Company is coming and I’m trying to do the last minute dusting and picking up and organizing food and checking the bathrooms and Penny is weaving between my feet, grabbing at the dust cloth, barking hysterically at the plastic wrap drawer.
Everything is harder with her.
I am frustrated and decided to take her out for a walk, maybe she needs to go to the bathroom, and she’s jumping and playing with sticks and tugging on her leash and nipping at my feet. She doesn’t go to the bathroom.
Everything is harder with her.
Walking back into the house I am hit out of the blue with the memory of the last time I walked Katie back into the house.
I begin to cry.
Penny stops tugging on her leash and stands on her hind legs, front paws on my waist and cocks her head. I pick her up and she licks the tears from my face then snuggles in for a hug.
Cherry picking is a long standing tradition in my family.
As far back as I can remember the six of us would drive to an orchard and pick tart pie cherries, buckets and buckets of them, then schlep them all home and sit around the kitchen table pitting them and measuring them into freezer bags for future pies.
Now that I’m the only one still living in Michigan it’s mostly my job to go get the family cherries. It’s not a bad job. Last weekend the weather was perfect and I went out early Sunday morning to the orchard we used to visit as a family more than fifty years ago.
Lots has changed since then. What was once a simple fruit orchard now has a gift store and a winery and farm animals and a wagon ride out to the picking locations.
For many years when I’d visit I’d consciously look for families that looked like mine. Sometimes I’d see someone that looked like my dad, or like the four little blond kids that used to fill their buckets with the shiny red fruit.
Sunday I was there pretty early and the picking was outstanding. I was able to pick fourteen pounds in less than an hour, so I was back in my car before things got really busy.
But I got to watch a few families as they picked. One little boy kept exclaiming how beautiful the cherries were. (He was right.)
Another child was focused on finding the perfect tree. And another child in a different family was having deep conversations about tractors and cars with his dad, all the time picking away.
These are adventures they’ll remember forever. And maybe someday when they’re senior citizens they’ll pick cherries in this orchard and watch a new crop of families and smile just like I did.
I search for her outline through the foggy glass during this morning’s shower. She’s a youngster still, and she could be doing anything, most likely chewing on something. I remember how Katie used to sleep against the far wall every morning for years as I got ready for work. Penny doesn’t sleep while I shower. She investigates.
But this morning she is lying on the rug, her shape and size familiar yet different. At 7 months she’s about the same size as Katie was as an adult but Penny has a few more months of growing to go.
As I step out of the shower she licks the water from my ankles. I close my eyes and remember the delicate butterfly wing kisses Katie used to give while doing the same thing. Penny is not nearly so delicate but tickles my feet in her own unique way. I smile, in rememberance of what was before and in appreciation of what is now.
Later in the morning Penny comes to find me in the office and pokes me in the hip. She wants attention. Or a treat. I remember Katie doing the same thing when she felt ignored. I smile and take Penny outside, though clearly what she really wants to do is play.
So we come back inside and I sit on her big pillow in the middle of the living room and reach for her brush. She lays down beside me and lets me manipulate her into position for brushing. And when her tummy is done she stretches deeply and curls up against my legs, letting me brush her ears and then her long sable back, over and over, as I remember how Katie hated being brushed, how it was a chore that we both avoided.
I smile down at this little/big dog who is loving the long smooth strokes down her back, neither of us in any hurry to move. She props her nose up on the pillow, glances sideways at me and closes her eyes in happiness. I kiss her nose and silently thank her for beginning to heal my broken heart.
And then a squirrel leaps onto the deck with a thud and Penny is instantly on alert and streaks off to inspect the perimeter of her home.
Katie’s shift has ended, and Penny is more than ready to assume the responsibilities. Different girls, different silhouettes, different personalities, but the same love.
Hey everybody! It’s me, your Adventure-girl, Penny!
It’s a new adventure!
Guess what, guess what, guess WHAT! I got to go on my very first adventure (that wasn’t a trip to the vet) and let me tell you, there’s a whole world out there.
I can’t wait to see it all!
This is the farm where my grandma grew up.
I personally think I’m going to be very popular with the world, but enough about me. Oh wait. There’s never enough about me!
This image took mom about 15 tries to get. Mom should practice more.
ANYWAY…this week mom needed to get some photos of her (huh, that’s different isn’t it!) so she made arrangements with a photographer to meet her at the family farm down in Ann Arbor. And she took me along with her!
Mostly she got pictures of me getting up and moving. She needs to practice being faster.
I rode in the back seat of the car wearing a harness and a seat belt instead of being in my crate. So I got to watch stuff out the window and you know what? I didn’t throw up even once! Mom says I might turn out to be an awesome traveler!
This is mom’s favorite image from our farm photoshoot. I think I look good too.
After mom got her picture taken near the pretty red barns she took a few pictures of me. She says it’s a challenge, whatever that means.
I know how to pose for mom. But don’t tell her, I like to make her sweat a little.
But I’m getting the hang of it. As long as mom has treats in her pockets and patience in her heart, we get it done together.
Hey mom, are we almost done here? I’m getting tired and hot.
Mom said she was very happy with me even though I didn’t always want to look at her when she was taking pictures. Geeze mom, there was a LOT to look at and I needed to make sure we were safe from anything lurking around the backside of those barns!
Did I hear something over there?
Mom told me some stories about when she was a little girl and spent time at this farm. It sounds like she has a lot of good memories.
Just getting a little nap in on the ride home.
And now she has a new memory at the farm that includes me!
Last October my aunt died at age 87. She was the woman that shared her beloved Ann Arbor Symphony with me for more than 30 years, who took me to see musicals and concerts, even the opera. This past week I learned another woman who mentored me in art and work had died at age 86. I watched her memorial service online and wished I’d had more time with her.
It seems the women older than me, those I looked up to and learned from, are moving on and now, when I look around, I realize I am the older woman.
I was struck by this concept last night before our Community Band spring concert while talking to our first chair clarinet who would be conducting a piece for the very first time in his young life. He was nervous and excited and kind of jumpy. I told him not to worry, that we as a band wouldn’t let him down. He smiled and nodded and skittered back to his seat.
He’s just completed 10th grade. I don’t even remember 10th grade.
Maybe they were somewhere in the audience, listening and smiling.
Last night as we played Benediction by John Stevens I thought of my aunt and my friend and hoped they were somehow listening. I said a silent thank you to them both.
Later, on the drive home, and after a pounding rainstorm had slicked the roads with a shimmer of water, the brilliant orange sun emerged from the clouds and lit the wet pavement in front of me. For a few minutes the road led directly into the setting sun, a ribbon of rose gold, seeming to lead right off into forever.
It was a perfect ending to a good day, and this older woman from a previous generation knew enough to notice and appreciate it, thanks to all the good mentoring I’ve received.
I burned my morning oatmeal the other day, the first time I’ve ever done that. I had it bubbling away in a pot on the stovetop when I remembered I needed to find a photo for someone, and since the laptop was right there on the counter I figured I’d look the image up while I was thinking about it.
These days my memory leaves something to be desired.
But as I looked for a specific picture of my Aunt I got sucked into the file filed with images of her. She left us last October, already five months now.
I had pictures of her from many of my visits with her during that last year together, and some from before we knew cancer was growing inside her, when we took our last trip down to Alabama together.
I did a lot of fun stuff with my Aunt Becky, she was always on the go and lots of times she brought me along with her. I want to be like her when I grow up. But I hope I get to live beyond her young 87.
I miss her a lot, but sometimes it’s hard to remember she’s not here. It’s like I have to relearn the sad reality over and over. I suppose that’s normal.
But darn, I didn’t realize I’d burn my oatmeal while remembering the good times.
Friday night we attended the Ann Arbor Symphony’s Christmas Pops at Hill Auditorium where I’ve enjoyed many AA Symphony concerts with my aunt. Friday my husband sat on one side of me but there was an empty seat on the other side.
I was lucky enough to hear Sleighride and Christmas Festival again, pieces I play every year with my own community band. I have to say I think CCB’s whip instrument was more effective than the one used Friday night, but having strings really makes those pieces extra wonderful.
At one point Silent Night was filling the auditorium, voices and instruments singing softly, the sound rising up to hover near the ceiling and I thought about my aunt and how she would have loved this concert. I wished she could be there, I could imagine her, dressed in holiday red, grinning back at me as we silently acknowledged just how good it all was.
I got sort of misty-eyed.
Then I noticed some movement in the lights up near the stage. One of the big round lights near the ceiling was flickering faintly. And, as I watched, it blinked. Twice.
And I grinned.
Because I knew right then and there that my aunt had figured out a new way to grin back at me. Merry Christmas, Aunt Becky, I think you had the best seat in the house.
Change Is Hard 