Flowers of spring

 It’s the start of another quiet week.

King and I are back at the trailer while the boys are at their father’s for the week.

The good news is the “shelter-in-place” order has been lifted for San Diego County. The selfish news is that means the campground is filling up. We prefer solitude. The interesting news is we are still the oldest RV/trailer in the campground.

There was considerable excitement at our daughter’s apartment this past week. The butterfly habitat they boys received as a Christmas gift saw some activity. The butterflies started emerging from the chrysalis, which they  had formed sometime after the holiday.  Our daughter said she was quite relieved it happened on her watch and that the insects will be heading back to the boy’s father’s house so he can decide when to release them. The days can be warm, but the nights still dip into the mid-30s. It’s a heat-wave for King and me, but not so much for native Californians – butterflies among them.

We’ve had another wet week. Every time it rains I ask my daughter if the state is preparing for another “Super Bloom” – a time when the conditions are just right for the California deserts to become alive with color. She laughs at me (The nerve) and tells me over and over that a little rain does not mean the deserts will bloom. I know. But hope springs eternal.

Wildflowers at the Blair Valley Campground
in the Anza Borrego Desert State Park
near Borrego Springs, California.

According to the Death Valley website a deep soaking, gentle rain is essential for a desert floral display. A rainstorm of a half-inch or more is needed to wash the protective coating off the wildflower seeds to allow them to sprout. Then the rain must come at evenly spaced intervals throughout the winter and spring.  The best blooms are triggered by an early, winter-type rainstorm in September or October, followed by an El Nino weather pattern that brings above average rainfall to the desert.  That didn’t happen this year.

A few years ago King and I visited Joshua Tree National Park at the very end of the blooming season. It was not a “Super Bloom,” but it was impressive. I was struck by the number of cars lining the highway with people stopped to take photos. It reminded me of tourists taking photos of the

Blair Valley Campground flowers

tulips in Holland, Michigan.  

I have not been to Holland during Tulip Time since 2015. My sisters and I met there after work one evening to watch the Dutch Dancers and to have an Elephant Ear. I probably have photos of that day somewhere in my haphazard storage of photos but I just spent most of the morning looking for the desert flower photos. I’m not going hunting again.

Speaking of Tulip Time, I just checked the Tulip Time website to see if the event was going to happen this year.  (Alma, Michigan has canceled their Highland Festival already this year). Today is the last day of January and the Tulip Time website says they hope to announce festival events in January. There are none listed. I’m guessing it’s a no. I honestly don’t think I will attend large events for a least a year anyway.  I don’t live in fear, but I am claustrophobic. The thought of not being able to breathe does bother me a little.

Tulip Time does bring back some memories.

Besides growing up in Hamilton, being a band member and marching in every Tulip Time parade from seventh grade through my senior year in high school, I also worked for the Holland Sentinel for two years during Tulip Time. Working downtown Holland during the Festival means arriving early in the morning to find a parking space and either staying in the office all day (rather difficult for a reporter to do) or planning on walking several blocks to work after going out on assignment.

A co-worker came back from lunch one day and heaved a huge sigh. “I had my lunch in Centennial Park,” he said. “I met a senior citizen who was in Holland on a bus tour. She said she was traveling alone and didn’t know anyone on the tour. They stopped to take photos and when she turned to get back on the bus, she wasn’t sure which tour she belonged to. She winked at me and said, ‘We all look alike you know.’”

I asked him what he did. He said he had already eaten most of his lunch, so he shared his banana with her and took her to the Tulip Time headquarters as she wasn’t sure of which hotel her group was staying.

It’s funny… except I’m now a senior citizen too.

 

DK Update: Our new companion is rounding the corner. He now wags his tail more (even in his sleep) and has figured out how to beg for food. His spine is now less pronounced and I can count just three ribs rather than four.  I now get up with him twice a night for potty breaks rather than four to six times. I still nap when I can… just in case.

We host a sleep-over

 It’s been a quiet week.

Our grandsons were spending the week with their father so the grandparent babysitters were not needed. King and I spent the week at the trailer. I love all our grandchildren dearly, but there is a reason young people have children. At our age it takes a week to recover from the busyness of everyday kid-type activity.

But Friday we were back at it and the boys don’t disappoint when it comes to being entertained and entertaining us in return.

Saturday King decided it would be a good idea to bring the boys back to the campground for a sleep-over.

Best laid plans … It rained all day. Being from Michigan rain is an inconvenience, necessary to be sure, but an inconvenience nonetheless. But the boys were amazed.

Torrential rains do have some rewards

They were amazed by the torrents of rain coming down in sheets. (It truly does not rain much in southern California so it WAS a bit unusual). They were amazed by the sound of the rain hitting the metal roof of the trailer. They were amazed by the rivers of rain that ran across the campsite.  And they especially enjoyed watching the rain cascade down the INSIDE of the window in the front of the trailer. (Oh, the joys of owning a 38-year-old trailer).

We made donuts and frosted them with canned frosting and added sprinkles. They played on their Kindle tablets and I read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to them. Saturday evening the rain let up so they donned rubber boots and winter jackets (Fifty degrees does not seem cold to me).  We marched through puddles and watched the hippogriffs circling the mountains in the distance.  Declan said there was a King of Hippogriffs living on one of the highest peaks and he and the king were friends.

As is our tradition when we babysit in the evening we have a party, which means we have popcorn and hot chocolate before bedtime. We had our party and watched a little of Star Wars, Return of the Jedi and then called it a night.

Sunday morning we explored the campground a little more. The boys were disappointed the rivers of water and puddles were gone. The campground is built on the side of a hill/mountain and since the state of California is under a shelter-in-place order only those campers with existing reservations are allowed in the campground. I think there are maybe a dozen of us in a campground with about 96 campsites. There are several tent sites perched precariously on the edge of steep hills and the boys took great joy in finding rocks and tossing them over the edge. That is until Declan picked up an unusually shaped rock and asked me what it was. I had to tell him it was coyote poop. The poor kid was mortified.  It didn’t help that Poppa and his brother teased him unmercifully. Declan is a lot like me. I hate to be teased. I see no humor in it.

Tonight it is just King, DK and me back at the trailer. It is really quiet, except for the playoffs. King is watching the Kansas City/Buffalo game.  
That seems to be the way of it. Crazy, noisy busyness and then (sigh) back to the two old farts hanging out together.

Tomorrow is the first full-week of school for the boys since last March. I think they are excited to be back to full-time.  

DK  update: The poor dog got incredibly sick for a few days. I called the vet again and told him the only thing the miracle drugs we were giving him were proving was it was a miracle the dog didn’t die.  He updated the meds and DK is doing much better.  He still lists to the left when he walks, and probably always will. But he is finally starting to wag his tail more often and actually seeks us out for an occasional scratch behind the ears. The neighbor commented this evening that he finally had a little pep in his step, as if on cue, DK fell over.

Oh well. Two steps forward, one back. I’ll take it.

 

We have one sick little doggy

Things are not going well for DK. 

We knew when we adopted him he had “some weakness” in his hindquarters. After just one week of living with us it became more pronounced and it was obvious it was far more than “some weakness.”

Poor DK walks sideways, falls down often and has a very difficult time not falling over into his own poop when relieving himself. (I tried to find a polite way to word that, but I could not).

 I also knew he had an ear infection or ear mites or both. It’s hard to mistake the awful smell and constant head shaking for anything else.

So once again I played Russian roulette and looked for a veterinarian online. It’s hard to choose a veterinarian when you don’t know anyone in the area to ask opinions. Then again,  I suppose it’s no different than selecting a veterinarian by word of mouth. Some people have good things to say, others have negative things to say. It’s a crap shoot to know who to believe.

I found a vet in Lakeside, California through Yelp and called to make an appointment. The clinic had mostly good reviews. We brought DK in yesterday (Saturday).

Without running extensive tests it’s difficult to know exactly what is wrong with DK. We know from ex-rays done by the rescuer’s vet that he does, indeed, have “some” hip dysplasia.  We have results from blood tests done by that same clinic as well – all are within normal ranges.

According to Doctor Google (online searching for those who don’t get the reference) DK has all the signs of degenerative myelopathy. (It’s similar to amyotrophic lateral sclerosis – Lou Gehrig’s disease). Those same symptoms can also be signs of a weak hip and an ear infection. Doctor Google tends to be rather pessimistic.

Truth is, diagnosing degenerative myelopathy is mostly a process of elimination, although I believe there may be a spinal test for it. Regardless of whether he has DM or dysplasia -- neither one is curable. The veterinarian at the clinic suggested we treat the ear infection, give him pain meds for joint discomfort and inflammation and add glucosamine to his regimen.  She checked his spine and found no abnormalities (a good sign).

We were also given some suggestions on how to add a little weight to his emaciated body without adding too much strain on joints. His spine juts out from his back. It’s probably from years of living on the streets and (literally) eating garbage.

DK will be with us for as long as possible. Hopefully it is nothing more than weak and sore joints.

So that is where we are with our new companion. After the vet tech cleaned his ears (he said it was gross) DK seemed to feel a little better, but he still walks like crap. Oh, we think we see a little improvement but one can never be sure if we are seeing improvement or if it is wishful thinking.

King and I decided we could live with a handicapped dog and when the time comes, hopefully we will be in Michigan and can use our own vet.

It’s a pragmatic solution. And it’s easy to be stoic about it now because for now we are doing what we should.

We added to our household

After we put Cindy Lou down, I swore no more dogs for a while. A long while.

And then King suggested I check to see what is available on the Adopt-a-pet website. So I did. There are a lot. In fact, there are thousands in the San Diego area alone.

A few days after King made his request he said to me, “So did you find anything?”

I feigned innocence.

“Oh. You mean you wanted me to send you their links?”

I received an eye-roll in response.

So I sent him links to about eight or nine dogs. I had some criteria. They could not be an aggressive breed dog and they had to be good with children and other dogs.

Now before I get jumped on for insinuating there are aggressive breed dogs, let me clarify… I know it really depends upon a dog’s situation. However, there are campgrounds that have lists of dogs they do not allow. Not my call, but theirs. King and I have a difficult enough time finding campgrounds that will accept a 38-year-old trailer we don’t need more strikes against us. We can’t always camp in the boondocks. An occasional foray into civilization is a necessary respite.

The first link I sent King was of a yellow-ish, lab-ish looking dog.  He had soulful eyes and his description said he had a rough life. That is a bit of an understatement.

After being rescued from the streets of Tijuana he had undergone surgery to have a huge hernia removed from his abdomen and additional surgery on his ear canals to alleviate some deafness.  His name was Arnold.

“That’s the one,” King said.

So I made the necessary inquiries, filled out the necessary forms and had a telephone interview. Turns out in addition to having the aforementioned health issues, Arnold has “slight” hip dysplasia. Several people have looked at him and decided not to adopt because he is so weak in the rear end. Undeterred by this information, we drove to Carlsbad to meet Arnold last Thursday.

First impressions were not the best. He is skinny. Oh so skinny. And because of his “slight” hip dysplasia, he walks crooked -- his backend literally follows his front at a 20 degree angle. His coat is dull. He has scars on his face. (We hope, for his sake, it is from life on the streets and he wasn’t used for some other nefarious activity).

He also has soulful eyes that tell you he’s tired and just needs to be loved.  We took him home. 

 And just like that he became our new traveling companion.

Since King and I have not had Spanish since high school we decided renaming Arnold would not be that bad. (I’m not really sure he can hear us anyway). So we named him D.K. after our twin grandsons who were acutely aware of the passing of Cindy Lou.

D.K. is slowly acclimating to life with us. There is no way he could ever get into the truck by himself, but he’s easy enough to lift. Right now he spends a lot of time sleeping. He’s been through a lot. But King and I are slowing down as well. So it’s a good fit.

He loves to be scratched behind his ears. He has discovered sleeping in a human bed is preferable to sleeping in a doggie bed on the floor. His tail wags are getting more frequent. We go slowly. We don’t push. I bought some dog treats so someday I can teach him English and he will learn to sit.

I don’t believe we will ever have a problem with him jumping on people or stealing food from the counter. He’s pretty slow. In fact, King and the woman from the organization we adopted him from debated having him micro-chipped, since it’s clear he won’t or can’t run.  But then again, he’s not feeling 100 percent … so who knows.  I insisted he be chipped.

He’s accepted our grandsons and I have no doubt he will love the grandchildren in Michigan.

I’ve been in touch with the gentleman who rescued him in Tijuana. Apparently he does a lot of rescuing of street dogs there.  Arnold/D.K. holds a special place in his heart. We will keep him updated on his new life with us.

It’s remarkable how a skinny street dog can bring people together.

 

 

Creating a happy new year

Happy New Year!

For many 2020 was not the best of years. I’ll be honest, I’ve had worse.  But I’m not certain if the “worse” years were because they truly were worse or if it’s because I’ve learned attitude has a lot to do with perception of “good years” and “bad years.” It’s a concept I can’t help people understand because it’s something one has to figure out for themselves. 

A couple of days before the New Year, King 
and I took the boys to our campground to spend the
night. We explored the lakeshore, made s'mores
at the campfire and ate popcorn. Good times
I hope the boys remember for years to come.

We make our own reality and our own good memories.

 January 1^st is more than a day for looking forward into the coming year; it’s also a good time to remember the past.

New Year’s Day was my older sister’s birthday, so in addition to celebrating the New Year, we also celebrated her birthday. Family friends from Chicago drove to Michigan for the holiday and the days leading up to the holiday were spent, sledding, ice skating, going to the movies in Holland and ringing in the New Year.

Mom, as usual, pulled out all the stops. She and Dad would drive to Holland to shop at the A & P for party foods that were not available at the local grocery store.  At the time, Heath Township was a dry township so it also meant buying Galliano for Golden Cadillacs – the drink of choice for the women (who were of age, of course) to ring in the New Year.

In later years, the holiday meant driving to my parents with our children in tow and spending the evening ringing in the New Year with a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit. It was always “Men against Woman,” and the women had the distinct advantage of having my older sister on our team – she would memorize the cards in her spare time.  By this time Mom had switched from Golden Cadillacs to Bourbon Slush, a drink that could knock you on your backside from heartburn in a heartbeat. That burning sensation was a built-in deterrent from over indulging.

Our children grew and moved on, celebrating the New Year in less sedate ways. Our last family gathering for the New Year was at my sister’s home in 2000. By that time it was just Mom, Dad, my older sister, my younger sister and her young children, our granddaughters, King and me. This celebration was spent waiting to see if the world would end as clocks rolled over from 1999 to 2000. Unless this is all an illusion, it did not.

This past New Year’s Eve found King and me babysitting our grandsons while our daughter went to some friends’ home for a quiet socially distanced gathering. I fixed the boys whatever they wanted for dinner, we had ice cream (a huge no-no in their home), ate popcorn and I read several chapters of Harry Potter and the Soccer’s Stone to them before bedtime. (I told them we would try to finish the book before Poppa and I left for Michigan in the spring). 

I am going to say I made it to midnight… if you want to count it being midnight on the east coast when I finally called it a night.

No matter how you celebrated, my wish for the world for 2021 is health, happiness and peace.

Saying goodbye to Cindy

I trust everyone had a good and socially distanced holiday. We were with our daughter and her two sons. It was a quiet day filled with building with Legos, playing Monopoly Junior and watching Christmas movies.

For King and me it was a rather bittersweet day. On Christmas Eve we had our traveling companion

Cindy at a soccer game in Grand Haven, Mich.

Cindy Lou euthanized. The decision was heartbreaking and was not easy to make, but it was necessary. I’m not certain if people will understand that statement.

We adopted Cindy Lou in March of 2017 as a senior dog. At that point King and I (both retired) had been traveling during the winter in our travel trailer and spending our summers as caretakers on a hobby farm in South Haven. We had been without a dog for about two years. I had insisted that Sophie our

Cindy on adoption day.

Saint Bernard would be our last dog.  But I kept looking at available dogs on the Al-Van Humane Society’s website. I would send King links when I found dogs I liked.  It was really no big deal. I still send him links to property, treadle sewing machines, looms, fancy travel trailers… I have quite a list of things I send him. But one day after sending him several dog options, he said, “Call the humane society and see if that dog, Cindy, is available.”  King, by the way, is still under the impression one can simply go to the animal shelter, look at dogs, pick the one you want and go home. So rather than explain to him the necessary steps needed to adopt a dog, I simply started the application process for Cindy. We made an appointment to meet her (when she was surrendered to the shelter she had tested positive for heartworms so she was in foster care at the time) and went to meet her and see if we were compatible. I think the fact that we are retired and would be with the dog 24-7 helped our case. But the fact that Cindy immediately took to King was probably the clincher. There is a photo of us at the humane society with Cindy peeking out from between King’s legs. It was the first and only time she did it. But everyone was convinced Cindy had found her forever home.

And she had.

For the past three years, Cindy (who they estimated was about 13-years-old when we adopted her), was our constant companion. She went everywhere with us -- errands to the store, trips to the beach, hikes

Cindy at the Blair Valley
Campground in the 
Anza Borrego State Park, 
California.

with my sister, and, of course, traveling across country.  We had a seat cover in the backseat of the pickup and Cindy would scramble into the truck and stretch out in the backseat and sleep. Sometimes she’d look out the window and watch the scenery for a bit, but most of the time she was content to simply sleep in the backseat -- waking when pit stops were necessary, or complaining when it was time to eat.

Cindy was also witness to a lot of our bickering:

“I said left. That would be your other left.”

“Well, I didn’t hear you.”

“Because you have the radio turned up so loud.”

“Well speak up.”

Cindy would sigh and I swear she would roll her eyes.

We knew when we adopted a 13 year old dog, that her life expectancy would be shorter rather than had we adopted a younger dog. But so often older dogs get overlooked and it’s a shame. They have so much to offer.

 “Probably three years, maybe five,” I remember saying to someone.

The first summer we had her I would take her out into the woods behind the property where we were caretakers and let her run off-leash. And run she did. There was such joyful abandon as she raced through the woods, stopping occasionally to sniff an interesting tree or nose under some composted leaves. And there was the dancing game we played when it came time to catch her and bring her back to the house. She always came when she was called, but would stop just out of arms reach and run circles around us -- three circles, dancing around us and then sitting obediently at our feet, waiting patiently for us to snap the leash to her collar.

Cindy was sure
she saw a chicken in
the woodpile.

And the chickens … oh how she loved to chase loose chickens. She would watch for a hapless bird to fly over the fence and would then give chase. She was never fast enough to catch one, but the chase (for her) was divine. Not so much for the chickens. We named every hen in the flock Henny Penny. I would cheer for the hens, “Run Henny Penny!  Run!  Remember you can fly over the fence!”  The rooster and I had a hate/hate relationship and I secretly hoped one day he would be found outside the fence. But the jerk never strayed that far from his flock.

It didn’t take long to get to know Cindy’s quirks.  She hated Lake Michigan. Even on calm days. I think it was just too much water. She also didn’t like it when King would go out and weed whack. When he was in the yard working (or later when maintenance men at campgrounds were weed whacking) she would tell me just how annoying that weed whacker was. She was pretty vocal about it.

Cindy became a well-traveled dog. She hiked the mountains in the Cleveland National Forest, watched lizards skitter across the desert in Quartzsite, roamed the dry lakebed with us in the Anza Borrego desert, turned up her nose at the Salton Sea, stood with us as we marveled at rock formations in Utah and Joshua Tree National Park and probably smirked at me when I finally got

Cindy and King at Cibbits Flat campground
in the Cleveland National Forest.

the see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine in Cawker City, Kansas.  

After a while you forget that your companion is actually quite a bit older than you. And the signs of aging are there, but they come on so slowly you adapt and really don’t notice. This past summer I realized Cindy no longer scrambled into the truck. She would place her front feet on the running board and then pretend she was getting into the truck, but in reality she knew I would placed my arm between her hind legs and hoist her backend into the truck. She started sleeping more. When we went for walks she started slowing down (after leaving the farm, for safety reasons, I no longer allowed her to be off-leash). She still liked to trot ahead of me and stop and sniff whatever it is that dogs smell when roaming, but by the end of our walks, she would more than likely be walking at my side (like a well-trained dog is supposed to do, except I knew she was tired).

And then this fall she started having trouble getting in and out of the trailer. We had already built handicap steps for her, but she still moved the same way I did before I had knee replacement surgery. We also knew the jump down from the truck had to be bone-jarring, so we built her a ramp.

We arrived at our daughter’s home in Carlsbad, California in mid-November. Our daughter lives on the second floor of an apartment. Those first few weeks Cindy climbed those stairs like a trooper. But then that became a chore. So we took it slow and would encourage her as she made her way up and down. But Cindy was having other issues. Her hind legs would often give out and she would fall down. One evening as I was walking her before heading back to the campground she slid into a small ditch and refused to get up. King had to help me get her out.

“Maybe some leg braces would help,” King said one day. So I ordered some from Amazon.  By now we were having the “should we take her to the vet” conversations as well. 

There is something to be said for living in a rural area. In Michigan we have transported many pets (we always had large dogs) in the back of our pickup for that final veterinary visit. The doctor would climb into the bed of the truck with the dog and administer the “shot” and we would sit with our pets until there was no heartbeat, take them home and bury them.  Yes, tears were always shed.

It does not work that way in urban areas, and what we found was because of COVID many veterinarians would not allow people to be with their pet when the time came. Unacceptable.  I had many conversations with vets in Southern California. I was not overly impressed.

“My dog is having difficulty walking. Her breathing is labored. She falls down when relieving herself. She sits up during the night and it seems as though she’s trying to clear her lungs. No. I don’t want an examination. She is 16. She is suffering. I know what she needs.”

January 6 was the soonest I could get her in to see a vet who would allow us to be with her when she died. Three weeks away.

King and I loved on her as much as we could. Every chance we had. She was dying and we knew it. And we were helpless to figure out what to do.

On Christmas Eve day we realized she was too tired and too weak to make it to January 6^th.

“Both our dogs decided to get sick on weekends or holidays,” our daughter told us. “There is an emergency service here that can get her in.”

I didn’t even consult with King. I called them, gave them the information they needed, the three of us carried Cindy to our daughter’s SUV, wrapped her in a quilt and drove to the veterinarian’s office.

I can’t say enough good things about VCA California Veterinary Specialists (and I’m not one to ever endorse anything in my columns, but I will here today). King and I were escorted behind the building to a tent where we waited for them to bring Cindy. It was like a waiting room with chairs and a table. There may have even been flowers. I don’t remember. When they brought Cindy to us she was still wrapped in her blanket on the gurney and they transferred to the ground. I lay down next to her and told her how much I loved her. A little later the veterinarian came in. She told us her name. I don’t remember it. I told her I knew I hadn’t asked for an examination but I wondered if she had any idea what was wrong with Cindy besides old age. She said it appeared she may have had a tumor that may have ruptured. She was pretty sure Cindy was probably bleeding internally. And yes, she assured us, we were absolutely making the right decision.

It really doesn’t make it easier, but our youngest son, in trying to comfort me later that day reminded me, “At least it was while she was being loved and not alone somewhere.”

We won’t be able to bury Cindy.  We don’t have property any longer. But Cindy’s remains will be mixed with those of other dogs and spread off Point Loma into the Pacific Ocean.

Cindy hated water.

 

Some days the assholes win

 Happy Holidays!

I hope you are all well, safe, and content.

King and I spent last week helping our daughter with her sons as she shifted into high gear to get her real estate sales going. She has been in a holding pattern for several months waiting for some additional help. I’m happy to report she finished the year strong. Let us hope it will continue.

While we were there we enjoyed all the traditional preparations for the holiday – we baked cookies, made cookies for Santa, baked other holiday goodies and made secret packages for Christmas morning. The boys are not very good at keeping secrets, so our daughter already knows, but it was the thought that counts.

We also spent hours on their balcony looking for Hippogriffs. Hippogriffs, for the uninformed, are mythical creatures from the Harry Potter series. We have quite a list of rules and guidelines for searching for them.

This week the boys are with their father and King and I have retreated to our trailer. The campground is sparsely populated and those of us who are here have decorated our travel trailers with holiday cheer and hunkered down in our quiet solitude. No one interacts (pandemic guidelines) other than to wave hello when going for walks. It’s been years since King and I were social creatures so this is our normal.

At one time in our marriage we were quite social. Most of that ended with his tenure as a middle school principal in a small town in southwest Michigan. One can say small towns are friendly – but they are not – at least not to strangers who try to fit in. It took us less than a year to figure out we would never be accepted and the locals would never consider us one of “their own.” In fact, it was so bad, that when we moved to another community, part of King’s yearly job review included becoming active in the community. King said he would forgo any raises if it meant trying to fit in with people who would never accept outsiders.

For those of you who still live in small towns, I would suggest you greet the stranger in your church. I would suggest you invite your new neighbor over for coffee. I would recommend you do not exclude someone because you have decided they might feel uncomfortable with a group of people they do not know. Because guess what? They probably will never get to know others unless they are invited. Don’t just give lip service to acting kind. Be kind.

I started writing today with the intention of writing about Christmas traditions when I was a child. They are good memories. They were happy times. My parents moved to my hometown several years before I was born. I’m happy they were accepted into the community. Without that acceptance I have no doubt my childhood memories would be quite different. And therein lays the rub. I had eagerly anticipated moving to a small community again. I was bitterly disappointed.

Some days the assholes win … and they don’t even know it.