Getting To Know Akron, One Wrong Turn at a Time

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 could 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.

Woo-hoo!! We’ve got a foot or more of the white stuff here in Akron! And it’s the good kind of snowman-making, snowball-throwing snow. Of course, it’s also the kind that demands shoveling if you’re like us and have nothing but some leftover icing for Christmas cookies and a jar of applesauce in the fridge and you need to hit the grocery store.

Here’s the thing: if it’s going to snow, it might as well snow big. I dig it. Even if it means digging out of the driveway, which took us about three hours this morning. And here’s the other thing: in Northeast Ohio, this is expected. No one whines, no one freaks out. Here, we just look out the window, curse a little, and head for the shovel in the garage. My man Bruce Kalinowski (best traditional weather guy ever and he sort of reminds me of my Uncle Charlie when he delivers the weather) dished up the results of the snowstorm this morning as fellow Akronites opened their doors to see what was waiting for them. Here’s what was waiting for us.

Um…what the hell? You expect me to poop in this stuff? Help a sistah out and get shoveling! I just got Furminated yesterday and this shit is going to ruin my haircut!!!!!

“This is Macy Purcell, reporting live from the backyard after the Big Snowstorm. Conditions are very dangerous for dogs. Any dog smaller than an Aussie will get lost in the snow. We’re up to our bellies here and I can’t see my camera girl, Alice. Back to you in the station, Bruce.”

Snow pile on table. Very poetic. Except for that barking dog in the background.

Starting on the driveway. Oy.

Stork disguised as snow alien or maybe snow sheep.

Dave and others digging out the street. It’s a must – we will be the last street plowed, most likely.

Front steps…sort of uncovered.

Today marks our seventh year with Alice “The Palace” Purcell. You could say Alice had us at hello (if hello in dog-speak is a “warning bark”). We went to the Aussie Rescue and Placement Helpline’s foster home to meet Alice, shortly after our best girl Autumn (our first Aussie) passed away. Dave and I couldn’t handle being in a dogless house for very long so we started checking out the Helpline every few days. Alice’s Aussie smile and her story about recovering from recent surgery for hip dysplasia captured our hearts instantly.

Before the foster parents introduced us to her, they paraded several other dogs in front of us. Oh, look at Yogi – he’s so cute! Or how about this puppy? Or maybe this or that Aussie, did you happen to seem them online? The other dogs were great but we were there to see Alice. Reluctantly, the foster parents opened the door to their laundry room and warned us that Alice could only bunny-hop due to the surgery. “She may never walk normally,” they said.

Alice hopped out, stopped, turned her head as if she were on stage, and gave a warning bark. Just two quick barks to let us know, “yeah, I’m here and I’m checking YOU out, not vice versa thankyouverymuch.”

Alice had all kinds of moxy and personality, and it was evident from the get-go. We also got the feeling that her foster parents thought she was extra special and weren’t looking forward to saying goodbye to her. When we returned to pick her up on January 25, the foster mom asked us several times if we were sure we wanted to take her on, you know, because of her hips and all. Alice was in the kitchen with her, scamming some peanut butter. Along with many instructions we received to get her through her recovery from surgery, her foster mom also told us that “Alice is very manipulative.” This factoid is written down in her original paperwork.

No problemo – we understand Aussie manipulation. And double no problemo on the hips. We wanted her. That was all there was to it.

All dog owners will tell you that their dog is truly unique. We’re no different. Alice may be the most unique dog we’ve ever encountered. Macy has many traits of our first Aussie, Autumn. But Alice? She is one of a kind. She’s the only dog we’ve ever encountered with such a vast vocabulary.  Not only does she know single words, she knows strings of words such as “should we”, “do you think we should”, and “what time is it?”. Believe me, it can make conversations impossible sometimes. She has impeccable comic timing — in fact, she knows the command “put on a show”, which entails rolling around, smiling and generally being a ham. Speaking of being a ham, she enjoys a spontaneous photoshoot and always smiles for the camera. She’s also the only dog I’ve ever seen eat from a spoon like a person and the word “chatty” is an understatement. Her warning bark has increased in both volume and in usage. She “talks” through a lot of her daily routines and we’ve decided not to curb her enthusiasm all that much. We’re pretty sure that — if she could talk — she’d curse like a sailor. And we’re also convinced that she is the happiest dog on the planet.

I could go on, obviously. But the best thing about Alice is her tenacity. Girlfriend had both legs operated on and there was a chance she’d never walk like a normal dog again. Less than two months after surgery, she took her first regular steps while Dave was walking her down Wilson Road in our old neighborhood in Newport, KY. Eventually Alice perfected her “swagger.” We call it her Jennifer Lo-paws walk (as in Jennifer Lopez) because her bottom sashays from side to side in a very saucy, I-rule-this-place kind of way. And even though Macy is the more athletic of the two, Alice holds her own at the dog park and in tennis ball throwing matches.

We’re incredibly lucky that tough girl Alice chose us that day. She brings us laughter and comedy on a daily basis. And a ton of love. She’s Macy’s best pal. She’s Dave’s bestest buddy (yes, a Buddy of the Highest Order), and she’s my super girlfriend. As Alice would say, pretty fucking sweet!

I have major Boyfriend issues. I hate that I love the Boyfriend and that the Boyfriend apparently hates me. Why can’t we get along? Why aren’t we compatible? Why oh why does the Boyfriend make me look like the super-sized Mayor of Munchkinland? Why do all the cool girls have Boyfriends but I can’t find one?

Here’s how my whole Boyfriend relationship has gone down. I first spotted the Boyfriend hanging out in various windows and in multiple Christmas-time advertisements. I fell in love.

The Boyfriend is super cute and casual in that “we can go anywhere and do anything together” sort of way. The Boyfriend is all about sexy comfort. The Boyfriend can be bad-boy cool and good-girl groovy. And, best of all, the Boyfriend loves shoes of all types. Want to show off a pair of fun heels? The Boyfriend agrees this is a grand idea. Want to wear those swingy tie-up oxfords that I’ve been saying for a year now will come into vogue and wah-lah, they’re all over the place now? The Boyfriend is all about the oxford. The Boyfriend is also all about a retro bowling shoe, a platform sandal, or a pair of penny loafers. The Boyfriend is flexible. And when you’re feeling bloated and your skinny jeans are in the corner of your closet mocking you for trying to stuff your water-ballooned calf through the stove-pipe leg, the Boyfriend smiles and says, “I love you just the way you are. Don’t change a thing. Don’t take a Pamprin. Just come on over here and I’ll take care of you.”

I started flirting with the Boyfriend around Christmas. I went to the Gap first because their classic bootleg jean always works for me — we’ve been good friends for like forever. Little did I know, the Gap had changed its entire line of jeans and now there were all of these new cuts and lengths and names for the cuts and lengths that left me dazed and confused among the uniformly-folded piles of denim. I found the Boyfriend but the Boyfriend and I did not, repeat, did not make it past the first date. We barely got out of the dressing room without an argument. I tossed the Boyfriend on the table and the dressing room attendant asked “did anything work for you today?”  I said no politely. What I didn’t say was, “Of course nothing worked out. Your entire jeans line is made for women who are apparently related to Stretch Armstrong. Does anyone in your design department understand the concept of 5′2″ and UNDER? Oh, and did I mention that your idea of low-rise might need further inspection because these barely covered my crotch?”

But I wasn’t ready to give up on the Boyfriend just yet. The Boyfriend had so much potential. I was sure I could “change” the Boyfriend or “save” the Boyfriend to make it fit me. I went to the Loft, the place I always end up when I need pants because they have a petites section, made for those of us who weren’t blessed with height or long legs. Here, the Boyfriend was already hanging out with the mannequins, looking all cool and chic. Damn mannequins. They have all the fun.

I had my choice of three Loft Boyfriends here. The Loose Fit Boyfriend was slouchy through the hip and thigh (good), had a relaxed leg (even better) and surely drove a Cutlass Supreme, listened to the Who, smoked cigarettes, and was no stranger to detention (best). I grabbed three different sizes. Then there was the Casual Boyfriend with distressed details and a leaner silhouette. Oy. This kind of Boyfriend was not going to be my type. Too high maintenance with this fancy and “lean” thing going on. Does the Boyfriend not appreciate muscular thighs? And then there was the Railroad Stripe Boyfriend which sent me whirling back to the early 80s or maybe even late 70s when jeans were pinstriped. Sorry Striped Boyfriend, you’re too much like some of my past Boyfriends. Really, it’s me, it’s not you.

For better or worse, I’ve turned into my grandmother and I tend to pop into the Loft and a few other places frequently enough that the salespeople know me. In fact, one of the women keeps asking me to come work for them, even though I usually walk out without purchasing anything. So, I try on one Boyfriend after the other and none of them are the right size. The right size, it turns out, is on the mannequin. Thinking she’s going to have a sale, the salesperson removes the Boyfriend from the mannequin so I can try it on.

Epic fail. Even that Boyfriend isn’t cooperating. The damned Boyfriend is too big in the waist, too tight around the ankles and I look like some sort of oddly-shaped character from a Dr. Seuss story. This is not how the Boyfriend and I are supposed to look together. We are not making a cute couple.

I trudge back in the mall Boyfriendless and head to Macy’s. The scene there is no better. I go to Banana Republic and New York & Company before giving up. Maybe the Boyfriend and I just need a little retail therapy, I think. Maybe we just need to agree to disagree.

Maybe…hmmmm….maybe….I can turn one of my good friends the Bootcut jean into the real Boyfriend. I mean, me and the Bootcut? We’ve been friends forever.  We know everything about each other. We’ve been through the rollercoaster of weight gains and losses together. Maybe the Bootcut would make a good Boyfriend after all.

When I get home, I sort through my jeans drawer and pull out a few of my fave pairs. I roll the prescribed 1″ to 2″ Boyfriend cuff. I look in the mirror. I look like I’m waiting for the flood waters to recede.

I curse the Boyfriend. Who needs the Boyfriend anyway? We all got along just fine before the Boyfriend came along and ruined things. I don’t need no stinking Boyfriend messing up my stuff.

I am just going to be happy without the Boyfriend for now because you know, whenever you’re not really looking for a Boyfriend is exactly when the perfect one shows up.

I caught the tail-end of the Oprah Winfrey Show today. Wyclef Jean was talking about his trip to Haiti. He cried, Oprah cried, I cried. The scenes were more than heartbreaking — bulldozers scooping up dead adults and children to be dumped in mass graves, injured kids crying out for parents that will never be seen again. As Oprah said, we can only see what the camera shows us through a small lens; we can’t fathom the massive horror that is Haiti right now. And as much as the newscasters try to bring us positive stories of people being pulled from the rubble, it’s tough to focus on those good-news soundbites when upwards of 200,000 are dead and the country’s already-weak infrastructure is completely destroyed. When doctors are using rusty hacksaws and vodka to do amputations, you can’t imagine things getting any worse.

The unprecedented disaster in Haiti leaves all of us feeling hopeless. How can we help the poorest country, the poorest people, the most desperate during a seemingly insurmountable desperate time? Unless you’re a surgeon or pilot (Partners in Health is looking for both right now) there isn’t a whole lot we can do right now other than donate and learn.

DONATE to Partners in Health. Or to Doctors Without Borders. Or to the Red Cross or your church or any other organization.

LEARN about Haiti. I didn’t know much about Haiti other than the really bad stuff — Papa Doc and Baby Doc — until I read Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder a couple of years ago. Kidder tells us about Dr. Paul Farmer, a Harvard-educated doctor who has made his life’s work in Haiti. Farmer is also one of the founders of Partners in Health, a group that treats thousands of Haitians for free every year. Farmer has proved that infectious diseases like tuberculosis can be treated effectively, even in poor countries without fancy, over-priced medical facilities. Kidder chronicles Farmer’s mission and also gives readers a good dose of Haitian history. And Haiti’s history is anything but rosy. The book paints a realistic picture and it’s a mix of bad news and good.

Haiti may be poor but it has given us its riches in the form of Edwidge Danticat. Best know for her memoir, Brother, I’m Dying, Danticat won a genius grant last year.  Danticat shares the story of her family’s experience coming to America as well as life in Haiti. Her short story collection, Krik Krak, was a National Book Award Finalist.

I’m not the first one to Google for “books on Haiti” or “Haitian history.” Here’s one blog with a few recommendations. There are plenty of others. At least learning gives us perspective and it may also help us to remember that Haiti will still need our help in the coming months when the nightly news begins to focus on the next big headline. 

It’s hard to imagine Haiti rebounding from this disaster even though Haitians have suffered through and rebounded from century after century of wars, oppression, and poverty. I hope Haiti does much more than return to its previous state of poverty. I hope that the United States and other countries help rebuild their poorest neighbor in the Americas into something much, much better.

p.s. So’s you don’t think I’m a total downer, Americans have donated $207MM to date. Pretty incredible.