April is National Poetry Month, so I can’t help myself. Yes, it’s another post about dogs that isn’t really about dogs. Welcome to my world.
Leave It
One of the first commands in dog training:
Come. Sit. Stay. Leave it.
Don’t get off track.
Don’t investigate it or nudge it
or taste it or tinker with it.
Leave it.
Can I leave it? No, I can’t.
I must circle it, watch it,
hold it in a freezing stare,
dare it to jump.
Leave it.
I must cajole it, entertain it,
dance around it, convince it to like me.
Leave it.
I must adjust it, improve it,
make my point louder,
make sure I’m understood.
Leave it.
If I don’t leave it,
I won’t get any further than where it sits.
There is such a thing as good enough.
There has to be because we are imperfect.
There are reasons, better reasons,
to put it down.
Log out.
Take a walk.
Look up.
It’s not going anywhere, but you are.
Leave it.
You can do it. So can I.
Let’s try together.
Now.
Leave it.
We still have a Supra box on the door. As I waited for the real estate agent to come rescue me, I realized it was the first time I’ve had to sit still in weeks.
gone fishing, image credit: Pink Moose
The impending move, the end of school, the women of Monsanto post, the closing on our house… It’s high time for a time out.
one never ages while fishing
Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, Who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt,because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. James 1:4-6 NIV
Or it lost you. You knew it was lost when you left it, but you didn’t know the full measure of what the leaving meant.
Once you grasped the leaving and the loss, it was too late. There was no going back. You were certain you would never find it again and it would never find you.
Then one day, quite by surprise, there it was. You could see it in the distance. And all you could think was how to get to it.
Put on your red shoes and click your heels. It’s time to go home.
* * *
One Wednesday morning last October, I rounded the corner onto my street. Something was out of place. My husband’s truck was in the driveway.
A little background: my husband’s marketing prowess helped the company where he had worked in St. Louis to sell out of their product all three years he was there. That success in turn attracted a buyer to purchase the company. My husband was wooed to Wichita, family in tow, to lead marketing at the acquiring company. He was supposed to be at work, but he met me at the door.
tornado shelter
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Did you get laid off?”
“Yes.”
We’d been nine months in Wichita. Enough time to uproot a family, plop them down on the flat prairie of Kansas, cycle them through homesickness, new schools, new churches, new grocery stores, positive performance reviews, and one nasty tornado. Nine months in Wichita and they cut him loose.
I bought my ruby slippers when he still had a job. Little did I know, they were ripe for this journey.
* * *
Within weeks, colleagues called upon my husband as a consultant. This comes as no surprise to me. He’s a creative, strategic thinker. A rainmaker. A walking encyclopedia of agriculture. A good man who’s really good at what he does. We thought consulting would be a temporary gig, but he enjoys the work and he’s doing well. Maybe he’ll just keep right on building his business.
Wichita is not our home. Without the job, there’s nothing to keep us here. But where to go? Home of course. And where is that?
deja vu
Home for us is a toss-up between Missouri and North Carolina. We love them both. We didn’t expect to have to choose. Not now, anyway. The last seven months have been a roller coaster blur of weighing good options against each other and agonizing over what to do.
All that is about to end.
We’re surrendering to our inner South. Moving back to sweet tea and barbecue. Home to where we met and married.
Friends and family wait with open arms and long drawls. Fireflies and tadpoles, tall pine trees and dolphins arching out of the Atlantic at dawn—I like to think they wait for us, too.
We’ve coaxed our son with tales of your finest, North Carolina. There’s no place like home.
Even the sparrow has found a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may have her young—
a place near Your altar,
Lord Almighty, my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in Your house;
they are ever praising You. Psalm 84:3-4 NIV
David Duchovny as Agent Fox Mulder in The X-Files, image from wikipedia
Month eight in Wichita. We’ve yet to see a squirrel in our yard. Time to call Fox Mulder.
We’ve seen robins, turtles, rabbits, toads, barn swallows, cardinals, deer, muskrats, herons, and a turkey who crossed the road, but no squirrels.
This wouldn’t be a big deal except we have a dog whose favorite pastime is hunting squirrels. Flamboyant St. Louis squirrels.
Cairn terriers are bred to hunt vermin. Ella was only a few months old when once during a walk back in St. Louis, a squirrel fell out of his tree and landed on me. I screamed. The squirrel ran. My cute, innocent, downy-headed puppy sprang into action transformed. Ella didn’t catch the squirrel, but she treed him and wouldn’t move.
rally squirrel
Long before Rally Squirrel gained World Series fame, the squirrels of St. Louis infested the attics of our old houses. They chewed through electrical wires. They picked our young, blushing tomatoes, eating a single bite before leaving them ruined and discarded on fence posts. With ardor, they hollowed out our Halloween pumpkins.
Our neighbor Bob got fed up with them one spring. We’d see the barrel of his pellet gun poking out his second-story window.
The lone gunman shot more than 80 squirrels that year, but didn’t make a dent in the population.
Another neighbor Larry owned an exceptional golden retriever. Yankee was as perfect as a dog can be in both temperament and stature. When Yankee died, Larry posted a eulogy on a tree in the park: “For Yankee, fine dog and companion, who caught 16 squirrels here. You will be missed.”
Our dog Ella never caught a squirrel, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Now she doesn’t have a chance.
I thought of this one night when I couldn’t sleep. It’s the little things like squirrels, forgotten toys, and expired cake mixes that get to me.
In the dark, I could see the outline of Ella’s tiny body curled up on her bed beside mine. How sad she hasn’t chased a squirrel since we left St. Louis. Poor little dog, been through so much.
How much more her owners.
We humans navigate the changes of life, flying and leaping and scuttling through as best we can. We try not to fall, but often we do anyway.
We run for recovery in the next city, job, or relationship. We race away from the sadness only to find it has cornered us and will not let us go without a fight.
The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still. Exodus 14:14 NIV
Counting Crows are a favorite. So is their cover of Start Again: Even though it’s complicated, we got time to start again…
What “squirrels” keep you up at night?
How do you put them to rest?
Il Vicino was one of our favorite restaurants in St. Louis. But Il Vicino had a series of unfortunate incidents.
First, a wayward car plowed through the outdoor dining area and right into the restaurant. Not good.
A couple years later, Il Vicino had a fire and closed indefinitely. Not good at all.
I’ve eaten hundreds of meals at Il Vicino. When it was just my husband and me. When we were expecting our baby.
When we celebrated our baby’s first birthday with friends. When we were without a kitchen for six months during the big house remodel.
Have our order memorized. Two house salads with gorgonzola, a Da Vinci pizza, a children’s penne pasta with marinara on the side, a regular Coke not diet, an iced tea and a lemonade. For here or to go. Always the same.
As the months dragged on after the fire and the restaurant didn’t reopen, I knew I’d never eat at Il Vicino again. There were other locations, but not in St. Louis.
It was sad, but survivable. We moved on to other pizza places.
Dewey’s opened a location in University City. Pi opened in the Loop. And there was always good old Papa John’s or Domino’s.
St. Louis folks will notice Imo’s missing from our list. In our nearly 13 years here, we never did acquire a taste for St. Louis style pizza so many of you love.
Anyway, we moved on. Same way we did when we left Sir Pizza in High Point, North Carolina, and Giordano’s in Chicago.
il vicino wichita
Then we found out we’d be moving on literally. Our relocation to Wichita was imminent. We journeyed west for a visit.
You’ll never guess where we ate pizza in Wichita.
That’s right. Il Vicino. They have two locations there. The only two in the state of Kansas.
MapQuest revealed Il Vicino is less than five miles from our new house.
Memories flood me in these final days as a resident of St. Louis. I visit the places we’ve frequented and drive the roads we’ve traveled for more than a decade. They’ve become sacred in a way.
It’s the memories and the people that make them so. It’s the life that was lived there. Like our bodies, these places are dust but for the lives that were lived there. The living gives them meaning.
Translated, the Italian il vicino means the nearby.
leaving university city
Wichita, St. Louis, Chicago, North Carolina—they’re not so far apart. I hold them in the nearby. In my memory, my heart. I will add to them as long as I am alive.
Come near to God and he will come near to you. James 4:8 NIV
Today is Friday in September. Football season. My maroon and gold pom poms are calling.
They beckon me from the trunk of a 1980 maroon Camaro with gold pinstriping. When my dad selected the car, I believe he thought it needed to match my uniform.
The days are warm and sunny. Might think it’s still summer.
Then you catch a chill, the crisp crackle of fall on its way. The changing of the guard approaches. My body remembers it’s time to report to the field.
Hear the drumbeat of the marching band. Spirited cadence, rebel yells. Evening now. Almost time for the game to begin.
The home team bursts out of the locker room and breaks through the paper banner stretched across the end zone. Wild bucks, padded up and set loose. Stampeding leather cleats on sparkling green grass.
The horn section screams and flashes silver. The bleachers applaud. The pom poms dazzle and shake.
At some point in the pre game festivities, we cheerleaders gathered on the field. Maybe the football team too. It’s been years, I’ve been a long time gone, and I can’t remember exactly who joined the circle. But I do remember what we did.
Together we said The Lord’s Prayer before kickoff. A tradition and a covering over our game. Over our youth.
still fits!
So very politically incorrect. Only we didn’t know that then.
Those were the days we could still call our team the Indians. Now it’s called the Storm.
How long, I wonder, until the National Weather Service complains? Good thing the replacement mascot wasn’t an animal or we’d have PETA picketing the commons.
And that’s just a wee little pocket in North Carolina.
Dare I question the state university due east of my current home in St. Louis? When will the Fighting Illini become the Fearsome Gully Washers or the Frightening Thunder-Boomers?
We weren’t perfect, but we were good kids. We proudly called ourselves the Indians, believing it meant brave, strong, fierce warriors. We wouldn’t have taken the name if we’d believed it to be oppressive or offensive.
Looking back, I hope no one felt oppressed or was offended. It pains me to think folks would actually take it that way.
cheer detail
In 2004, the Guilford County Board of Education prompted by the North Carolina State Board of Education and the North Carolina Mascot Education & Action Group (yes, there is such a thing) voted to “retire” the mascot that had represented my school since 1926.
So it changed. A lot has changed since I left my pom poms behind.
A couple years ago, the homegirls threw an awesome 20th reunion party for our class. In between all the hugging and laughing and reuniting, we gathered.
Before the dancing and the open bar, we prayed. A tradition. A covering.
maroon & gold
When I think of those friends, those times, my high school—to me, we’ll always be the Indians, brave and strong, on a crisp, early autumn Friday night.
How do you know what your life will be like tomorrow? Your life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, then it’s gone. James 4:14 NLT
The beautiful tennis player with long blond hair was winning. But not by much. On the other side of the net, a spunky, dark-haired Italian was holding her own with moves more contorted than graceful. This was Wimbledon.
Back and forth. The blond pulled ahead, only for the Italian to catch her. The sportscasters sided with the blond for technical superiority. Yet they couldn’t discount the heart of the underdog.
Tennis games are way too long. We didn’t see how the contest ended. We were on vacation and the beach was calling.
Secretly I hoped the dark-haired girl would win. How many more beautiful blond tennis champions do we need really? Yes, we have Venus and Serena. But an Italian tennis queen. Bellissimo!
Today I identify with that girl more than I would like, and not just because of my Italian heritage.
BAM! The serve. Extensive travel in June.
SWACK! The return. Intensive upheaval back in St. Louis.
SLAP! A high lob. Close on the sale of our house.
CRACK! Another return. Move everything we own and downsize.
POW! The slam. Normalize only to set up for more changes.
In the middle of the game, I’m about to hit the wall.
My husband says I’ve simply run out of adrenaline. The synapses are shot. The serotonin took a nose dive, suffered a concussion, and is sitting out indefinitely.
Bad habits are back. I organize stuff, rather than stake out precious time to work. My husband works until the wee hours, rather than stake out precious time to sleep. My son is not eating enough (any) vegetables. And my inner critic has reclaimed the judge’s seat.
This is no time to quit. It’s precisely the time to keep hitting. The goal is within reach, even if the goal is to make it to dinner with all family members intact. One step, one second at a time. The most crucial moment could come in the next match. Or the next serve. You can’t win if you don’t play.
Break it down. Back to the basics like Elijah in his cave. Rest, eat, breathe, listen. Or like Hannah in the temple. Dust yourself off, clean yourself up, nourish yourself well. Come out swinging like Sampson. Or a certain Italian tennis player who just wouldn’t quit.
Ask for help from the One who never quits. The One whose strength has no end. Lord, help me persevere with grace instead of criticism, humor instead of depression, hope instead of despair. Amen.
Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. 1 Corinthians 9:24-25 NIV
C’mon and rock with me now to a little bit o’ TobyMac, won’t you? Get Back Up!
