remembrances – Page 2

It’s a beautiful day, one of the most beautiful days we’ve had recently. Soft breeze, sunny skies, puffy clouds. We were supposed to get a week of this, but the wildfires that have devastated the west coast reached us and blanketed the area with haze for several days. Today, though, we can open our windows and breathe deeply and I am grateful for that.

Perfect.

Fall used to be my favorite time of year. I enjoyed the relief from the summer heat. The season brings with it crisp air, soft light, vibrant shades of gold and auburn, the smell of a wood-burning fireplace, or the unexpected warmth of the afternoon sun. A chance in later years to break out my favorite uniform, jeans, a turtleneck sweater, a jacket, low boots.

I’ve struggled to hold onto the joy I used to feel this time of year. Nineteen years ago, my husband was killed on 9/11. That certainly wiped out any possibility of autumnal pleasure for quite a while. And just as I was coming back to appreciating the change of seasons, my beloved younger sister succumbed quickly and unexpectedly to a virulent and advanced form of pancreatic cancer that killed her within a couple of months. We all hung out together. Then it was the two of us. Now it’s down to one.

I still talk to one or both of them every day, but of course, it’s a one-sided conversation.

I went into 2020 determined to heal but, well, COVID. So many plans for my road to recovery have been knocked off the board.

Everyone’s in this position, though, aren’t they? My neighbor across the street has an eight-month old grandchild living in Germany she saw just once, right after he was born. Another friend was unable to attend her father’s funeral.

I’m luckier than many, although I don’t like to think in those terms. But I have advantages. I have a house, I am more or less retired (unless you count writing) and I live in a neighborhood I don’t mind being stuck in. Plenty of trees, plenty of room, plenty of people of all ages and ethnicities. Plenty of dogs, too. COVID puppies are the new normal around here. My dog Molly seems to enjoy the company.

Autumn is when I brought her home fifteen years ago. My sister and I traveled to a farm in Virginia to return with this tiny white puppy with apricot ears. She threw up twice in the car and decided she needed to relieve herself as we sped along a congested I-95 during a downpour. Naturally, we pulled over. What does a two-month-old puppy the length of my forearm do in such conditions, unused to her new leash, her new human, and the enormous semi-trailers rumbling by like metal monsters? She sought refuge underneath the car. As she was unresponsive to tugs and soothing words, I lay on my stomach and slithered underneath the car to fetch her. As I emerged, soaking and triumphant, she peed on me.

They say dogs have owners and cats have staff. I suspect Molly had a bit of each, as well as a lifetime of love and attention ahead of her.

I’m back home now. I’ve gone around the side of my house to look at the fence I painted the other day. Just a small fence, maybe three feet across. My husband put it up twenty-five years ago to separate our tiny back garden from the air conditioning unit. To my mind, it was perfect, a little piece of nonconformity in our architecturally homogenous neighborhood. I have no idea if it was sanctioned by the management company; we never asked.

When I went to take a look at it recently, I saw the planks were rotted away at the bottom. The railing was crooked—warped, or had it always been like that? The whole fence was off-kilter. I tried to straighten it out, but time had welded it into its cock-eyed position.

I did what I could, though, just as I’ve been doing what I can for a year now. My husband and sister were the stronger, more handy people in our once-upon-a-time trio, more talented in the kitchen as well. Loss and semi-isolation have forced me into something of a learning curve. I sweep and shovel and hammer and cook and bike and walk and write and think. I water plants and paint fences. I make my dog’s life as easy as possible. I wave at my neighbors and Zoom with my friends. I laugh at silly jokes and read more than ever. I also yell and curse and pound the walls.

It is what it is. And in this moment, for this moment, it’s perfect.

Molly crouch now Molly has turned fourteen, which means she’s either 88, 84, or 76 years old, depending on which chart you follow. I prefer the one at her vet’s office, which measures her size, weight, current health and puts her at 72 years. I prefer that calculation. I like to think that she, like me, has a bit more time left on the clock. Although such things are unpredictable at our age.

She’s a Cavachon, a mix of Cavalier King Charles spaniel and Bichon Frise. King Charles are much prized lap dogs, cuddly, sweet-eyed, sweet-tempered, a little needy. Bichons are playful, curious, bred to entertain. Molly is a combination of both, which means she has a big personality, a defined set of likes and dislikes, a touch of anxiety, an obvious preference for people over dogs, and a big appetite for playing and eating. Physically, she seems to have inherited the best of each—she remains a good-looking dog with soft fur and lovely eyes, ears, and tail. Her weight is low, her physical ailments few, even as her similarly aged canine acquaintances struggle.

Still, we’re both growing old, she obviously at a faster rate. At this moment, we’re moving together into what you might call early old age (although I’d prefer not to) and hitting the same issues, human and canine versions, at the same time. This has been a blessing and a curse. It’s also the reality of caring for a senior dog—or a senior human.

Molly then If you’d asked me twenty years ago whether I’d care for (much less worry about) a senior dog, I would have said, “Doubtful.” Then again, if you’d asked me where I expected to be, I’d have said in Florida or Canada with my loving husband. Then he died and I had some quick adjusting to do, which ended up not being quick at all. Four years of hyper-activity only helped me so much. After I slowed down, the walls began to close in. I still lived where I lived, one of two occupants in a house I couldn’t seem to leave. Thus, a dog. A puppy, actually, whom I purchased when she was nine weeks and I was four years into my grief and still deeply afraid of making lasting connections.

I’d never owned a pet, not by myself. I had no idea what to do. How was I supposed to care for this tiny defenseless creature? I thought I wasn’t up to the task. A childless widow, what did I know? How could I handle the responsibility?

She was a mellow puppy, which made things easier. She was also a life-saver, an identity-changer (I’m a dog owner!), a bit of a headache, and an absolute guarantee that the low moods and the dark thoughts to which I am prone could not pin me to my house, let alone my bed. My canine companion’s immediate and ongoing needs have always compelled me to, as a friend once said, “Get over your bad self.”

Molly has experienced some changes as she ages. Her anxiety has increased a bit. Her energy has dropped. She sometimes stops in the middle of the room for a second or two, as if trying to figure out what she meant to do. She’s developed idiopathic head tremors, small impulses that turn her into a bobble head for three or four seconds. If her knee is bothering her or she’s tired, she won’t jump up on the couch or finish her walk.

We’ve both adjusted to these issues. She’s learned to use the stairs to the bed. I’ve learned to lift 17 pounds without hurting my back. She’s adjusted to the tremor wave by taking a wider stance when it hits. She loves her mat by the front door (so she can monitor my comings and goings) as well as her car seat. We’ve even experimented with a stroller, which she seems to enjoy.

She seems otherwise happy and healthy, my Molly, and interested in life. She trots briskly, at least first thing in the morning. She’s still up for car rides and road trips and walks and games like fetch and new adventures and food, always food. Like me.

Her life will begin to be measured in months, not years. Maybe even shorter intervals. Her health can turn on a dime. That’s hard for me to accept, but I must. Living with a rapidly aging creature is a teaching moment. I frequently find myself lacking in either patience or gratitude. The care and maintenance of a senior dog requires the one and urges the other. That’s a lesson I’m working hard to absorb, a lesson that will be Molly’s lasting gift to me.

At 7:30 a.m. on a summer morning, the northern Wisconsin air did not yet hint at the promise of another typically beautiful day. Our twelve-year-old selves, denied the future pleasures of hot coffee, had stoked ourselves with pancakes and bacon.

Dressed in the camp uniform of blue shorts and white blouses, some of us with navy cardigans to ward off the lingering chill, we made our way to the platform, picked up our .22 caliber rifles and lay down. Ahead of us-it wouldn’t have been more than fifty feet-were an array of targets. My goal that day was to continue to move through the NRA-designed program and also move into a sitting position with a qualifying score.

Camp Whispering Pines for Girls was a full-throttle camp that offered instruction in a variety of water and land sports. I was a middle-class klutz with no talent for tennis, no build for competitive swimming, no chance of winning a footrace and enthusiasm but little experience on the back of a horse. But I could handle a rifle. It felt natural. It helped me focus. I understood the concept of the easy breath, the slow pull, the steadying opposition of the rifle butt kicking against the shoulder, and most of all, the exhilaration of hitting the target.

My uncle was an outdoorsman and a hunter, so I had a chance to fire a rifle at other times of the year. I never went hunting with him; I couldn’t bring myself to shoot at an animal, even a duck. But Uncle Bob was as enamored of sport shooting as I was. At his farm, we took aim at bottles and cans lined up on a fence and even clay pigeons shot into the air. Sometimes we used pistols but honestly, I was always most at ease with a rifle.

I had fun for a while. I impressed a high school boyfriend or two by winning a couple of stuffed animals at the State Fair. I briefly joined the National Rifle Association as a junior member. For eight years, I indulged my interest in marksmanship. Then the times changed and so did I. Physically and philosophically, target practice no longer attracted me.

Much later, after several intermediary careers, I’ve discovered writing produces a parallel sense of accomplishment. My “target” is a story with a voice, one that transcends the material and reaches the reader. Of course, it helps to write what you know. My two non-fiction books were both prompted by my experiences as a “9/11 widow”-how the death of my husband changed and didn’t change me, how it altered and didn’t alter the culture.

Fiction, I’ve learned, is trickier. As author, I have to relate to the characters I am creating if I expect my readers to do the same. It also helps if I can understand on some level what makes them tick.

Suzanne Foster is the protagonist who anchors my suspense novel, The Former Assassin. She’s a wife and a mother. She’s survived a neglected childhood, time living on the street, a stint in the Army, and twenty-five years in service to a criminal for whom she killed. She struggles with moral quandaries related to her career that I’ve never had to face. Nothing in her resume accords with my personal history.

Well, almost nothing. Suzanne and I have both known loss. We’ve both been rendered helpless by ill-advised choices and worse, choices denied. We’ve experienced the redemptive power of love, the frustration of moving beyond one’s history, the unbidden rage that lives just beneath the surface, and the ever-present awareness of our own mortality.

And we both know how it feels to get off a good shot.

This article originally appeared on The Refresh

	facebook
	instagram
	bookbub
	linkedin
	goodreads

Nikki Stern

Musings on a Late Summer/Early Autumn Day

Old Dog, New Tricks

Shared History