Goodbye, July

July...who needs it...

Some people just can't get enough summertime, but I am NOT one of them. I am never sorry to see the last of July; I could only be happier if August didn't follow. The end of July means we are halfway through the hottest part of the year and that much closer to Autumn ~ my far and away, no-contest, absolute favorite season.

This July has been particularly unpleasant: It is my first month M-less after 20+ years of daily doses. That is enough right there for a total writeoff, but on top of that, we have had 100+ temperatures with humidity to match, to say nothing of NO rain the whole month. Even Hurricane Dolly turned out to be nothing more than an overblown threat with barely a mist to its credit.

Tonight is July's last possible chance to redeem itself, and we are being subjected to a real, honest-to-goodness thunderstorm. But wouldn't you know, that's all it is: a generous lot of pompous bombast. No rain, no substance.

So, goodbye, July. For M, one more reason to cheer your passing: one month down, 46 to go...

K-9 Cop

Today we had lunch at Taco Bell with some of our grand/kidlets. As we were walking out we noticed a police car pulling into the parking lot, STAY BACK! POLICE DOG! written all over the side. That makes me want to investigate up close!

The officer got out and walked up to the door where we were standing.

"Is your dog in the car?" I asked.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and then indicating the kidlets, "I can't show them the dog, but I have cards." He pulled a pack of trading cards out of his pocket and handed them around. Cool!! Next to an American flag sat Azor, straight and tall.

Azor. What a cool name for what a cool dog!

"Your dog isn't going to get hot out there, is he?"

"No, ma'am! We keep the a/c running for him." Well, I don't suppose they are afraid anybody is going to steal their car or anything like that, and what a great deal for Azor. That's waaaay better than what I get when I have to wait in the car.

"Are you going to get your dog a taco?"

"No, ma'am!" No junk food for these dogs. For us people, bring it on! But for these guys, let's have the scientific, vet-approved diet.

Ever since S was a boy, he always loved dogs and he always wanted to be a cop. Thinking it the best of everything in his world, I often suggested K-9 cop-pery to him, but he showed not the barest hint of interest. Finally one day I asked why, and he said, "Mom, if somebody hurt my dog, I would have to kill them."

I am fascinated no end by working dogs, completely awed by the relationship between a trainer/handler and a dog. The things these people can get these dogs to do...and the things these dogs will do for these people. I have always thought that if just a few people would learn just a few lessons from just a few of these animals, the world would be a whole lot, all-around better place.

Contentment

Are we somehow something less than we should be if we like our lives the way they are? It certainly seems that way, according to the general consensus, but not according to the apostle Paul, who learned to be content "whatever state he was in." Is there some kind of universal standard for contentment? One might think so, based on how many people are dissatisfied with lives that aren't even their own.

Last night as I talked to my friend, she commented on how content she was with her imperfect life, yet how unhappy her mother was with it, and we wondered...Why should her mother care about all the quirks and glitches in her life if she was happy with it herself? Does contentment make her some kind of underachiever? Not ambitious enough? Not that she is problem-free, but contentment, cliche as it may be, is a choice, and perhaps it is more an indicator of maturity than of ambition or the lack thereof.

My friend is happy in her home. She is happy in her life as a wife and a mother and a grandmother. A gardener and a crafter, a teacher of her children, a hospitable friend. And what might be better contentment than family life at home?

Midway and More

Halfway through Beast Barracks, and the hotly anticipated Ice Cream Social has joined the ranks of West Point memories. But it's actually more than halfway over. Four weeks finished, three weeks to go. It really is going fast, even for M.

Ever since we got on board for West Point we have been looking forward to our phone call from the legendary Ice Cream Social. It had been drilled into us that we would have ten minutes to talk to our nc, if we were lucky: there could be ten other nc's waiting for their turn; there could be one oh-so-homesick nc that might go past his ten minutes into your nc's ten minutes; or your kind-hearted, well-adjusted nc might donate his call altogether to someone that needs it more than he does; or your nc might be the one that is so homesick he is afraid to get on the phone and break down; or, yours could be the one that sleeps the afternoon away and never calls at all. How easy it is to borrow trouble!

But all that worrisome speculation was for naught, because not only did our boy call, his 10-minute call was a 45-minute call! We listened fast, in anticipation of some 'higher' counting down his minutes, but time kept passing and we kept talking. Maybe this was an exchange for the abbreviated 90-second goodbye we didn't get on R-Day...?

We had already been coached to listen much and say little, and we mostly complied, though every now and then I could not help asking him a question, and gentleman that he is, he would stop what he was saying. Then we would waste a few minutes trading a few "go aheads" before we would get back on track. It's a hard thing to cram weeks of missed daily conversations into one phone call, even a 45-minute one, so a lot of things went unasked and unsaid, but before we hung up, M opened the call for questions, of which we had many.

Later we discovered email from him, also written at the Ice Cream Social. How very accommodating of his host/sponsor, and how thankful we are.

Now that The Call is behind us, we have one more ten-minute call to look forward to in two weeks, and then A-Day, after which he will be allowed to rejoin the unlimited world of e-communication.

Meanwhile, things here are oh-so-quiet, except for the days when the Blue-Eyed Boy comes and fills the spaces. This empty nest thing is pretty, well....empty....

Pleasant Labor

Ok, you can think me odd, but I confess: Laundry holds no terror for me. None whatever. Not even a shred of distaste. I might even go so far as to say I find laundry to be pleasant labor. Well, maybe not the sorting part, but after that... Sign me up!

What is there not to like? All I have to do (once the sorting is done) is stuff it into my state-of-the-art front loader, add some soap nuts, push a few buttons, and voilà. When I hear the buzzer, I remove the clothes, put them into my piece-of-junk drier, push another button, and go on to other business. I could have had a nifty new drier to match my snazzy front loader, but I'm not really a drier fan. I use mine under duress.

If I had my druthers, as they say in Texas, I would definitely hang my laundry outside on the clothesline, as I did for years after years of pre-puppy years. Alas, no more, at least until Chudleigh outgrows his puppy-ness... During the first few months we had him I got really, really tired of refereeing between him and the clothesline; hence the enlistment of the drier into service. I just did not have the time to sit outside and babysit the laundry until it was dry. More my style is to leave it hanging out there until I am good and ready to bring it in, kinda like I do with the drier now. But Chudleigh is approaching adulthood, and I will be expecting a higher standard of behavior.

When Chudleigh learns to "Leave the Laundry Alone, You Little Twit!!!" (oh, how I hope he does!), I guarantee I will go back to my pre-Chudleigh practice of using my clothesline, because the best bonus of all: the smell of fresh air and sunshine! Luxuriate in the matchless pleasure of the scent of outdoors when you go to bed on clean sheets at night. That (along with the smell of petrichor) is absolutely as good as it gets. Come to think of it... Haven't I noticed detergents with "Clothesline Fresh" scent for sale in the grocery store aisles? Not that it bears even a slight resemblance; but doesn't it prove that somewhere underneath our modern penchant for the fabulous fakes we yearn for the real thing?

Folding the laundry can be a pleasure of another kind, particularly when there are little clothes to be taken care of. I no longer have small kidlets of my own, but I do enough of the Blue-Eyed Boy's laundry to stay in practice. And, of course, I have my Man. Every piece of clothing, big or little, that passes through my hands evokes awareness of people and family and relationships in my life, and what can top that? And don't forget, a couple of baskets of laundry to fold make a perfectly legitimate reason/excuse to sit down and watch that movie you don't have time to sit down and watch. And if you do happen to have kidlets hanging around your ankles, sorting socks and folding small, flat items will entertain them while teaching them math skills and spatial relationships and hand-eye coordination. That is a whole lot more than anyone has a right to expect from one simple household chore.

Compared to the practices of my childhood~pounding the laundry on the big rocks sticking up out of the river deep in the Amazon rainforest, later graduating to an old-fashioned wringer washer~laundry today is unmistakably pleasant; though, come to think of it, watching piles of suds floating away down the river while tropical fishes nibble on your toes is pure pleasure. And adventure. Well, at least for a child... ;-)

And the old-fashioned wringer? Well, it certainly has charms of its own. What child does not thrill with suspense when feeding socks and sheets into the maws of the wringer! Will you be able to yank your fingers away in time? Or will the wringer eat your hand up to your elbow before your excitement attracts the attention of your mother who will drop whatever she is doing to hurry over and hit the red *release* button to extricate your throbbing arm? Of course, if you do manage to withdraw your hand in time, there is still fun to be had playing a "what is it?" sort of game when you see familiar colors and textures coming out the other side in an unrecognizable context.

Pleasant indeed, but all in all, past and present, I think I am going to have to upgrade laundry from merely pleasant labor to a most pleasant labor.

Hello, Dolly!

Rain! After a yesterday full of thick, grey, heavy clouds, the six-week-plus drought was broken this morning, courtesy of Hurricane Dolly. Yep, rain at last, a 3-inch rain in the form of minuscule drops of mist, falling three inches apart. Aside from the wonderful, invigorating smell of petrichor, Hurricane Dolly turned out to be all threat, no promise.

A Red Letter Day!

Today we hit the Mother Lode: three letters from M! Well, one of them was for someone else, but still. We were completely delighted just seeing his name in the mailbox. After hearing not a word for over a week, any news is good news.