Coast to Coast Dogs

It was decided. In July 2003 my good friend Sally and I paid the fees and made travel plans for the most physically and mentally challenging adventure either of us had ever attempted. We were going to walk 85 miles coast to coast across northern England from the Irish to North Seas. We would walk through three national parks: Lake District, Yorkshire Dales, and North Yorkshire Moors. It would take six days of walking, averaging 12-15 miles per day, to complete the route through hills, dales, and moorlands made famous by the likes of Wordsworth, James Herriot, and the Bronte sisters.

Joining Up--the wayfarers flew from Philadelphia to Manchester, England. From the Manchester airport we bumbled our way to the BritRail station and completed a tag team effort to find our train stop--and figure out the right side of the station to be on to travel to Windermere where we would meet up with our walking group. We were delighted with this little comfort center for dogs at the rail station. It reads: "This facility is for use by our four legged friends. Please quench your thirst with our best wishes. Virgin Trans" A big downside to travel is that you miss your animals so much. Sally and I both left several much loved dogs at home. From a previous trip to England, I figured our chances of meeting some dogs along our walking path would be pretty good since it seemed that the English love dogs and cats a lot. From coast to coast we were successful--look for the "Dog a Day" photos throughout this tale.

Newby Bridge and Windermere--we had a day to recuperate at the Swan Hotel in Newby Bridge, within walking distance of the Irish Sea,the starting point of our trip. On arrival, we explored the village and hotel grounds to get our internal clocks adjusted to local time. And voila! We meet our first Dog a Day. Sam, the Staffordshire terrier, lived with his owner on a boat tied up on the waterway running in front of the Swan Hotel. Now tell me, is this a face to fear?"


On our second day at Newby Bridge we explored Bowness-on-Windermere lovely small town on Lake Windermere that catered to tourists,including hikers because this area was the start of several walks around the Lake District and beyond. We had a great day wandering through all the shops and looking for arts and crafts of the region. And of course we had to stop in one of the outside cafes for tea and scones with cream and strawberries. While we sat there people watching, we spotted this fellow patiently waiting outside the OXFAM for his owner to finish shopping.

After a leisurely day in Windermere we finally meet our Wayfarer Tour Leaders Dave, Bill, and Alan and the ten other people on the tour at a Welcome Dinner and Introduction back in Newby Bridge. We came from all over the U.S. and France for this challenge. We would not be strangers for long because we would be partners in keeping up with our leaders as we covered the 85 miles to our goal--the North Sea. Early the next day we would begin our walk with a ceremonial dipping of our boots in the Irish Sea. . .

Part 2--Newby Bridge to East Witton posted on 12-5-07

Sweet

Some things that you get to do are just plain fun. Plus, if you learn something you didn't know already, that just adds an extra oomph to the experience. Yesterday was that kind of day when I met up with a couple of friends to check out an exhibit of Kentucky antique sugar chests at the Speed Art Museum. What made the outing extra sweet(get it?) was that we could have so much fun in the middle of a work week. All three of us are retired--or will be soon. One of the great perks of retirement is to be able to do things on your own schedule. That means no lines, crowds, time limits. And let's not forget the unexpected luxury of seeing a movie in an almost empty theater.

For those readers who are not knowledgeable antique buffs or owners--including me--here's the deal on sugar furniture. In the early to mid nineteenth century, sugar was a precious commodity in the home. In Kentucky, loaves and cones of sugar were shipped inland from New Orleans and the West Indies and kept under lock and key in the more affluent homes. In the sound tradition of form following function, furniture makers in central and western Kentucky crafted a variety of sugar chests, desks, and boxes which were kept in the public rooms of the house such as parlor or dining room for all to see. This furniture was a symbol of the family's social status. These beautiful but simple pieces kept expensive sugar convenient for sweetening drinks and also held the liquor served to frequent guests in the homes.

The Speed Museum had around 40 different examples of sugar furniture on display. The earliest pieces were simple divided boxes, mostly on legs that became more intricately carved as the century progressed. Most pieces had two separate bins for the refined white or cane sugar and the more common maple or brown sugar. Some had drawers for valuables and cubbyholes for liquor bottles. All had locks to keep out samplers. Most pieces were singularly lacking in ornamentation, depending on beautiful wood graining, simple inlays, and dovetailing to make each piece unique.

Today I'm thinking about a couple of the chests we saw. I now have more appreciation for these antiques. It's almost like if you look closely enough at the worn places, scratches in the wood, or decorative elements of a piece you can create a story about the families who owned and used them to entertain friends and family. It would make me much happier to have an antique sugar chest in my home than the most expensive new piece. With the antique I'd get another family's history to which I could add my own memories.

Winterfair!

Yesterday morning, Black Friday, the smoke alarm chirped Willie and me out of a sound sleep at 2:30 a.m. The wake up call would have been fine had I intended to be in the Wal-Mart or Best Buy bargain shopper's line early in the morning. I think not. I would have preferred to sleep in a few more hours before observing the day after Thanksgiving in a less combative manner. However, no big deal. I shushed the smoke alarm and coaxed Willie from under the desk where he kept pleading "Make that thing stop hurting my ears!" Finally, after restoring the calm I left home to meet up with some friends in Frankfort for a day of fine arts and crafts.
We drove to Covington, just across the Ohio River from Cincinnati, for a preview of Winterfair!,the Ohio fine art and craft
exposition. Every state has it's own variation of this type of show which spotlights its state artists working in a variety of media including ceramics, metals, fine art, jewelry, fiber and more. At every booth we found works that were beautiful, functional, and whimsical. We tried on handmade clothing and jewelry and laughed and chatted with the artisans, learning about their works.

There were artists that stood out for all three of us. My friend kittyhawk was eager to have us see the blown glass work of Michael J. Mikula which combines brilliantly colored,intricately shaped glass with metal in strikingly architectural designs. They became friends through a special book project and she has come to really appreciate his artistry.

My favorite artist was a young silversmith from Berkley who specialized in making ancient coin jewelry such as you see here. He was totally full of himself in a good way and kept us lingering at his booth with a combination of real information about the origins and symbolic meaning of the coins he used and good salesmanship.

I closed out a very successful day with my first Starbucks Peppermint Mocha of the holiday season and memories of a great day traveling with friends and sharing appreciation for the artists among us. I'm not regretting a single Black Friday bargain that slipped through my fingers while at Winterfair!

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.