Change Is Hard

…but change is certain.

Author Archives: dawnkinster


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Happy Gotcha Day

Hi sweetie!

Hi sweetie!


Hi Katie-girl, mama here. I wanted to tell you and your loyal subjects the story of your “Gotcha Day,” March 31, 2007, the day we met you and brought you home.

You sleep upside down all the way home that first day.

You slept upside down all the way home that first day.

You don’t remember, but your mama and daddy were very sad when your sister Bonnie went to the rainbow bridge, and even though mama had been communicating with your first mom, we just weren’t quite ready for a new little girl when she had a litter of pups.

What's that you have mama?

What’s that you have mama?

But later, when your first mom told us she had someone special that needed a home we were almost ready, so we said yes. We are so glad we did! You were a bundle of fluff, just 12 weeks old, but already very sure of what you wanted.

Anything good up here?

Anything good up here?

You were curious right from the start and explored your yard with your daddy and the house with your mama.

Your first walk in the yard.

Your first walk in the yard.

You found all your favorite places to sleep right away.

So exhausted that first day.

So exhausted that first day.

And figured out a crate wasn’t such a bad thing. Unless you had been bad to begin with, which sometimes you were.

Your safe place to snooze while mama studied.

Your safe place to snooze while mama studied.

But we couldn’t help but laugh and cuddle you even when you were being your stubborn self.

Caught in the act!

Caught in the act!

And you let us know right away that you were a princess and demanded pillows. All the pillows.

Princess on her pillow.

Princess on her pillow.

These nine years sure have gone by in a hurry sweetheart. I hope you’re happy you’re our little princess. We sure are happy to have you.

You have always loved to be outside.

You have always loved to be outside.

Though I suppose it’s you that really have us.

Time for another nap.

Time for another nap.

Happy Gotcha Day sweetie. Mama and daddy love you.

I know. It's YOUR sofa.

Photogenic right from the start


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Park times two!

Katie here!

HEY! Did you all have a wonderful weekend? I sure did! My mama took me to my park yesterday AND today! OK. She doesn’t get credit for thinking of it all on her own today. A friend messaged her and suggested we meet them over at my park and I have to say mama got me in the car and over there in ten minutes! She can be efficient when she wants to be, my mama, but if it wasn’t for that friend I’d have been inside this boring house all day! Thank you Aunt Karen!

But I digress.

Let me tell you about my adventures! Mama says yesterday was cold, because it was the last day of winter. I guess winter is supposed to be cold. I, personally, thought it was perfect.

Mama likes these two trees. I don't know why.

Mama likes these two trees. I don’t know why.

I trotted right along at a brisk pace because I was feeling terrific! I told mama to stop dawdling and taking pictures of stuff, even of me, because I had things to sniff and places to pee on.

When we first got to the park mama heard the cranes making a bunch of noise at the back of the park. We figured we’d come upon them when we got back there, but we didn’t see them. When we got to the place furthest away from the car mama heard the cranes up at the front of the park. She told me she figured they were dancing a jig around the car laughing at us.

She was wrong.

When we got out of the woods and close to the softball fields we topped a little hill and guess what? THERE THEY WERE just on the other side of the hill. Like 10 feet away from us! They were just as surprised as we were. Mama grabbed my leash extra hard but I had no intention of getting anywhere near these giant birds.

They squawked a bunch but didn’t leave…just continued to voice their displeasure at me being in what I guess they consider their park, and then they casually walked down the hill and over to the softball field. Mama’s picture isn’t very good, she was trying to hang on to me and take the picture and she couldn’t see in the viewfinder whether she even got the birds in the shot.

Those are bigger than ME mama!

Those are bigger than ME mama!

She did, but you have to really look. You can click on the photo and make it bigger and maybe you can see them.

Then today my friend Deuce had his mom contact my mama so we could go on a walk together. I think he likes me, but I told him I had a boyfriend already. Deuce is fine just being friends, cause he’s a good guy. I didn’t sit too close to him so that my boyfriend Reilly the Cowspot Dog doesn’t get jealous.

Close...but not TOO close.

Close…but not TOO close.

Then our mamas called us and we raced to them. Well. Deuce raced. I sort of sauntered. As befitting a princess and all.

I let him win. I'm a good park hostess.

I let him win. I’m a good park hostess.

Deuce loves to run. Mama took a bunch of pictures of him and I wasn’t even jealous. I was having too good a time showing Deuce my park.

Deuce can fly!

Deuce can fly!

I had fun this afternoon even though it was warmer today and I was slower than Deuce. After all I am 9, and Deuce is a much younger guy. I bet he didn’t even need to take a nap when he got home. Me? I went straight to sleep on my princess pile of pillows after mama brushed the burs out of my fur. I blame the burs on her, she’s supposed to watch out for things like that and she failed miserably. She was too busy talking to Aunt Karen. I’m not going to tip her this time, as she didn’t earn it at all.

So hard to get good help these days you know.

Beautiful me.

Beautiful me.


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Funeral musings

Somebody’s dad died this week. Phil was 96, in poor health, and his death wasn’t unexpected. His wife of 65 years said he was ready, that he had seen angels in his hospital room. He was deeply faithful and his family is comforted by that.

It’s only in the past year that I’ve reconnected with his youngest son through Facebook, and it’s only through Facebook that I heard the news of his failing health. And then the death. Funeral arrangements were in my home town, and I made plans to attend. I couldn’t not attend.

He was the father of my best friend from junior high and high school, my college roommate, my peer in the business world after we graduated. My only contact with her parents for the past twenty-four years has been Christmas cards, each of us sending newsy letters about the previous year. And then last year I read that their youngest son’s wife had died unexpectedly and I wrote back asking for an address for him. And that lead to Facebook communication with him.

So I went to the funeral, introduced myself to the oldest daughter, hugged the wife and both sons. The person I most wanted to hug was my old best friend. But I couldn’t because she wasn’t there. You see, the last time I had seen any of these people was twenty-four years ago at Sallie’s funeral. She died from an aggressive leukemia when she was 36.

I can’t say that I still think of her every day. But I think about her a lot. And I was talking to her inside my head during the entire service for her dad. I was looking at her older sister and picturing Sallie as she might look at age sixty. Sixty! The age we both should be right now. But I can only remember her as she was at my wedding when we were both 34. Or how she was the last time I saw her a couple weeks before she died.

She would have liked to be turning sixty. Unlike me who is struggling a bit with that number, she would have embraced it, planned an adventure, charged right toward it. Her sister thanked me for coming to the funeral, ‘representing Sallie.’ I don’t think I was representing her so much as honoring her along with her dad. They were both fine human beings. I miss her. I know her siblings will be missing them both.

This family has been through a lot of loss, more than just this recent loss and the loss of their daughter and sister so long ago. But they are strong. Strong in their love for each other and strong in their belief that those in the family who have gone ahead are all together, and will greet each of them when their time comes.

At the cemetery an honor guard folded the flag that had draped the casket and gave it to Phil’s wife. I glanced up at the sky and saw the clouds forming a huge heart right above the tent. I’m pretty sure it was Sallie and her dad comforting us and letting us all know we are loved.

And then taps played and I began to cry all over again.

Imported Photos 00774


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A little X-rated crane romance

Flying over the neighborhood.

Flying over the neighborhood.

I wondered over the weekend how the heron rookery was doing down at Kensington Park. I figured heron couples should be shopping for their condo units about now, so I headed down there Monday morning. I was right. Looks like quite a few of the condo nests have been spoken for. There were a lot of herons coming and going, landing on nests, some being shooed off. There were lots of couples, too, standing together on their chosen new homes.

Waiting for the newborns.

Waiting for the newborns.

I wonder if the same herons come back year after year. And if so, do they chose the same nest each year? While I was watching all their activity I heard the sandhill cranes commence to squawking. I turned around and through a fringe of brush I saw one flying low straight toward me.

Can you see him? I know it's a him...you will too.

Can you see him? I know it’s a him…you will too.

He pulled up and landed on the road, just on the other side of some redtwig dogwood shrubs, about 10 yards away from me. He looked right, left, at me, then left again. Then he began to walk quite aggressively down the road. He was in a hurry.

Got important things to do.

Got important things to do.

That’s when I noticed her. The other half of his pair. The girl of his dreams. The woman who had, until moments before been standing with him on the other side of the bay looking for lunch. She showed him a little wing. Such a flirt.

Hey there good looking.

Hey there good looking.

He didn’t have to be invited twice.

Didn't even look to see if there were any cars coming.

Didn’t even look to see if there were any cars coming.

I was so surprised I just kept clicking with no consideration for their privacy. After all, if they cared about that they should have got a room.

Quick! Someone's coming!

Quick! Someone’s coming!

And then it was done.

How about a date next Friday night?

How about a date next Friday night?

Instantly they were just another couple, walking together down the road. And miraculously right toward me! Right about then I registered that I’d been hearing soft grunting noises below me. I glanced down from my spot on the boardwalk. There was a Canadian goose wanting his share of attention. Probably begging for a treat, though I had nothing to give him, and the signs clearly say not to feed the wildlife.

Got anything good up there lady?

Got anything good up there lady?

So I turned my attention back to the cranes. Down the embankment they came, through the redtwig dogwoods, and into the lake, perhaps three feet from me and my camera.

Care for a little snack?

Care for a little snack?

They casually waded along in the shallow water, sipping a bit of water here, testing a bit of greenery there. Talking quietly between themselves. Unafraid of me and my clicking camera. Ignoring the world, lost in their love.

I love you too sweetheart.

I love you too sweetheart.

I have other things to show you from Monday’s walk in the woods, but they will have to wait for a future blog. But certainly spring is here, in the wetlands and hills and woods of Southern Michigan. And I think we all wish the happy couple the best in the coming months as they await their little one.

Snack time

Snack time


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Music of Angels

Last night we were treated to something extraordinary from the Ann Arbor Symphony.  Of course that isn’t a surprise because every performance the symphony gives is extraordinary.  But this truly was music meant for feisty angels.

Those of us in the audience were treated to the Concerto for Harp and Orchestra, Op 25 composed by Alberto Ginastera.   If you’ve never heard it you’re in for a surprise.   I, for one, didn’t know a harp could make the sounds that musician Primor Sluchin produced on the beautiful instrument.

She told us, in the pre concert lecture,  that we probably thought harp music was something soft and gentle, something you’d find on clouds.  And then she proceeded to demonstrate a few of the techniques she’d be using in the piece that evening, which included rapping her knuckles rhythmically on instrument, and plucking the middle of strings for a sound almost like a gong.

And who thinks to pair a huge percussion section comprised of 28 different instruments with a harp?  Composer Ginastera did.  The whole piece is amazing, influenced by Argentine music and with a contemporary feel, it  requires the musicians to remain focused and concentrating on counting.   There is no room for relaxation, either by the musicians or the audience, especially in the third movement.

The intense third movement gives you a feel for how different the piece is.  Ginastera was commissioned in 1956 to write it, and he didn’t finish it until the end of 1964,  saying it was a most challenging piece to write.  Guest artist Sluchin said it was very challenging to play as well, and that her whole body would hurt by the time she was done.  After listening Saturday night I imagine her physical pain is something like a marathon runner’s — the body hurts, but in such a very satisfying way.

Listen to the third movement yourself. In this video link you’ll get a birds-eye view of the harp, the percussion, and the rest of an orchestra. It’s not Ann Arbor, but it will give you a good idea of how it felt to listen and watch the piece. It’s about seven and a half minutes long.  If you’re short on time start listening at minute 3 because that’s when things really get jumping.  I think you’ll be just as amazed as we were, and though the artist in the video is not the beautiful, talented and incredible musician we saw, you’ll probably be on your feet applauding at the end.

Just like we were Saturday night.

So once again, thank you Ann Arbor Symphony, thank you for a wonderful evening of inspiring music and soul filling joy. I know you know how wonderful it was. I saw the smiles on your faces, the head tilts, the relaxed shoulders, the bodies leaning forward as Primor Sluchin played her encore, a sweet and gentle harp piece that showed the softer side of the instrument. You were all as mesmerized as we were out in the audience.

I guess we all got the same gift last night. And it was big enough to share.

 

 


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In a box

Mom's handwriting232 cropped 2xWe’ve been sorting stuff here. Boxes of stuff that has lived in the basement for almost a quarter century. Today I worked through several boxes of books, most of which I donated to our local library for their regular book sale.

And then there was the box of ‘office supplies.’

Most of what was in there turned out to be the dregs of my desk, emptied when I left the employment of a bank back in 1992. A rolodex filled with Realtor business cards, phone numbers to county water departments, tax offices, appraisers. Old business cards of my own, a clock, pens. Spent rubber bands.

And down at the bottom was a hanging file containing a pile of letters from my mother.

I’ve only read a couple, both from the mid 90’s. They’re nothing extraordinary, filled with weather and what’s blooming, lake temperatures and levels, birds she’d seen. Baby ducks. Many of them are handwritten, though in later years when she learned that newfangled word processor called a personal computer they began to be typed.

When I was a kid I watched my mom write a postcard to her mother every week. Tiny little script filling up every inch of the postcard surface. Often she ran the last sentence up the side of the card. There are a few postcards to me in the file too, completely covered in her writing.

I don’t have to read them all to feel good. Just seeing her handwriting makes me smile.

I know that eventually I should sort them out, maybe get them into a binder for easier reading. But suddenly that seems too hard. I’ve been scanning family pictures for days. Her face and the faces of all of us are everywhere I look, spread across the table, entrenched in the back of my eyes. Such young faces, all of us, even mom and dad.

We were all so young.

And now here are her letters and it feels as though she and dad are just off somewhere on vacation. That I’ll get another letter in the mailbox next week or the week after that, sharing the latest trip, the daffodils in bloom now, the bluebirds building in the nest box down by the water. Even now, eleven years later, when I go out to the mailbox there’s that little bit of anticipation about what might be there.

But now I have this treasure trove of letters.

I’m glad I kept them, and I’ll read them all again someday. It’s not the same of course. But it’s not overtly sad, just tinged a bit with wistfulness. I know I’m lucky she was a letter writer and I’m a saver. It’s good to see her handwriting, it’s almost like hearing her speak.

I guess there is some benefit to sorting through boxes. I found a hug from my mom.
Mom's handwriting234