Mensa Candidate--Not!

Regular readers of my blog will need to give me a self indulgence pass for the next couple of days. I'm currently in a Woody Allen navel gazing phase because of a benchmark birthday coming up this week. Unfortunately, I'm not having any trouble seeing same navel, if you get my drift. . .However, let's save that concern for later in the week.

Recently the Courier Journal ran a story about the International Mensa Society, including information on where and when to take the test in this area to see if you'd qualify to be a part of this group of intellectual smartypants. It seems that the main focus of this highly intelligent--notice that I didn't say highly functioning--group is to meet and share a lot of thin air ideas and discussions that we ordinary folk wouldn't get.

Now I'm not interested in getting into the Mensa Society, being a realist and great protector of my positive self image. I am, however, interested in what these advancing years are doing to my brain function. After all, keeping your "tack" sharp is key to enjoying mid-life and beyond. More importantly, most of my friends are also getting to the age where they too need a keeper--so, we need to look out for each other!

Needing to know where I currently stand in the intelligence department, I hopped on the Internet and found this site for free IQ tests (interested? http://www.funeducation.com/ ) and found a "premium" psychometric exam that measures cognitive performance in key areas such as word analysis and spatial reasoning. You know the kinds of questions: "If some Toogs are Bekes and some Bekes are Broons, then some Toogs are definitely Broons. True or False?" My initial response to all 46 of the similarly worded exam questions was: who gives a big rat's hiney? But, I persevered to the end of the test.

According to Dr. McConochie's test, I fell just a scooch above average IQ on the bell-curve for takers of his test. This was a blow. After all, I try to learn something new about the world every day. Apparently the bios of Amazing Race contenders are not exactly helping me keep my grey cells! Never fear, I'll just dig deeper into my latest daily self education text: The Intellectual Devotional--Revive Your Mind, Complete Your Education, and Roam Confidently with the Cultured Class by David Kidder and Noah Oppenheim. So far I've learned about the alphabet, cloning, and the Torah. These daily intellectual devotionals in areas of knowledge from science to religion should help blow back the fog of old age.

Tomorrow's navel gazing installment: Emotional Intelligence

Where's Your Flag?

On Veteran's Day I'm thinking back to an October dust storm that was whirling around Barack Obama. As it happens frequently in political races, a lot of valuable air time that could be used to define candidates' positions on important issues is wasted over inconsequential silly things like what's with Hillary's clapping to the audience when she comes on-stage? How much did John Edwards pay for a haircut? Is Rudy still keeping his drag queen costume in his closet?

Obama's dust storm dealt with his no longer wearing an American flag lapel pin. When questioned about it on the talk circuit back in October, he stirred up a big brouhaha by trying to give a thoughtful response to an inconsequential, silly, and shallow question. Obama said that he, like many Americans, wanted to wear our flag after the 9/11 attacks as a show of solidarity with the people of the U.S. And now, six years later, he'd stopped wearing the pin because it's too easy.

Like a lot of the things we find ourselves doing to "support" the war--bumper stickers, yard signs, moments of silence at public gatherings, prayers from pulpits--it's just patriotism lite. While many of us never forget to wear our American flag pins--or even worse-patriotic sweatshirts and hats--a disproportionate number of young men and women sacrifice too much in Iraq and Afghanistan while we go on with our daily lives, most of us not affected or changed in any way by what happens in the Middle East.

A week or so before all this wearing of the flag controversy happened, we were in yet another empty public relations battle. General David Petraeus was appearing before Congress to report on the progress of Bush's troop surge. In order to provoke the public--and hopefully our Congressional leaders--into evaluating Petraeus' testimony more critically instead of giving him the easy pass that Bush expected, MoveOn.org ran the infamous "General Petraeus or General Betray Us?" ad in the New York Times.

This was just the red herring supporters of the surge were looking for. Instead of listening carefully to the General's assessment for true signs of progress, it was--much like wearing a lapel pin--much easier for Congress to grandstand instead of question. Oh the righteous indignation against MoveOn.org, the New York Times, and any American who thought it was time to listen critically to what we were being told about the actual progress and projections for success in the region! The great battle of the Stay the Coursers vs the Cut 'n Runners was on!

In all the furor, David Shuster, D.C. reporter for MSNBC, delivered the most telling blow in the whole debate. In an interview he conducted with Marsha Blackburn, Congresswoman from Tennessee and water carrier for Bush talking points, Shuster allowed her to go on and on about the unpatriotic undermining of MoveOn.org and the financial whoring of the NY Times for running the piece just to build readership. Meanwhile, members of Congress were trying desperately to give General Petraeus an opportunity to tell us what must be done to win the war in Iraq.

After letting Blackburn almost empty her water bucket, Shuster dealt the death blow question. It went like this: "Congresswoman Blackburn, a nineteen year old soldier from your district was killed last week in Iraq. Can you tell me his name?" Unfortunately, that young soldier's name was not in the good Congresswoman's talking points--all she could do was to backpedal rapidly, saying that she and her staff were in close contact with all military families with dead or injured family members. Shuster then closed the interview with this question: "Why? Do you not think it as important to be informed on your constituents' losses in the war as it is to know the NY Times' motivations for running an anti-war ad?"

If only being a patriot in times of war were as easy as wearing an American flag on our lapel. Unfortunately, we all know it's not that simple. Our duty as a citizen is to be informed--getting our information from as many sources as possible. How did we, as Jon Stewart says, get ourselves in this "Messopotamia"? Who are the real terrorists? Why do they hate the U.S. so much? What's the difference between a Sunni and Shiite? How many soldiers have been killed since March 2003? More importantly, do our elected leaders know the answers to these questions? I say if, at any given point, they can't answer these questions then they need to get off the stage--we need bold, deliberate leaders, not a bunch of cowardly lions. Do all this and then, if you like, wear the flag.

Willie Voted Today

Today Kentuckians get to vote to keep our existing rogue's gallery of state officials or send them packing by electing a new set that will more than likely disappoint before the yard signs are all down. Actually, this lead in is more cynical than I feel, but there's a kernel of reality--or inevitability--in my mind. Anyway, I woke up early this morning eager to get to the polls and cast a vote for my guys and gal.

Willie gets all agitated in the mornings when he sees me lacing up walking shoes because that means we're supposed to head out for our daily forced march. Since the polling center is in the high school gym that we pass on our daily walks, I figured we may as well multi-task by voting and walking at the same time. Anyway, to be fair to Willie, if he's had to listen to all the debates and lay patiently under my desk while I track the races on my favorite political blogs, he at least should get his much loved romp out of the deal. He also has a brand new leash that needed trying out.

When we got to the polling place I tied his leash to a tree far enough out in the parking lot that he wouldn't get into trouble with election officials by trying to influence other voters to cast their votes for our slate. I warned him not to look cute--which he does so well-- in order to coax people over to him so he could tell them who we were for. We went through our vote one last time just to be sure--we don't vote a straight Democratic or Republican ticket as there are idiots/vote wasters on both sides. I then left him sitting under the tree and went in to cast our vote.

Willie and I will be up late tonight waiting for the election results to come in. Hopefully by bed-time we'll have some new leaders in Frankfort who will understand that they don't need to worry about my bedroom or the state of my soul--I've been managing fine in those areas without them for more years than I care to admit. It should work out well to divy up the responsibility--I'll do my part and they can focus on the economy, education, health care, and promoting our beautiful state.

All the Boys. . .

Remember the Willie Nelson classic, To All the Girls I've Loved Before? Well, with a nod to Willie, I'm in the mood to write about all the boys I've loved before. However, MY boys just happen to be the five great dogs that have shared my life for the past 30 plus years. These guys made me laugh, softened my hard edges, and taught me valuable lessons about love, responsibility, and communication. Here are snapshots of the Magnificent Five:

Virgil, 1970-72 -- was an ugly little mixed breed that lived with me during Peace Corps Volunteer days on the Caribbean island of St. Kitts. I rescued him from a village in the countryside and brought him to the big city of Basseterre. Frankly he was so ugly that I made him lie on the floor of the mini-moke (a glorified golf cart that we PC Volunteers used for tooling around the island) for the trip to his new home. We shared a little house by the sea, which was handy because he and I would meet the fishing boats that came to shore at dawn to buy fish. We both subsisted on fish and rice and fresh bread, sausage and cheese sold at the neighborhood shops. Virgil also shared my daily slice of cake. Yes, I'll admit to having a cake schedule--baked a different variety each week. Don't underestimate the importance of rituals in new surroundings! Virgil's main job, however, was House Bouncer. Fellow convent school teachers and other PCVs often stopped to chat in the evenings. We'd sit on the porch, watching the Caribbean sunsets and solving all our problems--usually with the opposite sex. When I grew tired of the hippie angst, Virgil got to come on the porch and give everyone a proper crotch sniff--guaranteed to close down the party.

We lived together for three years and then, when my tour of service was complete, I entrusted him to a St. Kitts family who had befriended me. It wasn't an ideal arrangement because of their poverty, but I couldn't bring him back to the U.S. I had no place to stay, job, or funds to be quarantined 2-3 weeks with him in Miami. This was my first lesson in what Jon Katz calls "Good Enough" pet ownership. Virgil certainly made me a happier, more balanced PCV and I loved having him to share the adventure.


Zack, 1983-98 -- was a border collie/black lab mix that I purchased for $6.00 from a local farmer. Zack's mother, a working border collie, got knocked up by a handsome black lab from the
neighborhood so the farmer didn't want the puppies to work his cattle. Big mistake! From the beginning Zack was a frenetic, smart, challenging border collie and I was clueless as to how demanding he would be. The drama began immediately. We got evicted from a duplex because of a no pet policy, so I bought us a house--with an unfenced yard. Feeling badly about keeping him tied, I had a fence installed with my income tax refund. He re-paid me by sitting on top of the fence as the workmen pulled out of the driveway.

The herding instinct was in him from puppy hood. Visitors would have to submit to a Bitter Apple spraying and then cover themselves with a quilt to keep Zack from stripping their Achilles heel with razor sharp puppy teeth. Having no idea how much border collies need work and stimulation, I soon had a bored thief on my hands--lunch, shoes, magazines--anything. However, his greatest joy was to dive into dirty laundry and then charge out the hole in the screen door, running madly around the back yard with my Jockeys for Her unfurling out of his mouth like a white truce flag in the wind. I chased, the neighbors laughed, and Zack always won.

Zack was gorgeous with his black/white collie coat and lab body. I was proud of him and enjoyed walking him in our neighborhood. Once we were walking down the main street of our state capital when he spotted a giant road kill possum. Before I could block, he clamped onto his prize and would not drop it. I wouldn't touch the disgusting thing, he wouldn't let go, so there I was, outwitted again! Zack was terrified of thunder and lightening. He hid in the bath tub and chewed through screens and door frames and, on one occasion, the furnace duct work, almost killing me with carbon monoxide. For a time I called him Zack Kevorkian. . .

Zack was opposed to any international travel on my part. In '93 I was saving my pennies for an English horticultural tour and--in a maniac race around the yard--he tore his cruciate ligament, which required around $1,500 in orthopedic surgery to repair the damage--kiss the Chelsea Flower Show good-bye that year. In '98 I went on a tour of Ireland and Scotland, leaving my four dogs with an older sister. And, in his last "got ya", Zack died of old age and heart problems while I was away. My dear friends Sally and Dan came to the rescue. At 6 a.m. they loaded him in their car trunk and took him to Bob Evans for a farewell breakfast until the vet's office opened. Note to new pet owners: do some funeral pre-planning. I didn't, and got a call from the vet in a couple of weeks telling me to come by the office and pick up Zack's cremains. He's currently resting comfortably in a heart-shaped box in my closet. As usual, Zack got the last laugh on me. . .

Frank, 1987-'01 --was a black fluffy chow mix pup who showed up in my friend Sherry's garage on her moving day. I got the rescue call and headed out. We decided that he was a good--maybe even pedigreed--dog, so we advertised for his owners. No takers, so he came tolive with Zack and me. After his post-natal visit to the vet, I understood why there were no inquiries. He was full of worms and had an injured eye--perhaps blind. However, those eyes were blue, so I named him for Ole Blue Eyes, Frank Sinatra.

Frank immediately became the alpha dog, embracing his chowness, especially around other dogs. It took a pit bull pup to overpower him in his senior years. I called him my Laughing Dog because of his habit of coming to me and staring with a grinning face when he needed anything. I sadly let him go on 9/11 after months of poor health.

Dan, 1992-'02 -- was a beautiful red-coated golden retriever and the only pedigreed dog I ever had. Dan was excess baggage from a divorce and re-marriage. I rescued him as a two years old from a life of being tied to a doghouse in the middle of a yard and being neglected by a young family trying to put its own life back together. As with everyone else, when it comes to goldens I was madly in love with Dan from the beginning. He was totally uncomplicated--a 65 lb. lump of sugar. I named him Dan after the former Vice President Dan Quayle because he, like his namesake, was very handsome but not very smart. Dan was, however, the peacemaker among the pack of four dogs. He also was a darn good baby-sitter for my last dog, the pit bull. We had a great ten years together before he died at 12 years of old age and cancer.

Willie, 1996-Present --is a black/white pit bull mix with an endearing black eye patch. He is another rescue. He and his sister Hallie were found near a Ben Franklin dumpster when only about eight weeks old. My friends took Hallie and I brought Willie home and set him up in a rabbit cage in the living room. He was a terror from an early age, dominating and fighting the older dogs. Unfortunately, I didn't know how to channel that aggression so he made our lives chaotic for several years.

With Dan's passing in '02, Willie became an only dog, which suited him well. More importantly, I became acquainted with the dog rehabilitation work of Cesar Millan of Dog Whisperer fame on the National Geographic Channel. Cesar believes that owners must be their dog's pack leader and that dogs are balanced and fulfilled only when they receive exercise, discipline, and affection--in that order. Luckily, I'm retired so I have the time to provide this formula for Willie. Every day starts with a long, focused walk where he is expected to be a good ambassador for pit bulls, a much maligned breed. People regularly stop me in public to compliment his good behavior. I reward him with lavish attention and affection. He is a great retirement partner.

Some people speak of a Forever Dog--the one that you love above all others. For me, my Magnificent Five are all Forever Dogs, each in his own way enriched my life and taught me how to be a better person, I hope.

Morning Pages

I woke up at 5 a.m. this first day of the month eager to write "Morning Pages." For several years I've followed this writing practice which I learned from Julia Cameron, author of The Artist's Way, The Sound of Paper, and The Right to Write. Cameron has been my writing/creative living coach for many years. With her promptings, I've filled many notebooks with random writings that have helped me live and think more creatively, sort through life's many ups and downs, and hone writing skills. And lately, these writings are showing up in this blog.

Here's the Morning Pages routine. I hop out of bed, make a cup of coffee, grab the really cool tablet and smooth writing pen that I bought at the Flax art supply store in Chicago, and then get comfortable on the sofa. Willie joins me there, going back to sleep curled by my side. He's ready to start his job--being a loving leech--whenever he's needed.

At 5:20 a.m. I begin to write, the exercise being to just fill three hand-written pages--no re-writing, editing, or obsessing over the value of what I'm getting down. This morning I had no topic as I began to write. Not important. All I have to do is get three pages done and then I can quit--no matter if it's drivel. So, I write about this past weekend's visit with friends, describing the ballgames, storytelling festival, sibling relationships, and political discussions that made up the visit. I'm cruising by now, so I describe an upcoming visit to Baltimore, and plans for a fall wardrobe makeover based on what I'm learning from Bravo's Tim Gunn on his Guide to Style program.

At 6:05 a.m. I have three pages written. Willie wakes up and I can stop writing. Piece of cake--not a single drop of sweat or blood exertion staining the pages! Routine is a good thing for a writer. By following an established ritual, writing becomes as much a part of daily living as brushing your teeth or feeding the dog. You just do it without a lot of thought. Throughout the day you think and then get those thoughts on paper--it's a natural process.

Writing ranks way up there with public speaking on most people's dread meter. We admire good writing, enjoy reading it--and for the most part--believe that we can't do it. All of us are writers. The trick is to just make writing a part of our daily life. And, you know how that goes. Sometimes we'll do well and other times it won't be worth much. No matter, I still have three pages for October 1--enough fodder for this post. Tomorrow I'll write again.

Willie is In

She leaned on her cane by the mail-box, patiently waiting for Willie and me to walk up the street to her. I asked Willie to pick up the pace and not make as many stops as he would like, leaving pee-mails and getting messages from dogs who'd already been out this morning.

When we reached the elderly woman she said, "I wanted to pet your dog because he seems so nice. On Wednesday I had to put my dog to sleep and now I miss her so much. I'm 92 years old and I don't have anyone to take care of, to get up for in the morning." Oddly enough, I was thinking about her and her dog just yesterday, since I hadn't seen them in our daily passings. Often the two of them would be in the yard, tending her flowers or talking with neighbors. Her dog, a black and while border collie-cocker mix, would gimp out to the edge of the yard barking madly, but never offering to come across the street to straighten Willie out. Like her owner, she was a dignified, elderly lady.

As he had been taught, Willie sat patiently so she could pet him. Dogs seem to know when they're what the doctor ordered. He was on the job.

We spoke of the pleasures of sharing our homes with dogs and the empty places they leave when we no longer have them. Her dog was 15 years old. I asked if she'd thought about adopting an old, more sedate dog and she said, "No, not at my age. I wondered about calling the local animal care society to see if I could come there and just talk to the dogs and pet them, but I don't drive much anymore."

After some time passes, maybe she would allow me to drive her to the animal care place. I would be honored to do this. In the meantime, Willie and I will stop by for a periodic "Hello" while out on our rambles so she can again enjoy touching and looking into the eyes of a dog, man's best companion at any time of our life.

Welcome Home

Welcome Home Michael. This was the big sign spray painted on a bed sheet and hanging from the gutter of a house in my neighborhood when Willie and I passed by on our forced march Friday morning. A Kentucky flag was stuck in the yard in front of the sign. From that, I'm assuming that Michael is perhaps a guardsman or reservist who, thankfully, returned safely from Iraq or Afghanistan. Every morning we've walked past this house, never imagining that the family living there was worried about a son, husband, or father in harm's way.

Certainly there were no naive, boasting "Support Our Troops and Our President" signs in the yard--no easy shows of patriotism. Often, the grass needed mowing, landscaping tended, and maintenance done on the home's exterior. I rarely saw any comings and goings of the residents.

And now, I understand. These people, like thousands of families across the U.S., were just waiting for Michael to come home so they can get on with their lives. Mr. President, how long must they wait?