archie and I are standing in the middle of the living room, completely amazed. As soon as I made eye contact with Daphne, a mere fraction of a second, she turned around and slowly walked out the back door. No trouble here, she quietly conveyed, my mistake, wrong apartment, so sorry. And down the back steps she went.
From behind my heels, Archie let out a bark. I couldnt criticize because I was as surprised as he was.
Archie and I immediately turned and looked for Nesta, who never circled back around to the only open door in the apartment. I found her on my front patio wall, perched on all fours, slightly puffed up and completely pissed off. I gently picked her up, being careful of her back claws. We walked very slowly through the apartment and as we passed through the kitchen, she gave a very quiet but very angry growl. I opened her back door and let her jump down into her Kitchen. She poured out of my arms and took off into her apartment. I didnt see the poor thing for another 5 days.
Nesta finally began to sun herself on the back steps, but only at the very top, and only when no one was around. After a couple of days, she let Archie join her at a polite distance in her morning sun bath. This seemed to suit her, because any unauthorized noise, bird or squirrel was given a very fierce bark from Archie. The Anti-Dalmatian Alliance was sealed on the back porch of Casa Appleton.
Archie and Nesta began visiting again in the apartments. Sometimes Nesta would come and perch on the arm of our couch. Other days, Archie would join Nesta in her living room for an afternoon sun bath.
If we were visiting Nesta, she would perch on the back of the couch and watch everyone. Occasionally she would come down to the floor, where Archie would try and play. A bop on the nose from Nesta gave Archie clear instruction that the Alpha in the ADA was clearly Nesta.
Nesta practically became drunk with her new found power. Not only was she in charge of the ADA, but a dog was actually terrified of her. The self confidence in her demeanor were clearly evident.
It wasnt until Archies Nana came to visit that I saw the full impact of Nestas influence on Archie.
Nana has taken up rescuing Boxers. As a result, Archie has two new cousins, Criquette and Paddington. He hates them both. Its the Large Dog Aggression that he continues to carry since his mauling by an Australian Shepherd when he was four years old.
Nana brought Paddington, aka Paddy, to spend the night with us. Archie watched in complete horror as this dog came into his sacred apartment. Archie sat perched on the arm of the chair continuously for 15 hours while Nana and Paddy spent the night.
When I went to his perch to see what was so upsetting, I discovered that from his vantage, he had a birds eye view of the living room and the bedroom. Anywhere Paddy went, Archie could see him.
He refused to give Nana the usual greeting of yipping and licking. She didnt smell right, and that other dogs scent was everywhere! His temperature went up and he laid on the arm of the chair with his head down and looking completely dejected. It was at that point, late in the evening, that I discovered the depth of Archies anger. He had dug his front paws into the arm of the chair so hard that he put a dent in the foam! He was shaking and acting sick. He would not let anyone touch him and ran from everyone except me.
The next night, Nana and Paddy had left and we were getting into bed. Archie refused to go under the covers. When I tried to bring him up to the pillows he jumped away as though his paws were burning. I realized he was so pissed off that Paddington slept in his bed that he wouldnt even sit where Paddy had been on the bed. I had to get the Pink Blanket, place it over the area where Paddington had been, and only then would Archie settle down and go to sleep.
Nesta has taught Archie the fine art of indignation and denial. Any area that was previously lacking a feline flavor in Archies personality has been adequately addressed and corrected, now that Nesta has become Archies pal.
Im not sure Im ready for the Cat-Dog!
About 9 days into Nestas arrival at the apartment, she encountered the downstairs Dalmatians. The dog to cat ratio is already 5 to 1, however 3 of those 5 are under 10 pounds each. Its the Dalmatians at 40 pounds each which tip the balance of power in the Threat Quotient for the cat!
On one of the fine afternoons which found me deep in the midst of absolutely nothing, I heard a commotion in the back yard. Within seconds, Nesta came bolting full speed through my kitchen, living room and out onto the front balcony. Hot on her heels was one of the Dalmatians. As Nesta charged past I stood up from my prone position on the couch. In the split second it took me to realize it was the female Dalmatian, Daphne, I could feel both Nesta and Archie looking at me, the only other Alpha Female in the room.
My movement startled Daphne, and she came to a skidding stop at the entrance to the living room from the kitchen.
Archie and I are standing in the middle of the living room, completely amazed. As soon as I made eye contact with Daphne, a mere fraction of a second, she turned around and slowly walked out the back door. No trouble here, she quietly conveyed, my mistake, wrong apartment, so sorry. And down the back steps she went.
From behind my heels, Archie let out a bark. I couldnt criticize because I was as surprised as he was.
Archie and I immediately turned and looked for Nesta, who never circled back around to the only open door in the apartment. I found her on my front patio wall, perched on all fours, slightly puffed up and completely pissed off. I gently picked her up, being careful of her back claws. We walked very slowly through the apartment and as we passed through the kitchen, she gave a very quiet but very angry growl. I opened her back door and let her jump down into her Kitchen. She poured out of my arms and took off into her apartment. I didnt see the poor thing for another 5 days.
Nesta finally began to sun herself on the back steps, but only at the very top, and only when no one was around. After a couple of days, she let Archie join her at a polite distance in her morning sun bath. This seemed to suit her, because any unauthorized noise, bird or squirrel was given a very fierce bark from Archie. The Anti-Dalmatian Alliance was sealed on the back porch of Casa Appleton.
Archie and Nesta began visiting again in the apartments. Sometimes Nesta would come and perch on the arm of our couch. Other days, Archie would join Nesta in her living room for an afternoon sun bath.
If we were visiting Nesta, she would perch on the back of the couch and watch everyone. Occasionally she would come down to the floor, where Archie would try and play. A bop on the nose from Nesta gave Archie clear instruction that the Alpha in the ADA was clearly Nesta.
Nesta practically became drunk with her new found power. Not only was she in charge of the ADA, but a dog was actually terrified of her. The self confidence in her demeanor were clearly evident.
It wasnt until Archies Nana came to visit that I saw the full impact of Nestas influence on Archie.
Nana has taken up rescuing Boxers. As a result, Archie has two new cousins, Criquette and Paddington. He hates them both. Its the Large Dog Aggression that he continues to carry since his mauling by an Australian Shepherd when he was four years old.
Nana brought Paddington, aka Paddy, to spend the night with us. Archie watched in complete horror as this dog came into his sacred apartment. Archie sat perched on the arm of the chair continuously for 15 hours while Nana and Paddy spent the night.
When I went to his perch to see what was so upsetting, I discovered that from his vantage, he had a birds eye view of the living room and the bedroom. Anywhere Paddy went, Archie could see him.
He refused to give Nana the usual greeting of yipping and licking. She didnt smell right, and that other dogs scent was everywhere! His temperature went up and he laid on the arm of the chair with his head down and looking completely dejected. It was at that point, late in the evening, that I discovered the depth of Archies anger. He had dug his front paws into the arm of the chair so hard that he put a dent in the foam! He was shaking and acting sick. He would not let anyone touch him and ran from everyone except me.
The next night, Nana and Paddy had left and we were getting into bed. Archie refused to go under the covers. When I tried to bring him up to the pillows he jumped away as though his paws were burning. I realized he was so pissed off that Paddington slept in his bed that he wouldnt even sit where Paddy had been on the bed. I had to get the Pink Blanket, place it over the area where Paddington had been, and only then would Archie settle down and go to sleep.
Nesta has taught Archie the fine art of indignation and denial. Any area that was previously lacking a feline flavor in Archies personality has been adequately addressed and corrected, now that Nesta has become Archies pal.
Im not sure Im ready for the Cat-Dog!
Waiting for the Evidence to Melt
Mom asked me to play golf with her today. Of course I said yes, you don't say no to golf.
I tried leaving the house and continually got called back upstairs for one forgotten item or another. Finally I called mom:
"You called a few hours ago and said you were worried, what sort of feeling did you have?"
"I don't know, it was from last night, the job, you sounded so depressed and I was worried."
"You're sure? Nothing else?"
"No, now get in the car and get up here."
Driving north on the 710 a few minutes later, my car starts to die, losing speed but not power. I smell burning, something is on fire! There is black pieces of rubber flying off the side of the car and I realize I have a flat tire. I'm stuck on the center median with cars flying past at speeds of well over 80 mph.
I should be proud. There aren't many people who can boast about the CHP shutting down 4 lanes of heavy traffic so you can limp across the highway. *raises hand* Yep, that was me!! Shut down the 710 during rush hour. Oh the power I weild!
So, that situation gets handled and I arrive at mom's house just in time to help her burn down the canyon. Yes, you read that right, she torched the Little Tujunga Canyon all by herself.
Why you may ask? Oh it's very logical. She was lighting mosquito citronella incense coils and instead of blowing out the flame to let the smoke smoulder and do it's job of chasing off mosquitos, she let the flame burn high and strong. So high and so strong that it torched the canyon.
As I'm surrounded by 4ft flames on all sides with my back to a propane tank and nothing but a shovel, she brings me...... ice.
No, not water.
No, not a fire extinguisher.... ice.
Meanwhile, the flames have spread down into the canyon about 30 yards, and is on it's way up the hill onto the bounding neighbors yards. I choose to fight the flames closest to the propane tank, at least I can stave off an explosion, if nothing else. Mom, in the meantime, is lining the fence with.... ice.
The fire department was called to a rubbish fire. The chief saw the fire from across the canyon and had the presence of mind to cancel the rubbish fire and call for a full on Brush Fire team. Afterall this is California and if the hills aren't sliding in mud they are on fire. I was happy the professionals arrived and I could lay down my shovel.
The chief looked around when all was said and done:
"I have just one question", as he looks at the scorched earth and rubble that used to be the 100yd by 50yd patch of ground at the edge of Mom's backyard. "Who's idea was it to use ice?"
As we were sitting over 22oz margaritas and 20oz something-with-3-kinds-of-rum, hair singed, clothes smelling like a camp fire, and dirt covering a great majority of our limbs, Mom looks at me and says:
"You know, I really thought the evidence would melt."
I tried leaving the house and continually got called back upstairs for one forgotten item or another. Finally I called mom:
"You called a few hours ago and said you were worried, what sort of feeling did you have?"
"I don't know, it was from last night, the job, you sounded so depressed and I was worried."
"You're sure? Nothing else?"
"No, now get in the car and get up here."
Driving north on the 710 a few minutes later, my car starts to die, losing speed but not power. I smell burning, something is on fire! There is black pieces of rubber flying off the side of the car and I realize I have a flat tire. I'm stuck on the center median with cars flying past at speeds of well over 80 mph.
I should be proud. There aren't many people who can boast about the CHP shutting down 4 lanes of heavy traffic so you can limp across the highway. *raises hand* Yep, that was me!! Shut down the 710 during rush hour. Oh the power I weild!
So, that situation gets handled and I arrive at mom's house just in time to help her burn down the canyon. Yes, you read that right, she torched the Little Tujunga Canyon all by herself.
Why you may ask? Oh it's very logical. She was lighting mosquito citronella incense coils and instead of blowing out the flame to let the smoke smoulder and do it's job of chasing off mosquitos, she let the flame burn high and strong. So high and so strong that it torched the canyon.
As I'm surrounded by 4ft flames on all sides with my back to a propane tank and nothing but a shovel, she brings me...... ice.
No, not water.
No, not a fire extinguisher.... ice.
Meanwhile, the flames have spread down into the canyon about 30 yards, and is on it's way up the hill onto the bounding neighbors yards. I choose to fight the flames closest to the propane tank, at least I can stave off an explosion, if nothing else. Mom, in the meantime, is lining the fence with.... ice.
The fire department was called to a rubbish fire. The chief saw the fire from across the canyon and had the presence of mind to cancel the rubbish fire and call for a full on Brush Fire team. Afterall this is California and if the hills aren't sliding in mud they are on fire. I was happy the professionals arrived and I could lay down my shovel.
The chief looked around when all was said and done:
"I have just one question", as he looks at the scorched earth and rubble that used to be the 100yd by 50yd patch of ground at the edge of Mom's backyard. "Who's idea was it to use ice?"
As we were sitting over 22oz margaritas and 20oz something-with-3-kinds-of-rum, hair singed, clothes smelling like a camp fire, and dirt covering a great majority of our limbs, Mom looks at me and says:
"You know, I really thought the evidence would melt."
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