Van Halen Love

This post was written by my son, Luke Porco, who is a huge fan of Van Halen. I know it will touch your heart.

The Bond Between a Rockstar and His Son

Oct14 by Luke Porco

It has been just over a week since Eddie Van Halen passed away, leaving a void as impactful as one of his trademark solos. A guitar wizard, he truly was one of a kind and transcended the rock music world by creating Van Halen, one of the most popular and legendary rock bands in history, and also innovating how the guitar is played by popularizing techniques such as two-handed finger tapping and dive bombs, as well as his classic tone, commonly known amongst guitarists as “brown sound,” which can be identified as soon as you hear one of Van Halen’s classic songs, like “Panama,” “Ain’t Talkin’ Bout Love,” “Unchained” and “Hot for Teacher,” among others. He influenced generations of guitarists at every level, from those in successful bands to those who play casually, like me.

Since I was a kid, the guitar was always the “cool” instrument in my eyes, and I remember being around 10 years old, sitting in the car with my dad, and hearing a song on the radio, and thinking to myself, “That’s a cool band! Cool guys probably listen to that band!” I then asked my dad who the band was, only for him to reply, “Van Halen.” Without either of us knowing at the time, that moment would later develop into a lifelong obsession for a guitarist that would motivate me to learn the guitar and a band we would see together three times, including my first concert!

Fast forward five years later, and I’m developing my passion for the guitar, and all I can talk about is Van Halen, and how awesome Eddie Van Halen is, probably to my dad’s annoyance! I also had been fervently wanting to go to a concert, as they seemed like the next step to develop as a music fan. Van Halen was playing a concert at Madison Square Garden May 23, 2008, four days after my birthday, so months ahead of that show, I discretely (or so I thought at the time!) planted the seeds to tell my dad about that show and how awesome it would be for my first concert. So on my birthday, as I opened gifts that day, I opened my last gift, only for it to be…TWO VAN HALEN TICKETS!! I remember jumping up and down and diving into my dad’s arms, elated that we would be getting to see my new favorite band! That night was an epic one, as we drove from my guitar lesson in CT (guitar lesson to a Van Halen concert-how awesome!) into New York City for the concert. Saying I was excited was an understatement, as I even burned a CD with Van Halen’s hits to listen to on the ride there that by the third go-around on the CD, my dad suggested maybe we stop listening to keep the music fresh once we see it live! Once we walked into The Garden to see them, my life was never the same, as I saw a guitar legend playing face-melting solos and hits, as well as David Lee Roth’s reunion into the band and, last but certainly, not least, Eddie’s son, Wolfgang, on bass! While Van Halen’s music, with Eddie’s guitar playing, Alex Van Halen’s powerful drumming, and David Lee Roth’s howling vocals and boisterous stage presence sold me on Van Halen, another aspect that really hit home for me was the fact that Eddie and Wolfgang, father and son, were in a band together. Seeing how tight their bond was for years to come really reminded me of my dad and I and how we bonded together in the audience, as well as any time a Van Halen song came on in the future! From then on, I always equated Eddie and Wolfgang’s relationship to my relationship with my dad, as it was similar in some ways. Eddie was the star that Wolfgang idolized and shaped his life after, and Wolfgang was the sparkplug that kept Eddie going and developed a new passion for himself.

That night was only the beginning of my Van Halen fandom, and there were more Van Halen concerts, as well as plenty of music, books, t-shirts, guitar picks, and more Van Halen merchandise to follow in my future. In January 2012, around the announcement of Van Halen’s new album A Different Kind of Truth, word got out that Van Halen was playing an invite-only show at Cafe Wha? in Greenwich Village, a famous rock club, which was owned by David Lee Roth’s uncle, Manny. While I wasn’t going to drag my dad along to that, there was no way I was going to miss out on this, as I figured there would be a group of loyal VH fans surrounding the club, to hear the concert from the outside, hopefully. While I wasn’t completely confident that this would be the case, I decided to take a chance and go anyway. As I walked to Cafe Wha?, I noticed that I had nothing to worry about, as the tiny street was flooded with Van Halen fans waiting for the “Mighty Van Halen” media, all waiting for the show to start, and media waiting to see it live and upfront! After waiting for hours in negative temperatures, outside of a club where I wasn’t even sure I’d hear the show or see them emerge from the performance, I suddenly see a group of people huddled behind a steel barricade, where I could hear music! I quickly mad-dashed to that group and was suddenly taken to paradise! A group of fellow die-hard Van Halen fans, singing along to every word, and bonding amongst ourselves, what could be better? Oh I know, being feet away from the band as they walked into an SUV after the show! Eddie and I locked eyes as he walked out of the club, a moment that stills blows me away, and I saw the rest of the band follow him out. That moment lasted no more than 30 seconds, but the memory that I literally saw Eddie Van Halen will last forever! This was a great night, especially since at the time, I didn’t know many Van Halen fans besides myself. This leads me to two months later, Van Halen at Madison Square Garden, Part 2!

Getting to see Van Halen as my first concert with my dad was a dream come true, so I had to do it again. This time, I returned the favor to my dad and got the tickets for HIS birthday! Before we went to the show, we met up with my dad’s childhood friend, Lenny, and his brother, Charlie. They also happened to be die-hard Van Halen fans, and played drums and guitar, respectively, a la Alex and Eddie! I met these two guys and could not believe that my dad was friends who had even more Van Halen knowledge than me, and I was shocked and amazed! The four of us had so much fun having dinner at the same restaurant my dad and I had before the first Van Halen show, and it was great seeing my dad relive his memories with these guys growing up in the Bronx, as well as introducing more Van Halen fans to me in the process! This also grew a bond between Lenny and me, which we still have to this day, and talk about how amazing that night was, as well as the final time I saw Van Halen, at Jones Beach, this time with my mom and uncle, as well.

The third and final show had more meaning than I could have ever known at the time. That show, my dad and I sat next to each other, just like tradition, however this time, it was from the seats at Jones Beach, overlooking the ocean and the beach behind the stage. What I didn’t know at the time was not only would this be the final Van Halen concert I’d ever see, but also the last concert I’d see with my dad, as months later, he was diagnosed with kidney disease, and in 2019, passed away. His loss was, and still is, absolutely devastating, and the memory of our bond over Van Halen, among other things, will never leave me. When Eddie died last Tuesday, it almost felt like I went through the same grief process, as Eddie Van Halen was to Wolfgang, what my dad was to me: a Rockstar! I was in absolute shock and depression, and I know Wolfgang is going through the same thing.

While I personally don’t know Wolfgang, I hope he knows that I, along with the rest of Van Halen’s fanbase, are praying for him, Alex, Eddie’s wife, Janie, and the whole Van Halen family. Eddie made such an impact on everyone’s life, even if you didn’t play guitar, even if you had the slightest idea of rock music, chances are you know who Eddie Van Halen is, from his groundbreaking guitar virtuosity, to Van Halen’s classic songs that will remain timeless, and also, the joy he had every time you saw him play live. He always had a smile on his face while jumping and running on stage and doing his signature jump while doing a split in the air. That is just one of many reasons why he and Van Halen ooze coolness, and their legacy will carry on forever, as will his special bond with Wolfgang, which will always remind me of my dad.

God Bless Eddie Van Halen and Frank Porco, two awesome dudes who I hope are together in spirit, Eddie doing a solo, while my dad rocks out and celebrates in the crowd, just like old times.

A Mouse in the House and My Hub in the Tub

My husband was recently in the hospital with pneumonia. He was in the ICU for five days and in a regular room for another three. During his time there, he wasn’t able to bathe, so when he got home he really wanted to take a shower.

The problem with taking a shower was that he couldn’t stand for too long because he was still weak and a little short of breath. I immediately ran out and bought him a shower chair. I presented it to him with the fanfare deserved of a 65-inch television. My excitement died with him. He told me that he wasn’t go to use it. In truth, I was relieved; those things seem unsanitary.

Since he couldn’t take a shower, I told him I’d draw him a bath. So, I drew him a bath. When I handed him the picture of a bath, he indulged me with a laugh. This is an old, tired joke in our family, so it was nice of him to humor me. I took back the picture and said I’d fill the tub.

He said to hold off on that for a minute.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because while you were out buying me a shower chair, I saw a mouse come up the steps from the basement.”

“A mouse!” I said. “It’s not even cold out. They never come inside before fall!” It was the end of summer, but the outside temperature was still very warm and I wasn’t ready for this fight yet. This was a fall battle, not a summer one. How dare that mouse not follow the seasonal rules.

In truth, we had just experienced two rodent-less falls because our son had taken an insulation gun and had filled in every crack and crevice in the basement. But this summer, we had a new Bilco door installed and I suspect the installer left some gaps between the cement and the door.

“Did you see where it went?” I asked.

“I think it’s under the fridge,” my husband said.

I responded with a word that I promised myself I wouldn’t write in my blog posts, so use your imagination. Then I pulled the refrigerator out from the wall. A tiny little black mouse ran out, around the corner of the kitchen, and into my son’s bedroom. Great. Just great.

After pushing the fridge back against the wall, I ventured into my son’s bedroom. The mouse wasn’t in the room, so it had to be in the closet. Of course the closet floor contained a mountain of clothes and shoes, so I pulled them all out and, thinking ahead, put them into a laundry basket so that the mouse wouldn’t run out and get lost in the pile. Finally, as I took out the last shoe, the little thing came running out.

I was kneeling on the floor and, in its panic, it ran over, under, through my legs before racing back into the closet. I think I was as freaked out as the mouse was, but I had to persevere. I leaned into the closet and tried to trap it under a Yankees cap, but it kept slithering out. Finally, it ran out of the closet and out of the room, probably back downstairs. I put the basket of shoes and clothes back into the closet and vowed to buy mousetraps. I had given the mouse a chance at life and it had thrown it away.

In the meantime, my husband still needed to bathe. I went into the bathroom, which is across the hall from my son’s bedroom and next to the family room where my husband was, and filled the tub with water. My husband came into the bathroom and got into the tub. I told him to let me know when he was finished.

After his bath, I went back to help him out of the tub. He was sitting cross-legged and told me he was stuck. He tried to push himself out, to no avail. I tugged on his arms, with the same result. We tried everything we could think of but nothing worked.

“Should I call Mike?” I asked. Mike is a family friend who is unfailingly loyal and especially helpful during crises. While this wasn’t a crisis, it wasn’t something I could manage by myself, and our son was at work.

“No!” he said. ” I do not want him seeing me naked!”

So, we tried again to get him out of the tub. As the water receded, my husband was able to gain more traction with his hands, but he couldn’t unfold his legs. Finally he said, “Okay, call Mike.”

I called Mike’s house and his wife answered. I explained why we needed him. There was silence for a second and then she said, “You have got to be kidding me.” I assured her that I was not. She said that Mike was at work but she would call him. She hung up and called back a few minutes later.

“Mike was just about to leave work so he’s going to come home and get his mover’s belt. He’ll be right over.” I didn’t ask her why an accountant had a mover’s belt. That was a question for another time.

I told my husband that Mike was on his way. Then I went into the kitchen. A few minutes later, my husband announced, “I’m out!”

“How did you get out?” I asked.

“Once the water was gone, it was easier to push myself out,” he said.

While that probably helped, I also think the idea of his friend seeing him undressed provided additional impetus.

“I’ll call Mike,” I said. When Mike answered, I told him that Frank had managed to get out of the bathtub. Mike laughed. “Okay, I’ll turn around. But at least I’ll have a good story for our next poker game.” He laughed again.

I relayed Mike’s message to my husband. “Oh, great,” he said. “I guess I won’t be playing poker for awhile.”

Once he was dressed and settled on the couch, I told him I was going to the store to buy mousetraps.

“Don’t forget to return the shower chair,” he said.

“Oh, sure,” I answered.

Then I left and bought the mousetraps. I did not return the shower chair. They might be unsanitary, but I’ll take unsanitary any day over a husband wedged into a bathtub.

 

 

 

 

 

Guessing Games

Today, my son and I decided to find out if our dog, Duke, can swim.

We’ve been deducing things about him since we adopted him in January from the Humane Society in Connecticut. When we got him, aside from his name, we were told only four things about him: that he came from “down South somewhere, probably,” since Duke was sent to them from a shelter in North Carolina; that he had a family for his first four years but they had to give him up for a reason the shelter volunteers either didn’t know, or did know and weren’t sharing with us; that he was extremely overweight, which we’d have to rectify; and that we had won the jackpot because of his sweet, playful nature. That was all of the information we got on him.

So, we’ve had our detective glasses on for five months. Through trial and error, we’ve discovered that: when he is in our fenced yard, if he can’t tunnel out or slam his body against the gate until it opens so he can escape, he will curl up patiently by the back door until we let him in; he will run out the front door if we accidentally leave it open and will probably get attacked by another dog, which will land him at the vet’s and us in the poorhouse; he will eat anything and everything including socks, which must be high in calories because he’s gaining weight instead of losing it; he hates cats and squirrels; he’s fascinated by bats; he thinks he’s a 110-pound lapdog; and his breakfast kibble gives him pause.

Every morning, he hesitates in front of his bowl, but not in the evening. We don’t know what he’s waiting for. I’ve given him permission to eat, I’ve said grace for him, and I’ve walked away. Walking away works the best. When I return, the food is always gone. Maybe he likes to eat his breakfast in peace.

We also had to narrow down his breeds by asking others what they thought he was. My friend, Christine, who has worked in shelters and has seen a lot of dogs, said she thought Duke was probably part malamute, lab, and German shepherd. Once I googled malamute, I could see why she decided on that breed. I think I see some shepherd in him, too, and labs look kind of generic, so I can’t come up with any evidence that he’s not one. Therefore, I’m inclined to agree with her.

However, I saw a commercial the other day that featured wolves, and I could’ve sworn he was in it. Maybe he was a TV wolf before we got him. The former owner is probably getting monthly residual checks while we’re getting shredded, slobbery socks tossed about our house, tumbleweeds of dog hair blowing around the legs of our furniture, and enormous veterinarian bills.

But, back to today. We noticed that Duke has webbed toes, so we assumed he could swim. So, we took him to the nearest public dock. When we got there, it was low tide. Duke was very interested in the thousands of suicidal oysters that had died on the rocks, but he shied away from the water. I eventually lured him in, but he wouldn’t go in further than his ankles. Then he took off running under piers and across jagged rocks, leading me and my son on a slippery chase across mossy stones and through sucking mud and stagnant green water.

When we finally caught him, we rinsed him off and took him home. We still don’t know if he can swim. He might never have seen large bodies of water before. This weekend, we’re going to take him to a lake where dogs are allowed to swim. Hopefully, he’ll see how easy it is and he’ll join the hordes of dogs chasing balls in the lake. Or, he won’t.

Either way, he’s going to wear water shoes. I don’t want him bleeding all over the kitchen floor again, like he did tonight. He must have cut his foot while running across the razor-edged rocks. I had to drug him with Benadryl so that I could clean his foot and wrap it in gauze. Of course, he tore off the gauze and dragged the blood-soaked wrappings across the rugs. So I was forced to make him a boot out of socks and a ribbon of medical tape. It took several tries to tie it on tight enough to keep him from pulling it off, but loose enough not to cut off his circulation.

It was good practice, though, because I’m going to have to make his water shoes out of socks and old tires, since I don’t know where to buy them. Hopefully his dog friends will be so busy making fun of his swimming that they won’t notice his shoes.

 

The Dress 2.0

Most people remember “the dress.” In 2015, it was an Internet sensation because

Picture from Wikipedia

some people, when they looked at a photo of the striped dress, saw the colors as gold and white, while others saw them as blue and black. No matter which side you were on, you couldn’t imagine how anyone could see the colors differently from you. In fact, the dress and how people saw it are still being discussed in scientific circles.

Now, in 2018, everyone is discussing the “Yanny/Laurel” recording. A computerized voice says a word and people hear either Yanny or Laurel. Again, it’s inconceivable to listeners that others could hear an entirely different word than they do.

These phenomena got me wondering. Is half the world seeing and hearing different things than the other half?

What about taste? Do some people dislike a food and others like it because they’re experiencing different tastes when eating the same food? Could kale taste delicious to some people because it tastes like chocolate ice cream to them?

How about smell and touch? Does tomato sauce simmering on a stovetop smell like gasoline to some people? Does velvet feel soft to some people and like gravel to others?

I suspect that the dress and Yanny/Laurel are just the tip of the iceberg, which, by the way, is probably so cold that it could be experienced as being hot.

What intrigues me is that many people got annoyed at the dress controversy and insisted that everyone stop talking about it. The same will occur with the Yanny/Laurel discussion.

Why do people want to ignore puzzling discoveries? I understand that hearing the same debate over and over can get tiresome, but the dress and Yanny/Laurel raise some questions about perception and how it differs between people, and don’t those questions deserve some consideration?

For instance, color-blind people are a known entity. We all know that they see some colors differently than most of the world sees them. But there could be other aberrant entities that we’re unaware of … because we’re part of them and we accept what we sense as being the truth. Suppose we’re all seeing, smelling, tasting, touching, and hearing different things when we use our senses?

This raises so many questions and, yet, it also clears some things up for me. For example, when I ask my family to do something, it’s not uncommon for them to not do it, and then act confused when I complain. Maybe, when I say, “Please empty the dishwasher,” they hear “Enjoy the baseball game.”

I could have been misheard all along. Now, I’ll have to investigate before I nag my family. I’ll need to ask them what they heard me say before I criticize them. And even then, when they tell me what they heard, I might hear them say something different entirely.

This is probably why people got fed up with the dress conversation and will soon get equally tired of the Yanny/Laurel discussion. It’s not that they don’t want to contemplate the possibility of an alternate reality. They just don’t see the point because there’s no absolute answer.

For the record, I saw a black/blue dress and heard “Yanny.” Social commentators have said that younger people hear “Laurel,” but maybe they really said that younger people hear “Yanny.” I guess we’ll never know.

 

Duke’s Dog Fight

Our dog, Duke, escaped from our yard the other day, got into a dog fight, and was returned to us by our neighbor. He looked fine when he got home, but it turned out that he wasn’t. In the evening, he brushed against the back door and howled like a stabbed wolf … which was pretty much what he was.

It turned out that he had been bitten. The bite was deep and painful. I don’t think he noticed it until he rubbed against the door, but once he did, he wouldn’t leave the bite alone. In minutes, he was standing in the kitchen in a puddle of blood. When I tried to clean the wound, he tried to bite off my hand.

We got Duke two months ago from the local shelter. Since the day he joined our family, he has been sweet and playful. So it worried us when he snarled, bared his teeth, and tried to bite us when we went anywhere near his injury.

The bite was discovered on Saturday night so we didn’t get him to a vet until Monday, since our vet was closed. Two visits and more than $900 later, we had a bag of pills and a sedated dog. That’s all $900 gets you these days at our vet. But I will save that rant for another day.

Getting the pills into Duke was an adventure. I’d stuff them in cheese or sausage hunks and he’d eat them. Hours later, I’d find the pills all over the house. He ate the meat or cheese, secreted the pills in his cheek, and spit them out when nobody was looking. So, I’d try again, with more meat or cheese, and stand over him until I was sure the pills had been swallowed.

As I said, trying to clean the wound was out of the question, unless we wanted to lose fingers or a limb. So we ignored the blood that had dripped down his side and dried on his fur. He was obsessed with the cut, however, so he opened it up every time a scab formed, either by licking it or scratching it with his leg. He was in a lot of pain for several days, until the antibiotics started working, so we had to be very careful when we tried to make him stop opening the scab.

Our first strategy was to put one of those lampshade collars on his head. That kept him from licking the wound, but he could still reach it with his leg. It also made him think that since he couldn’t move his head, he couldn’t move anything. So he would stand stock still like a statue. This was very inconvenient for us because he’s a wide dog and he always managed to be blocking the doorway we wanted to go through.

Since his imagined paralysis became a hindrance to us, we took off the lampshade and put a T-shirt on him, knotting it on the top so he couldn’t lick the bite. Of course, he could still scratch it with his leg, and he did, which left us with a dog walking around in a bloody T-shirt. I don’t know how we initially got the shirt on him, but there was no chance he was going to let us take it off and put on a clean one. The snarling and the snapping of his giant teeth terrified us.

We began to wonder if we had adopted the Devil’s dog. I hoped not, because I wouldn’t have the guts to return him to the shelter. People who work at shelters have a gift for making you feel like bottom feeders if you return your adopted pet, even if the pet is possessed by demons. Fortunately, he went back to being a sweet dog once he felt better.

But, before then, when he was in agonizing pain, he decided he was dying. From reading about the phenomenon and witnessing it first-hand with our last dog, we knew that when dogs are dying, they separate themselves from their family, find a private place to lie down, and wait to die.

Ever since we had gotten him, we would let Duke into our fenced yard and whistle for him to come in. He always responded immediately and raced to the door. That was until he got bitten. After that, he would go out, find a dark corner of the yard, lie down, and wait. No amount of whistling could get him to come in. Of course this always occurred after dark, usually after midnight, so we couldn’t see him, and we couldn’t yell his name for fear of waking the neighbors. Usually it was up to me to walk around the yard with my iPhone flashlight, looking for him. When I finally found him, I’d hiss at him, “You’re not dying. Get the hell inside.” Then I’d grab his collar and drag him into the house.

Things have calmed down now that the pills are working. He’s still bleeding all over the floor and spitting pills in corners, but he’s playful and happy.

You can’t have everything.

Thank You, Rudy

Our beautiful Golden Retriever, Rudy, died two weeks ago. I didn’t think I’d be able to write about it because of how sad we were, and still are, but I want him to be remembered in writing.

Until you own a pet, you don’t realize how hopelessly intertwined their lives become with yours. Every happy, joyful, thrilling, depressing, sad, dispiriting, and even mundane moment of your family’s life is shared by your pet, who contributes to your responses with joy, compassion, or equal boredom. When that pet is no longer with you, there’s a void in your lives and a gaping hole in your family unit.

My parents had black Labrador Retrievers from my teen years on. I never really noticed them, other than as peripheral beings who would lie around or occasionally swim in our pond. I know that my father considered Sam to be his dog, and my mother considered Chaka to be her dog. I’m not sure who Licorice, our first dog, belonged to. I was a teenager when we got her, and too self-involved to notice what was going on around me.

My husband, son, and I have had only had one dog, Rudy. He had a personality as big as the house. He was so joyful that you couldn’t help but laugh at his big, drooly grin. Right up to the day he died, my young-adult son would say, “I love his face! Look at his smile!”

We really should have named him Joy. But he had other sides, too, and some were uncannily human-like. For instance, when I talked to him, he would cock his head sideways, like he was really considering what I was saying. When he saw me drinking wine, he would bark and bark so that my husband would notice. When my husband would say, “She’s allowed to drink,” Rudy would snort in disgust and walk away.

He disapproved of many things, so there was a lot of huffing and puffing from him. He didn’t like when I told him he couldn’t have what I was eating. He especially didn’t like when I stayed up too late, according to his timetable. He would bark and bark, and then my husband would yell, “Shuuuuut Uuuuup!” Then Rudy would snort and throw himself down on the rug at my feet. He would also be sure to give me the side eye while I continued reading or watching TV.

Rudy was also very conniving. If he was outside and barked to come in, I would open the back door. Then, he’d just stand there. If I didn’t offer him something he wanted to eat, he refused to come in. However, if I closed the door on him, he’d start barking again to come in. Sometimes, if I got too close to him with whatever food I was bribing him with, he’d grab the food and run off like a burglar. We had to admit that he was clever to make us bribe him to do something he wanted to do, like come in.

We had an inkling from the day we got him, when he was barely eight weeks old, that our lives were going to get interesting. Of course he was terrified. We had just taken him from his six siblings and parents. We understood that. So, we tried not to react when he walked into our house and emptied his bowels on our new dining room rug.

Rudy in his homemade “Thundershirt.”

Our patience was sorely tested over the next year, however. He chewed baseboards, ate whole flip flops, and dug up our new carpets like they were dirt. He was terrified of fireworks, thunderstorms, and even rain. We learned that the hard way. One day, we left him alone and when we came home during a thunderstorm, he was happily sitting among endless curls of our new Berber carpet that he had dug up. When he was afraid, he would dig, no matter where he was.

He was also an escape artist. If the front door was open even a sliver, he’d dash out and run all over the neighborhood, behind houses, across busy streets, and onto lawns. I spent many a midnight running behind our neighbors homes, praying that they wouldn’t wake up and call the police. If it had happened to snow, the game level increased. He’d roll and jump and let me get almost close enough to grab him, and then take off.

I remember telling a friend that the first months were exhausting, with all of the chasing and crying. “Why was Rudy crying?” she asked. “He wasn’t,” I said. “I was.” Racing up and down streets in my robe in the middle of the night was harrowing.

Rudy put my son through the same paces on their daytime walks. He learned to slip his collar and take off. No matter what kind of collar we put on him, he’d learn to escape from it. There were so many times that my son came home from walks cursing and sweating and dragging Rudy up the front steps.

But, we were always able to laugh, after the urge to kill wore off. Rudy was just so full of life and joy that it was contagious. We were able to forgive him for anything, even the times he pulled the leash out of our hands and dove into the nearest mud puddle or muddy brook at the park. At least those horrifying incidents made for good pictures. And, he always resignedly accepted his fate of being hauled to the dog-washing place.

Rudy got bathed or hosed down a lot in the summer because, like all Retrievers, he loved to swim. He’d swim until the end of time, if we let him. We would take him to the dock of a nearby river, or to a nearby dog park at a lake, and he’d fetch balls in the water with all of the other dogs. Playing fetch combined with swimming was his idea of the best life had to offer, not counting food, of course.

Rudy had another side, too. He was compassionate to the bone. If any of us were sick, depressed, or upset, he’d be right by that person’s side for as long as it took. He was so loyal that it touched our hearts. When we were sad, he was sad right along with us. If one of us were depressed, he’d lick and lick and lick our faces, letting us know that he loved us.

The day before he died, he was as lively as ever. He had slowed down a little, but not much. He was nine and would be 10 on Halloween. He and I had gone out back and played fetch, and then he dug and ate grass while I weeded my garden. Then, we went back inside and my husband and I left for the movies at 6:30 p.m. Our son was at work. When we came home, around 10, our son was home. I asked him where Rudy was. He said he had just gotten home and he had called Rudy, with no response. That was odd. Rudy was always waiting for us by the front door. As soon as he heard our car pull up, he would bark his head off.

I looked all around the house, and then went to the basement. Rudy was huddled in the dark. He had been sick. We cleaned him and the floor and then tried to get him to come upstairs. He refused, so my son decided to sleep on the basement couch, next to him.

The next morning, we discovered that Rudy had been sick several times. We tried to comfort him and tell him he’d be okay. At one point, he demanded to go out back. We let him out. He never came back in.

Our son had to leave for work in the early afternoon, but before he left, he and I tried to get Rudy to the car to see the emergency vet. It was Sunday, and our regular vet’s office was closed. Rudy was very large and weighed more than 100 lbs. We couldn’t lift him, so we dragged him to a sled and got him on it. We planned to drag the sled to the car. Rudy was very weak, but he mustered his strength, stood up, and went back to where he had been lying. We tried again, with the same results. We decided that he wanted to stay home to recover. Our son left for work.

My husband and I took turns sitting with him. We truly thought Rudy was just sick and would recover. We knew that he was really sick, though. He had such little strength that, when he lifted his head to drink from his bowl, he couldn’t get his head out of the bowl.

I will be forever grateful that we kept a vigil with him during his last hours. After I sat with him, and told him that he’d be fine, that he was the most wonderful dog in the world, and that we loved him, I went inside and my husband sat with him. When my son got home from work and rushed out back to see Rudy, Rudy looked at him, convulsed, and died. He was waiting to see us all before he left us.

The shock was indescribable. The grief was awful. But we had to focus. Flies were landing on him and we had to do something quickly. We wrapped him in his vinyl blow-up pool, and dug his grave. We read that the grave should be at least three feet deep to keep animals from digging him up.

It was late afternoon and the sun would be setting soon. We dug and dug and, about two feet down, hit solid rock. We could dig no further. The sun was now lower in the sky. We could either find another place to dig or use the grave we had dug. Our yard is not an easy place to dig. We had encountered thick tree roots, vines, and rocks, that had to be cut or dug up, after almost every shovelful of dirt was removed. We didn’t know if our digging would be any easier if we started over someplace else.

We decided to use the shallow grave we had dug. We gently lowered him into the hole and covered him with dirt and rose petals from our rose bush. Our son drove to the hardware store and got topsoil and heavy rectangles of sod. We cried and cried as we covered him with more dirt, and then the sod.

When we were finished, I walked across the sod to pat it down and made a horrible discovery. I could feel Rudy’s body under the sod. Oh my God. I was walking on his head.

It was dark by then, though, so we decided to wait until morning to do anything else. We placed the sled on top of him, to deter animals (As if that would work. We obviously weren’t thinking clearly at the time).

The next day, I cautiously approached his burial site. Thank God no animals had moved the sled or tried to dig him up. I lifted the sled. I walked on his grave. I could still feel him. It was a really terrible situation.

Our son went back to the store and bought more dirt and more sod. We piled sod on top of sod, on top of sod. This is not the recommended method for sodding a lawn. We didn’t care. We reasoned that, eventually, the first one or two layers would settle around him and then the top layers would lie flat.

That’s what we’re hoping. Meanwhile, there’s an unexpected mound in the middle of the grass. At least he’s safe.

We love you, Rudy. Thank you for nine wonderful years.

 

Delayed Gratification

It’s Valentine’s Day, otherwise known as the one day each year when couples over-spend in order to prove the depth of their love for each other.

After 25 years of marriage, I might be a little jaded, but my cynicism is practical. My husband and I haven’t stopped celebrating Valentine’s Day. We just move it forward by a few days. The date we celebrate depends on when Walgreen’s reduces the price of their Valentine’s candy by 75%.

I’m not crazy. Why would I settle for one small heart of chocolate that costs $20 when I can have a shopping-cart full of giant hearts for the same $20 a few days later?

I learned the hard way. In our first year of dating, my husband and I were on the way to dinner when he handed me a box of beautiful handmade chocolates (that his friend’s sister made and forcefully sold to all of his friends). I was touched. They were almost too pretty to eat. The candy set the tone for the evening. I was giddy with romance and anticipating our romantic dinner.

When we got to the restaurant, my husband gallantly came around the car to open my door. I stepped out of the car and the expensive candy which was on my lap fell onto the ground and scattered all over the parking lot. That was embarrassing. And expensive for my husband.

Now I get truckloads of marked-down candy that tastes as sweet as it would have on Valentine’s Day, and if I drop it in the street, it’s really no big loss.

Holiday Activities

My husband just came home from work. I met him at the door and asked him what he wanted for dinner, and if he wanted to go out tonight.

He answered, “I just got home. Let me decompose for a minute.”

“Decompose?” I asked. “Don’t you mean decompress?”

He took off his coat and hung it up. “No,” he responded.

I put on my coat and went out to buy some air freshener.

 

The House Phone

When you’re of a certain age, you and your opinions run the risk of being considered not-relevant by younger people. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it. That’s because, when I was a bit younger, I always cringed when I read the “Letters to the Editor” in our local paper and saw reminiscences by older people about restaurants and stores that used to be in our town, a flood that happened 50 years ago, and people who used to be important. “Live in the present,” I used to think. Now, a few decades later, I don’t want to fall into the same trap.

My blog has a few loyal readers and I think that most of my readers are middle-aged, but not all of them are. I know that some younger people read my blog. I’m not aware of any readers past middle-age, but, then again, when does middle-age really end? There was a movie starring Meryl Streep and Shirley MacLaine, where Meryl said to her mother, Shirley, something like, “You’re not middle-aged. I’m middle-aged. How many people do you know who are 120?”

So, when I compose a blog post, I try to write about things that everyone can relate to, no matter your age. But occasionally I do refer to an experience that happened awhile ago, or an object that is considered old-school. Notice that I didn’t say old-fashioned. I make sure to use pop-culture terms when I indulge in a conscious reminiscence.

What’s on my mind now is something that is slowly disappearing and will be missed by many—the house phone. Almost everyone of every age has a cell phone or a smartphone, but many of us who are older than 30 also still have house phones. The younger generations don’t see a need for a phone that is attached to their house or apartment. They do, however, know what a house phone is, because all of them grew up in a house that had one, so as long as I don’t talk about rotary phones, everyone should be able to follow along.

The reason that the house phone will be missed is because it enabled everyone to know what was going on in their family. When it rang, anyone could answer it, and we didn’t know who was going to be at the other end. Kids got to talk to their friends, their parents’ friends, their siblings’ friends, an aunt or uncle, a debt collector, or, if they were really unlucky, their teacher or school principal.

The phone was usually attached to the kitchen wall with a short, curly cord. Some families had phones with really long cords that could stretch around wall corners and up staircases. That didn’t guarantee a private conversation, though. Family members would walk by and overhear snippets of your conversation, either accidentally or on purpose. They’d also yell their comments about your comments so that the person you were talking to could hear them. This was usually very annoying and frequently led to the person on the other end of the line having a front-row seat to a loud family fight. The house phone also enabled everyone in the family to know what everyone else was up to, good and bad. There were few secrets with a family phone, because there was little privacy.

I remember one phone call in particular. It was a Saturday afternoon. Saturdays were always hectic at our house. I was about 10 and had six younger siblings. My mother had just returned from grocery shopping with all seven of us and the kitchen was filled with brown paper bags. My mother and father were putting away the food and talking. The phone rang. My mother picked it up and then handed it to me. Everyone was in the kitchen and the clamor was louder than my caller’s voice. I had to strain to hear.

“Hello,” said the woman. “Is this Patty?” At the time I was calling myself Patty, so I said yes. I motioned to my family to keep the noise down. They got louder.

“This is Jean-Marie’s mother,” she said. I was confused. Why was my babysitter’s mother calling me?

“Yes?” I said. My mother began laughing and then my father belly-laughed at a story one of them had just told. I tried to stretch the cord around the corner of the wall into the hallway where it was slightly quieter.

The woman continued. “I have some bad news. Jean-Marie killed herself this morning.”

“Oh no!” I said over the voices floating around the corner from the kitchen. I went back into the kitchen, covered the receiver with my hand and said, “Please be quiet.”

I turned back to the phone, but my mother grabbed the cord and said, “Don’t you tell us to be quiet. This is our phone and our house. Your caller will just have to put up with the noise.”

I went back to the call. “I’m sorry about that,” I said. “And I’m very sorry about Jean-Marie.”

“I know,” the woman said. “I just thought you should know since you’re one of her best friends.”

“I am?” I thought. “Well, thank you for telling me,” I said.

After I hung up, my parents spun around and asked if I was able to hear my very-important call. I said I was.

Then they asked who was so important that a little noise would bother her?

I said that it was Jean-Marie’s mother.

“Why would Jean-Marie’s mother be calling you?” my mother asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “She said I was Jean-Marie’s friend and she had to tell me something important.”

“Jean-Marie is 16!” my mother said. “You’re 10. Why does she think that you’re friends? And what did she have to tell you that was so important?”

“She said that Jean-Marie killed herself this morning.”

I finally got the quiet I had requested, in the form of a stunned silence.

It turned out that Jean-Marie’s mother had called the wrong Patty. The other Patty, who was 16 and was Jean-Marie’s real friend, also had a last name that began with a B.

Now if that had happened to a 10-year-old on a cell phone, there would be nobody to question him or her and, ultimately, once the shock was over, offer comfort.

Parents miss out on their kids’ secret lives when everyone has his or her own phone and talks behind closed doors (and texts right out in public). Sure, as kids we used to resent being eavesdropped on, but secretly it was nice knowing that people were interested … sometimes.

 

 

 

 

What’s a Drive-Through?

My friend, Rosemary Bartlett, posted this on Facebook this morning.

“Stopped for coffee this morning. And see this…”