Divide and Conquer

I just got home. It was a busy day in busy December.

I wrote last night and didn't post. And, I wrote in the car today as Nick drove me to Greenville to pick up my car at the auto shop. (It's purring happily now. It's a really good car. Audi A4... I recommend to anyone considering it.)

I thought about a lot of things today and discussed some of them with Nick, and later at dinner with our friends, we had many really interesting conversations.

The things I noticed myself saying a lot today, I may have to delve into on another occasion, but will post my jotted thoughts from earlier in the day. Please forgive mistakes; I am really sleepy.

It started here, with this thought...

There is no minority and there is no majority. To be considered either assumes even two of three are alike, which is an absurd falsehood. No two individuals or circumstances are the same and to be lumped into either category should be considered a personal offense.

Then, I went on...

When watching a group of individuals unite against another group of individuals based on qualities broad in nature and diverse in their own right, one can draw a conclusion that these ideas causing the divide are not coming from inside the self, but outside the self, by political forces standing to gain control or benefit from the conflict. And there is an entity that does stand to gain from groups dividing and conquering each other. As the world keeps changing and the people keep blending, it will become more apparent that the need to categorize one's self into this group or that is a stretch of the imagination and feels forced. It will be interesting to watch the transition from what has been racial separation become one more of culture encompassing status and privilege and even information. Where this division once laid upon religion and skin color and wealth, an idea to be free of such ignited, and a nation verged on independence of such, only to be wrangled by the clever manipulation of political correctness and entitlement and those throwing the ropes of confinement.

Then I added a bit more...

For the government or controlling institutions- it works better this way. They want it.

The attempt of individual liberty sparked a nation founded on and in pursuit of freedom and betterment of each human's rights- and although failures and blatant wrongdoings have ensued- we now stand on the grounds of individual compliance versus liberty, unity of the paranoid versus the secure, acceptance of fright versus bravery, and reliance on dictation versus common sense. We, in an attempt to encompass all cultures without offense to one, have devoured diversity and digested it into a cultural void.

And that is what my head is like... blah, blah, blah... all the time! Does it even make sense? Or, am I delirious and distracted?

Maybe I'll hit on some of the other subjects that consume my thoughts later.

Until then, night-night.

Selma Lu Mela

All my dog wants to eat is apples.

She nibbles them from my hands with her four front teeth. She flips her ears back, which stretches her eyes to really thin slits and it is all she can do to sit still as my hand gets closer and closer to her mouth. She thinks they are special and so delicious and I get my pleasures out of her eating apples this way too. Her eyes cross in the cutest of ways as she stares at the apple in my fingers the whole while. She has been in love with the apple since she was about 4 weeks old. I said, “Nick, what is apple in Italian?” He said, “mela”. And this is how Selma became Selma Lu Mela.

Selma Lu Apple? No.

Selma Lu Mela? Much better.

The Lu came naturally. It happens when I talk to them. They get a middle name beginning with an L just because it ends up coming out of my mouth and… I don’t stop it from doing so. Shakti was “Shakti Locks”. China is “China Lingua” (sometimes China Ling in my head). And even our friend’s basset hound is, to me, “Sophie Loaf”. Yeh, I don’t know, it’s an oddity. But, they seem to like it okay.

The Selma came from me staring at her face and thinking, “What do you look like? What’s your name? Hmmm? What do you want to be called?” And “Selma” kept answering. Not Selma the pup, just Selma the word. It was there every time I asked. It matched her face. Her eyes rimmed in black to give them a distinct slanted and exotic look. But her constantly worried face, her furrowed brow, turned the mysteriousness of her lined eyes into tenderness and sensitivity that matches her personality. Selma. To Selma Lu. To Selma Lu Mela. Perfetto!

I think back to this naming of her because today I cooked her the same meal she survived on in Anguilla. She was very sick last night. She ate soft dog food, which she normally does not eat, and that mixed with other factors (that I’ll never exactly identify to avoid in the future- it is a puzzle) caused us all a very long, sleepless night. I won’t get into the details; I will not describe a thing, as you would no doubt gag. But, I spent a lot of time hand washing garments and bedspreads and Persian rugs. And the washing machine helped with all the other linens and non-precious materials. It was unbelievable, really, in the respect that she somehow “touched” every wool, barely worn, J.Crew coat, or cream colored Nanette Lepore jacket, or dry clean only wool sweater, metallic blend dress… the list goes on. The rugs that have to be dry cleaned, the bedspreads that are folded in such a way to be kept neat and out of the way… those were all things that acted as magnets to last nights tragic sequence of events. I looked up at one point and said, “It’s 4 A.M.?” Nick, half crazy, said, “Yes.” That’s about all he said. Selma was full-body shaking (something she climbs in my lap and does over big deals and not-so-big deals) and looked so pitiful that not once did I even raise my voice to her. I looked at her and looked at all these things I loved and there was no comparison. They can be substituted. Selma Lu Mela cannot.

This dog is so cautious that if her ball rolls near an air vent or by something of mine or by… the list goes on… she just lays down and stares at it until I become curious about where she is, search for her and find her patiently waiting for her toy to be placed in her “safe zone”. She walks the perimeter of the corridors only, close to the walls- she is scared of the floors. She jogs with me at night in the middle of the street only because she is scared of shadows. (Someone was standing in a shadow once, she couldn’t see them, and then they spoke. This is trauma for Selma!) She is like D. Zoolander every time she wants to come down stairs. She stops, lays down, darts, zigzags, then runs in a tight circle to the right about three to four times before she will walk the “plank” to the stairs. She is not fond of the wooden walkway from the stairs to our bedroom. This routine, I love! I laugh every single time she does this. Oh, and the number one most terrifying obstacle in Selma’s life is… The Trash Bag. The kitchen sized trash bag is cause for major concern for sweet Selma. I change a bag, she runs from the kitchen, hides under the table, then I say, “All clear, Selma. You can come back.” And she rounds the corner to carry on eating or whatever task she was in the middle of doing.

The Trash Bag, an Anguilla legend, a sure sign of puppies meeting their demise, their fate, their last moments. It is a tale passed from mommy to puppy at the moment of birth. “Stay away from The Trash Bag!” This is basic survival for dogs in Anguilla, where some people on the island take litters of puppies, put them in a trash bag or sack, tie it in a knot, and then they walk to a cliff and pitch the bag full of puppies over into the ocean. They don’t even give them the chance to survive. They drown them. So, you see, Selma’s fear of a trash bag I am convinced is more than a sign that she is paranoid. She is smart. And who knows what she escaped when she was only three weeks old and scampering blindly on a scorching hot coral reef island in the middle of the summer? I do not know. She is a survivor; that I do know. She didn't have much time to learn how to be a doggy from her mom. She’s been winging it, learning things from me and Nick, and then, China and Shakti (Shakti was a master teacher. She left Selma with a present- a little dot of a scar on her top lip from when Selma, unwelcome, put her nose in Shakti’s face when Shakti was curled in her basket getting her snooze on. Shakti didn’t mess around. She was smarter than us all.)

The story of Selma, the reduced version, goes like this:

Anguilla, BWI- Jeremiah Gumbs Highway

July, 2007

Nick is driving to his office and decides to take an unusual route, the longer route. He, probably while listening to Jack Johnson, is cruising island speed, and notices a little chipmunk cross the road. “There aren’t chipmunks in Anguilla.”, he says to himself. He pulls over, he walks in the direction of the chipmunk and, being curious, calls out to it. “Come here! tt, tt, tt.” (You know that noise, right? I have no clue how to write it.) Then, like a scampering, desperate, tiny rodent; it comes through the grass that is much taller than it, swaying and tripping, it cries “arr, arr, arr”.

And whom does the ‘chipmunk’ find on the other end of the journey to the unknown voice? Why, only one of the biggest dog lovers in the world. (It is a family trait. Cassini loves Canine. His brother, his father, his uncle: all animal lovers. His half-sister nursed a goat back to health in Nevis once. They are the real deal in pet rescue.)

And, what does Nick find at the end of his journey of curiosity? Why, only one of the most needy, sweetest puppies in the world. A match. Serendipity.

He picked her up to look at her. She had fuzzy blue eyes, basically a brand new pup, and started suckling on his finger. She was literally starving to death.

He walked to the nearest home. He knocked on the door and spoke to the woman who opened it, asking where the puppy came from and said I’m not here to give her back; I’m here to tell you, “I am taking her.” This woman, who could care less about any animal, said the house next door took the puppy from her mommy and litter and then threw her out in the yard to be a guard dog. They tried to burn her tail off; I’m assuming they thought this would make her look mean.

Nick then took her to the vet to get basic, proper care and fed her and got her a small cardboard box lined with towels to call home for the day. By the time he picked me up at Blowing Point Ferry Station, having before flown to St. Martin from Atlanta and then crossed the water to Anguilla, the puppy was asleep on her side, arms and legs sticking straight out, belly so full it looked like it was about to pop. This is the moment I first held her and during the drive to our house, I named her.

She did well. Then, she had a second relapse almost two weeks later. She was in really bad shape, nearly dead, and I was so in love with her already. I called my mom, she instructed me that rice in a little bit of chicken broth or water and plain boiled chicken might work. So, I tried it and it did work. The vet on the island was of no help, they kept her for one night, paid her no attention and she was worse than when we brought her in. The vet hadn’t even seen her, the lady at the desk said. Typical.

Things weren’t looking good and the response from many people was “some creatures are sick and maybe they aren’t supposed to survive.” That may be true. But, I didn’t want to hear it.

I will never forget the night. I stayed up all night, lying on my back with Selma on my chest. I could feel her heart beat and she was really hot. If I fell asleep I was afraid I would wake up and she might be dead, so I stayed up running words through my head asking God for her to survive and trying to give energy from my chest to her chest. If love heals, this is what did the trick because I tried to make my love a physical energy that would swallow up her illness. I would get up and try to give her water or food every two hours and when she sipped I would be even more hopeful. This is one moment that I believe captures Selma’s spirit. I walked to the kitchen in the dark, holding Selma close to me in my hand. She was burning up and weak and floppy. I opened the refrigerator and the light shined on her and she, just beginning to see, turned to me and gave me one heartfelt, sweet lick on the tip of my nose. She was seriously dying and she kissed my nose; she was giving me love. She is a giver. She is a tenderhearted, sensitive, silly, quirky, very smart, giver of a spirit.

The next morning was a turning point and she only got healthier from then on. I took her everywhere with me, even into the ice cream shop. There were no signs against it, so I was not breaking any rule, and the look on the face of the ice cream scooper was worth it. She was so curious, like “why would she want to hold that dog?” She looked at the dog in a different way than she ever had before, I could tell. Selma was still so little I could hold her in one hand, so it wasn’t a big deal in my opinion. She was like any accessory. I mean, people wear dead animals all over their neck and body… this is acceptable, but that is not? Which is grosser?

When it was time for Selma to come to the USA, a hurricane was approaching, so we were in a hurry. She sat in her cat carry case, rode to the ferry station, over the ocean, to another port, through an airport, to an airplane, through customs here in the States where she received a lovely welcome and “goochy goo goo” from the customs agent, and then was picked up and spent her first night at the house of our friends with four other huge dogs. 2 boxers, a shepherd mix, and a basset hound. Oh, and 1 yorkie. She was shocked, but happy. She escaped the island and was in dog lover land at last! The whole while, she hadn’t made a peep.

That is the short version of The Story of Selma Lu Mela. She still has a scar in the shape of an arrowhead above her tail on her back. But, she has come to love her scar. I rub jojoba oil or Vitamin E oil on it and that feels really good to her. Other than those key things she is weary of, like The Trash Bag, her days of survival on an island is a distant memory. She instead spent the rest of her puppy days discovering nature in the Chattahoochee National Forrest and napping to Andrea Bocelli, maybe wrestling China, until China realized Selma was growing and promptly put an end to that. Selma Lu deserves her luck.

And, I get the lovely moments of having Selma Lu Mela, and her fifty pounds of pure muscle, crawl on my chest and shiver when she feels ill. I get to comfort her. She remembers that turning point too, I think.

Love is many things. And caring less about Persian rugs and dressy coats so that I can give my care to the one who loves me back… that is real love.

Love is for many souls. And my Selma Lu Mela is definitely the proud owner of one pure, untarnished soul.

In the Christmas spirit of the season, I give thanks for that.

Gift Giver

I used to always doodle the number 85. Whenever on the phone, I doodle, if pen and paper are within reach, and for years, the number 85 appeared all over the page. I would look at the notepad or scrap piece of paper and cock my head. 'I wonder what 85 means?' No clue. But there are years worth of 85s scribbled on this piece and that, they float up and around every now and then, and it leads me again to the thought, 'What does that signify? 1985, I was 5... nope, nothing stands out. Nick's dad was 86 when he died, not 85. Hmmm.'

I still come up empty. I'll never know why that number is at the forefront of my mind, or was so. I seem to doodle other things lately. Which got me thinking, 'Maybe it represented my Edna.' She was 85 when she left us. She would be 86 today.

It's her birthday.

A few nights ago, in the wee hours of the morning, I finished writing and washed my face and put on my p.j.s, hopped into bed, happy. As is always the case when I finish writing, especially before bed. It sends me to sleep in an element of bliss. But, as I have noted before, I often become still and when my eyelids fall down, I'll see some things. I've asked around. I'm not the only who does this. Others have told me this happens to them as well.

When I saw her, I jumped. I twitched. My body kind of raised off the mattress for a splinter of time. There she was, my grandmother, standing right in front of me, like a moving photograph. She was a little different than I remember her being as she left us though.

She was there, her skin taunt, her face rounded, with blushed cheeks and rosy lips. I immediately thought 'Oh, you look so beautiful. And you're wearing lipstick and blush!' Her hair looked nice and fixed, short still, and brown but with a distinct reddish tint, which left an impression on me, I thought of it for a long while. I had not known her hair to be any such color, but then again, she was my grandmother... her hair was most often gray when I knew her. Her face was pale, really beautifully fair, but it was her eyes that really drew my attention. Dark, twinkling eyes. I can't remember if glasses were on her face, if so, they were thin rimmed glasses, because her eyes radiated. I had a good long moment to look at her. I had many thoughts pounce on her appearance at the same time. The thoughts took in her outfit, another aspect of her I had never witnessed. I'd seen similar cuts on her, so I identified with that, but not the style. I don't even know what to call this type of blouse, but it was satin, short-sleeved, half kimono style/half sheath, v-neck, long (hip bone length) and boxy . It was something Dianne Wiest would be seen wearing. It was black, with a white fan pattern, and piped in red around the sleeves and neck details. She had on dark red pants and she looked really nice. It was distinct. Her clothing had a Japanese flair and was very casual in cut, but decadent in material. I've never seen her in such, until this vision. I held on to that.

She stood in her way, a posture I can't quite describe, it is just my grandmother's stance. It projects a gracious quality, with an ease and openness toward others, while also being firmly grounded. She seemed to me to be confident in her ways, but open to others' ways. And I always gathered that her openness came from this confidence. Physically, I'd say she had sturdy legs and somewhat slack shoulders, they sloped more than lined up straight from one to the next, and her gestures were always contained. In this vision, she stood still, extending her left arm out as if making a gesture to someone sitting before her, someone I couldn't see, but if I guessed they would have been below me on the right. I saw her from a slight angle. She was in the middle of speaking to this person, or reacting to them, and her lips formed a tight, little o.

Now, where she was standing is a bit complicated to describe. Edna was in her living room, yet nowhere. She was standing against what seemed to me like moving space. She was still, but appeared to going backward because the space around her was coming forward. And this was transparent, layered upon another transparency. Her living room. She was also standing partially in front of her broom closet, the tiny closet in the living room that held such mystery and magic for me as a little girl. Grandma always had things in there, some okay for me to mess with, some not. She had the Yahtzee game (I still hold this record I think! It's my pride and joy! My score is still on the side of the box where I wrote it for it to claim my spot in Dunaway Yahtzee history for all of time!) and the deck of cards in there. And every now and then she would send us to get something from that closet that she needed. I loved that wooden closet in her wooden room with the floor that looked like that (now) vintage puzzle with pieces in shapes of heart ends. She placed a dog sculpture over there by the closet or one of the doors near the closet. I always tried to make him real. (She loved dogs too, as I do. She had a best friend, Maggie. Maggie helped her, I believe... like Shakti helped Nick's father, Ghighi... like they all help someone.)

Do those details matter? Details in dress, in face, in hair? To me they do. She was real- in front of me- detailed- long enough for me to study and absorb and feel as though I know, for sure, my grandmother is so happy that her eyes dance. Through all that time and space, I can see her eyes dance.

I opened my eyes, looked up at the ceiling, grabbed my phone and looked at the time. You could guess it. 2:11 AM. Day? December 11th. And I sent a text to my dad then, who probably never knows what to make of me and all my random remarks, "I just saw your mom! She looked truly wonderful. Thought you'd like that. Night!" I knew she picked those numbers for me to see on purpose. She always knew I was into symbols and signs and we had a couple of talks about things like dreams not too long before she left. It felt so good to share that. Dreams are intimate and to share them really means something. She said to me, "I'm going to tell you this, because I know you understand." Then she told me some dreams she had and what she had thought about them and what transpired since. Which led to many stories about her childhood- some that I never knew. I learned a lot from that dream she experienced, and she seemed to as well. I do believe in these things, such things as dreams meaning much more than sleeping entertainment. And, I wondered after, how she came to know so much about me, with me saying so little about such things. I don't go around inviting discussion on dream interpretation or my thoughts and feelings of the soul. But she knew me... does know me. She came to me for me to see her, not on her birthday, but on mine. She came the way she lived, thinking of others first and foremost. She gave me a gift.

I called my dad to wish her a happy birthday. What else was I to do? I knew he would be wanting to place a call and wouldn't have his mom on the other line, so I called him and we talked about her. I told him all about the dream I had and then, when I was done, I looked at my phone- seems to be a habit I have- and it was 2:11 PM. And I cackled, "Oh, she's funny!" I know it sucks even worse for him and his brothers and sister. As much as we grandkids miss her, I know it's harder for her children. She was strong. She had the kind of strength that doesn't shows itself with sharpness, but gentle ways instead. That quality in another, once enjoyed, is painful to lose.

She is missed. But, more so, loved.

Happy Birthday, Edna. Thank you for your life.