verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Friday, December 23, 2011

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Maine Prelude

Prelude, Kennebunkport

I am just back from another Prelude weekend in Kennebunkport, Maine.  Christmas on the Maine coast is beautiful.  Boats with red gingham wreaths, a lobster trap tree lighting, sea shell ornaments, church craft fairs, white twinkly lights, carolers singing and drumming, children with lobster hats and mittens, jingle bells on doorknobs, people shopping...It reminds me of the days when we anticipated magic.  

I enjoyed time with my friends.  We all came from different places and for different reasons.   I loved how that really didn't matter.  We thrived around the dinner table, laughing very loudly and sometimes whispering serious things.  Every time we crossed the Dock Square Bridge, we reminded ourselves of our past bridge stories--telling those stories again and again because telling them has become more important than the past. I love this ritual.

Prelude.  We still anticipate magic but we don't look for it in town at Dock Square. Instead, we find it in the harbor, looking out at a deep gray sea and a white foamy beach.  The sky and horizon stretch right around us and take us in.  We are so lucky to know this. We hear the stories of the gulls and rocks and waves again and again, because listening to them has become more important than anything we could say.  

I thank my friends for sharing Prelude as they do.  Magic, indeed.



Well, I confess I fell in love this weekend.  Ok--it was fast.  And ok--I already have a dog.  But this one--this one....sigh.  Her name, Angelica.  At 10 years old, she was the most senior member of a Leonberger reunion taking place at Prelude in Kennebunkport, Maine.  There must have been seven or eight other dogs with her, including a youngster who was only a few months old and too antsy to pose for a picture.  The Leonberger, I learned, is a cross between a St. Bernard, a Newfoundland, and a Great Pyrenees.  Ka-boom!  That's quite a lot of dog!

I think what I love most about Angelica (besides her name) is how she brings all her dog-ness to such simple and understated elegance.  The subtle bling, the weathered lines, the gray hair....

Too sexy for her hair.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

The Weight of a Stone

I walked along the trail today with Mercy.  The sky was sweet and pale, and hawks were overhead.  Cat tails were bent and broken, their bulky tails bloated and puffy, finished for the season.  The mild temperature contradicted the aftermath of broken trees and sticks and spilled leaves, leftovers of a harsh and heavy fall.  Mercy was in her own world, sniffing every single little thing, happy, eager, silly.  Oblivious and reliable.

As we wandered down the road, my eyes fixed on their usual spot on the verge. I'm taken by the helter-skelter nature of things I find there.  Weeds, wild flowers, rocks, clumps of mud and dirt, a wrapper, a bicycle reflector, a piece of an old yard sale sign, puddles, leaves, a worn glove, logs, and stones--all atop an undeterred road.  The occupation of chaos. I was drawn to the many stones along the way and just one I dropped in my pocket, a token of this day.  I felt the solid weight of reassurance as I mulled it over in my fingers.  For me, it offered proof of simple joys and discoveries.

Tomorrow begins a new week, undeterred by uncertainty or anticipation.  Winter is close by and will soon cover us in a blanket of snow, burying the fall, covering our wounds, and wrapping us in the certainty of its weight.   I look forward to the coming days and this change of seasons. With your stone in my pocket, I am reminded it's worth its wait.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Making the Most of That Effing Hour

Die-Hards: Mark and Sara Bunyan

So, here's how we spent our extra hour today.

While I was out in Amherst with Meredith, Mercy threw up and projectile-pooped from one end of the house to the other.  I blame it on the tree in the back yard that came down in the effing storm last weekend (yes, effing).  The tree was a beautiful Callery Pear tree--perfectly shaped and gloriously covered with little white flowers in the spring, and apparently highly toxic to dogs when its branches are strewn about the ground and within tasting range of curious canines.

After I scoured the house, myself, and then gave Mercy a bath, my parents blazed their way from  Connecticut and tackled the tree, the little toxic pears, and the bizillions of branches on the ground.  And listen to me on this--you really, really can't appreciate the true size of a tree until it's all in pieces on the ground.

In addition to tackling the tree, Mom stepped in a big glob of dog poop, Dad's chainsaw gave out, lunch was prepared and served, and we stacked a half-cord of seasoned wood from last year's pile. Mercy seems all better.  According to my calculations, Mom and Dad should be arriving back home in Connecticut right about now.

And speaking of poop, I'm pooped.  I'm sure Mom and Dad are too. I'm so grateful for their help.  They  still always save the effing day hour.

Saturday, October 22, 2011


The house is hollow without Biscuit.  I couldn't be there either.  Artie bolted out the door when I arrived and hopped into the car. We went for our usual walk and thought about him without saying so.  We saw hawks along the way, beautiful hawks. This road was one of his favorites.

The hard part is going back.  Biscuit would shuffle behind me as I prepared the kibble, barking Hurry up, Hurry up as I would fill his bowl.  Sparkling eyes looking to mine.  Biscuit-bliss. He guzzled his dinner so loudly we would have to giggle.  When he finished, he would wait patiently while she finished hers and then as if we weren't noticing, he would sashay over to her bowl and lap up the tidbits she faithfully left for him. But tonight was different. While I was making her dinner, Artie shot from room to room to room, crying, looking, looking...

As I put her bowl down, it clunked into the awkward silence of Biscuit's absence. I used to think that an absence such as this created an echo--that each movement through a fixed routine would recall some small vibration of what was missing.  There would be something familiar in that.  Something reassuring.  A sense of I still hear you. But tonight, each step through our routine called forth nothing-ness, an awkward void of absence.

I had to leave quickly.  I couldn't help her.  She'll figure it out.  I bolted from the house to my car.  I looked up and saw clouds, and the hawks.  Concord grapes still scent the air.  The road home was soft, beautiful.  I passed the orchard on the hill where the three of us used to run.  I looked at it awhile, and kept looking more.  It was one of his favorites...

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Henry Revisited

Henry is still in the driveway.  I can hardly believe it.  As we were taking our Sunday morning walk after the September wedding, there he was, as unassuming as ever.  I noticed he was having a yard sale this time and so we stopped to once again say hello.  He didn't have much to say, but that's so Henry.  He works very hard, you know.

I first met Henry in May 2010 when he was perched in this very same driveway doing his very same driveway thing.  At the time, I was immediately captivated by his Zelig-like relationship to the driveway. It appeared that the driveway was an extension of his being, that it grew  right out of his legs and body. Henry's apparent Oneness with his Driveway gave me goose bumps, a few chuckles, and a blog post.  I was instantly smitten with him and I've wondered about him many times since that day in May.

I was delighted to have the chance to see him again in action, this time overseeing a fabulous end-of-season yard sale. His partner says that even though Henry refuses to retire from his Oneness work, his back legs are giving out, and at fifteen years old, age is truly taking its toll. 

As we were leaving, he assumed his usual spot in the center of the driveway.  I looked back one more time.  He was perfect in every way. I hope I see him again but then again, knowing Henry and his Oneness powers,  I'm not so sure I'll know it if I do.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011


Dear sweet Old Man,
You did such a good job.
I will never forget you.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Little Eli

Meet Eli.  He's five months old and I walked him today.  He's so cute that I can't look away. 

He makes my eyes water.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Wedding Gift

Dear Mark and Genilson and Everyone who was there,

Well, a week has gone by and I still cry when I think about you.  So does Mom.  I've thought all week about what I might say to you and how I might thank you but my thoughts inevitably carry me back to your garden and that magnificent blue sky above you, leaving me short on words that capture my thoughts.

Every detail was exquisite and reflected your extraordinary thoughtfulness.  Though I was not the least bit surprised by it, I was deeply moved by all the ways you cared for us. I have many favorite memories--the pink buggy, the pails of blue and white flowers, your clever photographs, Ed and Randy so carefully tending to the garden, Timmy's popcorn with truffle oil and truffle salt (oh. my. God.), your menus of music, Sara's poem and Matthew's very profound words, Michael's toast and Andre's charming antics, chatting with Anulak and Mark, Julia's daughters--Julia(!), the town crier, the priceless cell phone moment, waking each morning to the glow of a Provincetown sunrise, dancing with Rachel and Wendy...There were so many wonderful moments I will happily remember for years to come.

But the one detail I cherish most was as invisible as it was obvious.  At the moment we gathered together, you said your vows to each other.  And as we grew quiet and stood there with you, we witnessed not only how right it is that you marry each other, but also how right your marriage is for all of us who know you.  To stand in unison with those who love you as I do--and who are so easily and generously loved back by you--is a gift I will never forget, or let go.   Your love married us all to you...and to each other.  I am so happy that I could be part of such love.

Thank you for joining us together. Your love and marriage is truly a gift to us all.

Love always,

Photos by Richard and Anulak

Monday, September 5, 2011

Why I Love Springdell Farm

A Basket of Summer

Springdell Farm is a treasure.  I drive by the stand almost everyday and if I don't stop, I always give a little nod. It's a small roadside stand--no grocery carts, no sliding glass doors, no freezing cold air conditioning, no strawberries in October or zucchini in March, and positively no indifference to the land, their animals, their customers, or to the quality of their offerings. Chickens greet customers, and Farmer Joe, the old Corgi, is always snoozing nearby. And they learn their customers by name...

I've been a regular for many years and like many others, I know that the very essence of New England's summer can be tasted right here. This is a basket of heart and soul--a legacy of the sun, the soil, the rains, and many pairs of hands and hooves, and many generations...all culminating in the soft juicy peach, and the sweet crisp corn. What I love most is the way the family of Springdell Farm cares for what they do.  You can see that in they way they label their baskets of fruits and vegetables, and in the way nothing goes to waste.  You can hear it in the way they greet customers, and in the tones of their voices. And you can taste their dedication in each bite--simple, fleshy, fresh, and clean.

After a weekend of schlepping the last girl to her new Amherst apartment (no more drive to Ithaca!), I was pooped. Though it was fun, in less than 24 hours I had made two round trips, and assembled a bed, a computer desk, a computer chair, a bureau, a night table, and a book case. Coming home to a transitory-inspired house and too lacking in energy to re-settle it, I headed for Springdell to collect some things for my dinner.

In my bleary stupor, my eyes had fixed on pink gladiolus.  So stunning.  A rooster was wandering around the car.  Jamie was sorting vegetables for the day and shouted a cheerful hello.  The counters had been stocked with freshly harvested fruits, vegetables and flowers.  There was a basket of their own wool and some pretty photographs. Meats, eggs, butter and cheese were in coolers.  Joe was asleep against a back wall.  Everything was in its place.  It was like standing in the middle of home--not my house-home, but the home of our world--our seasons and our rhythms, our summer, our New England.

To my surprise and delight, Jamie offered me this beautiful basket of fruits and vegetables.  Someone had neglected to take the order and the yield represented too much goodness to go to waste.  I was only too happy to oblige.  Her kindness brought tears to my eyes as I drove home.  She works so hard.  They all do.  I believe they move us forward by bringing us all back to the simple earth and the heart of it all.  This is what I love so much about Springdell Farm.

Sunday, August 21, 2011


hey m and ge...

while i was running around town on errands today, i got your email with the last minute details.  i stopped everything i was doing to read it. my favorite part--the part that made me cry--was every single word you wrote.   each word had its own little heartbeat that came from you.  and your happiness....well, my eyes--joytears.

i think of the thousands of miles you've traveled to get to here, and i think of the thousands of miles we've all traveled to join you in this very spot--and this three-week moment begins the best part of the very best part.  i'm savoring your anticipation, our anticipation.

i know you're both probably busy running around town on errands, but i wanted to stop all that for a minute to tell you that we're all right here with you, every last step of the way... and yes, ecstatic.

much love back,
ps.  mind if i use your pictures? ; )

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Riley Came Home!

The very best of news from Terry, late last night... 

"Riley was found tonight by some very nice people off of Martins Pond Rd. He was within 1/4 mile of where he went missing. He is home with now and none for the worse for wear, many brambles and needs a bath. The person who recognized him did so from the may flyers we put up all over town and especially on the rail trail. He ripped my phone number off the bottom of the flyer and used it to call me tonight. His family and a friend were able to surround the truck Riley was hiding under while he called us and met us at the end of lost lake and took us up to his barn where the truck was. As soon as he heard Janet's voice calling him he came out and into her arms. He was one happy Sheltie. I picked him up and put him in the car and drove him home.  Janet and I wish to thank all the people whom have supported us in our search for Riley. They are so many that if I tried to name them I would surely forget some one, so once again Janet and I thank all of you from the bottom of our heart!
Terry & Janet"

Happy beyond belief.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Riley, Come Home!

Dear Friends,

Please please please keep your eyes open for Riley, a sweet little three year old Sheltie who is on the loose somewhere in the Groton area.  He was last seen on the Rail Trail. His owners, Terry and Janet, appreciate your help in finding him.  Call the number on the poster if you see him.  The more people who look, the better the chances that he gets found. I'm told that he likes treats!

He's such a sweet looking boy.

Come home soon, fella...


Friday, August 12, 2011

A Goodbye

It's been two years--already.

Two years since I started Verging my day to day.

A beginning that started at an ending, the Verge has given me great comfort, friends, and joy.  The Verge has been my tree house of words and observations--a place to climb to and whisper, or to lay back and watch the wind sway the trunk against a firm blue sky.  Verging has marked the rest stops along the way and provided me with mile markers, each one pointing out what's Right Here, and Right Now.

But last night...

Last night I had a vivid dream and you were in it.  We happily spoke. So happily. I was  grateful-joyful about that chance.  It had been two years since your sudden departure.  I knew this in the dream--and so did you.  In this bizarre chance meeting, you told me about your life since then, and I told you about mine.  I was happy for you--you were happy for me.  No knots.

When I woke, I was crying, my face damp with silent and urgent tears.  I was startled by it.  Startled, again. It's as if they were nudging me to say so.  To say these things. To write these things.... tell you.

We never really said goodbye.  It happened so fast and abruptly.  You didn't want to prolong the ending--and I just wanted one more conversation.  I just wanted to catch my breath, to think, to talk, to grasp it. But at your wish, our parting was absolute.  Final.  One shot, a clean cut. To a large extent, you were right.  It might have dragged on, yes.  I can see that.  And you were always the wiser about hard things. But then you vanished into the commuter crowd as you boarded the train--suddenly absorbed into a memory--forever. And I stood near the platform unable to breathe.

As you can see (and I don't even know if you know about the Verge), life has gone on here.  And very well.  I couldn't have a more beautiful life today.  I don't say that in a ha-ha-ha way..but more as a sort of Aha. An aha to myself. Life has gone on. The girls--amazing.  My family, close.  I love (adore) my job and my friends.  I have a dog now.  I still meditate.  And knit.

But there is a little piece of me still standing on the train platform, waiting.

Waiting for what, I didn't know. Until last night.  My dream....

My dream was no accident.  When I woke this morning, I checked--it was two years ago to the day.  It has been two years of silence.  Two years of letting go.  Two years of never hearing your voice again. Two years of silently saying goodbye to you alone in my head, morning (mourning) after morning (mourning)...after morning (mourning).

It's not that I have regrets or miss you.  But I miss that we never spoke again. If we had just been able to talk through our ending as thoughtfully as we had talked through our beginning, I would have acknowledged my shortcomings. I would have asked to light a candle and to share a poem. I would have asked for a more gentle landing--a compassionate farewell, and I would have said thank you.  I would have held your hand and said goodbye, but slowly.  And bravely. Do you still have pain?  I hope you don't.  How is your mother?  Are you healthy? Do you still pray before breakfast?  Are you happy?

I had planned to wrap up the Verge for good after two years.  I've said that out loud several times to several people.  My life is wonderfully and chaotically routine.  Sometimes I think putting words to it diminishes the preciousness of my experience.  But two years is long enough.

So here it is.  It's time.  With this post I have reached a conclusion. I've said all that I needed to say here.
I am letting you go, finally, on my terms, as I've needed to do for so long. I've needed to say these words out loud. I've needed to put the period at the end of your sentence.

But The Verge will go on.  I have new things to write about. Plus, I love writing. I have a home in this virtual tree house. But instead of writing my way from that train platform, I will be writing my way forward, a bit freer, a bit more settled.  Two years is indeed long enough.  Period.

Buckle your seat belt, Mercy.  We're going for a ride.  

Friday, July 22, 2011

If It Walks Like a Duck...

All swim!

...then it's a duck.  No, it's three ducks.  Actually, it's three ducks and a few chickens.  This is one of my favorite gigs (and yes, it would fall into the Bizarre Compartment but as time goes on, I realize that for me there's no Compartment--it's pretty much all uniformly Bizarre) (which I love)(by the way). Every so often I have the extreme pleasure of caring for this feathery family and I am very happy to say that I have known these ducks since they were babies, and I've watched them grow into these fine and friendly ducksters.

It's impossible to hang out with this gang without smiling.  They tickle me. Ever hear a duck drink water?  You must.  Seriously. That sound--I could shut my eyes and listen all day.  It's as funny as it is endearing. In the coop the chickens are making their chicken noises and I love their murmurs (they sound so opinionated, don't they?), but there is nothing like the sound of a duck (x3) drinking water.

This particular trio is incredibly friendly and close-knit.  They never stray more than a few inches from each other but unlike the chickens who are only interested in finding something better to eat, the ducks are interested in getting a close-up view and seeing what you're all about.  In this blistering heat, I filled their wading "pond" and they came right over and though they were eager, they seemed to be politely waiting for the green light to jump in.  When I caught on, I announced as officially as I could, "All swim" and they seemed to hop right in.

Last night the sun hung very low in the sky-- a deep orange red globe dripping heavily through the branches of a tree. Stunning. The ducks were the last to say good night to the thick sky, and I arrived just in time to watch them file in towards the darkened quiet coop where the chickens were already resting.

Good night, ducks....

Sunday, July 17, 2011

A Piece of July

Meredith, Artemis, and I took a walk to our favorite spot.  It's just a few steps from our door and each time we are there (which is almost everyday), 

the concert between earth and sky breaks our hearts wide open.  Each new song arrives in color and birdsong, and breeze.

And in deafening beauty, we find our true selves again and again.

photo credits: meredith bempkins

Wednesday, July 6, 2011


I went back to the barn to check again last night.  When I got there, I found the other three babies had died.  I stood back to study the mother--I was looking to see if she needed anything.  Food or water?  Or maybe comfort.  She simply stared back and then turned to her hay.

The barn was cool, dark, quiet.  The quiet hum of the fans droned on. I stood a little while and listened to the sound of another day gone by.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011


Yes, they are very cute.  But the day after I took this, three of these little ones died.  The barn is full of babies right now and thankfully they all seem to be thriving--except for this one litter.  I was cautioned that this was a possibility, but mentally I canceled it out.  It just didn't seem likely.  Their preciousness seemed contrary to their vulnerability.

They just lay there, still.  The truth was instant. I stood there for a few minutes trying to explain this to myself.  The mother seemed indifferent, as did the remaining babies.  I looked around the barn to the others for some sort of acknowledgement, but they showed nothing but the ordinariness of another day, another meal, another death.

I still feel it--the passive finality of these deaths.  It's not so much that these bunnies died.  It's that they died so swiftly and quietly, and in the midst of just another day.  Somehow the ordinariness of this event becomes reassuring.   I continue rounds and pay attention to my work, and the day.  Again, truth comes in an instant.  A day in the life of any life is extraordinary.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Getting Mowed

June 25
(One hell-bent dog)

Same spot, one week earlier.
(Same hell-bent dog)

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Birthday Bill

Bill: 1941
Bus: 1968
Dear Bill,

Impossible. Amazing. I can hardly believe you are 70 today.  Seems so ancient grown up.  I'm so impressed by this that I'm trying to think if I even own anything that's from the same era.  Most of the time you act like you're about 26 but then when we talk and you try so hard to impart all that wisdom on me, I remember your true age because you can't hear a thing I say.

You, in that wild bus of yours, have been traveling all over the country these past few months, retracing your steps of the past 70 years, across many thousands of miles and almost as many oil changes.  Your itinerary still hangs on the refrigerator door but your postcards and letters reveal that this has been as much a journey of the heart as it has been of highways. I can imagine the stories you have to tell, and the people you have seen again. They have their own funny stories about you, no doubt.  I think it must take some courage to travel back so far--to see all the places and people again, to stand before the memories and speak...or listen.  When I squint my eyes, the map of your trip looks like a variegated tapestry, the loose ends now woven in to place by each stop you've made.  You've sewn the patches all together and today with your children and grandchildren, you are wrapped in your most precious threads.  I know those are tears of joy, dear friend.

I brace myself look forward to your return so that we can sit at the counter for one of our meetings and eat my thin, runny yogurt and drink strong coffee.  It's my turn to set the agenda--you did it last time and the time before that.  I have so many questions to ask but for starters, I would like to know about the things you didn't expect, and about the things you had forgotten.  What was your funniest moment, and what made you cry?  How were you changed by each encounter and what landscape stirred you the most?  What tools were the most useful and how did you pace yourself? When did you seem to crawl along and when did time fly?  What mattered?  And what didn't?

And then after that Bill, I want to hear all about the trip.

Happy Birthday, Old Man Dear Bill.  
I am very glad we'll be your next stop.  

PS.  You can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Friday, June 10, 2011

My Sister Avery: Class Act

My sister is the best teacher I know. Avery's devotion and energy is unparalleled.  I not only marvel at her ability to go to the nth degree, but also her passion for doing so. There is no doubt that she has expanded the hearts and minds of her students and they are very fortunate to have shared the joy of learning with her. Tally up the camping trips, the morning cafes, the llama-feedings, the pet snakes, and all the other energetic projects she has brought to the classroom, and it's easy to imagine the brilliantly woven tapestry of memories her students must carry.
And for those of us who know her outside the classroom, we know she brings that same energy, passion, and thoughtfulness wherever she goes. If you know her, you absolutely love her for this. Today, in the humblest of ways, she taught us all about dignity and character. It was truly a class act.
The world is now your classroom, dear Avery, and the lesson goes on.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Mercy Freaks

Mercy gets a gold medal for running off-lead through the woods.  She stays fairly close and comes most of the time she's called. She wears a cowbell to warn others of her approach and to let me know if she's still in the same zip code. For walking with a leash, however, she gets maybe an honorable mention at best.  I decided it was time to rein her in and teach her some leash manners.  Typically she spends our leash walks bulldozing forward, all fours scooping, no, gouging into the pavement while she gasps and chokes, attempting to lengthen her neck and my arm by 12 or 14 inches.  I spend the time being dragged all around and making spitting sounds (I thought she would be intimidated by them....but, no...).  I decided to switch us over to the Gentle Leader which is designed to prevent dogs from pulling on the leash and to help wimpy owners take command.  Here's how it went:

Refusing to walk

Pretending she doesn't know, see, or hear me....

Attempting to chew her way to freedom....

Eventually, she caved in and began to walk like a very nice dog.  We seem to have the problem licked.  Now if only I could take the thing off and get her to wear it....

Passing North

Columbia, NH

We hit the road yesterday.  I didn't know the definition of north until we started driving.  I used to think Concord, NH was pretty far north.  Ha.  Turns out Concord is practically in the tropics.  But it was a fascinating trip.  The plan was to travel to the birthplace of Pam's mother and grandparents, and to see what we would find there.

For me, it was a chance to see the north country and get a glimpse of rural life.  We drove so many miles, winding our way through the mountain passes and between the Notches, rarely passing cars, houses, or pedestrians.  The mountains and valleys were breathtaking, and a little daunting. It takes as long to get out of there as it does to get in! Political activism is alive and well in Northern New Hampshire as we passed many signs protesting the Northern Pass (Kiss My Ass, Live Free or Fry) Project.  I saw my first moose (so he was dead, but it still counts...), and I experienced what seemed to be the edge of the earth at 50 mph on the Dixville Notch State Park Highway. My stomach is still reminding me...

Moose Alley

What I treasured most was the way Pam pointed out childhood landmarks and scenes from her mother's childhood.  It was an important trip, and we found Mary's home and dairy farm, cruised the streets of Colebrook and had a lovely lunch at Howard's, the place where Pam's parents met years ago.  The highlight was the cemetery where Pam's grandparents are buried.  It took only a little hunting before Pam found her family's plot. With a gentle breeze and the scent of lilacs, it was a lovely spot and quiet moment.

The best part of this entire adventure was the conversation that wove its way from mile marker 22 (roughly) to mile marker 874 (yes, an exaggeration) where we practically kissed Canada (but not quite), and back again to mile marker 22.  We spanned everything from Mary's childhood to our own aging bodies and mortality. The day passed quickly and we laughed or sometimes said nothing. In a solitary lifespan found in the solitary northern wilderness, companionship became the highway.  I have an amazing friend. It will always be one of my favorite days.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Henry and Pooh

Getting to know you....



Meet my new friends, Henry and Pooh.  Henry is the little guy who runs the show and Pooh is the big guy who does whatever Henry says.  They are both very cautious and nervous so I am slowly building our relationship by stuffing my pockets with treats and being very mindful of my approach and stance.  We've gone from keeping a cautious distance to belly rubs in a matter of days.  Today we crossed another big hurdle when Henry allowed me to take his collar off of him.  Rumor has it that he has a little "freak-out" with the collar routine but today I joined Henry's somewhat exclusive Collar Club when he allowed me to touch it.

I am smitten, of course.  I love meeting these personalities.  No two are alike, and each one is like a mystery novel.  I love cracking the code. Next week's challenge?  Getting Henry to come in the house when the cleaning crew is there....
Speaking of "freak-out", uh, did I mention how Mercy handled her new harness? 
Next blog.

Spring Snow

Artemis and I were in the woods on Friday and as we came around the bend at the beaver pond, it looked like snow had fallen.  It was a very eery and beautiful sight.  The woods never fail to surprise and delight us.