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| Today, this guy would have turned 15. Amazing the impact a silver dapple dachshund named Rocky can have on ya. |
Rocky.
Kids write the darnedest things.
Make a mental note of this: if you have kids (currently or eventually), and your kids keep journals in school, make sure your kids save them. Because when a kid, say, turns 26 and stumbles upon a couple of bound collections of thoughts she wrote when she was 6, 7 and 8 years old, it’s instant entertainment.
That, at least, is how it was for me when tonight, I stumbled upon the journals I kept as a first and second grader at Spring Hill Elementary School.
First Grade
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| “My mom wroks Monday, Wensday, Thersday, and Friday.” Spelling error, or Freudian slip? I’ll go with spelling error. My mom rocks seven days a week. |
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| “I one a trofie from the siyins fary.” Who rewards you with a quarter when you lose a tooth? The tooth fairy. Who rewards you for an exemplary science project? The science fairy. |
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| “I love school.”: Some things never change. “I want to milk a cow.”: Some things do. |
Second Grade
Nov. 9, 1993
“If I were a turkey…”
If I were a turkey, I’d be very pretty. I’d (wear) lipstick. And (clothes). I’d be the (prettiest) turkey in the world. But the people that found me better not try to chop me up and eat me because I’ll grab an ax and chop (their) legs off. And I would have nail polish on too!
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| Part 1. |
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| Part 2. Please note: not just any nail polish, but pink nail polish. |
Dec. 10, 1993
“Christmas Poem”
Sugar plum candy tastes so good. It tastes the right way, the way it should! Here comes Santa with eight reindeer, with “Rudeoff” to lead the way. But tomorrow (?) is a very (special) day, when Jesus was born. MERRY CHRISTMAS!
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| I’m glad my belief in Jesus is the one that stuck. (For the record, I stopped believing in Santa when I was five. I faked it at school for years, though, for the sake of my less skeptical classmates.) |
Jan. 10, 1994
“How to be Safe on a Bike”
You should have a helmet. If you don’t, get one! If you live in front of a busy street, ride in your driveway with a helmet on. If you’re on a street going somewhere on your bike, look both ways the same as when (you’re) walking.
Some people have to be more careful. Some people don’t think they need a helmet, but they do. It’s better safe than sorry. Get a helmet if you don’t have one. And never forget, it’s better safe than sorry!
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| And by “some people,” I’m pretty sure I meant “my brother.” |
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| This public service announcement is brought to you by a girl who had training wheels through age 7. |
Do not quit.
Today, I woke up to realize only five weeks remain in what is, so far, my most difficult semester of grad school yet. Being here — in this position, at this time — reminds me of what it’s like to feel the finish line coming from my seat on a dragon boat.
A couple springs ago, I spent a season on a dragon boat team and a day competing in the Tampa Bay Dragon Boat Races. For those who haven’t “dragon boated,” it’s kind of an art form to paddle in synch with 19 other people. It’s exhilirating. And exhausting. The easy part — once you’ve trained — is starting strong. The hard part is staying strong for the rest of the race. Your job is to throw that arm into the air and put the paddle back in the water, over and over and over like everyone else. You get splashed. You get blisters. Your whole body hurts.
In a race in the Garrison Channel, I could feel the finish line coming. I paddled. And when the only thing everything in me wanted to do was stop, I started to chant.
Do.
Not.
Quit.
It started in my head.
Do.
Not.
Quit.
I whispered it.
Do.
Not.
Quit.
I said it out loud, one word for every time my paddle hit the water. Seconds later, the race was over.
Five more weeks ’til winter break. I think it’s time to chant.
Where the rich people go.
Happy birthday to my friend and fellow blogger SVB! To celebrate, she and I and a handful of other ladies met up last night at Bern’s Steakhouse.
For those who aren’t local, Bern’s is a restaurant on S. Howard Ave. in South Tampa. It has valet parking. And a dress code. And a cheese cave. It’s where the rich people go, and where those of us who aren’t rich find humor in the “subtle” ways we reveal it.
Examples:
1. Saying “Am I supposed to tip you now, or should I do that later?” to the valet driver when you arrive
2. Whispering “Do you think they can tell I’m not rich?” to your friends while you’re waiting for your table
3. Breaking the routine for the valet driver who retrieves your car at the end of the night — i.e., Mercedes, Mercedes, Plymouth Neon with very little paint left on it
But fitting in is not what a trip to Bern’s is about. It, I learned, is all about the dessert room. To celebrate SVB’s birth, we skipped dinner (and, legend has it, dodged the depletion of our savings accounts) and went straight to the Harry Waugh Dessert Room upstairs. Which — as it turns out — is my new favorite restaurant.
And it’s not my new favorite restaurant just because I was given the opportunity to order this:
as well as this:
Don’t judge me. I brought (most of) one of them home.
In addition to what you get to eat in the process, my new-found bias toward the dessert room has a lot to do with what it’s like to be there. For starters, the dress code means you get to (well, have to) dress up, and I always enjoy a good excuse to do that. Plus, the trek through Bern’s to the dessert room is like a tour of a haunted mansion, sans cobwebs. And as soon as you’re up the stairs and walking toward the dessert room, you can smell it: all of what will wake you up or put you to sleep, depending on your body’s response to sugar. Inside, every table is private, in its own giant wine barrel, where you can be as loud or as quiet as you’d like and no one else in the restaurant will notice.
So glad SVB chose it for her birthday celebration. So looking forward to going back.
Dogs.
I have always known how amazing the impact is that animals have on humans.
It started when I was six or seven and my parents bought me my first fish: Lippy. I named her that because she was white with pink lips. When she died, I cried. A lot.
It continued when, in second grade, my dad brought Willy home:
And in fifth grade, when my dad brought home Rocky:
While Willy, Rocky and I grew up together, I came to two conclusions:
1. Each dog’s presence in my life was completely precious.
and
2. There’s no way I could ever survive their deaths.
But if you’ve known me long, you know Willy died at almost 16 in the spring of 2009, and Rocky died at 13 in the spring of 2010. (And you also know I survived.) But the presence of both of those dogs, and the dog I have now (Rudy!), taught me a lot. I learned to sacrifice (Tiny dogs take up more room in a bed than you’d think.) and to wait (I just couldn’t get my dogs to poop on command.). I learned to put somebody else’s needs before my wants (like when Rocky was dying — I didn’t want to watch him deteriorate, but I had to put his need for companionship before my desire to not be uncomfortable.) Ultimately, I learned to love. But as amazing as an animal’s impact can be on a human, I never thought much about how amazing a human’s impact can be on an animal. I realized it recently.
Which is why I wept when I watched this video, of a Navy Seal’s dog, who settled in front of his owner’s casket at his owner’s funeral:
If I have a dog when I die, I so want him or her at my funeral. Animals grieve, too.
Click here to read about the above video and animal grief in the New York Times.