THATCH

This past weekend was a rough one for my daughter Romy.  And like waves from a pebble thrown in a pond, the effect still lingers.  To understand her feelings you have to understand Romy.

While among the people I admire would be Lance Armstrong, Winston Churchill, Nelson Mandela and others, Romy’s would be the people leading the parade outside Neiman-Marcus protesting fur coats, those rescuing animals and fighting for the rights of dolphins.  They are far more admirable to her than those most of us would think of.  Particularly those that make it their mission in life to fend for God’s creatures. 

 

 

Romy has spent much of her leisure time the past few years searching for a pet, ideally a dog that would mesh with her lifestyle.  When I say mesh I mean fit into the rhythm of a single professional girl, living in a small, second floor apartment and the need to share Romy’s affection with Rico, her green, yellow and red parrot and BFF. 

Thinking her arrangement might not be the best for a dog, she tried to convince her mother and me that we needed a dog.  Since we live close by that would do for all of us.  She even searched for and found dogs trained for the deaf.  Like a dog for a blind person but, in their case, deaf people.  The reasoning being I would be protected from a night time intruder or even a fire.  My wife saw right through this and said no.

 

 

Romy had narrowed her search down to a Wheaten Terrier.  Her research showed they are an Irish breed, mid-sized, loveable, low maintenance dog.  Perfect.  Last week she learned there would be a rescue group at a local Petco with their usual German Shepherds and, lo-and-behold, a Wheaten Terrier.  Come Saturday morning she was there.  There were 8 or 9 German Shepherds and there was Thatch. 

Thatch, as the rescue lady explained, had been hit by a car in Los Angeles and abandoned.  His right front leg had been mangled.  Animal control did their best to repair his leg and then waited a period of time for someone to claim the dog.  No one showed.  Thatch was then sent to a place where animals are sent that have no future.  It was here that the rescue lady saw him and took him in.  Romy fell in love with Thatch, signed the necessary papers and took him home. 

 

 

I called her that afternoon to see if she wanted to come for dinner.  She explained what she had done, reality and regret beginning to sink in.  She knocked on our door and there was Romy with Thatch.  They call them wheat colored.  I would say more like strawberry blond.  If they had a casting call for a Disney movie about a little girl and her dog Thatch would win hands down.  To look him in the eye I had to part the hair over his face. 

He laid at Romy’s feet while we had dinner.  She told us she thought she had made a mistake.  His leg was so bad she had to carry him up the stairs to her apartment.  Her dream of going for walks with her dog in the beautiful Back Bay area where she lives would not be feasible.  The high cost of potential medical bills was a daunting thought.  After much discussion, she made the decision to return the dog.  We helped lift Thatch into the back seat of Romy’s car and she left. 

 

 

After a sleepless night she called the lady and told her of her decision.  Romy carried Thatch down the stairs and to her car.  He resisted mightily as if he knew what was happening.  Before leaving him Romy asked for assurance once more that nothing would happen to Thatch.  The lady, with all the heart you would expect of someone who rescues’s animals, assured Romy that she does now and always will have the same feelings for him that she did when she saw him and made the decision to save him.  She said once more nothing would ever happen to him.    

Romy was heartbroken.  As parents, Terry and I were as well.  Our kids have moved on to lead their own lives but we still live and die with them.         

OUR VALENTINES DAY

Yesterday would have been my Grandmothers 120 birthday.  It was also the 49^th anniversary of our wedding engagement.  The engagement party was held at the parent’s home of my then-to-be bride.  The small, white 3 bed room, 2 baths, 2 story abode had that lived-in look that 2 parents and 9 children tend to give a home.   As you can imagine there was always a crowded feeling, which can be a boost to a good party. 

It was wall to wall people as our two Irish Catholic families were meeting for the first time.  My Grandmother, whose most recent claim to fame was making the papers for being arrested for turning the hose on a family who tried to steal her spot on the beach in front of her Balboa Island home, was on her best behavior.  In her younger days Helen, in the finest of Irish tradition, would enjoy a cocktail or four.  I say enjoy because she would, while those around her paid the price.  That was in the past and we had all grown to love the kinder, gentler Helen, although those who knew her best were always on guard.

People were getting to know each other, good food was followed by a toast from the father of the bride-to- be and all was going swimmingly.  About that time a member of the family of the bride-to-be, who shall remain nameless, decided to walk through the center of the living room balancing his toddler child on his hand extended high in the air.  Helen lost it.  She came unglued as she tried to wrest the child from its Dad.  She called him everything in the book, the kindest of which was “You damned fool”.  After several of us restrained her things calmed down.  Contrary to what you might think this incident did not create any ill will.  It actually endeared her to both sides and the story has become a special part of family lore. 

Forty nine years later Terry and I enjoyed a quiet dinner alone in our home.  She found some New York steaks that were on sale, baked 2 potatoes, added some mixed vegetables and tossed a beautiful green salad.  She topped the meal off with my favorite dessert, heated bread pudding served in a bowl with a little milk. 

I had given her some flowers which she arranged in a glass vase on our coffee table.  I had looked everywhere for roses but being a last minute shopper, they were all gone.  I got an assortment of green, yellow and orange stuff I can’t name, from Trader Joe’s.  Next to the vase was a red, heart shaped candle she had lit. 

We sat on the couch, watching a re-run of the Grammy’s.  During the course of the day we had heard from each of our four kids.  Each told us of their plans for the evening.  As always there was great contentment in knowing those we love are doing what makes them happy with those they love. 

Forty nine years later the feeling is still the same. 

GOOD KIDS

Where I sit at my computer in my palatial office (ha, ha) I can see out my window at a nice green lawn with a path leading to our front door.  It gives me a heads up as to whether I want to answer the door for whoever is approaching.  I’m not saying I’m selective about who I answer for but there are some I would just as soon not spend time chatting with. 

On this past Saturday afternoon a young boy in a red tee shirt came up the walk way.  I happened to notice that at that same moment there was another boy in a red tee shirt approaching the house across the street.  Living in an area with lots of kids I am always up to hearing what they have to say.  I opened the door to a 10 year old clone of Justin Bieber.  He explained that his little league team was having a jog-a-thon to raise money for uniforms.  Would I be interested in pledging so much per lap to help them out? 

I am a sucker for helping kids.  I have, at one time or another had a subscription to every magazine ever published since the printing press was invented.  I have eaten so many Girl Scout cookies I look like a mint cookie.  I have pledged enough money per lap to a kid who looks scrawny and pale yet up and runs 8,000 laps that I found myself writing a check big enough to make a down payment on his first car.  I also have enough wrapping paper to wrap the planet earth.  So don’t think I am anti kids.   

We live around the corner from a grammar school so throughout the year kid visitors are common.  So my question to him is “Do you live around here?”  I asked because I have enough trouble staying afloat financially without extending myself beyond our neighborhood.  JB’s eyes flickered for an instant and then he said “No, I live in Tustin”.  I then explained that as much as I would like to help I just do my part for the local kids.  He thanked me anyway and left to work his way up the block. 

I sat back down at my computer and started thinking.  I knew that in the moment his eyes flashed he was thinking to himself that if I say I live here he will help me.  Knowing full well his odds were not good if he told the truth, he still told the truth.  This I admired and wanted to tell him so.  I walked outside, looked down the block and could not see him.  I began walking up and down every nearby block to see if I could find him.  No luck.  Feeling bad that I was not able to acknowledge his honesty to his face I began walking home. 

Being a rare sunny and warm mid-winter day, some young girls had set up a lemonade stand on a street corner.  The 4 girls working the stand were 7-9 years old and looked like the cast of the Brady bunch.  Being someone who greatly admires entrepreneurial spirit I have never, ever passed a lemonade stand without stopping. 

As I approached they asked if I would like to buy some orange juice.  They explained that they could not find any lemons so they used oranges.  I was terribly embarrassed as I declined, explaining that I had left home without a penny and could not pay them.  One of the girls with blond pig tails said “That’s OK, you don’t have to pay us we’ve made enough money already”.  Despite my protest they poured some fresh squeezed OJ out of a big pitcher and handed it to me. 

I gave them a quick lesson in Economic 101 as I explained that they had worked hard all day, had certain expenses to cover and would be taking a hit to their profit if they gave a glass to me without getting paid.  They weren’t buying it.  As a last resort I pointed toward my house and said “That’s where I live.  The next time one of you come by, knock on my door and I will pay you what I owe you”.  Still no luck.  As I walked away one of them said “Thanks for dropping by”.

I walked home feeling good about the future of our country.  There are plenty of good kids around.