The Cat's Out of the Bag

Actually that lead in may be a little misleading. This blog is really about a dog and a small miracle. Here's what happened.

A couple of weeks ago I spent the night with some really close friends in another town. All of us had had a very tiring Saturday, and we went to bed before midnight---a rarity on a Saturday night especially since we hadn't visited in a long time. The next morning I awoke early, not in my own bed, you know. I made coffee and was enjoying it. I peeked out the dining room window and could see the big fat Sunday paper in the front yard; the neighborhood was quiet; no one was out. So I decided to dash out in my p.j.'s and bring it in so I could have a look. With coffee cup in one hand I opened the front door with the other, and without a warning their big, blond dog, Daphne, bolted past me and through the door and down the block. My initial reaction was to step just outside and begin to call her back, but she was out of sight. I stepped back inside and began to anguish over whether to wake my friends and tell them of my stupid mistake or get dressed and drive around the neighborhood looking for her. In reality what I did was march outside and call repeatedly, whistle, and beg Daphne to come home. Nothing stirred in the neighborhood. Finally I went inside to change clothes.

The whole time I was dressing I kept asking myself if I should just wake them up and get the whole platoon out searching for Daphne, but I really didn't want to admit my carelessness. Also I knew how little sleep they got during the week, and I didn't want to short change them on their one chance in seven days to rest. By the time I dressed and searched everywere I could for a leash to no avail forty-five minutes had passed since Daphne's dash for freedom. I was feeling sick.

I had just reached my car and unlocked it when I looked up and saw Daphne loping around the house, her big tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. She stopped abruptly and looked at me with her usual "let's play" grin. My mind began one of those "foxhole" prayers which was along the line of, "Please, God, don't let me screw this up. I can't run as fast as this dog." Then the sweetest little high pitched words began to come out of my mouth. "Daphne, look at you; you sweet dog. Come let me pet you. You had such a nice run; you look so thirsty. Come here, sweet thing." Thank God, she took the bait, and I clamped a hand on her collar. We made our way back through the front door. She drank about a quart of water.

I never mentioned any of this to my friends. Does that make me a bad person?

The Year of the Tomato

When I moved here five years ago it was June 1---a little too late to start any kind of garden. Besides when one first moves to a new city and state there is so much to do inside and out that planting anything is not convenient. In fact, one doesn't even know how good the soil is. However, one of my very favorite foods is a wonderful ripe tomato. So, the following winter I could hardly for the garden plants to come into the retailers. Bear in mind I really don't know anything about gardening and don't come from a line of farmers. I just wanted some really good tomatoes.

The first big hurdle is to select which hybrid to plant. There are so many, but I finally settled on a Big Boy. That sounds sturdy and somewhat reliable. And was it ever? It seems the area into which I had moved had extremely rich soil. I also gave the little darlin' a couple of feedings also just to help it along. That was the summer that I ate tomatoes almost every day from the 4th of July on and made green tomato relish in September so as not to waste any. That came in handy at Christmas time too as the gift for the person you don't know what to give but feel you should---give something that is. The picture on the right shows you the first three tomatoes I harvested in 2003, and I ate the smallest one just moments after snapping the picture.

Those geography lessons from so many years ago taught me that one lets the soil rest; therefore I take even numbered years off. No tomato plant again until 2005. That year I chose Better Boy, and it became a territorial war between Better Boy and my dogs. It also tested my support skills, i.e. could I keep its branches off the ground.

By the end of the season I had put in 13 stakes to hold it up as well as using the fence. It was also the summer that I welcomed new neighbors to the "hood" with a bag of tomatoes, and I learned to make fried green tomatoes. That plant produced 152 usable tomatoes; mind you I'm not counting the ones that did rest on the ground, or that the birds got to first and ruined.

Honestly, I didn't know whether I wanted to plant another one this year or not, but when my son's dog dug a deeper than needed hole in the usual place I decided to fill it partially and stick in another tomato plant. This year's choice? Beefsteak! Those are the really big ones, and I can't wait to see what the challenges and rewards will be. By the way, any favorite tomato recipes you want to pass along?

Thank God, I Was There First!

The longest running arguments my ex and I had were over names for the children. As you might imagine these ran as much as eight months per child; and for four children that takes up almost four of our sixteen years together. Sometimes they weren't concluded until post partum. To be honest I don't remember what the argumentative names for the girls were, but I do remember the boys' names. He wanted to name our firstborn Carroll. This was to be in honor of Carroll O'Connor who at the time was best known for playing Archie Bunker, a loud mouth bigot on TV's "All In the Family". I had nothing against Mr. O'Connor, but I thought this name, Carroll, would be launching our son down the same path as "A Boy Named Sue," as in the Johnny Cash song. So, I stood strong.

After three children with perfectly acceptable WASP names my ex then turned ethnic on me. Suddenly he wanted to name this last child and second son Pablo. (No, Picasso had nothing to do with it.) "You just can't follow Chad, Buffy, and Skipper with Pablo," I argued. "It sounds as if he was adopted from another country." Goodness knows, I knew he came from the same place as the others. It would be great on a grant application, but we weren't writing one. One more victory!

My children have never complained about their names, at least, not in my hearing. But now that they've become bloggers and proclaimed themselves to the world on the internet I'm astounded at their pseudonym choices.

Chillax
Plug
Goo
Dagromm

Give me a break! I fought so hard for you to have reasonable and delightful, inspiring names. My pets' names are more wholesome than your blogger labels. For that matter, your pets have nicer names. You could have just chosen names of serial killers or Sneezy, Dopey, Happy, and Doc. Go figure!.