Heirloom Puppies

Some people inherit property.  Some inherit money.  My kids have inherited a line of border collies.

A.C. (circa early 1980s) with one of the ranch buildings built by his grandfather in 1909

My Father -in- Law, A.C, was a rancher.  He worked the same ranch his grandfather homesteaded in 1909.  It was the area Butch Cassidy liked to hide in, known as Robber's Roost.  It was desolate, lonely country and he was often by himself on the ranch.  He bred his own border collies to help him with the cows and for company.  Every now and then he'd have a particular favorite.  One such favorite dog was named Bubba, a red border collie who was so beloved my Father-In-Law once bought a ruby studded collar for him.  Bubba was his constant companion, a real source of pride on the ranch.

When my husband was in college, he was given one of Bubba's offspring, an especially large and fluffy (just like his papa) red border collie with golden eyes.  He was named Hooper.  Hooper was, quite possibly, the coolest dog who ever lived.  He became the fraternity mascot, supervised job sites when my husband started a construction company, and ultimately was the reason I went out with my husband.  (It sounds funny, but I judge people by their dogs.  I figured if Hooper was such a great dog his person must be pretty okay, too.)

My husband and Hooper were even featured in an Australian western wear catalog.

The first birthday present my husband ever gave me was also one of his dad's ranch puppies. He called his dad and said he wanted to give his girlfriend a puppy.  He had never asked for a puppy before, so A.C. knew it must be for a good cause.  He sent his best.  Sadie was the daughter of the favorite dog who followed Bubba, a blocky black and white border collie named Tuffy.  Dogs like Sadie are what all border collie breeders hope to get.  She was beautifully built, her markings stereotypically perfect.  Her focus was unparalleled, as was her quick mind.  Sadie was amazing.  I couldn't believe this rancher I'd never met had sent me a puppy like her.  She was probably worth hundreds of dollars.  I cherished her.

Hooper and Sadie, patiently waiting while we built our first house.

By the time Sadie came into the picture, Hooper was getting old.  We bred them and got five wonderful dogs.  We kept the only female, Dottie.  (The rest went to live with handpicked family and friends.)  Through two sad accidents, Sadie and Dottie were both killed.  A.C. was also killed in a ranch accident.  Keeping him in our lives, even in little ways, became very important.  I became a bit obsessed with maintaining Hooper's (and Bubba's) line.

I found another dog to mate with Hooper.  We brought home two puppies from that pairing.  Ginny and Rex, also red borders with golden eyes.  They were wonderful dogs, just right for our growing family.  (They were six months younger than our oldest child.)  Over the next 10 years, we enjoyed them in every way.  When they turned eleven, I started looking for a mate for Rex.  (We'd had Ginny "fixed" when they were puppies and determined Rex to be the better dog breed wise and that he'd be the one we'd maintain the line with.)  A.C.'s wife, Glori, adopted a lovely little red female whom we bred with Rex late this last fall, when Rex was twelve.  Shortly after she went home, Rex's liver failed and we had to say goodbye to him.  (Ginny died of cancer a few months earlier.)

Ginny, Hooper and Rex on our way to go hiking.

Cedar and Rex, early in December

We were very sad to say goodbye to Ginny and Rex, but last night our dog world got much, much brighter.  Glori's little dog Cedar gave birth to ten splendid puppies.  All night long we'd get excited as news of the heirloom puppies rolled in.  The kids giggled and asked to see the video and pictures again.  We started maybe picking out the ones we want to keep.

This is puppy number four!

Nine of the ten, the fourth generation of their family in ours.

 My kids may not get to know their grandpa, but they'll know his dogs, and that's something.

Snowy Night, Silent Morning

One of my favorite things about winter is waking up to an utterly silent morning.  It snowed here most of the night and when I woke this morning, I sensed the quiet immediately.  The light filtering through the curtains was extra soft, and I knew we'd gotten a decent blanket of snow while I slept. Enough to dampen every sound, inside and out.  Moving through the house, I was the first one up.  Well, the cats were up but even they seemed to walk on softer feet.  I slipped outside with the little Chihuahua we are sitting to smell the crisp air and snap a quick pic.  We have about three inches of fresh snow on top of the two or three of crusty remnants that have been here since November.  It's supposed to snow all day today and most of tomorrow.  We should end up with a foot or so of what I'm thinking right now I'll call silence. 

Its hard to get a sense for new snow over old, but I couldn't get Sal the Chihuahua to go out in it for scale.

Portrait of a Cat: Mr. Fluffypants

The handsome Mr. Fluffypants
a.k.a. our Comforter in Chief
I call him the Elvis of cats because he has such a cool vibe. 

Mr.  Fluffypants was born on my parents' farm, the first Father's Day weekend after my dad died.  Our family had had terrible luck with cats that year (along with many other things).  My daughters were cat crazy though, and the one cat we had left was not a snuggler, wasn't child friendly at all.  I asked my mom to tame the kittens for us because we would want one.  My mom did a wonderful job of socializing the kittens.  When we visited for her birthday in July, the kittens were a bright spot during a celebration that was muted because we all missed my dad.  When we went back in August to pick out the kitten we would keep, they were all so terrific we had to leave with two instead of one.  My older daughter chose a silly guy with a mustache and white toes.  My younger chose a fluffy one who was happy to sit and cuddle all day.

The fluffy one was named Menda at first.  Then he was Mrs. Woolsey (after our sweet preschool teacher), but when my older daughter teased my younger about naming her boy cat "Mrs." he became Mr. Woolsey instead.  He was Sparkle for a time, and Sheepy, and more funny little names than I can count.  The one that stuck was Mr. Fluffypants.  It never fails to make me laugh when I say such a silly name, and he does indeed appear to be wearing fluffy pants.  Oh, we still call him Menda occasionally, but mostly he's Fluffypants.

This picture was taken not long after Menda, as he was known then, came home.  Notice the bloody knuckles on my daughter's hand?  The kitten came to see why she was crying. As soon as she picked him up, she was okay.

This picture kind of says it all.  This is what she does
first thing in the morning every day.

My daughter who chose him is an extraordinary person.  She learns faster than I can teach, has a mind that just doesn't stop.  She sees the world in such unique ways I can't wait for her to grow up so I can see how she's going to change it.  She's also very sensitive.  Small things that I wouldn't even notice can make or ruin her day.  When she was a baby she didn't sleep and was clingy but didn't want to be held.  We couldn't figure her out.  After Mr. Fluffypants came home though, she had someone who understood her perfectly.  If she was upset, she'd hide herself away with her little kitten and they'd commune.  A few minutes with him fixed every problem in the world.  Kindergarten was particularly hard on her.  She spent a good part of the year crying in her teacher's office because no one knew what to do for her.  She'd come home to our Comforter in Chief though, and all was well.  She read to him, drew pictures of him, told him about her day.  Soon, she'd come out of her room, all sunshine and smiles.  Life was good.  She'd tell me about her friends at school.  The tears weren't important anymore.  As the years have passed she has learned to manage her world.  She doesn't get as upset as she used to, and she can express what's wrong when she is unhappy.  Still though, she and Mr. Fluffypants have an invaluable bond.  He greets her when she comes home.  Curls up wherever she is.

His willingness to comfort has touched us all at some point.  Even this winter, our old dog was in liver failure.  He had a terrible seizure and when it was over was afraid.  Mr. Fluffypants walked over to the dog, rubbed on his head and licked him, obviously trying to help him feel better.  We all love Mr. Fluffypants.  No one loves him as much as his girl though, and he returns every bit of her affection.

Skye's Fairy House

 I started writing this story three years ago. We had recently moved to a new house and hadn't met any neighbors. There was a large black cat who liked to sit on our cinderblock fence. My then seven year old daughter, the cat lover, watched him and wished he would come down so she could make friends with him. I had an idea I'd write this story for her, wrote the first little bit but didn't know where I wanted it to go so I put it aside. I realized the other day though, that my daughter is getting past the age where she will like simple fairy stories. If I'm ever going to write something for my own kids, this could be my best idea and I'm running out of time to get it done. I resolved to finish the story, at least enough to call it a start. I haven't decided yet if I want to keep going with it or maybe turn it over to my now ten year old to finish. I guess I have more to think about.

Skye opened her eyes.  There was darkness behind her curtains, and her pink flower lamp glowed softly in the corner.  For some reason she felt she should get up and look out her window.  She pushed her blanket back and used her doll house for a stool because she was too short to see out without it.  Moving the curtain aside, Skye cupped her hands around her eyes so she could peer into the dark.   Yes, the cat was there.  The black cat, who seemed to live nearby, sat on the fence outside her window quite often.  Skye was pretty sure it wanted to be friends.  She waved a little then felt silly.  As if a cat would know what a wave meant.  However, the cat perked it’s ears up, as if it knew Skye was saying hello.  She waved again and the cat flicked it’s tail and seemed to nod it’s head.  

    “It’s saying hello to me, too!”  Skye thought.  She giggled and waved again.  The cat stood and arched it’s back just a bit, the way cats do when they want to rub against you.  

    Skye laughed some more and whispered “Hi pretty kitty!”.  The cat took a few steps, then turned and walked back, still looking for all the world as if it wanted Skye to pet it.  It looked directly into her eyes and laid down on the fence, gazing serenely at her.  
    “What are you doing, you funny cat” Skye said softly.  She wondered what the cat was thinking.  It was the middle of the night, and it seemed to want to play.  “I can’t play right now kitty.  You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” she said.  

    The cat yawned widely, twitched an ear at her and closed it’s eyes, as if it understood it was time to sleep.  Skye watched the cat for a few seconds, but her room was cold and she wanted to get back under her covers.  She stepped down from her dollhouse and curled back up in her bed.  She smiled to herself.  She knew the cat would be back.  She wanted to be it’s friend, too.

The next morning,  Skye was pouring herself a cup of juice when she saw the cat again.  This time it was sitting on the back fence, twitching its tail in the morning sun.  It was looking through the window, straight at her.  She gave a little wave.  The cat twitched its ear.  

“I’m imagining things.  The cat isn’t communicating with me,” Skye thought.  She wasn’t convinced though.  She wanted to the cat to be there for her, to talk to her.  

She fetched her slippers and took her cup of juice outside.  The air was cold but Skye stepped across the crusted, frozen snow toward the cat.  When she stopped by the fence and looked up at it, the cat continued to gaze at her.  

“Good morning,” Skye said.  

The cat blinked.  “Good morning,” it said.

Skye gave a startled little jump, almost dropped her juice.  

“You can talk?!?!” she cried.

“No,” said the cat.  “I can think.  I am telepathic.  That means I communicate through thought.”

“I’m not telepathic,” squeaked Skye.  “I don’t communicate through thought!”

“You do with me,” said the cat.  He lowered his chin to rest on the fence, but continued to gaze at Skye.

“My name is Smoke.  I live next door and I’ve been watching you.” his voice filled Skye’s brain.

“How do you do that?” Skye’s voice trembled.  Her hand holding the juice shook.  

“It is just what I do” said Smoke.  This time the words sounded like a purr in Skye’s ears, but her brain heard his words.  “I think all cats can do it.”

“Mine can’t!” Skye said breathlessly.  But then she wondered, could they and she had just never listened properly?

“Well, I haven’t met your cats so I can’t say one way or another if they can or cannot.  I can.  I did not mean to startle you, but I do need your help.”

“My help? What do you mean?” Skye was confused.

“I have a friend, actually, who needs your help.  I have been watching your whole family, to be honest, and have decided you are the one we need.”

Skye goggled at him.  She was feeling overwhelmed.  She knew he had been watching her but learning he was telepathic and wanted more than to be friendly was a lot to take in.

When she didn’t say anything, Smoke continued, “Do you remember the fairy house you and your little friend built in the summer?”

Skye nodded.

“You did a very nice job with it.  The silk flowers you wove through the sticks were a lovely touch.” Smoke’s words sounded like purrs again.

Skye nodded again.  She didn’t know what to say.  She and her friend Wynn had spent an afternoon building fairy houses from sticks and mud, bits of grass, berries and her mom’s fake flowers but Wynn hadn’t been able to come back to play before school started and Skye hadn’t thought of the houses much without her.

Smoke stood on the fence and stretched leisurely, the way cats do.  Skye continued to just stare at him.  She didn’t know what to say.  

Smoke jumped to the ground next to her.  He looked up and purred, “Please follow me.”

Skye crunched after him to the corner of the yard where the fairy houses were.  They were under two huge blue spruce trees.  They had been pruned so you could walk under them and be protected from the weather.  The fairy houses were still there, still next to the tree trunks, still in good shape.  The fall rains and winter snow hadn’t damaged them at all.

Smoke rubbed his cheek against one, purring very loudly.

“Come out,” he purred.  “I brought her.”

Skye really did drop her cup of juice when she saw who Smoke was talking to.

A tiny fairy had stepped out of the house.  She was wrapped in what looked like a quilt made of leaves.  Her feet were encased in tiny leaf boots.  She had bright yellow hair that poofed out in tight curls.  She looked very, very cold.  

Skye dropped to her knees.  “Who are you?” she whispered.

The fairy stared with giant eyes at Smoke first, then up at Skye.  

“Skye,” Smoke purred.  “This is Fern.  She’s a summer fairy.  She is not supposed to be here now, but she liked your house so well she didn’t want to leave when summer ended.  She thought the house would keep her warm, but it is not warm enough.  She is suffering.”

At this, Fern stepped toward Smoke, who laid down and let her snuggle against his warm fur.  She tucked herself between his hind leg and stomach, so Skye could only see her head.  

Skye regained a bit of sense and said, “Hello Fern.  I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Fern still only looked at Skye with wide eyes.  She had stopped shivering thanks to Smoke’s warmth, but the poor thing was clearly still afraid.

“It’s okay,” Skye tried to reassure her.  “I’m the girl who built your house.  I’ve always wanted to meet a real fairy.  I wouldn’t hurt you at all.”
Fern blinked.  Smoke purred.  The three of them stayed that way for a few moments before Skye realized how cold she was, too.  It was winter after all, and she was wearing only flannel pajamas and fluffy slippers.  

“Could we go into my house?  Its warm there, and I could make sure my cats didn’t bother either of you,” Skye said.

“Oh no, I would not go into your house,” Smoke shook his head.  “My people would not like it if I went in your house.”

Fern also silently shook her head, looking even more afraid than before.
“Well I need to get my clothes and coat.  I’ll be right back.”

Skye ran to the house, straight to her room where she pulled on jeans and a sweater.

“There’s a FAIRY in my backyard!” she said to herself. “A fairy AND a talking cat!!!”

She pulled her sock drawer open as her cat Fluffy came into the room.  He rubbed against her.  She picked him up and looked into his eyes.  

“Can you talk to me?” she asked.
He purred.

“Really, can you talk to me, with your thoughts?”

Fluffy purred louder, he blinked slowly.  
“Never mind,” she said, and set him on the floor.  She reached for her socks and Fluffy bumped his cheek against her foot.

She hurriedly slipped on her socks, then her boots.  She grabbed her coat and flew to the back door.  Skye stopped suddenly and changed direction.  She scurried down the basement stairs and dug into her dad’s golf bag.  Snatching a little plastic packet, she went back up the stairs two at a time, knowing full well she was being too noisy for the early time of day, but needing to get back to Smoke and Fern.  

They were still under the trees, next to the fairy houses.  

“I brought you something,” she said breathlessly.

Skye held out her hands, showing the little packet.  

“What is that?” Smoke asked as Skye tore it open.

“Hand warmers,” Skye said, shaking two little cloth bags from the plastic.  “Watch this.”

She took one little bag and rubbed it roughly between her palms.  

“There.  Feel this.”  She held it toward Smoke and Fern.

Smoke touched his nose to it and pulled back in surprise.

“It’s warm!” he exclaimed.  Fern tentatively held a hand out but did not touch the cloth.

“It’s some sort of chemical reaction.  My dad puts them in his pockets when he golfs in the cold. They keep his hands warm for hours.  We could put one in Fern’s house.  It would be her heater!”  Skye felt like a genius.

Fern was slowly reaching toward the warm little bundle.  She touched it, jerked her hand away, but reached out again.  Soon she had her whole hand resting on it.  Smoke purred on.  

Fern moved her hand away again, but not out of fear.  She very softly said “It’s so hot.”

“Yes, it gets very hot at first, but it will slowly get cooler and cooler,” Skye told her.  

“How long does it last?” asked Smoke.

Skye picked up the package and read “Six to eight hours.”

“So she would need at least two every day.  I’m sure your dad would notice if you used all his hand warmers,” Smoke pointed out.  “Besides, you would have to remember to come out and open them for us.”
“You’re right.  It’s not a good solution for the whole winter, but it could work until we figure something else out, couldn’t it?” Skye was a little disappointed to have Smoke find the ways her plan wouldn’t work.

“Could I have this one?” Fern’s gentle voice was sweet in Skye’s ears.  

“Of course you can have it!” Skye tried to make her voice soft like Fern’s.  She didn’t want to frighten her again.  “Would you like me to put it in your house?”

Fern turned her big green eyes back to Skye and nodded.  

Skye set the hand warmer inside the little house and patted it smooth.  

“There.  I hope it will warm your house today.”

Fern cautiously stepped back into the house.  She walked around the warmer, holding her hands toward it.  Skye peeked through the door and grinned.  Fern was settling herself on the floor, a little smile on her face.

“This is wonderful,” Fern said, so quietly Skye could barely hear.

Skye sat up and looked at Smoke.

“I need to build her a door.  It would help keep her warm”
“Good idea,” said Smoke.  “Anything will help.”

“Skye!  What are you doing out there?”
Skye’s mom was standing on the patio, cup of coffee in her hand.
“I met the neighbor’s cat Mom!” Skye called.  
To Smoke and Fern she said “I’d better go in now.  I’ll come back soon though.  I’ll build a door for you Fern.  Then we’ll figure out how to keep you warm all the time.”

Desert Hike: A Photo Essay

I live in a great location.  A biologist friend one described it as "living on the edge" (to the tune of the Aerosmith song, which cracked me up because he was in his late 70s at the time and addressing my class full of 4th graders who'd never heard of Aerosmith).  I'm technically in the geographic region called the Great Basin, a cold desert, but I'm on the edge of two distinct climates.  We get snow and freeze all winter but we're much more mild than in the heart of the Rocky Mountains.  If I drive 40 minutes north/east, I reach a ski resort whose peak reaches above the timberline (11,306 feet).  The resort averages 368 inches of snow every winter.  If I drive 40 minutes south, I drop into the Mojave Desert, a hot desert where temperatures do freeze but it rarely snows.  When I've had enough winter, I drive south.  Yesterday, I loaded up the kids and went where it was warmer.  Temperatures were in the low sixties all day. We wore sweatshirts instead of parkas. We didn't get the sunshine we were hoping for, but the ground was dry. The change was welcome and the hiking was good.

We met up with friends to explore some cool rocks not far from the middle of the city.

Utah's desert is never dull, and the red rocks never get old.

Lots of little hiding places.

Natural arches abound.

I'm always amused in the low desert.  These little plants are dry and dormant, but later in the spring, when they're
renewed, they'll look very much like this still.

It's hard to beat the southern Utah vistas.  In the distance is the gateway to Zion National Park.

Layers of sandstone are endlessly interesting.

I like to imagine the aquatic life that would have been here in the years these layers were being laid down. 

Rolling sandstone hills with low brush provides the perfect hide and seek location.  Can you spot my son?

Scramble to the top and see how far you can see.

Even at this distance, the kids could hear me perfectly.

Going separate ways.  I like this scrubby little tree in the middle.  

These aren't the red rocks Utah is particularly famous for (they're on the other side of the state), but they're still pretty.

A mini-slot canyon.  Note the little tree pushing it's way up from the sandy bottom.

At the bottom of the little canyon.  You can see where  water runs over the rocks, keeping them free of sand.

Wandering.  Alone, but together.

I like the pockmarks and desert varnish here.  The striations caused by water are so interesting.

This location features what I believe to be a pioneer era store house.  There's a natural chimney which has been reinforced with cut rock and a stone doorway.

Erosion is a fascinating force.

Another cool slot to squeeze through.

My daughter looked all day for an interesting bug - we have some good ones in the desert - but all she found was a sleepy bee.  Good enough.

Sprouts of Happiness and Love

Spring is here! Okay, not really. It's still January. Below freezing, month old snow on the ground. In my basement though, I have seeds sprouting. Happy little seeds, sending up green leaves and love. (This little green pepper plant is my first sprout of 2016. I'm a little excited to see it.🤗)

Tractor History

(You can see the apartments where the apples used to be in the background.  Also, I loved the way the light changed color through the frosty tractor windows.)

In the 1950s, the area around our university was still mostly alfalfa fields.  Over time, homes were built creating a neighborhood.  In the last twenty years, the homes have started to give way to college housing.  Just last year a small stucco house with an apple orchard was razed for three vinyl boxes full of apartments for students.  One old farming family is holding out though.  Their father continued to grow alfalfa on this corner lot  (about 1/3 acre) until the 1980s just because he could.  When he passed, his kids decided they would keep the lot, there was no need to sell it.  Real estate prices around the university have steadily risen, but still they kept the lot.  They decided they couldn't bear to see the last alfalfa in town turned into student housing. They stopped growing alfalfa in the 1990s, now it just grows weeds, but they disc it and level it every fall, they make sure it doesn't become a garbage dump for inconsiderate folks.  This tractor stands there most of the year, a reminder of where our town came from, telling us not to forget the past.

Gathering Eggs

My cute grandparents, about 10 years after this story.

"Why did my mom go?" I sobbed.

My grandma rubbed my back over my white button up shirt and let me cry on her lap.

"Sweetie, your mom has a job now.  She went to work.  She'll be back this evening.  You'll see."

"Why can't I stay with Ann and Jill at home?" I cried.

"Honey, they're at school.  You know that.  Besides, I want you here with me."

She sat me up, pushed my blond curls back from my face and said "I need you to help me gather eggs."

"Okay," I sniffed.  "I'll gather eggs."

I loved gathering eggs with Grandma.  I was afraid to go in the coop alone, but with Grandma there to scare away the rooster I wasn't scared.  I could slide my hand under the sweet hens and I knew their secret hiding places.  Grandma said I never missed an egg.  She made me feel pretty smart.

"Go get their treat on the porch" Grandma said.

I fetched the chipped bowl full of vegetable peels from yesterday's meals.  It was a good distraction for the more uppity hens who didn't want me to take their eggs.  Grandma had taught me to spread the scraps out in their yard before I went in the coop and it would be easier to get the eggs.

She carried the bowl and I slipped my hand into hers.  My grandma had the softest hands I've ever felt.  How a woman who worked as hard as she did had such soft hands I'll never know, but when I was little holding my grandma's hand was like holding a warm puff of silk.

As we walked to the coop, we passed Grandma's garden and clothes line.  She had sheets on the line, hanging listless in the still, late summer air.  I could smell my great uncle had water in his field next to their house.  I forgot to be sad and started to skip, happy at the thought of finding eggs.

Grandma's chicken yard wasn't fenced.  Her chickens pretty much stayed near their coop anyway.  It was a good coop.  It was the biggest chicken coop I knew of.  Even my tall Uncle Jon could stand upright in it.  It had a proper door and two rows of roosts lined each wall.

"Here honey, give them their treats."  Grandma held the bowl down for me.

I dug my hands into cucumber and peach peels, tomato stems and a few boiled potatoes.  I started to spread it all on the ground, slowly the way I'd been taught so as not to scare the birds, when the rooster spotted me.  He ran over, wings flapping chucking down in his throat - a sound that terrified me.  I froze on the spot.

"Shoo now, shoo" Grandma said, stomping a foot at him while stepping between us.   She took a handful of peels and dropped them in front of him.  He didn't take the bait but continued giving me the eye.

Grandma put her hand on my back and turned me around.  She held the bowl out for me to take the last bit from it and said "give them the rest".

 I did, then she unlatched the door to the coop.

"What if he comes in after us?" I asked.  Still afraid of the rooster.

"He won't.  I'll stand right here and make sure he stays out."

I turned to the nests.  One egg, two, three! I carefully picked them up and carried them back to Grandma's bowl.  There was a hen on her nest but I knew her.  She wouldn't mind if I took her egg.  I carefully pushed my hand underneath her and felt her egg, all warmth.  She clucked gently like she didn't really like what I was doing but her feathers were so soft I kept my hand under her.  She clucked some more and Grandma said "Get the egg Robyn.  Don't make her worry."

I pulled the egg out and softly patted her back with my other hand.  I thanked her for the egg.

As we walked back to the house, I counted the eggs.  One two three four five six seven.  SEVEN eggs!  That meant all seven hens had laid that morning and I'd found them all.  I was pretty proud of myself.

"Grandma", I said.  "Can I have one of the eggs."

"Well sure.  Do you want to eat it or just have it?"

"Eat it!" I yelled.

So Grandma cooked the egg for me.  My grandma made the best fried eggs I've ever had, cooked in butter with the yolk just hard so it wouldn't spill on the plate because when I was three a runny yolk was cause to stop eating all together.  She made us both a piece of toast from her good, homemade bread and when we had eaten she said "Let's take some eggs over to Archie".

She got a little paper sack and put the rest of the fresh eggs inside.  I had never been to Archie's with anyone but my dad before, but I knew he was an old bach' (at three I didn't know what a bachelor was, much less that bach' was a nickname for one) and I knew he always had a piece of hard candy for me when my dad and I would stop in.

Grandma and I walked two blocks to Archie the Old Bach's house, where he did indeed have a piece of candy for me.  As we left Grandma said "Arch doesn't have anyone looking out for him but he's a good friend".  I was touched by Archie's aloneness and was glad we had given him some eggs.  Grandma and I walked back to her house, stopping to say hello to a neighbor lady out watering her grass.

When we got back my dad was there to get me.  He and my grandpa were leaning on his truck bed out on the street.  I hopped toward him, always happy to see my dad.

"Did you have a good morning?" he asked.

"Yes!" I nodded.  "But I didn't get to swing!" I realized with alarm.

"That's okay.  You get to come back tomorrow.  You can swing then."

"Okay." I said, obviously I was no longer upset about my mother's going to work.

When I was a teenager my grandma told me about this day, how I had cried and cried on her lap because I wanted my mom.  We laughed at the thought of using the chickens to distract me.  I spent so much time with my grandparents that even if I don't remember distinct days like this, I remember what we did routinely and I remember the cozy feeling of being with them as if I was still there sitting at their kitchen table.  I feel incredibly lucky to have such memories.

What Makes You So Happy?

When my oldest daughter, Elise, was four, I took her and a friend to see the ballet Copellia.  The friends' mom and I purchased new dolls to occupy the girls should they need bribes to make it through, but we didn't need them.  The girls were mesmerized.  Especially mine.  She watched every second as if it were the best Barbie movie ever (her obsession at the time).  For weeks after, she talked about dancing and ballet, she had to dance along with her Bella  Ballerina DVD at least once every day.  She staged dance classes with her little sister.  It didn't take a lot of thought when I saw a local ballet school was holding a preschool level "ballet camp" workshop the next summer.  I signed

Four year old Elise on her way to her first day
of ballet camp.

Elise up.  You should have seen her face when I bought her proper dance clothes and shoes.  Oh heavens,  I wish I had that on video because the surprise and happiness was beautiful.  She spent fourty minutes a day for the next two weeks in heaven. She had a lovely teacher, Miss Misty, who had control of the room and taught real technique, but also made it feel magical.  Elise would get the happiest look on her face when it was time to go to ballet.  She smiled through every class, made friends, fell in love with Miss Misty.  I swear I could actually hear her heart sing through the little observation window.  Miss Misty was very encouraging.  She always praised Elise's focus and "try".  She often raved to me about her dancer's feet and posture.  She told me Elise had a naturally perfect point, turn out and relevé.  Ballet camp was two weeks of happiness.  When it was time to sign up for fall classes, I didn't even consider not enrolling her.  From then on Elise had a passion.  Oh, she tried gymnastics, soccer and swimming, but nothing made her light up like ballet.

Fast forward eight years to this fall.  The poor kid had a crisis of confidence.  On the day of placements, she realized she was likely to be placed in the most advanced classes our school offers as well as pointe. Her brain started freaking out. She would now be with girls at least a year or two older than her and for the first time Miss Misty wouldn't be her teacher in any of them.  She'd have the choice to take lower classes with girls her age of course, and she liked the advanced teacher, but fear gripped her.  

As I tried to talk her down from the ledge of "I don't want to do ballet!!", I told her a story from when she was four.  We were in a store buying her second pair of ballet shoes.  Elise was not the kind of kid who threw fits or made demands but she had a full blown temper tantrum because we were buying flat shoes instead of pointe.  She didn't understand why she wasn't getting pointe shoes.  Miss Misty said she was a good dancer!  Why couldn't she have pointe shoes?!?!  She finally calmed down enough to understand she had to be older to be considered for pointe, and I laughed to myself over her angry little face.  As I told this story I wrapped it up with "Four year old you would never forgive you if you quit ballet just as you're going en pointe".  Elise laughed and the fear was broken.  She went to placements, did her best and was, indeed, placed in the advanced classes, with an hour of pointe to boot.  We had expected she would go the pointe class in flats for at least a while while she built strength, but her teacher told me to go have her fitted for pointe shoes immediately.  (Let me tell you, that was an exciting shopping trip.)

I was smart enough, this time, to have the camera ready.  

She doesn't grin broadly anymore, but she's just as happy as she was when she was four.

At this winter's recital.
Photo by Parker Grimes Photography.

At this point in the dance season, Elise is doing wonderfully.  She's never had more confidence and she says dancing still makes her smile.  Yesterday, she was cast as a mechanical ballerina doll in a local company's production of Copellia.  It's a pointe role, and the first time she'll be in more than the corps de ballet in a production.  It doesn't matter to her that it's a tiny role. She's a teenager now and isn't quite so demonstrative with her happiness, but I again wished I had videoed her face when she got the news.  She was one happy girl.

As I think about her ballet story, I think about passion and happiness.  She found something she truly loved when she was four.  I am stunned that her love has endured, after all, four is so tiny.  We change so much as we move from year to year, but the effect of dance has not lessened for her.  Last spring, at the age of six, my son had a similar experience with swimming.  He literally jumps with happiness when it's time to go to swim team.  You can't wipe the smile from his face while he's in the water.  He puts his wet suit on and glows from within. Playing baseball was a chore for him, but swimming is a reward.

My middle child hasn't found an activity she loves yet. (She LOVES cats, but I'm not sure that's the same.)  She likes writing and singing and creating.  She thought she wanted to be a singer so I put her in singing lessons.  She likes them alright but now she wants to dance or act.  She doesn't really know.  She might want to play the ukulele or piano or drums.  She doesn't know.  It's fine with me that she's trying so many things.  I identify with her lack of certainty.  Heck, I'm 41 and I don't know what I really love to do. It makes me wonder though, where does passion come from.  Is it a matter of happening across something that clicks with you? Is it a great teacher who lights a fire?  Is it finding the right thing at the right time?  Perhaps it's having the right kind of personality.

When I think about it, I realize most people do not have a true passion.  Most people have a hobby or career they enjoy, but few have something they're driven to do, something they work really hard to improve in just because they want to.  I wish for my middle one's sake that she had something that made her happy every time she did it.  It's such a joy to see my other two light up the way they do, I wish that for her.  Heck, I wish it for myself, and everyone else, too.  If we never find it though, perhaps that's okay.  Maybe some of us aren't meant to have that high.  It's not as if I'm unhappy without a passion.  I have a lot of leveled joy and peace in my life.  Maybe I'm trading the high of passion for those things.