Getting To Know Akron, One Wrong Turn at a Time

Seven years ago we were whistling Dixie all the way to a Cracker Barrel parking lot in Versailles, Kentucky.

Why Dixie? That was the name of the dog we were going to add to our little pack.

We’d had Alice for a couple of months and she was still recuperating from her double hip dysplasia surgery. Our veternarian and Charlene, Alice’s foster mom, suggested that getting another dog for Alice to pal around with might encourage her to walk normally again.  We’d never owned two dogs and Alice was already filling the house with her larger than life personality, but we thought it was a good idea. We were okay with the fact that Alice might bunny-hop the rest of her life but if another dog could show her how to walk on all fours again, we were willing to try it. Besides, Charlene had a lead on a young blue merle Aussie, not yet a year old. She was being fostered a couple of hours south in Kentucky by a woman named Agatha. The Aussie Rescue & Placement Helpline wasn’t going to post her photo because she was “too beautiful” (Dixie could land with a bad breeder or puppy mill) and they wanted to make sure she went to the right home.

(The first picture we received of Macy, formerly known as Dixie)

Agatha emailed a secret snapshot of “Dixie.” In the photo, she was sitting on a sofa, chewing on a small Dixie cup. She was (and is) a beautiful dog, with one brown eye and one blue eye, and a soft face that hinted at shy nature. She was a Milk-Bone cover girl. Agatha told us she was “active.” In Aussie nomenclature, this is code for hyper, nuts, energetic, awake all the time, mischievous, high-maintenance, possibly frustrating, potentially destructive if energies are directed at furniture and shoes instead of dog jobs like tennis balls and kongs, and above all else, highly intelligent. Despite her active status, Agatha also told us she was painfully shy and had a storied past. She’d most likely been severely abused and when Agatha rescued her from a Banfield Clinic attached to a PetsMart, Dixie was a day shy of being euthanized. Gasp. And gasp again. Agatha said she needed a boost in self-confidence and perhaps being around a confident dog would help her regain trust. We looked at Alice…it would be a match made in heaven. Alice could teach Dixie to have a little more moxy. And Dixie could show Alice how to strut her stuff.

On February 22, Agatha and her husband drove north to Newport, KY for a home visit with Dixie. Like all good and reputable rescue organizations, ARPH  does their homework. They don’t just give dogs out to anyone; they inspect, they interview, they question, and they make sure everyone is right for each other. (Too bad they don’t do this with people.) And with Dixie’s background, they wanted to make sure she was going to a home that understood the Aussie way (believe me, it’s different from other dogs) and that Alice was going to accept a little sister into the pack.

Agatha had done some exceptional work with Dixie, getting her comfortable on a leash and housetraining her. When they brought Dixie out of the truck, she was shaking and darting back and forth, head and haunches low to the ground. After a fair amount of oohing and aahing and coaxing her near us in the front yard, we introduced her to Alice who immediately established that she was head dog of the house before retreating underneath the coffee table for a nap. Alice was fine, Dixie was thoroughly petrified, and we were sold. Our first Aussie, Autumn, had been abused as well. We’d helped her re-establish confidence? No problemo. The Purcell house would now be a two-dog, two-person establishment. We told Agatha we needed to think it over but we knew Dixie was ours. We also knew there was absolutely no way we could own a dog named Dixie. It just sound too prissy and small-dog for her.

We scheduled the pick-up for March 2. There was a UK game the night before and Versailles was near Lexington and sort of the middle point between Newport and where Dixie was being fostered. We got tickets for the UK game and arranged to meet in the parking lot of Cracker Barrel the next morning. And then we started the name-the-dog game. When changing a dog’s name, most experts recommend finding something that rhymes with the dog’s original name. Sheesh. Trixie? Misty? Frisky? Betsy? Oy. We were at a loss until we reach our hotel in Lexington and were getting ready for the UK game.

I was looking down into the lobby of the hotel. It was an ocean of blue and white sweatshirts and jackets and hats, the crowd suited up for the game. “What about Macy?” I asked Dave. “For Kyle Macy. Your favorite UK basketball player of all time.”

Brilliant! Thankyouverymuch!

The next morning we picked up Dixie at Cracker Barrel; somehow it seemed appropriate. Our little roadside runaway with big-time self-esteem issues hitching a ride with us at the Cracker Barrel. Again, she was shaking as we loaded her into the back of our red pick-up truck (Dave’s vehicle for hauling band equipment). We placed her on the blanket Agatha had given us and added our own dog blanket, Dave’s childhood comforter with the names and logos of old hockey teams. The comforter had been passed down from Autumn who used it for fourteen years, to Alice and Macy. I spent most of the ride draped over the seat trying to comfort Macy, telling her she was going to a good place where she’d meet a good friend. I doubt she believed me.

The first few weeks with Macy were anything but easy. She was terrified of Dave, who was home most of the day working toward his PhD. We assumed she had been abused by a male and she made it clear that men were to be avoided at all costs. Only I could feed her. Only I could take her for a walk. She didn’t want anything to do with Dave. She ran away from him, hid in corners. She also started forgetting she was house trained and that she wasn’t supposed to chew on clothing, comforters, sofas, or anything filled with some type of stuffing. But man oh man could this girl run. She was lightning fast and graceful. Poor Alice was left in the dust, bunny-hopping across the yard and barking “wait for me” whenever we put them out in the yard.

Dave spent day after day locked in a bedroom with Macy and Alice, trying to make friends with our new addition. I’d come home from work and all three of them looked frazzled and wired and ready for a break from each other. After a full week of lockdown, Macy realized Dave wasn’t such a bad guy and that we were all to be trusted. She settled in and settled down, and followed Alice’s every move.

She also followed me…everywhere. I was her new buddy. Seven years later, she still follows me…everywhere. I call her my Foreman and my Muse. She follows me when I clean the house. Given that she’s a neat freak, apparently she follows me to make sure I’m doing a good job. She follows me to the kitchen, though I’m not sure why because she’s a very picky eater and turns down food more than she eats it. She follows me into the bathroom and even noses open the shower curtain to get a drink of water. Everywhere I go, Macy goes too. And when I’m writing, she’s right there on the bed cheering me on. Okay, really she’s sleeping but I know she’d offer editorial advice if she could. In fact, we’ve decided that she’d read romance novels and the classics along with her trashy fashion magazines.

Seven years later, she still retains some of her original shyness and fear. As much as we’ve worked with her, she’s a wallflower at heart. Unlike Alice, she’s not one to give over her trust for a mere bone. Macy plays hard to get, but once you’re in her circle, she’s yours for life. Just don’t look her in the eye — that’s too much confrontation for her taste.We call her our Goth Girl, for the black fur around her eyes, her own version of eyeliner, and for her pensive disposition. However, get out the leash and it’s Goth Girl Gone Wild. She’s the first one in line for a walk, and she can outrun most any dog at the dog park. She also can be a ferocious drama queen when someone knocks on the door.

We’ve never had a dog that’s so well-groomed. We’re not sure how she does it but we swear she must file her own nails when we’re not looking. Even the groomers are surprised when we bring her in for a trim and they don’t have to do her nails. She’s almost cat-like, but don’t tell her that because she’s not a fan of felines. Or mail carriers. Or squirrels. Or things that move quickly.

Best of all, Macy is Alice’s best pal and vice versa. Macy gives Alice an ear bath daily. We learned that the ear licking is a sign of submission and let’s just say Alice doesn’t mind the fringe benefits of being alpha. They eat, sleep, stroll, and bark together. Macy snuggles up against Alice for naps and takes comfort in Alice’s high level of confidence. Speaking of comfort, we’ve also never had a dog who can get as comfortable as Macy. She re-arranges pillows, fluffs up blankets, and generally makes herself a nice bed out of clothing, pillows, or anything else on the floor.

Macy is our snuggler, our mischief-maker, our athlete, and our beauty queen. During walks, we’re frequently stopped by people who comment on how striking Macy is. After they leave, we always tell Alice she’s pretty, too. You know, sibling rivalry and all that. But as pretty and delicate as she may be, Macy is one heck of a tennis ball player. If we’d had the time, we would’ve trained her for agility competitions because we’re pretty sure she could’ve held her own out on the course. One of our most favorite things to do is watch her run. Girlfriend has game, that’s for sure.

And even though we’ve struggled with Macy’s erratic and fearful behavior sometimes, she’s a good girl at heart. After seven years, I couldn’t have asked for a better foreman and Alice couldn’t have asked for a better friend. Here’s to many more years with our Macerpants and her own brand of Aussie-ness!

(That’s my Artsy-Fartsy sister Mary on the left, my dad in his Mohawks Jrs. alumni jersey, me in the white hat at the bottom of the photo, and mom with the popcorn.)

March 1: It’s been four years since my dad passed away and I still miss him. We all miss him. Watching the Olympics this year, especially with my dad being a hockey fan and former player of the game, and the U.S. playing Canada for the gold, I couldn’t help but think about the last afternoon I spent with dad before he died. 

It was Saturday, February 25, and mom had to run some errands. It was my turn to stick close to dad — all of us were taking turns sitting with him and my work schedule didn’t make it easy to get there on the weekdays. When I got there that afternoon, dad was sleeping. Mom instructed me to get him to drink a protein shake when he woke up and to check on him frequently. By this time, he was barely eating. Mom tried to hide her worry but her poker face needed some work. I peeked into the bedroom about 15 minutes later and he was still sleeping. The tv was on and the hockey semi-finals had just started. Surely the sound of bodies hitting the boards or the announcer yelling “SCORE!!!!!” would rouse dad once the game got going.

I waited in the living room for a bit, pretending to read but I couldn’t focus. A small part of me realized that dad was not going to be with us much longer but a much bigger part of me refused to admit it. This was my dad. That cancer was no match for someone as stubborn as him. At least that’s what I told myself — as they say, denial aint just a river in Egypt. I got one the shakes out of the fridge and poured it into a cup. When I took the shake in, dad was semi-watching the hockey semi-finals. The Winter Olympics were always a time when dad could get his hockey fix because my parents didn’t have cable and hockey games aren’t standard television fare in Cincinnati. I asked if he wanted something to drink and he said, “No. Just put it on the table.” I set it on the nightstand and then stood there. “Mom told me to make you drink a little bit.” He looked at me, semi-smiled, and then stuck out his tongue. “Ppphhhhttt,” he said. This was dad’s traditional, joking gesture when he knew mom’s advice was right but didn’t want to admit it. Yeah, there was a little bit of Archie and Edith Bunker in my mom and dad’s interactions. I laughed, thinking it was a good sign he still had a sense of humor.

I stared at the tv but I wasn’t really watching Sweden and the Czech Republic. Sweden was winning. Dad asked how the Girls were doing. I launched into a story about Macy.  She had been getting into our bedroom and wreaking havoc. For awhile, putting a laundry basket in front of the door worked. Then she started jumping over that and nosing the door open, which would then close behind her, leaving Alice alone in the hallway while Macy chewed through comforters or created other mischief. Our doors were old and had no locks on them so they were easy for Macy to nose open. Also, the old doorknobs didn’t work, and we only had one baby gate at the top of the steps to keep the dogs upstairs while we were gone. “We can’t gate every doorway,” I said.

Dad suggested an eyehook latch and I explained again that the doorknobs were super old and super not easy to replace, having no clue what an eyehook latch was. He told me he’d take a look at the doors when he felt better but until then I should get the eyehooks. He picked up the tv schedule next to his shake and asked me to get him a pen. Then he drew an eyehook, his hands shaking. “Get one of these,” he said, pointing to the drawing. “Put it on the outside of the door, up high enough so Crazy Eyes can’t paw at it.” That’s what he called Macy, for her one blue eye and one brown eye and her overabundance of energy. He took a sip of his drink and shut his eyes. I stood there for a bit longer, watching Sweden and the Czech Republic battle it out for the win. He fell asleep instantly; my lack of home improvement knowledge had exhausted him. I tip-toed out of the room, leaving the drawing behind. I remember standing at the door, thinking I should go back in and tell him I loved him, knowing that he wasn’t going to be over to look at the doors any time soon — or possibly ever. But I was sure I’d see him again and I didn’t want wake him. When mom came home, he was still sleeping and Sweden was winning. 

Dad died four days later. That night after being at the hospital, we returned to mom’s condo, puffy-eyed and at a loss for what to do next. All I could think about was that tv schedule. I needed the drawing that I had left behind. Mom had already pitched the schedule and the daily newspapers out. I rifled through the stack of papers in the garage and found it. It seems silly that I would want to have something so small and barely legible. But people do and say and need oddball sorts of things when they’re grieving — my odd thing was that simple drawing, dad’s last effort to help me fix something around our house. Because that’s what he did for all of us kids. Who needed the Handyman Connection when we had our own?

That’s not all he did for us. Below is the eulogy, written by me with the help of my sisters and brothers and mom. Four years later, here we are with another Winter Olympics and a great hockey match between the U.S. and Canada. And here we are honoring and celebrating the same things about dad that made him “our dad.” I’m sure dad was sitting at his workbench in heaven’s basement (he was a basement kind of guy) cheering for the U.S. and cursing Miller’s missed goal, but happy for the hero Sidney Crosby who shot the winning goal and made it one helluva good game.

(Dad and mom, their wedding)

We Remember Dad

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song…

Dad was all of those things to us and more. We always joked with him that he was the King of the House. But, like all good jokes, there was an element of truth in our nickname for him. Above all else, dad loved mom and the family they created. Whenever we were together – for holidays or dinners or birthdays – you could always find Dad, standing just outside our loud and boisterous clan, watching his kingdom with pride.

And in this small way, with his half grin and upturned eyebrow, we all knew how much he loved us. Dad was a quiet man, much quieter than the rest of us, but he taught us how small gestures and moments could be more far powerful and memorable than the grandest of scenes. Here then, are some of the small things we remember of Dad, the things that we will carry largely in our hearts and minds.

Our Dad could fix anything. He fixed our bikes, our skates, our cars, our houses. His workbench in the basement was his palace. It was so organized, we could never get away with stealing one of his tools. He’d ask who took his hammer and we’d have to confess, and, no sooner had we confessed, Dad would be on the job, fixing whatever it was we had tried to fix ourselves. The house on Applevalley showcased much of Dad’s handywork – the bookshelves in the family room, the desk in the bedroom, and, of course, the backyard deck that Kevin and dad built. Dad was a hard worker but he moved at a tortoise pace, something we teased him about. Dad taught us there was a method to his maddening pace. His Zen-like approach to a task – the way he studied every nook and cranny before he set out to work — guaranteed he’d get it done right the first time. He took to heart the motto “Always be prepared” and as much as we joked about his perfect workbench, his organized toolbox, and his preparatory rituals, we were all amazed at how naturally fixing things came to him. Continue reading →

It’s snowing. Again.  So like all of those random snowflakes falling on our driveway that will need to be shoveled – again – here are some random thoughts for your Friday viewing pleasure:

* It’s the snowiest February on record in the Akrowdy. It’s so snowy, in fact, that at 6 a.m. this morning, they closed Cleveland Public Schools. From the shock and awe on the news anchor’s face, this is akin to hell freezing over. I never thought I’d witness hell freezing over, but here we are. Now what’s going to happen when every teenager known to mankind has some lofty request (like to drive a car at age 15)? If hell is frozen over already, what will parents say? Plain old “no” is so boring.

Dave and I have been here almost three years and two of those years have produced record snowfall. What gives? Not that I mind the snow — it’s pretty, it’s fun, it gives me an excuse to buy boots — but let’s just say my good friend the Treadmill and I are getting a little tired of spending so much time together. And let’s just say me and the Girls are feeling the stirs of craziness.

* But there’s hope under — or should I say above — the white stuff! The blue herons are back in the Cuyahoga Valley, and nesting in a huge sycamore tree on Bath Road. According to avian experts, this is a good sign that spring is going to be sprung soon. I may take up bird watching just so I can stand under the sycamore tree and shout, “hurry it up a little, will ya?” I’d offer to babysit on those eggs if it meant bringing spring a little sooner.

* Best excuse to go to DSW ever: Dave needed new slippers because his looked like they’d been through a wood chipper. I got a coupon in the mail saying that I’d get a free tote if I spent $39.95. Hmmmm….I picked up the slippers but they were only $24 so clearly I needed to buy myself a pair of shoes on clearance. It was between a pair of short suede cowboy-style boots and these leopard-printed, peep-toed beauties at the rock-bottom price of $29.00. My toes could use some peeping and these were like a little slice of spring sitting on that shelf. I swear I heard them say “buy me.” When I came home, I pulled a Grandma Cass. I stashed them in the closet and told Dave that “I bought you some slippers and got a free purse to boot.” I didn’t mention my shoes until later when he asked what I had to spend to get the free purse.

* Linguistic Pet Peeves? I have too many to list. This NPR article  that a writer pal forwarded captures a few. I, for one, get peeved when people say “I, for one, ….”. Um….who else you got in that “I”, your imaginary friend? It’s redundancy at its finest. I agree with the writer that “quite possibly” should be driven into the sea of Never Use Them Again phrases. I feel the same way about “indeed” even though I’ve been guilty of using it in memos and speeches. And while we’re on the subject, nothing sets me off like the word “handy” used in marketing copy. This handy tool will clean your house all by itself! This handy gadget wipes the counters for you! He’s handy around the house! Whenever I hear handy in that way, all I can see are two giant cartoon hands running through the house fixing things up. Creepy.

* The Biggest Liar is back. That’s right. The Liar of the Literary Variety might be at it again. Remember James Frey, author of A Million Little Pieces, which ended up being a big ball of hoo-ha? Another writer friend sent me this link about Frey allegedly using pseudonyms. Frey may also be John Twelve Hawks, author of a best-selling sci-fi series. So, even if he’s not John Twelve Hawks, he’s getting press because he might be? We’re going to give Frey bandwidth and column inches because he might be using pseudonyms because no one wants to publish anything with his name on it since he’s got pants o’ fire from lying? Unbelievable.

* Avatar in 3-D was pretty cool. Can’t say as much about the storyline but the 3-D technology and cinematography was fantabulous. My friend and I were chatting afterwards about what it was like to see the first Star Wars for the first time. Believe it or not, I saw it with my mom when she was pregnant with my little bro, Kevin. I was blown away by Star Wars at age 11. We were wondering if today’s kids will have the same reaction to Avatar or if they’re so unphased by special effects given they spend gobs of time with Guitar Hero, Playstaion, Wii, etc. Discuss.

* Happy Birthday, Alice! Alice turned nine years old on Monday. Yes, we gave her and Macy Frosty Paws to celebrate. And no, she can’t have the whole six-pack, Frosty Paws or otherwise, because, drum-roll please, Alice weighs a whopping 63 pounds. Oh yes, girlfriend has got some extra honky tonk in her bandonka-bonk right now. So, next on Girl Talk, she’s going to become the Biggest Loser. Macy will be coaching. Stay tuned.

* And finally, a big shout-out to my mom who has weathered her way through another February. Not only is it the anniversary of her mom’s passing, it’s also my parents’ wedding anniversary on Saturday. And on March 1, it will be four years since my dad passed away. We love you, mom!

Alice pulled her helmet over her ears and got in position. “Helmets – check. Icy track - check. Super technologically-superior and aerodynamic bobsled - um, check. Breaker 1-9, breaker 1-9 to Brakeman Macy. This is Alice ‘The Bullet’ Purcell. Team Australia is ready for its historic Olympic run.”

“Wait a second,” Macy said, looking around. “What are we doing again?”

“Olympic bobsledding,” Alice said. “The team from Down Under is built for speed. We will be more famous than those damn Jamaicans. Or that Eddie the Eagle guy. Now hurry up, we don’t want to fuck up the start. Remember, I’m the pilot. You’re the pusher AND the brakeman because I have to focus on the important scientific engineering kind of stuff.”

“Does the brakeman wear a pretty outfit?” Macy asked. “You know, one with sparkles and rhinestones like those skaters? I thought you said we would be ice dancing in the Olympics. I love Ice Castles! It’s so romantic.”

“Ice skating is for sissies of mondo  proportions, Sissypants. You will not see this fine Australian specimen in a leotard. Now give this state-of-the-art contraption a good heave-ho so we can make our first run in like Mach Five. I want us breaking the sound barriers and shit. We’re gonna take out some squirrels and cats along the way once this little miracle of aerodynamism gets moving. Those Swedes have nothing on us.”

Macy looked at the steep track ahead of them. It looked like the back porch was in another country — possibly Canada or Sweden — given all the ice and snow covering it.

“I don’t know, Alice. I’m getting cold paws about this whole idea. When you said we were going to the Olympics, I just thought we’d watch the opening ceremonies and drink Molson’s with the Canadians and go shopping in Vancouver. You said I could be an ice skater.”

“Dude, what do you think we’re doing? We’re skating. And the track is ice. It’s like ice skating only we’re in a bobsled. A toboggan. You dig?”

“Dig? Where? You want me to dig a hole? I love digging holes!!”

Alice ran her paws over her face. “No, Dingbatpants. You don’t dig anything. You push. You push this here bobsled and then you hop in because your fat arse is our secret to success. The more weight we have, the faster we go. It’s all about quantum physics and stuff you wouldn’t understand because you’re not in the Olympic version of the B.H.O. like I am.”

Macy stood on the side of the sled and pushed it with her front paws. It didn’t budge.

“Don’t make me replace you with Bernie next door. He flamed out last Olympics and we didn’t even make it past the trials. Now put some elbow grease into it.”

“I told you already,” Macy cried. “I don’t think I have elbows.”

Alice turned around and nipped Macy on the neck.

“Unsportsman-like conduct! I’m calling the International Olympic Committee!”

“Just push,” Alice sighed. It was hard finding good athletes these days.

Macy pushed again and the sled began to move. And then it moved again and she hopped in.

“Hells yeah, how do you like us now!” Alice screamed. “Bite me, Sweden and Norway and all those other snowy countries! Team Australia is fueled by Fosters Lager.”

The sled careened off a snow pile and was heading straight for the picnic table.

“Do you know how to steer this thing?” Macy asked.

“Of course,” Alice said, the wind taking her breath away. “I am the pilot. All elite pilots like me have mad skills. Oh, and something called finesse. Dad says all the bobsledding hall of famers have it. It’s an Olympic BHO requirement.”

They had only gone two feet but the course was rough and filled with dangerous obstacles like the grill and the firepit and, worst of all, frozen piles of dog poop – a new addition to this year’s course. Just as they neared the leg of the picnic table, Alice shifted her weight to the right and the sled missed crashing into the table by nothing more than a narrow icicle.

“Oh, Canada, oh Canada,” Macy started singing.

“That’s not our national anthem,” Alice shouted over the whooshing of the sled against the ice. “We sing Advance Australia Fair, remember?”

“Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of graaaaaaaaain, aaaaahhhhhh look out for the fence!!!”

“Relax, dude,” Alice said. “It’s all copacetic. Just a couple more turns and we will be on that porch and wearing gold medal around our necks and everyone will be dousing us with beer. Which, by the way, sounds pretty good right about now. All this steering makes me thirsty. I can taste the thrill of victory now.”

“Will we get to wear flags around our shoulders if we win? I like the Australian flag. It’s very fashionable.”

“You can do whatever you want. I’m gonna go get a drink with Shaun White and Bode Miller after we kick this course’s ass.”

“What if all this fame goes to our heads and we get drug addictions and all of that?”

“You worry too much,” said Alice. “Now lean to the left on this last curve and put all of your ass into it. We need to make up for lost time.”

The sled careened down the slope at record pace in the final stretch.

“Cowabunga! We are laying the hammer down now!” Alice barked.

Macy barked too. “Cowabunga is my hero! Go Cowabunga! Whoever you are! We love Cowabungas!!!” Then she whispered to Alice, “Is that some kind of Canadian person, this Cowabunga?”

As they slid into the porch step, Alice shook the snow from her fur and took off her helmet. She high-fived Macy and looked around for the crowd, all the raving fans watching this historic run for the Australian team. But there was no one there, not even Bernie or that damned stray cat that roamed their yard. Everyone must have been watching another sport, like that curling thing or maybe the moguls. Bobsledders never got the respect they deserved as athletes,  not even the BHO bobsledders. She looked up and saw mom opening the porch door.

“Girls get in here. How did you get so snowy? And why is the laundry basket outside?”

Macy dipped her mouth in the snow and scooped up a little pile. She was thirsty after all of that hard work. Alice strutted past mom and nudged Macy. “Next Olympics, we’ll take the gold. We’ll be bigger than Eddie the Eagle.”

“Bigger than  Cowabunga?” Macy asked.

“Most definitely, sis. Most definitely.”

Last week marked the fourth anniversary of my Grandma Cass Riedmiller’s passing. That’d be her on the left next to my mom with my Grandma Eleanor Creelman on my mom’s right. You can’t see all of Grandma’s legs but let’s just say she taught all of us how to stand properly for a picture, one foot in front of the other, toe slightly pointed, you know, to make your legs look good and slender. All of her grandchildren and even great and great-great grandchildren know this pose.

Grandma was 93  and had lived with Alzheimer’s for several years. My mom and her two brothers were her caretakers, taking shifts to visit her every day at the nursing home. As her granddaughter, it wasn’t easy watching my grandma lose her memory and her independence; I can only imagine how tough it was for my mom and uncles. It’s true — painfully so — that Alzheimer’s is often harder on the caretakers than it is on the person with the disease. My grandma didn’t know me the last few times I visited her. She thought I was my oldest sister Chris or that I was just someone to come for a visit. And given that my siblings call me “Little Cass” because I’ve adopted some of grandma’s habits, I always left feeling sad that we couldn’t joke around about the fact that I had gum and mints in my purse (like she always did) or that I was hoping to eat potato chips later (like she loved to do) or that I pulled my house keys out about five miles away from the house (like she always did) or that I went to the “libarry” (like she always did) or, most important, that I scored a bargain at Macys or Dillard’s (like she always did when they were known as Shillito’s and McAlpin’s).  Those things were no longer a part of grandma’s narrowed Alzheimer’s world but they are the memories of her that all of us still keep close to our hearts.

Despite the moments when Grandma turned disagreeable or got confused and sad, she kept her grace and style all the way through her final days. She was always ready with a “thank you” or “your hair is beautiful” compliment. And even though she stopped wearing her skirts and jewelry, she still dressed in a nice sweater or fleece jacket — courtesy of those taking care of her.  Her small room at the nursing home was filled with pieces of her past — pictures, trinkets, the things that made grandma our Grandma. Those who loved her did everything they could to bring my grandparents’ home on Kugler Mill into the nursing home.

We called those trinkets “Grandma’s Treasures.” Because here’s the thing: Grandma had this magical stash of treasures and you couldn’t leave her house empty handed. You were either given some candy or a piece of costume jewelry that she’d tired of, or maybe a little heart-shaped box to put your earrings in, or a scarf, or…well, the list is endless. My grandparents weren’t wealthy but my Grandma never stopped giving to others. As kids, we sometimes giggled at Grandma’s gifts of huge daisy earrings or pastel scarves that we weren’t sure we’d ever wear. But we always appreciated what she gave us and respected her generosity as much as we respected the fact that she always had a dish of hard candy in the “TV room” waiting for us.

Two years ago, I was at the Nervous Dog Coffee Bar with a couple of friends and we decided to pay a couple of dollars to have our palms read by a psychic/palm reader. My reader was a mix of good and bad news, some of which happened. I did injure my knee as she had indicated. And I was stuck on the novel as she predicted. Argh. Worse, my two friends had all sorts of spiritual guides and fairies and other-worldly entities looking after them, and they had past lives. Apparently this is my first time on the planet so I’m highly inexperienced in everything, including novel writing. But the palm reader did sense that there was a woman in my life, someone who had died recently, who was looking after me. I was supposed to call on her energy to help me sort out the problems with my manuscript. Funny enough, in the first draft of the novel, two of the characters are named after my Grandmas. It was my way of honoring them.

Hmmm….so I started dialing up a little Grandma whenever I worked on the novel. “Okay, grandma, you read a ton of books, help me out here. Where is this danged plot supposed to go?” I added a little angel to my desk to represent Grandma. Then my friend Erin came for a visit and she left a coin with a bird on it. And I already had my Winnie the Pooh statue that Dave had given me several years ago. I started my own writing alter and any time I’d write, I’d focus on those objects, quiet my mind (seriously not an easy task) and begin.

Then, at Christmas, my wickedly creative sister Mary gave all of us girls a gift. If you look at the photo above, you’ll see something that looks like a silver spoon. My mom and sister had been at a craft fair where an artist made ornaments out of spoons. Which got them to thinking of Grandma’s treausres. My treasure is one of grandma’s spoons along with two of  her old pins. It’s beautiful, and it was just the piece my writing alter needed. Sorry, this ornament will not be hanging on the Christmas tree. It’ll be sitting at my desk wondering where the potato chips are, asking whether we need to go to the “libarry,” and always, always keeping an eye out for good bargains.

I’m not sure they make women like my grandma anymore. She was classy and kind, and even though my grandpa weren’t rich by any stretch, they had the best wealth of all — good friends, good family, good times with each other, and good memories. And that’s the lesson all of us treasure the most.