Obituary: Cooper (2006-2022)

The details of Cooper's early years are a mystery. It is possible that his life began in the Central Valley, where over breeding and inbreeding are rampant.  Cooper was lucky to be rescued from an over-crowded shelter and brought to the SPCA in Marin county. No one really knew how old he was but looking at his teeth they thought about 14 months. Cooper (he didn't have that name then, of course) was neutered and washed and fed. And he waited.

Fifteen years ago, on a random Monday, two people set out to find a dog. Those two people stopped at the SPCA in the morning, found nothing that moved them, and thus moved on.  They visited a couple of shelters in SF. None of the dogs spoke to them. They had lunch and drove back north, a bit disappointed they didn't find a dog that day but they knew there were other days and dogs ahead. It was close to closing time but they decided to stop at the Marin county SPCA, just in case a new dog had appeared.

There was one new dog that wasn't there when they stopped by earlier. He was small. He had tall ears. You could see those ears peeking up from the gate of his 10 foot run. The two people wanted to see him closer, so the SPCA attendant went into the run and she had a difficult time picking up the little guy and an even more difficult time putting a leash around his neck. But finally we were able to take this dog into the "visiting area."  He did not want to visit. He wanted nothing from us. He didn't want to walk on the leash, play with a ball, look at us.

One of us wanted him, even though he was the opposite of what we were looking for.  He was small, he wasn't social, he wasn't friendly.  But he needed us and I needed him. We took him home, realizing, on that car ride, that he was terrified of everything: cars, noise, overpasses (he would duck) and possibly air.

The first night was OK. I let him sleep on my tall bed and he slept well. The second night I put him on the floor and it was a battle for about 15 minutes: he was small but he could jump the four feet onto the bed. I put him back on the floor. He jumped up. Back on the floor, jumped up, back on the floor.  Finally I acquiesced. He could sleep on the bed. That was that.

His name from the SPCA was "google."  I changed it (very quickly) to Cooper.  Cooper slowly learned to trust a few people but in the beginning I had to leash him to a table leg to keep him from running away. My daughter tells about the time when she first met him: he was cowering under a chair. Knowing that her words would not work, Jenn sat on the floor next to the chair for an hour or so, just putting her hand near him, chatting to the rest of us in the room. Eventually, he came out and let her pet him for a few seconds before retreating back to the chair. 

Cooper, after about 8 months, was less terrified of the world. He never warmed up to kids (I am sure he experienced kids being mean to him) and he had a true sense of distain for most other dogs until he got to know them well. In our family, he met Hannah when she was about 6 months old (and he was about 20 months old) and they became fast friends. Cooper met Bebe in Texas and gradually accepted her, especially since she outweighed Cooper by about 60 pounds. (He knew when to pick his battles.)

We often called him the "gay professor" because he had that demeanor.  Cooper looked proper, especially when he wore his bowtie, and he looked wise. But he also looked a tiny bit gay. He wasn't, at least as far as we knew, but seriously, who knows? And maybe right now he is at Big Gay Al's Animal Sanctuary.  That would make us all happy.

Cooper hated car rides but he and I drove from SF to Texas many times. Cooper would put up with the drive because his reward was staying in a hotel. He loved hotels. He loved that they were not the car, that he could sleep on the bed and listen to TV while I went out to find dinner.  Cooper loved running down hotel corridors, chasing a toy, getting exercise.

Cooper had small legs, a long body and very tall ears. He had a jaunty walk and his confident manner made people smile out loud. "What kind of dog is that?" people would ask as we walked by.  "The good kind" was my answer. 

Cooper had no college degree, had no resume, didn't have a bank account, but he leaves behind a world of love and good energy. Cooper made me laugh every day and looked at me as more than his food provider. (Hmm, well, who knows about that!) I think Cooper was a discerning spirit, but for those to whom he opened his heart, the payback was huge. If you loved him, he loved you. Forever.

I loved him and will, forever.

Cooper leaves behind his owner, his aunties Jenn, Dar, Annie, Sue, his uncles Gabe, Steve, Tom and Mike and many others.  He will also be missed by many friends. The list is huge.

There will be a small burial service in a few weeks.

Looking at the night sky for ... meteors?

There was a sort of meteor shower that was maybe suppose to happen tonight. Or not. Even the scientists said "could be great or could be nothing." But since it wasn't in the middle of the night, like most meteor showers, it seemed easy enough to go outside to check it out. However, the perils that exist in the dark, outside, for a north-of-middle-age person are huge! 

First, of course, is the darkness. To see stuff in the sky it must be dark so all outside lights are off, except for one's flashlight. OK, that's all good. The flashlight will illuminate the path to the patio and the patio chairs. Cool. Find those, sit down. Then get back up and move the chair to see the best open area of the sky. Then move the chair a little more to escape the ambient light from the landlord's house. All good.  I sit there in shorts and a t-shirt for ten minutes and realize two things: 1) I have no idea if the meteors are in the north, south, east, west and 2) I am chilly.  Flashlight back on, back inside. Sweatshirt on, pajama bottoms on and since I am outside, in the elements, I get an ounce of cognac to fortify me against those elements. 

Back outside in aforementioned chair. Sip cognac, don't really care about the direction of the meteors because there is just one area of sky that is dark and clear. I wait. I see a shooting star! Is it the start of a meteor shower?  Hmm.... if so, it's a very low flow of a shower. Five minutes go by and I see another shooting star. My neck hurts from looking up but it is so lovely outside that I don't mind. It's quiet and not cold and medium dark and crickets are chirping away. Wait! Another shooting star!  It's not a meteor shower but three stars in 15 minutes is okay.

Now my neck is getting crinky. I lower my head and just roll my eyes up, like the saints on those holy cards we got as kids. St. Catherine or St. Ashley or St. Bonnie.... they all had little scarves draped around their heads and their eyes were rolling up, looking for.... meteors?  Jesus?  Spiders? One can't really know. But my eyes did that roll thing for a few minutes until I realized that this meteor shower, for this night, was not happening.

But it was fine. I saw three shooting stars and was happy to be outside for a bit in the dark. Of course, when I came back inside I couldn't find my phone or my glasses. Because they were outside in the dark!  HA! Took my flashlight and me a while to figure that out but all's well that ends well.

There's another chance to see stars falling (aka meteors) in August. Hopefully they will not be falling in the wee hours of the morning and will do their dance before midnight. We'll see. In the meantime, I suggest that on a nice evening, when the temps are mild and the skies clear, take a flashlight and find a chair, take a little libation, sit outside in the dark and look at the sky. Enjoy being outside safely and without any real purpose. Ponder the universe. Remark on the clarity of the stars and the planets and watch and wonder: what's going on out there?

Validation of Boomer Parents Parenting Techniques

Not that we need validation, especially when one considers that us Boomer parents are now in our 70's (more or less) and our kids are in their 40's (more or less) and thus are no longer children but full-fledged adults (more or less.) But an article in the NYT about some of the differences between how we raised our kids vs how parents today (the Gen X group) are raising theirs made me feel like we did all right.

Forty-some years ago, we were not helicopter parents.  We didn't have time for that. Most of us were working, mothers and fathers, and we left our kids to their own devices quite often. We taught them how to do their own laundry when they were in grade school, rudimentary kitchen skills so they could contribute to dinner prep, where the extra key was hidden in case they lost theirs.  Many of the Gen X kids (our kids) came home alone from school, got a snack, did homework, watched bad TV and perhaps indulged in nefarious behavior, all before the parental figures got home from work.  We had a necessary trust in our kids, trust that they would take care of themselves and each other and not break too many rules.

For the most part, that philosophy worked pretty well.  Of course, rules were broken now and then, kids got grounded and that trust had to be reestablished.  But giving them room to get grounded, to break the rules and pay the price, also gave them a measure of self-reliance and taught them that actions have consequences.  Their parents couldn't (and wouldn't) cull out all the scary stuff and pave the path with shiny yellow bricks as they skipped along to a perfect childhood.  

The NYT article (link at the bottom) asks this:

Do you offer your kids broad exposure to the world, in all its beauty and foulness, and hope they make good decisions? Or do you try to protect them from ideas and activities that you see as dangerous or immoral — and also hope they make good decisions?  

Two different parenting styles, of course, and I am so happy John and I, probably more or less unconsciously, chose the first option.  Our kids saw both beauty and ugliness, meanness and kindness,  safety and insecurity.  They accepted life as it came (although not without arguing quite often) and the lack of helicoptering, the lack of shielding them from danger and proverbial doom did not harm them. In fact, I argue that it made them strong and perceptive and bold.

This leads me to wonder what our parents were thinking when they raised all of us Boomer kids. Did they have a conscious idea about parenting, did they read the Dr. Spock book, was it all by the seat of their pants? As a victim  child of that era, I can say with conviction that there was little or no parenting "style" in my household. Too many kids, too little money: that was the relevant fact of my life as a kid, and probably the guiding force of my parents' attitudes as well.  There was certainly nothing like a helicopter parent, no one watched over us at all. There was guilt and shame, maybe those two forces were the guiding principles in parenting after the war.  But we survived.

As I said in the beginning, us Boomer parents really don't need validation of our parenting skills, it's too late for that anyway.  But it's nice to read an articulation of something we did because we knew no other way. Thank goodness it worked out!

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/04/28/opinion/culture/children-parenting-good-decisions.html

Baking bread, again

 I don't remember a time when I didn't bake but I can't remember how it began.  Perhaps I watched my Mom make cookies and maybe she drafted me into the baking world. I am certain I was making chocolate chip Toll House cookies, the recipe on the back of the Nestle's chocolate chip package, from the time I was about 12 years old. Then peanut butter cookies and oatmeal and cookies that were called Cowboy Cookies which had oats, chocolate chips, coconut and walnuts. They were delicious.

My baking branched out from there: brownies from the Joy of Cooking, from the Los Angeles times came the famous Sour Cream Coffee Cake with brown sugar crumbly bits and eventually Carrot Cake with cream cheese frosting. Linzer Tarts, flourless chocolate cake, Petit Fours, fruit crisps, biscuits.....  I baked everything.  I have even made two wedding cakes, one for Gabe and Annie's wedding and one for my brother John's wedding to Emily last year.  (Both were Carrot Cakes with cream cheese frosting, by the way.)

Somewhere along the way, when I was in my late teens, I started baking bread as well. No one in my family baked bread so it certainly wasn't a family tradition but once I started, I was hooked.  I loved the feeling of kneading the dough as it went from sticky to smooth and elastic.  Watching the bread rise over a few  hours was like culinary magic to me. Punching it down, rising again, popping it into the oven and smelling that luscious smell of baking bread.... few smells are better than that. 

Who doesn't like homemade bread? Who would say "No" to a piece of warm, fresh-from-the-oven bread slathered with soft butter? While I can't really remember what kind of bread I made initially, I am guessing it would be the honey oatmeal bread that I still make today.  It was a recipe in a series of cookbooks produced by "Woman's Day" magazine, in the section about  baking at Christmas. (I made dozens of varieties of cookies from that same Christmas section as well.) The honey oatmeal bread wasn't difficult and always turned out perfectly. It's slightly sweet, soft in texture with the nutty taste of oats. It makes perhaps the best toast in the world.

Lately I have been making a loaf a week. Sometimes it's honey oatmeal, often it's a plain white bread or a crusty loaf of rosemary bread. Making bread is very easy and is very cheap to produce. No preservatives, just simple ingredients: flour, yeast, salt, sugar, water or milk.  The rest (oats, honey, molasses, butter, eggs, herbs) are all optional.  

Over the years there have been dismal failures, of course. A few times I killed the yeast with too hot liquid, a couple of times the yeast was too old and wouldn't rise, now and then I bake it too long. But 95% of the time the bread is damned good.

It's time to make a grilled cheddar and tomato sandwich with the loaf of white bread I made yesterday. Sorry you can't be here to have one with me.  Maybe next time.

Saying "Goodbye" to someone I didn't know

 The father of one of my "extra daughters" died two months ago and there was a memorial for him today. His name was Jon Marshall. Other than being Stacey's Dad, I didn't know him. We met a couple of times, of course, because Stacey is a big part of my life, but we were, in essence, passing strangers.

It makes me sad to say that. It makes me sad because when you get to have an extra kid you should get to know from whence they came. The extra parent/adult should take the time to know the other real parents involved. But I didn't.

Today, hearing stories about Jon, listening to those who loved him tell their heartfelt tales about his influence in their lives, made me wish I had known him for real. The memories his kids and friends shared created a picture of a good, kind man who not only made people laugh but made people live. Jon seemed to be the one who could talk you into anything but knew how to make it all come out fine. Jon was the guy who was always on your side, never letting you down, always confident that it would work out well, but could also take your money in a wicked game of poker.  His kids and friends had great stories to tell about him. I wish I had known him.

There is something about being in a room with people who are there for only one reason: to honor one man. And that is profoundly humbling. It puts things in a perspective that haunts you as you drive home. It makes you question your small place in the world, with your kids, with your friends, with your family. And with yourself.

If we have learned nothing from the past two years, we must have learned this: embrace those you love, either metaphorically or really.  Tell them you love them. Be kind and help people. 

Yes, I know. I say this all the time but it's a preach that can't be helped. Do it. Just be kind. Love. Help. Reach out.  

I thank the Marshall/Jennings family for re-teaching me this today.

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A single moment of beauty

 The sun shines on spider web strings (actually called "draglines") all the time but this morning was the first time I've seen those single line webs glow iridescently.  It was early in the morning, the sun was still low in the sky, and there were dozens of single lines from tree to tree. They were like small rainbows, changing in color from blue to red to yellow as they moved in the breeze and caught the sunlight.  I cannot explain how incredibly beautiful these simple little spider strings were, shifting from one color to the next, iridescent, glowing. Line after line, one at a time. Each single line of spider string had its own color show happening and seeing so many of them all at once was a kind of light show in and of itself. My words can't do it justice, but it was mesmerizing. 

It's amazing, isn't it, that nature and the earth still manage to surprise us with such beauty? Something that could only be seen at that single spot, at that one moment, with the sun at that particular angle?  

Even in a world that has such ugliness and hate, if we pay attention we can sometimes find that small moment of beauty.  Be on the lookout for it. Be surprised. Be grateful.

Talking to my Mother

 Every Sunday for the last twenty years of her life, until the week she died, I would call my mother to chat. It didn't matter if I was at home or on a journey, Sunday was my day to call Mom. Sometimes the calls were short, just a couple of minutes, but it was a kind of ritual for me (and probably for Mom as well) that I enjoyed. 

I didn't have a warm and fuzzy relationship with my mother growing up.  Indeed, there were times when I couldn't stand her and wouldn't talk to her for months. But once she was in her late 70's and I was in my late 40's, neither of us had any use for the old parent-child dynamic and so we could simply chat.  Like adults.

During the end of the 20th century and the first decade of this century I was fortunate to be able to travel a lot. I went to Europe every year, sometimes twice. Airlines were competitive and thus there was a lovely interlude when airfares were very cheap. Non-stop round-trip flights from San Francisco to Paris could be found for under $300.  Small hotels might set you back $35 - $50 per night, especially when each country had its own currency, before the arrival of the euro.  There was no reason not to travel and I loved every minute of it.

Mom always liked my Sunday calls but she loved it when I was out of the country. Many of those calls were made from phone booths, using a phone card purchased at a tobacco shop. I have a great memory of standing by the side of a small, local road in Lipari, an island off the coast of Sicily, having just finished hiking up the side of a dormant (but still alive) volcano, wreaking of sulphur smell from the plumes of  sulphur smoke coming out of the volcano.  It was a sunny day, I was hot and sweaty but eager to share my adventure with Mom.

When I traveled to Vietnam I would call Mom from my hotel phone at 6:00 a.m. because the 15 hour time difference meant I would catch her before she went to sleep for the night. She was amazed and a bit nervous that I was in Vietnam alone and my calls opened up a portal for her, a new way to look at a country that we all felt wary of and guilty about.

Istanbul, Tunisia, Paris, Rome, Berlin, Amsterdam, Bruges, Lisbon, the Azores Islands...... so many different  cities and countries and so many phone booths.  Every single time I would call, Mom's first question would be: "Where are you today?"

It is Sunday, today. Maybe it's because I haven't traveled anywhere in two years, longer than that for being in Europe, but memories of those calls are swirling around me today. Maybe it's because I wish I could still speak with her or maybe it's simply a good memory I have of my mother. Whatever the reason, it makes me wish there was a phone booth at the corner of my block. It makes me want to hear that question again: "Where are you today?"  It definitely makes me wish I was somewhere else.