Lucy’s Getting Old

 Lucy is getting old. She’s twelve. Her face is snowy white. She has lost a step or two. Each time she lays down or rises up she lets out a low groan. Lately her appetite has dimmed a bit. She can no longer jump up on our bed, or bounce into the back of the car when its time for a trip. This is part of life for any dog. We receive the gift of them for a little over a decade. We never own them. They own us in every measurable way. 

Her two favorites things have always been catching the frisbee in the back yard and going to Maine. When she was young I would say to her, “Get It!!!”, and she would turn her back to me and run like the wind across the back yard. I would throw the frisbee just right so it would come into view over her right shoulder. She would launch herself skyward and pluck it from the air with the grace of an Olympic athlete, then race back to me and lay it at my feet. She would have done it all day if I had let her. Now I have to throw it with less enthusiasm because she’s not as fast. Half the time the frisbee hits her in the face or sails over her head. I don’t think her vision is as sharp as it used to be. But when she catches it she gets that old bounce in her step as she proudly brings it back to me. She limits herself to three passes. Then she lays on the grass with the frisbee still in her mouth gently placing it in front of her. Some days its hard to watch.

Pam and I have had three Golden Retrievers. Lucy has been by far the most difficult. Her many neurosis are well known to regular readers of this space. Our second one, Molly, was basically Pam’s dog. We all loved her and she loved us, but she was Mom’s shadow. Lucy, from the beginning, has been mine. I’m the only one who can get her to come down the stairs. We have had a daily routine since she was a puppy. I sit down in my writing recliner and soon she arrives on the scene to jump up for a scratch. We talk about her day for a while then she gets down and falls asleep at my feet. To accommodate her I have to remove my lap desk and computer from my lap, stopping whatever I might have been busy with. Sometimes she arrives when I’m on a roll with a story. Its just not a good time. But she will not be denied. The whole thing takes maybe five minutes, and I never regret it. Whenever she passes it will be the first thing I miss.

We will bring her to Maine again this summer. She will give us zero trouble on that 14 hour drive. When we make the turn onto New England road she will stand up and start sniffing the air. She will be in heaven for six weeks, swimming and sniffing out all that that gorgeous slice of nature has to offer. She will sleep on the sun-drenched dock, drying out from her latest swim and at some point I will choke up watching her.

I’ve heard it said that although we don’t get to keep dogs for our whole lives, they make our lives whole. If that’s not true, I don’t know what truth is.

Waiting on the Next Story

 Over a fourteen year period beginning in 2012 I have managed to write six novels. Each takes a year of thinking and then seven or eight months to write. The process is at once exhilarating and relentlessly difficult. But when the last word is finished and the story is put to bed, there’s no better feeling.

Each of them has been a different experience. Each starts out being one thing but by the time I’m finished it’s something else entirely. Characters who start out being noble and sympathetic end up disappointing me. Others who start out as villains often redeem themselves somehow. I can never predict how a character will ultimately turn out. Sometimes it feels like the story writes itself and I’m just the stenographer. Other times the story has to be painstakingly coaxed out of  my head. Many times nothing comes out for days, even weeks, and in one case months. But then, as if by some kind of miracle it all comes to me and I write up a storm for ten days in a row, as if someone has turned on a literary spigot somewhere.

When I consider the plots of these six novels I recognize a few themes that keep appearing. I write a lot about redemption, the mystery of forgiveness. Two of the six have featured time travel. There is also a fair amount of magical realism in these stories, events and actions that cannot be explained. In the world of my stories there is the natural world that we can all observe, hear and touch, but also the unseen world which exists beyond our capacity to understand or explain.

I have rarely consciously written anything I consider auto-biographical. My life experiences, like any other writer, influence the kinds of stories I write, but most of the story lines are unique to my characters, not to me. There have been a number of scenes that are similar to ones I have experienced personally, which I suppose is unavoidable. Some of my characters are mashups of people I have known in my life. But I can honestly say that none of them has been based on me as a person. The reason for this is that my life has been relatively boring—by this I mean it has been thankfully drama free. A good story needs drama.

In order, the six novels I have written:

A Life of Dreams

Saving Jack

Howard’s Rest

The Second Chance Trust

The Inheritance

Cottonwood

I finished Cottonwood on December 1st and haven’t written a line of fiction worth reading since. I think I have at least one more story in me. It just hasn’t presented itself yet. When it does I’ll think about it every waking moment for a long time then eventually start writing it down—probably while I’m in Maine—where most of these stories started.

Almost Did it Again!

 https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2017/02/the-card.html

So nine years ago I wrote the above blogpost about how cool and weird it was that Pam and I picked the exact same Valentine’s Day card from Hallmark. This weekend, on the occasion of our 41st Valentine’s Day celebration as a married couple—we almost did it again.

This time it wasn’t picking out the same card. This time it was about the gift.

So a little over two weeks ago I started getting V-Day gift ideas courtesy of the internet. There was everything from flowers to weekend getaway destinations to racier suggestions that I will leave to the reader’s imagination. But there was this one ad that kept popping up. I was intrigued. It was an elaborate pre-packaged charcuterie tray. I mean this thing had it all, cheeses, meats, fruit and pastries. If you really wanted to go for it you could add a bottle of wine. I’m telling you, I almost bought the thing three different times! But then I thought Pam likes charcuterie, but I’m the one who is bonkers for charcuterie. Maybe I should buy something specifically for her. So I abandoned the idea.

We celebrated V-Day on Friday instead of Saturday. We had a fantastic lunch at Hondo’s, then went to see a very sweet movie called Solo Mio. When we got back home Pam sent me upstairs and told me to stay up there until she finished putting some “finishing touches” on my present. Finally she told me I could come downstairs. It was around 5:30 in the afternoon and I was starting to get hungry. That’s when I found a homemade from scratch charcuterie display that made the one I almost paid a hundred bucks for look like a ripoff.

We spent much of the evening snacking on the thing while we watched a movie. 

I’m very lucky.

Valentines Day

 For me the Super Bowl is an obstacle that must be overcome before spring training can begin. Each year of my life since Joe Namath guaranteed a win in Super Bowl III the game has become less and less interesting. Nevertheless I have never missed one. The Super Bowl feels like some sort of cultural obligation. It is a rare thing when over 125 million people are watching the same thing on television. You don’t want to miss the event.

Last night Pam and I watched it with eight other friends and two fantastic dogs. The advantage to doing so is that the chit chat drowns out the announcers. It also makes it almost impossible to even notice the commercials. Visually I didn’t see anything that captured my attention.

The only time our crowd got relatively quiet was to watch the Bad Bunny half time show. There was lots of dancing, some pretty cool sets and a series of mono-tonal songs sung in Spanish. It wasn’t the worst halftime show I’ve ever seen but not the best either. Somewhere in the middle. Our group felt like maybe next year the NFL should follow up this show with a halftime show featuring Bugs Bunny.

So now that Football is done our attention shifts to that other February staple—Valentines Day. Despite its bloody beginnings as a pagan fertility ritual in the 5th century, our modern celebration is basically Christmas morning for the greeting card business, florists, and chocolatiers. I’m here for them. Yes, Valentines Day feels a bit manipulative, at times forced and coercive. And yes, sometimes it can be devilishly difficult to reduce your most important human relationship to a few lines of bad poetry written by someone else. But there are far worse things than setting aside one day during the year to stop, notice and acknowledge the most wonderful and vital person in your life. I’ve got a week to come up with something.

Fashion Trends That Confuse Me

 Back in the 1990’s a new fashion trend emerged among young males which featured the wearing of pants sagged low around the behind, revealing one’s underwear of choice. To many of us this seemed preposterous, not to mention diabolically uncomfortable. Largely this particular trend has run its course, although you still see it occasionally. 

But then a couple days ago I ran across a photo of singer Billie Eilish giving her acceptance speech at the Grammy’s. The reason the photograph was so widespread was because of her now infamous “you can’t be illegal on stolen land” line. But that’s not what drew me to the picture. No, what I noticed was something I haven’t seen before. Ms. Eilish seemed to be wearing three belts—for no apparent reason whatsoever, since none of the three were secured to anything. They just were hanging there, flapping this way and that untethered from any conceivable function. I can only assume they were there for mere decoration . Maybe they were intending to make some sort of statement—that she had been freed from the shackles of the patriarchy? 

Maybe this is a one-off, it won’t become the female version of the sagging pants thing for young men in the 90’s. Or maybe this will become all the rage among the cool kids? Time will tell.

Bad Bunny and Me

 As a man of a certain age, I am quite aware that mine is not the preferred demographic of institutions like the NFL, or anything else for that matter, except pharmaceutical companies hawking cures for unheard of ailments. I am also keenly aware of the fact that much of popular culture has passed me by. It is a natural progression for older generations to lose contact with every new thing that comes along. I have bigger fish to fry than being in the know on the latest sensation of the moment. So several months ago when the National Football League announced that this year’s Super Bowl halftime show would be in the hands of Bad Bunny, I had no reaction whatsoever. I had never heard of him.

One of my young friends texted me yesterday about something he saw on the recent Grammy’s awards show. Since I hadn’t watched it I Googled the highlights. Lots of political speeches and awareness pins, that sort of thing. There was Bad Bunny winning a bunch of awards. Then the next day Roger Goodell gave a pre-Super Bowl press conference where he referred to Mr. Bunny as “one of the great artists in the world.” High praise indeed.

So this morning I decided to check out a few samples of his work. It wasn’t hard to find. He has been churning out hits for almost ten years now, each of them accompanied by a slickly produced video. I chose a couple from a list of his “top ten” hits. Both songs were in Spanish. The first featured Mr. Bunny washing a pickup truck across the street from two gorgeous women sunbathing. Nice beat. The second video was in an Italian restaurant and featured what looked like Al Pacino sitting at a nearby table admiring Mr. Bunny as he ate a variety of delicious Italian dishes. Again, a nice beat but with a slow dance vibe. I must here confess that I didn’t watch through to the conclusion of either video, not because I was offended or repulsed, but rather because I was bored. It didn’t help that I didn’t understand anything because I don’t speak Spanish. It’s just that artists like Bad Bunny don’t make music videos for guys like me. This is the way it should be.

So, what to make of the alternative halftime show being planned as an alternative to Bad Bunny?

I watch the Super Bowl out of some weird sense of American obligation. It has become more of a spectacle with each passing year. The food is the best part. The commercials are always interesting. The game itself is sometimes of interest to me but increasingly less so. I’m a baseball guy. As far as the halftime shows go I usually sit and stare open-mouthed trying to figure out what’s happening. The last one I remember enjoying was the one with Bruno Mars. I will probably watch at least for a while then roll my eyes. As far as the alternative show, I probably won’t bother, not because I object to any of the performers or anything. It’s just that it feels like one more thing that separates us. Blue States, Red States. I don’t feel like I need an alternative halftime show. Why? If I have some serious objection to the Bad Bunnies of the world I can just turn down the sound, take a prolonged bathroom break and refresh my supply of nachos and pigs in a blanket. I’m not about to let any halftime show ruin the one occasion every year where I allow myself multiple beers!

Of course, there’s the chance that I might regret writing this. Maybe the Bad Bunny halftime show turns out to be a “I hate America screed”—some sort of call for violent overthrow of American Imperialism. Maybe his dancers will all be pride-flag wearing, blue haired middle aged women blowing whistles or something. Who knows? 

But I’m not planning on losing any sleep over it. Are you?

The Bleak Mid-Winter

 Tomorrow February begins, the official kick-off of the bleak mid-winter. I have written many times of my disdain for the month of February, so I will not rehash all of that again. We have all been trapped in our ice-encrusted neighborhoods for a week now. How worse can it get? February just looked at March and said, “Hold my beer.”

At this point I have exhausted all of my errand runs. Yesterday I wore out a second vacuum cleaner. Then I spent two delightful hours on the telephone with the IRS. I am here to tell you that if you want something to distract yourself from the chaos and confusion of Minnesota, try having a tax payment you made in 2025 recoded from the third quarter to the fourth quarter. Poor Gloria, my tax-payer assistance professional, placed me on hold no less than six times with the rehearsed phrase, “I’m going to put you on hold for 5 to 7 minutes.” Each time she did not disappoint. 

Looks like we are set up for our second hilariously busted forecast in a row, the much hyped 8-10 inch snowfall having morphed into a possible dusting. Despite the introduction of cayenne pepper laced bird food into our fancy new Bird Buddy device, the local squirrels seem unfazed, three of whom have already been picked off by my trusty Daisy Powerline 35 for their impertinence, one of the very few highlights of the past week.

And now my little grandson has his first ear infection…typical pre-February treachery.

But I am reminded that no matter how dreadful or delightful life can sometimes be, change is always right around the corner. Actually, I wrote something about this dynamic years ago. Yes…here it is:

In the summer no one thinks about the snow. Sitting at a feast table no one recalls the famine. In the season of peace no one listens for the drums of war. No one except me. I am always moved on to the next thing. And the next thing is always different. It is tiresome to receive a gift of new shoes and only being able to imagine them with holes. But, my gift has benefits. A run of bad luck or ill health is always about to end. It's always on to the next thing. If life seems bright and grand, it's about to turn wicked and dark. But a sick child is about to recover, the long miserable winter is about to give way to spring, crushing grief is about to melt into tender memory. It's what happens next that matters. Always... what happens next.