Our Life In Pets - A Tale of Two Newfoundlands

A long, long time ago...at an animal shelter far far away....

Well, no, it was Halloween 2008, and only about four miles from my house actually! Funny how fate steps in sometimes.....

It had been over three years, and although I knew I wanted another Newfoundland some day, I was not ready. In fact, I wasn't even thinking of it that day I clicked on the Worcester Animal Rescue League's website - I intended to just send an email to the director, offering to donate something, a television we had received as part of a furniture store promotion, for them to use or sell or raffle off. Of course, how can you not take a quick glance through the pets available for adoption! So I did, and the first photo was a Newfoundland named "Snowflake".

But was I ready?.....

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In August of 2005, my daughter was 6 weeks old. Our beloved Newfoundland, Daisy, was the ideal family pet - she was obviously enamored of the new little person we had brought home, but Daisy maintained a respectful distance, never poking her nose where it didn't belong, showing the perfect balance of interest and indifference towards our new baby girl. She would wait patiently, without being told to, in the hall outside of Grace's room while I changed a diaper or put her down in her crib. During those 2:00 A.M. feedings, Daisy would yawn, stretch and come lay at my feet, and would be snoring away by the time we finished up and went back to bed. She proudly strutted along side me, never pulling or tugging at the leash, as I pushed the stroller up and down the street, and when people came over to see the new baby, Daisy patiently waited her turn, tag eternally wagging.

We had had her since puppyhood. In fact, she was the only "puppy" my husband, Steve, or I had ever owned. We had a four year old Great Pyrenees named Seiko at the time and felt it would be best not only to make dog #2 a female, but to get a puppy who would grow up in Seiko's shadow as opposed to coming into the house as an "equal" or potential challenger. Through word of mouth we found a breeder here in Massachusetts who just happened to have a litter due soon. We called back at the appointed time and sure enough, eight baby Newfoundland's had made their way into the world. When we first laid eyes on them, they looked more like chubby black guinea pigs, but one look at the nine adult Newfoundlands that called this 200-plus year old farm their home, including their bouncy, friendly mother, Starr King's China, and their massive and impressively confident father, Apogee's Dimitri of Starr King, and we couldn't write out our deposit check quick enough. Puppy #7-Girl would soon be ours, pending results of her heart check at 10 to 12 weeks.

We were invited back when the puppies were a bit older, but still not ready to go home. Due to the genetic predisposition for some large breed dogs to have heart problems, most breeders won't part with them at the usual six to eight weeks. Registered with the AKC, these puppies would go on to represent the breeder's kennel, be it in the show ring or in regular life, and a good breeder will insist that a puppy with any physical issues be spayed or neutered if they have anything less than perfection to offer the gene pool. Those tests, performed by a board certified cardiologist, can be inconclusive until the age of ten to twelve weeks, so we patiently waited. We visited the old yellow farmhouse once again, this time to frolic with a happy, and apparently healthy litter of eight week old Newfoundland puppies.

One of them, a puppy with a Lavender string around her neck, sat on my foot, chewed on my boot laces and then rolled over for a tummy rub. Ironically, she was also Puppy #7-Girl.

She was our's! And a few weeks later when we received the all-clear from the cardiologist, she came home. After debating between Molly and Ursa and several other names, we named her Daisy. And since "Swamp Thing" was on tv that day, her official registered name was Starr King's Swamp Daisy.

Daisy had personality to spare from the get-go. She was a little shell-shocked from the upheaval, and when we arrived home to be greeted by our neighbor's barking Pomeranian, she hid behind me, terrified. However, when 160-pound Seiko came outside for an introduction, she lit up as if to say "I don't know what the heck that little yapping thing is, but I know YOU! You're a DOG!" She took to him immediately, and he, being the good dog that he was, tolerated her until he realized several days later "Hey! I can PLAY with this thing!" Daisy, it turned out, loved cats and children and fetching and cuddling. She was housebroken in about two days, and made friends everywhere she went.

As she grew, we realized part of her sweetness was that little touch of insecurity, like when the electricity went out and she felt the need to sit in my lap. At 100-plus pounds. Or when she barked, particularly when someone was walking up the driveway...she gave it everything she had, her whole body flowing into that "AAAAHH-WOOOOOOO-WOOOOO-WOOOOOO!" She was very vocal, greeting you with either throaty but friendly growls, or a symphony of whining. She loved the outdoors...but not alone. She would go outside and 30 seconds later would be at the door, whining to come in. If we were outside and she was in, we were inevitably made aware of her dissatisfaction by her plaintive howls. She was lazy, much preferring rides in the car to long walks, she disliked the cold, disliked the extreme heat - she could not sleep without the air conditioner on in the summer, and would sit in front of it, willing it to suddenly roar to life on hot days. She ate her food, then pushed Seiko out of the way to finish his food for him. She slept on her back with four paws in the air. She snored. She was afraid of "people on wheels", bicycles, skateboards, wheelchairs. She loved cats and children and holding her leash in her mouth while you took her...or maybe, she took YOU... for a walk. And while most Newfoundlands are instinctively attracted to water and swimming, Daisy's idea of water rescue was to drink the lake so the drowning person could get up and walk to shore.

But she was sweet, loyal, loving and had a personality that always made you smile. Even when you were miserable at work, or you began to feel fat and ugly, or destined to be childless, or your mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, or you watched as the families of six fallen firefighters mourned them, and eventually buried them. I could not look at Daisy without smiling. Her goofy, lovable attitude was contagious! She was the definition of unconditional love.

Daisy, October 2004

After the initial shock, several years later, of finding out I was pregnant, we started to think of practical things, like work schedules, and whose insurance plan we should go on and, oh yeah, guess we should get married, huh? When it came time to the pets, we were more apprehensive about the new dog, Merlin, and the three spoiled rotten cats, Max, Elsa And Wally, than we were Daisy. We did not know Merlin well, but Daisy was like a soulmate and a nanny, and we trusted her implicitly with all things great or small. She had adopted Max when he came to us as an orphaned kitten, and you could see the pride in her as she licked him and nudged him and wagged her tail so he could amuse himself by chasing it. We knew Daisy was getting older, but I envisioned my old, gentle, wise Newfoundland and a young toddler, just learning to walk, being the best of friends. There wasn't a better dog to be a child's first dog than Daisy. We looked forward to those days.

Saturday, August 13th, 2005, started out normal. Steve's birthday was the following day, but he had to work so we were celebrating that night with steaks, baked potato, corn on the cob and for dessert, his favorite, Duncan Hines Fudge Marble Cake with Betty Crocker Chocolate Frosting. Even the dogs, Daisy and Merlin, got a treat - ground beef and brown rice - for we always liked to include our pets in our family celebrations. Funny thing was, though, that Daisy took one nibble, then just stood there looking at her bowl. Very strange for her. But she wasn't acting sick or anything, so we just figured she wasn't in the mood for hamburger and rice.

But the next morning, I became increasingly worried. As I doled out two scoops of dry kibble for each dog, Daisy trotted happily to her bowl, sniffed, looked at me and walked away. I had saved some of the beef and rice from the night before so I warmed it and added it to her bowl. She would not eat it. While she did not exhibit signs of illness, I began to grow paranoid. We live at the corner of a somewhat busy street, and while I totally trusted my neighbors, the fear that a stranger had thrown something into the yard - something toxic - began to grow. On that hot and humid August day, I wrapped Grace in a light cotton blanket and went out into the yard to look for evidence. Of course there was nothing.

Daisy still showed no signs of illness, other than loss of appetite, when Monday morning came but she still wouldn't eat so I called the vet. They heard the worry in my voice, and squeezed in an appointment that afternoon. We were relieved, expecting that perhaps tests would show some sort of parasite, maybe? Or very worst case scenario, a mild blockage of sorts. Something curable.

We were wrong.

Within two minutes of greeting us in the examination room, the kindly, female veterinarian, a new mom herself, sadly nodded her head as she listened to Daisy's heart. It didn't take a battery of tests to determine the diagnoses: dilated cardiomyopathy. Basically, an enlarged heart, resulting in poor circulation. The loss of appetite was part of a vicious cycle - since she wasn't eating or drinking, Daisy was becoming dehydrated, and therefore her circulation was getting poorer, resulting in her feeling worse and an increased loss of appetite. Heart condition aside, Daisy was going to starve to death and her other organs would start to fail if we didn't get her to eat.

At first, it wasn't all bleak. The vet said with medication, she would feel better, eat and drink, and we could conceivably have another ten months with her, living a good quality of life. She suggested blood work, to make sure she didn't have anything else going on, as well as perhaps and ultrasound to see if there was anything physical that might be contributing to her illness. They drew the blood, and we scheduled an appointment for the ultrasound for the very next day.

Tuesday morning rolled around, and as usual I was up early with the baby. I cooked a chicken breast for Daisy, and while she seemed excited at first, she just sniffed and walked away. When the clock struck nine, I called the vet to see if they had the results of the bloodwork.

It was not good.

"Unfortunately, Daisy is not a candidate for the heart meds. There's something going on with her liver..."

I grappled with this, having lost my cat, Sabrina to some obscure, never actually diagnosed liver disease...to this day, they refer to it as "The Sabrina Syndrome".

The vet continued..."Why don't you bring her in. We can still do the ultrasound, or maybe even an x-ray to see if there's anything we might have missed. Anything physical."

Turns out, her liver was enlarged, and our last hope of perhaps finding some sort of scar tissue on her heart, a faulty valve or a tumor - all scary, but potentially operable - went down the toilet. It was DCM and only DCM, and her organs were indeed beginning to shut down. If we could get some food into her, we could get at best another two weeks. The drugs that would have extended her life would now destroy her liver in its fragile state and kill her.

Wednesday we knew it was inevitable. Daisy had not eaten a thing. Not steak or tuna or ice cream. And now she was beginning to look sick, beginning to get weak. She could no longer walk up or down stairs, and needed help getting up. Steve had taken to sleeping downstairs with her. That night, I patted Daisy goodnight, put Grace in her crib and fell into bed, emotionally exhausted, hoping to catch a few hours sleep. And after crying myself to sleep, I drifted off.

I had a dream. I dreamed that Daisy, like she had done pretty much every night since she earned the right to roam free in the house, flung open the bedroom door with her nose, trudged into the room and like so many times before, sniffed my face before settling down on the floor next to my side of the bed. I felt the real-life tears well up inside me, and I fought them, wanting to stay asleep and enjoy this beautiful dream of my dying dog. And then, in a flash of realization, I felt panting on my face just before Daisy greeted me with big lick to my cheek! It was no dream! She had indeed dragged herself up the stairs to resume her normal sleeping position on the floor next to our bed!

I jumped up and ran downstairs to tell Steve. He was thrilled, and grabbed his blanket and pillow and came upstairs. Relief flooded our hearts, as maybe, just maybe, the doctor had been wrong. Maybe she was feeling better. Maybe her circulation had improved and her heart was maybe...less enlarged. We would call the vet the next day to report the wonderful news! We slept soundly for the first time in days.

The next morning, my baby began to stir so I crept out of bed. At some point, Daisy had moved to the cool tile of the bathroom floor, which was not at all uncommon. I gave her a smile and a quick pat and then my heart came crashing down again. Her hind legs were splayed outward at uncomfortable angles. No telling how long she had been there, but it was obvious she could not stand on her own. I helped her up, and walked her into our room, a towel holding her up as she could not stand or walk on her own, and fetched her a bowl of water. She lapped at it, but was obviously tired and stressed. I realized why she had made the journey up that flight of stairs to see me. It was to say goodbye.

After the baby was nursed and dressed and placed in the safety of her baby swing, Steve and I helped Daisy downstairs, something that was painfully difficult for her. We called the vet and scheduled an appointment for the next day, Thursday, August 19th, at 11:00 AM. The receptionist who took my call kindly and professionally explained the procedure and our options. We could drop her off, if we preferred, for some pet owners simply cannot bring themselves to be in the room when their dog or cat is euthanized. We had been through this before so I kindly told her we had to be with her. Then she explained that her remains could be disposed of, or we could make arrangements to have Angelview, the pet crematory and cemetary, come pick her up and return her ashes to us via UPS. No thank you, I said, we would take her with us when it was done. Once again, we have been through this before. It was a part of our healing to show our respect and devotion right until the very end.

We cried. Even Merlin, our relative newcomer, seemed to know what was going on. Learning from past mistakes, we took photographs of Daisy, to have something to remember her by.

Max and Daisy, August 17, 2005

The next morning, we arrived, struggling to keep our emotions in check. The receptionist had the paperwork ready for our signature. She explained that there would be no need to come wait in line to pay the fee, they would, as was customary for euthanasia, simply mail us a bill. The ride had been difficult for Daisy and she could not stand. The sweet receptionist punched a few keys on the phone, spoke softly into the mouthpiece and within a few seconds four technicians trotted out with a stretcher, lifted our dog onto it and carried her into the examination room.

So many tears. My husband has seen during his career a thousand people dead or dying, and rarely shed a tear. He had literally sifted through the rubble of a tragic fire, finding pieces of bone and teeth of men he knew and worked with. He had been present when the body of a missing child was found under the ice in the western part of Massachusetts, after days of searching for her. But through all of those events, he never cried the way he did at the animal hospital that day. And although I had just told my doctor at my six-week post partum check up, "Nope! Not a sign of depression or baby blues at all!", the floodgates opened as Daisy silently slipped away, and I cried like I had never cried before. Even the vet, and the tough-as-nails technician, struggled to hold back tears. Being a man, Steve felt he needed to go take care of the bill as they prepared Daisy's body to be loaded into our car for the ride to the pet crematory. I numbly followed him, and I know this sounds weird, but I was so comforted when I saw that the receptionist was drying her eyes, too. For nearly nine years, the staff had tended to our pets, and the "people with the big white dog and the big black dog" were no strangers to them. It was a comfort to know they loved our Daisy, too. I felt sorry for all those who had never had the opportunity to meet her. We finished what needed to be done, endured yet another wave of tears at Angelview, and returned to a seemingly empty house. Yes, even though we had a beautiful new baby, a big white dog and three cats. The house felt cold and empty.

I saw about four Newfies over the next couple of years, and cried every time. It got to be a joke of sorts - we'd run into a Newfie and her owner at the pet store, and as my husband rolled his eyes, I'd be on my knees, arms wrapped around the neck of a bewildered but patient Newf, sobbing into her fur as the owner awkwardly tugged at the leash. I didn't think I could ever own another one. Daisy had been too special.

But then came "Snowflake".....

(This phot0 is entitled "Snowflake Marla Martha in The Back Yard"....or simply, "DUH")

Turns out, Snowflake's photo had been posted minutes before I coincidentally clicked on the "Dogs Available for Adoption" link. I called Steve. He called me back twenty minutes later, after taking a ride to the shelter.

"You're gonna want to take her"

Snowflake had been a stray, and had been at the shelter for over a month. Finally, with no luck locating an owner, they spayed her, let her recover and placed her on the available list. I fell in love with her not because she reminded me of Daisy, but because she was so different from Daisy! Daisy, as goofy as she was, had an air of dignity around her. Snowflake? Snowflake was hyper, crazy, stupid, happy from the moment I saw her. The differences between her and Daisy made me really consider taking her home.

Was I ready for another Newfoundland?

To be honest, I still wasn't totally sure when on Halloween, we brought her home.

And somewhere in doggie heaven, Daisy is laughing.

"I never did that!" Ah, sweet Daisy! Some day I shall tell them about the Sunflower Saga....

Meanwhile, Martha (named after the talking dog in PBS' show, "Martha Speaks"), has endeared herself to us. No, Daisy never ate our dinner, and with the exception of her puppy-teething years, was not destructive in any way, shape or form. Daisy trotted happily to greet you when you walked in the door, she didn't gallop at you full speed, knocking over chairs and children in her wake. Daisy never charged at the television set at a dog in a commercial, nor did she ever crash head first into the sliding glass door. Daisy didn't eat...everything. Martha sleeps downstairs, barricaded in the hallway, because she not only EATS EVERYTHING, she has a tendency to wake up in the middle of the night and pounce on you as you sleep.

But as our daughter grew, Martha calmed down. She still makes me crazy with the disasters that seem to follow her around, but I can handle a bit of destructive behavior when it's accompanied by the undying devotion Martha has shown towards Grace.


I guess we ended up realizing those visions of Newf and child after all.

So, a couple weeks ago we noticed that Martha's fur had gotten out of control. You see, unlike Daisy, Martha thinks grooming is a game and she won't stand still for it very long.

So, we decided to take her to the groomers. The mats in her fur were insurmountable to the average pet owners, so we agree to let the groomer pretty much shave her down, leaving just about an inch of coat. She came home looking like a Labrador Retriever on steroids.

Once again, I found comfort in knowing this was NOT Daisy!

They did leave a "poof" at the tip of her tail, though!

No, not Daisy.....

...but we love her just the same. :)

Old Family Photographs - Mom's Family

One of my pie-in-the-sky dreams is to write a book, preferably some sort of historical fiction type of work.


That fantasy usually seems so out of reach for me - what would I write about? What would I say? How do I get it to be interesting, without stealing some other author's ideas? And the big one...when would I have the time to do this, to research it properly? Well, I know in my heart of hearts, there is always time to do something you want to do. Frankly, if I had started this book twenty odd years ago when the idea first struck, I probably would have it done by now. And the idea came in a Creative Writing class I was taking, when my instructor, Bill Meeks, said this: "Write about what you know."

And the most interesting thing I know about is definitely my mom's family.

Unlike my father's side, which was always a little bit of an enigma to me since I had never met my grandparents and didn't really know my aunts, uncles and cousins too well, I virtually grew up surrounded by my mother's family - her nine siblings, in-laws and their children. Even as some of them moved away, or in some cases moved frequently, letters and phone calls always kept the family posted on the goings on in places like Florida, Maryland, Ohio, Washington and even Australia. Nearly every Sunday we gathered at Uncle Paul's house, where seven of my cousins (six boys and one girl) lived, and my second home was at Aunt Rose and Uncle Jim's house where my cousin Maureen and I grew up more like sisters than cousins.


(Note: My second idea for a novel is one tentatively titled "Between Sisters and Cousins", by the way...)


Anyway! The point is, on my mother's side of the family, I knew who I was and where we came from, long before I knew anything about my Dad's ancestry. I didn't even know what ethnic background I was, paternally, but I knew my mother was 100% French-Canadian, and that my grandfather's family had immigrated to Canada from France through Louisborg in New Brunswick. We even visited Fort Louisborg once on a family vacation. At one point, my Aunt Peg (not her real name, although we all call her that...there's a lot of that in my family! Read my comment on Tattoo's and Teething Rings post about names!) really researched the family tree and I was hooked on genealogy. Not only did I have those facts, but I had interaction regularly with people who knew my grandparents, and I even met my maternal grandfather on several occasions. We had a handful of pictures, and lots of first and second-hand memories from the ten children born to my grandparents, Arthur and Zelica.


Oh, and I had a grandmother with a very unique, exotic name, too!

Like many French-Canadian families, everyone refers to my grandparents as "Ma and Pa". This is Ma and Pa's wedding photo, which was one of the few photos we had of them.




They were married on October 30, 1922. This photo always fascinated me because it was one of maybe four photos I had of my grandmother, Zelica. Later, when Aunt Peg put together her scrapbooks for us, she was able to locate more photos of our relatives, including some from their wedding day...



From Left to right, Ma's sister, Mary; Pa's brother, Fleuriand; Pa and Ma, Ma's father, Patrique, and Ma's sister, Exilda. (Again with the names!)


Here's one of the boys...the third from the left, top row is my great-great-great grandfather.



Pretty cool to have a photo of your great-great-great grandfather, even if you don't know his name. I do know, from Aunt Peg's notes, that it is either Fabien or Dominic.


Here's the whole extended family.



It looked like such a happy day, and there definitely were happy times ahead. But it would be relatively short-lived.

Married in 1922, her first child was born in February of 1924, her tenth in February 1934. Then, early one morning, around 2:00 AM on November 26, 1935, my grandmother Zelica woke up, got out of bed, not feeling well (she had pneumonia at the time) and went to the kitchen to get a drink of water. My grandfather heard a crash and rushed in to see what had happened, and found his wife dead on the floor. I've heard it said that she was six months pregnant with her eleventh child. Even though only twelve years had passed, if you put her wedding photo next to the other one we had with her shortly before her death, you wouldn't have thought they were the same person. The resemblance was certainly there, but you'd think it was a woman and her grandmother.



My grandfather could not physically, mentally or financially care for the ten children, so they became wards of the state and while some went to live with relatives, others went into the foster care system.

My Aunt Peg wrote the following in the scrapbook she put together for each of her brothers and sisters:

"With the depression things were very hard and Pa just couldn't cope with both it and raising a family. All of us became wards of the state of Massachusetts. We were separated and, some in pairs, some singly, were placed with other families. Each of us has our own memories of these times. Prior to this, a neighbor came and took a family picture.



We all then went our separate ways. In order to give a chance at a good life, Pa authorized us to be adopted but only Loretta was in fact adopted. As time went on, our relatives started to take us out of foster homes.

In 1946 the family was reunited and a second family picture was taken. The order is the same as the earlier one.


From left to right, starting with the top row: Paul, Francis, Rose, Loretta, Cecile, Florence, Germaine, Simone (aka Peg), Blanche (my mom) and Ferdinand.


One of the first things we did when we reassembled was to have a monument made for Ma's grave. It was such a shock to find that she only had a number.

Coming from such a large loving family, it was hard to understand why no one had thought of this before."


I think it was a good idea for her to say "each of us has our own memories of those times" and leave it at that. It's true, those ten children all grew up in very different circumstances. My mother, for instance, was raised by an Irish foster family in Dorchester, a section of Boston that at the time was predominately Irish. Irish and French people didn't get along that well, so basically she was there as a servant and a source of a little extra income from the State. My mother is not one to exaggerate - in fact, she usually downplays events that touch her life - and I remember that she said "the family dog was fed better than I was". If they had pork chops for dinner, the family's biological daughter, Mary, would eat the meat, the give the bone and the gristle to my mother. They gave Mary the cream, and gave the rest to my mother (which years later would make mom laugh, saying "I was getting the healthier milk! Mary got all that fat! I bet she has cholesterol problems!")

But my mother was lucky, for a foster kid growing up during the depression. After the death of her mother, she had very few good memories of her childhood but at least there was no physical abuse. Her foster mother (and her daughter) treated her like the second-class citizen they perceived her to be. But between the near starvation, the long nights sleeping on the cot in the basement next to the furnace (at least it was warm, for when she was about eight years old, it was her job to stoke more coal in the furnace when necessary) and the constant reminder that her ethnic background was anything but desirable, she remembers with fondness the nuns at the hospital she passed on her way home from school - they would be waiting for her as she passed, telling her she was too skinny and giving her some oranges or apples to eat. She remembers the occasional visits with her sister, Germaine, who was with another foster family. And she remembers when, at the age of fifteen, she found she was going to live with her Aunt Rose and be reunited with the rest of her family.


I'm sure they all had similar stories. I've heard bits and pieces, but like Bill Meeks told me, "Write about what you know". So I'll leave it at that.


Perhaps it is because of their history, and because of the tragedy that touched them when they were children, that they grew up into the people they became. I can tell you that on my mother's side I have about 30 cousins, and every single one of them is kind, funny, loving, honest, hard-working, compassionate and in various ways, successful, whether measured by material things or their own wonderful families. The next generation will prove to be even happier, I think, because we all put our families first. I've heard my mother and my Aunt Rose both say "How on earth did we ever learn to be parents?" The younger ones have only scattered memories of their mother, Zelica, and all were raised in less than ideal conditions, to put it mildly. Yet each and every one grew up to be wonderful parents. It's as if someone decided that since they were denied worthy childhoods themselves, that they deserved to be better-than-average parents, knowing their children will never know the sadness that they knew as children.

I think it was in 1989, we had a family reunion. Nine of them came (Freddie was later Photoshopped into the picture!) At one point, I drove a few of them up to the city they were from and saw the house that they had all been born in. They knocked on the door to ask permission to have a photograph taken in front of their old home, and to our surprise and excitement, we were all invited in to take a look around. I remember my mother commenting on the kitchen - with the exception of updated appliances and new linoleum and paint, it looked the same as it did in 1935. That sent chills up my spine, as I looked at the floor wondering where exactly Zelica had fallen. As we walked out, I felt as if some sort of closure had descended on the group. There were no tears, just calm and peace as we left to meet other family members for dinner.

It was a blessing to get them all together, from the somewhat reclusive sibling to the one who had spent the past 25 years in Australia. They talked, they laughed, they sang, and they bragged about their children and grandchildren, many of whom were also in attendance at some point during the multi-week event. I just sat back and soaked it all in, watching my mother in her glory, absorbing stories from all directions and all points of view.

And reminding myself every moment how lucky I am to have been born into such an amazing family. And how much I love them all.

Old Family Photographs...Dad's Family

I have always loved the look of old, black and white photos. They bring to life one's history, one's ancestry, and make you think of days gone by. They make you want to learn more about he people in them.

See this picture?

Well, until several years ago, I never knew it existed, but it is a family portrait of my Dad, his parents and three sisters. It was taken in 1929.

Dad is the little boy in the lower right (I had to say that, because some people mistake this shot of my Aunt Dottie as a little boy! Oddly enough, she was quite a beautiful girl her whole life.) Anyway, the girl in the upper right is my dear Aunt Lorraine. She was well-loved by everyone, including me, and was sort of the family historian, keeping all the old family photos, letters, papers and trinkets safely tucked away.

Sadly, Lorraine was diagnosed with lung cancer in the late 1970's, and passed away in the summer of 1981. I "met" my cousin, Shirley, at her funeral. I'm sure I had met her before, but this was the first time I remember meeting her, and I was quite taken with her. She was very sweet, kind and pretty, and she also provided me with something I had not had before and that was a new perspective into my ancestry. You see, Shirley and I shared the same grandparents, but she had been blessed to have actually known them, while I only had a faded photo or two of my grandfather, George. There were none of my grandmother. I'm sure Lorraine had some, but for some reason, when she was alive, we never sat around and went through those old boxes. I think she was more interested in talking about what we kids were doing now, as opposed to what things were like back in the day.

A year after Lorraine's funeral, we went to a family gathering at another cousin's house. While I very often got to see my mom's side of the family, we only saw Dad's family once in a while because they all lived just a little too far away, and were kind of scattered about. There, by the pool, as everyone told stories and got caught up on the goings on in each other's lives, a bit of family drama erupted. Someone brought up Lorraine's husband's name and Aunt Dottie reacted as if she had been bitten by a snake.

"I hope he rots in hell!!!"

Wow. This shocked me, because Dottie was sweet and fun, "young" for an aunt. I had never heard her speak this way about anyone! But come to find out, the problem was this: After several months, Lorraine's husband met someone. They eventually married, but that was years later. No one really minded about that, for he had been loyal and faithful to Lorraine until the very end, and devastated by her loss. The kicker was, when this new lady came into his life, he decided he no longer wanted the boxes that Lorraine had accumulated over the years, and instead of calling one of her sisters, he simply hauled them to the dump.

"All those photographs, gone!" Dottie cried. "Either burned or rotting in the bottom of the town dump! I'll never see my mother's face again"

With that, I kind of shared her anger towards the uncle I had once loved. I realized that now I would probably never see what my grandmother looked like. Lorraine was the only one who ever thought to collect those old photos.

But thanks to my great aunt Myrtle, I was wrong!

Meet my Grandma, Ruth....

There's not much I know about her personally. Through dabbling in genealogy, I know a lot of names of her relatives and ancestors and where they lived and where they are buried. I know she made hot cross buns at Easter, named my father after her favorite actor (who shared the same name as a brother of hers who died as a child), that she loved to have her family around her, loved to cook (well, duh!) loved baseball and the Red Sox, suffered the loss of one baby, but raised four others, and she collected things. LOTS of thing! When my mother met my father, the family still lived at the old homestead, a giant saltbox on acres of land where they had apple orchards and raised chickens. And every spare inch of shelving and windowsill was adorned with knick knacks.

One day, out of the blue, a letter arrived from my Dad's Aunt Myrtle. Again, I know I have met her, but I really don't remember her. Anyway, she was probably in her late 80's at the time, but spry as a spring chicken nonetheless. The letter had me rolling on the floor - she asked how we were, wondered if we could get together for a visit as she was cooped up and bored, then went on to say "I don't know why people are so afraid of people with AIDS, but if I was still young enough to fool around with strangers, you better believe I'd get myself some condoms!"

Love, Myrtle

I was so disappointed that I could not go (and believe me, I was SOOOOO curious about this out-of-the-blue, eccentric relative!), but my parents surely did pay her a visit. Oh, the stories they told. This woman was QUITE a character!!! But the best part of all was what she sent them home with - a cigar box, filled with old photographs, including the family portrait, the above photo of my grandmother as well as another of Grandmother Ruth...

Best of all, on the back of this photo was, in Myrtle's handwriting, "this is the one I want to have done. You know just the head. It's not very recent but its the best one I can find. She hated to have her picture taken."

Ah! I learned something else about my grandmother! Every little bit is precious.

Here's another portrait done a few years later of the two older girls, Bev and Lorraine...

"To Gram, with Love"

And here's "Gram", my grandfather's mother, Delia on the left...

...my Dad in the middle, and his other grandfather (Ruth's father, Grant) on the right.

This one is Dad and his parents, taken the same day as the one above...

"She was so mad at me for goofing around! She could be so serious."

Grandma Ruth had reason to be somber. These photos were taken, I believe, the day before Dad shipped off to boot camp in 1943. He had enlisted on his 19th birthday and within a couple months would be in North Africa, and later India, China and Burma. I can only imagine what was going through this woman's mind, wondering if this would be the last time she saw her only son alive.

She probably didn't like the fact that my Dad was a born comedian, always smiling, always a twinkle in his eye.

I bet he got in trouble for wearing his hat tilted off to one side like that!

Well, we can't forget Grandpa George! He had also enlisted in the Army years earlier, but never made it out of Fort Devens in Massachusetts - World War I came to an end just as he finished basic training. I know he was proud of his son to choose to serve his country. But from what I hear about my grandfather, he was rough and gruff and prone to curse...a lot. For a while I was kind of glad I didn't get the chance to know him (or his temper), for fear he would *gulp* yell at me.

But then came this photo...

"Shirley and Gramp. Isn't she a darling? She is never much farther away from Grampa when he is home"

Yeah, he seems like a nice enough guy!

I don't know why, but I love this one...Grandfather George standing at the edge of a lake in New Hampshire near the family "camp"...

I always wonder what he was thinking at that moment. Let's read the inscription for some clues, shall we?

So either he was looking for deer and bear tracks, OR he was wondering where the heck Al was with the beer!

Here he is again.

And finally, the kids - Dottie, Dad, Bev and Lorraine, this one from the late 40's.

I love this one, too. They just seem so happy, like they're smiling not because someone is taking a picture, but because they want to smile. It captures the spirit of family, the era of post-war America, when life was getting back to normal and good times were ahead, and the Great Depression was just a shadow of a memory. I'm proud to own this picture and to have known these four people, even if I did miss out on meeting their parents.

And I wonder if my daughter, years down the road, will browse through boxes of photos from my childhood, and be just as proud of her mom as I am of my Dad.

Yeah.....maybe not!

The Great PONY Ride of 2009

My uncle, his wife and their seven kids lived in a small, rural community, not far from where I live now.  Nearly every Sunday we would drive up to their house, as would some of my other aunts, uncles and cousins.  I think we all went THERE because a.) It was more difficult for them to pack seven kids and elderly Aunt Edna into the van to trek anywhere else, and b.) Their home was bordered by a large field on one side, and woods on the other three, yet it was a five-minute walk to the tiny downtown area, which consisted of a small family-owned grocery store, a gas station, a school and playground, a post office and two churches.  Plenty of things for kids - in THOSE days, when you didn't feel the need to keep them within your sight at all times - to explore.

I loved every Sunday that we went to Uncle Paul's.  I loved hanging around with my many cousins, most of which were older and often took the time to entertain us younger kids by hikes in the woods, football or baseball games in the field, dirt bike rides, or snowmobile rides and pond hockey games in the winter.  But my favorite was the annual church bazaar that my uncle organized.  Dunk tanks, potato sack races, crafts, a few rides, food, food, food...and my favorite, the pony rides.  How I loved all things equine!  In later years, I took riding lessons, even entered a few shows, but those pony rides were what fostered what turned out to be a lifelong love of horses.  They were a quarter each, and I usually had enough money saved up to ride each of the several ponies at least twice.  

I don't know why I thought of this last Saturday morning, as we set out on our vacation.  Maybe it was because we drive through a few towns that are very similar to the one my Uncle Paul lived in, and the sights of white church steeples and small New England town centers bring back memories.  Our plan was to hit the road right at 6:00 AM, and we were right on time, as usual, pulling out of the driveway at 7:45!  (Actually, that's good for us...I had my money on 9:00).  We filled the fuel tank, grabbed what would be the last Dunkin Donuts coffee I would see in several days, and hit the road, on what I dubbed the Great PONY Ride of 2009...

 Through Pennsylvania, to Cleveland/Columbus/Dayton, Ohio, followed by Buffalo/Niagara Falls, NY.  Get it??? ;)

Oh, and before I forget, I should mention that "the other woman", Maggi, accompanied us.  And no, I was not upset at all.  In fact, I purchased Maggi for hubby as a Father's Day gift.  Because I know what it's like travelling with him, and I figured it was time for someone else to tell him where to go.  He never listens to me.  Maybe SHE would have better luck.....

But no, he didn't really listen to her, either.  At least not at first.  But it was nice to have more company in the car! And it was cute when Punkin asked, "Mommy? Why does the car keep talking to us?"

The first leg of our trip would be the longest - from the Worcester, MA area all the way to Cleveland, OH.  Did I mention we had a four year-old in the back seat?  Yes, we knew this would be a long trip, but thankfully our little Punkin travels REALLY WELL! She's logged quite a few miles already, and since her birthday was just a few days ago, she had a stash of new toys, brand new crayons (aren't new crayons so much better than old ones?), paper/coloring books, dolls, toys...and the best gift of all (thank you, dear sister!), her very own camera.  

 Able to hold 154 photos, child-friendly and nearly indestructible....this thing is worth its weight in gold!

Of course, 154 photos can be snapped within a three-minute span of time....which means, I may have missed a thing or two as I cleared blurry images, duplicate/triplicate/quadruplet pictures, in order to make room for more and entertain her for another...three minutes.  But still, she got great enjoyment out of that camera, and actually took some pretty decent pictures!  We are currently in negotiations for Punkin to guest blog on Marvelously Mundane in the near future...just as soon as she cleans up her room.

Anyway, I love the ride through western Massachusetts, through a snippet of New York, over the Hudson River.  Did I think to snap a few photos along the way to share with you? Well, no. If I had, I would have taken a photo much like this one about five minutes across the Pennsylvania state line...

Yes! I saw a bald eagle perched on a treetop!  I was so excited!  Hubby - not so much.  Maggi thought we should "stay on the current road".  Punkin wanted to know why it was bald.  We have bald eagles around here, but I've never seen one in the wild with my own eyes.  Actually, I did see an eagle in Maine, once, but since it was humungous, apparently full-grown, and did not have a white head or tail feathers, I guess it was a different kind of eagle.  And I didn't get a photo of that one, either....

The ride through Pennsylvania was pretty, but long.  After passing the City of Wilkes-Barre....

...which when we saw it through the mist looked like a model railroad town, bridges and mill buildings nestled along a river in a valley, the rest of the trip was a whole lotta farmland followed by forest.  Kinda like western Massachusetts, but flatter.  I like that kind of scenery, though, as I imagine some of those small communities are getting ready for their own versions of church bazaars and county fairs.

We arrived at our first destination, Cleveland OH, at about 6:00 PM Saturday.  It was sunny, a bit muggy, but Cleveland was a lot nicer than I was expecting.  My husband, who, by the way, has a degree in architecture and a passionate interest in urban design and planning, had been there before, and his descriptions had included words like "economically depressed", "struggling", "run-down" and even "dying".   Frankly, I found it to be a lot like Worcester - great potential, lots of character, some great architecture (meaning older buildings), except Cleveland was very, very clean.  Lots of green spaces, too, whether it was parks or the occasional flowerpots or trees along the street.  I think even he admitted that Cleveland's luck was improving, and I dare say the city seemed almost vibrant at times.

That night, we tried going to the science museum, a reward for Punkin for being so good during the long trip, but alas it was closed.  Oh well, right next door is the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame.

We toured the museum - no pictures allowed inside the museum, so I can't show you Elvis' purple car or Michael Jackson's glittery glove or Janis Joplin's eyeglasses or any of the other things.  Between the exhibits being a bit over Punkin's head and the fact that my husband and I have totally different tastes in music ("Where's all the Van Halen stuff?" he kept asking), we kind of whizzed through it.  At the end hubby complained that he just paid a boatload of money for "stuff you can see for free if you go to enough Hard Rock Cafe's".  

He was kinda right!

But in the lobby, we snapped some photos of Punkin and the giant guitars... 

They had a nice "memorial" guitar to George Harrison and Punkin decided to be silly....

Stop that before security kicks us out!!!

Then, when THIS one....

...appeared to almost fall over, we decided it was time to go.  (It really DIDN'T fall, as I later discovered they are bolted onto the display stand.)

We walked back to our hotel, about 10 minutes away, grabbed dinner and hit the sack early.

For tomorrow, we would go on a sacred pilgrimage.....

To Be Continued.....

Seven Cool Things, Daily Cheese Style!

I don't know why, but one of my favorite parts of New Year's is when they inevitably show the montage of all those persons of interest - celebrities, politicians, and other well-knowns - who we have lost during the year.

No, I don't mean to sound macabre, it's actually a very emotional experience for me, realizing that those people are gone.  I ponder all the times I had seen their faces, heard their voices, and I remember all the things they did that made us love (or hate) them.  It proves to me that these people who seem make believe are just like me.  For those who pass away well before their time, I wonder what their lives would have been like 10, 15, 20 years from now, and what other contributions they would have been able to make had they gone on to live.  I realize all the things I've been blessed with that they will never know.  I also wonder what life was like through their eyes - how cool would it be to get inside Paul Newman's head and see things the way he had seen them.  

Usually with famous people, it ends there.  By the time the clock has stuck twelve on New Year's Eve, I've sent my last mental prayer to their families, telepathically projected my sympathy at losing their loved ones, and then I go on with my life.  But when you lose someone you know, thinking about their life sometimes help put things into perspective, and you understand them better than you did when they were still here.  Such is true with someone we lost this year.

This is my mother-in-law, Pat, on the day my daughter was born nearly four years ago, cooing over her seventh grandchild.   

Around Christmas of last year, Pat was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  She started treatment in February, but that didn't last long - by mid-March she had had enough.  At first, you get kind of angry when someone gives up, out of fear that they will suffer.  But thankfully, Pat never did.  She met her end peacefully and painlessly, with a dignity that we really didn't realize she possessed, a few weeks ago.   And as it often happens when someone you know passes away, as we shared stories of her after her funeral, we all felt that we understood her better.  The last few years had been a strain on everyone's relationship with her and eachother.  But I'm not going to go into that, because frankly none of that crap matters any more.  You realize that life is too short, and now that all those things that have been bothering us can no longer hurt Pat, they just don't matter any more.  

I almost didn't go to see her that day, but they had called and said she had taken a turn for the worse, so I left work early and went to the nursing home.  While my sister-in-law and I were there, one of the volunteers stopped in to deliver the mail.  In it was a letter to Pat, from her dear friend Marian.  My sister-in-law started to read it, but emotions caught up to her and she handed it off to me, so I read it.  Pat had been mostly unresponsive, but we felt that while she could not respond, she could indeed hear you and understand.  I caught a smile from her as I read the letter, so I know she heard me read it.  Later, as I had my moment alone with her, I told her goodbye.  I told her that her youngest grandchild, who for a while she went without seeing regularly, would never forget her - I would make sure of that.  And I told her if she had to go, then she should go.  She didn't deserve to suffer.  Less than four hours later, she slipped peacefully away.

Like I said, after someone's gone, you look at them differently.  Sometimes all the things about them that drove you bonkers while they were around suddenly make sense as you reflect on the person's life.  Sometimes you learn something about that person that you never knew, or you remember something they had once told you and you feel like bragging about it now.

So, as our friend, LTH, sometimes prompts us to do, I've decided to offer up a serving of "cheese" to my mother-in-law, in the form of  this:  

Seven Cool Things About My Mother-in-Law

1. She had one of the funniest "how I met my husband" stories.   She was a nurse, he was a patient.  She had to give him a shot. She broke the needle in his butt and had to call for help, totally embarrassed.  She felt really bad, but he laughed it off and asked her out.  He passed away about 50 years and six kids later.  She loved to tell the "needle in the butt" story, and would laugh every time.

2. She valued her friendships, as evident by my mention of Marian above.  The two were friends for over 70 years. And I mean, REAL friends, not someone you're friends with as a kid, lose contact with and then years later, bump into at the grocery store every now and then.  No, they talked on the phone, wrote letters and cards to each other, and would get together often over those seventy years.   She maintained contact, sometimes to the dismay of family members, with others' ex-wives/husbands/girlfriends/boyfriends, as if they were still part of the family.  She would be secretive about it when she thought it was necessary, but her affection for one person could not be compromised.  If she liked you (and chances are, she did), she would like you forever.

3. She worked as a nurse for several years, building a house and having six children along the way.  That in itself is an accomplishment.  But when my husband was about 5 years old, Pat decided to change careers.  She enjoyed nursing, having worked in maternity wards for most of her nursing career, but she was always loved history and literature and the idea of being a teacher.  So, in the 70's, she went back to school, the oldest student in each of her college classes, obtained her Masters and went into teaching.  My husband remembers times when he had to go with her to school, and she'd have to keep him quiet and busy with crayons and coloring books, while she listened and took notes in class.  These days, it's not uncommon at all for people of various ages and backgrounds to be sitting next to one another in class, but back then it was.  She earned her degree and went on to teaching.

4. Pat loved the "little things" in life.  She had such an appreciation of nature, art and music, and she was happiest digging in the dirt or coaxing little seedlings to grow in the rocky soil or listening to classical music.  She was one of those people who refers to plants in their "official" name - not "Lilacs", but rather "Purpilicus Lilicisus" ... No, I know they're "vulgaris" something or other, but you know what I mean.  She had a knack for retaining facts about the things she loved, like her flowers, Greek mythology or her vast collection of china, teacups, vases.   The funny thing about those is that she actually USED them! They didn't just sit and collect dust, but rather she would be marveling at how pretty a certain teacup was, then the next day she would have her morning coffee in it.

5. I have a job and one child.  Some days, that feels like way more than I was ever designed to handle.  Then I think of Pat, and how she managed to work, have a family, change careers, and build a home at the same time.  Oh, and did I mention that while the house was being built, Pat and her husband lived in the only part that could be deemed shelter - the basement?  I think 3 of the 6 kids had been born at that time, and not only that, but they also took in a few cousins for a while.  As the house was built and they gradually moved upstairs, the only source of heat was the coal furnace.  Pat remembers getting up in the middle of the night, this time pregnant with twins, running outside in the bitter cold to the basement door so she could shovel more coal into the furnace.  She must have felt like royalty the first night the oil burner was kicked on!  

6. She was goofy.  And she of all people could appreciate the humor in the silly, goofy things she did.  Among our favorites:

• The grilled cheese sandwiches she made for us....and forgot to put in the cheese.   
• The time when my husband was a little kid, and he and his father waited in the car while Pat ran in to the grocery store.  Moments later, she emerged, walked right past their car and got into a nearby car, granted the same basic shape and color as their own.  My husband and his father just stared at her, and she happened to look up and see them, wave, then went back to reading the magazine she had purchased.  Suddenly it hit her!  In a fluster she thrashed about, gathering her belongings, and ran back to her own car, laughing.
  
• Her photography skills.  She had just gotten her first digital camera and was having problems getting it to work.  Seems she somehow kept getting her finger in the way, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure out how she was doing it.  So we stopped by one day to see if we could help.  As I looked at the images captured, something didn't seem right.  Sure enough, each frame was filled with the blurry color of skin, so she must be holding the camera wrong.  But what's this?  Is that her wedding ring in the picture? No....could it be her....EYEGLASSES? Yup.  As she snapped away, trying to photograph her flowers, her dog, the sunset, she was, in fact, holding the camera backwards so each picture was an extreme close-up of her face.  She laughed as hard as we did.  Oh, and then proceeded to ask "Where can I get more film for my digital camera when I use this one up?"
• Along the same lines, the only messages she ever left on an answering machine was "...well, okay then. Bye" Because she thought you had to leave your messaging DURING the recording "You have reached.....
• They dogsat our dog one day.  We were having work done at our house and asked if we could tied Seiko, our 160-pound Great Pyrenees, out in their back yard so he wouldn't be stressed out by the commotion.  As we left, she called after us:  "What does he like to eat for breakfast?"  We thought she was joking.  "Fried eggs and bacon, Ma!" my husband responded.  And so, several hours later we arrived to pick up Seiko.  He was laying in the shade, staring at his dish which lay just out of his reach.  As we approached, we saw that in it was two fried eggs, three strips of bacon and two sliced of buttered toast. Oh, on a china plate.  Unfortunately, while his water dish was well within reach, she had placed his "breakfast" on a tree stump nearby ("Because I thought it looked nicer there") that Seiko's paw couldn't quite reach.  She insisted on frying him up a couple more eggs before he left.

Wow, am I at Seven already?  I could go on.  My mother-in-law once saw Amelia Earhart, you know - she came to speak in the town where my mother-in-law lived as a child.  She was the family historian, updatng the family Bible with births, deaths and marriages.  She kept scrapbooks of all her children and grandchildren and their accomplishments.  After retiring, she and my father-in-law did some traveling, among her favorites, San Diego, San Francisco, Savannah, Ireland, England, Paris, and her most favorite trip of all times, Greece.  In a crowded house of two parents and six kids, there was always room for more.  The girlfriend or wife of one of them, a family friend who had no where to go.  They even raised a couple grandchildren for a few years while their Dad was away in the military.  And yes, even the Swedish exchange student. Yes, she was Swedish, yes she was beautiful, and yes, she sunbathed on the deck in a bikini.  

Last but not least, my favorite story, although it is as much about my father-in-law as it is my mother-in-law.

7. They never really saw anyone as being "different" - they treated everyone as equal.  They were never interested in politics, and never pushed their beliefs on anyone, but they truly would not discriminate.   The came from a generation that never quite grasped what "politically correct" meant, sometimes using words to describe a certain ethnic or religious background that may be deemed offensive, but if they used that certain word, there was never any prejudice or hatred attached to it.   There was no such thing as differences in social status - my mother-in-law would strike up a conversation with Queen Elizabeth just as easily as she could a homeless heroin addict, and she would regale each one of them with stories of her gardens, or maternity ward tales, and yes, even the needle in the butt story.  She would tell Her Royal Majesty that she was holding her teacup incorrectly if she thought it to be so, and she would offer to make a grilled cheese sandwich for the homeless person.

And so, on her favorite trip to Greece, where she bought earrings I saw her wear hundreds of times in the fifteen years I knew her, my in-laws were setting out on a tour of Greece with a tour group.  Within an hour, the grew bored, feeling they were missing something, that this tour was restricted to "touristy" places and they wanted to see the "real" Greece.  And so, they struck up a conversation with a young woman standing nearby, obviously a local.    After chatting with her and asking her about where they should really go, and what should they really see, the tour guide suddenly interrupted and pulled them aside.  "You know she's a prostitute, right?"  They looked at each other, astonished, and the tour guide went back to his business of organizing the tour, answering questions.  And my mother-in-law and father-in-law began their tour...with their newly hired tour guide, to beaches, historic sites, cafe's, markets that the other tourists never knew existed.  Several hours later, they rejoined the tour group.  I don't know if they told them what they had done, but I know that "the time we hired a prostitute as a tour guide" was usually the 5th or 6th story my mother-in-law would tell you upon meeting you for the first time.  Sometime after the needle in the butt, but before shoveling coal into the furnace.

So, farewell to Pat - mother, mother-in-law, Grandma and friend.  We will never forget you.

How times have changed...

Just a funny story to share...

A couple weeks ago we started seeing ads for the re-release of "Pinochio" on DVD - we don't buy our daughter every movie that comes out, but when the old ones come out it's kind of neat to share with her movies that have been around long before we were her age! I remember I had seen Pinochio when I was a kid, but didn't really like it - I remember bits and pieces, but could never remember how the images of donkeys and the whale fit in to the actual story line.

So after a few commercials, and our asking Grace "Would you like to see Pinochio when it comes out?", she showed some interest in it. Yesterday was the DVD release day, so since we happened to be going to BJ's last night we picked up a copy, and when we got home we popped it in to watch it.

As the story unfolded, parts started coming back to me, and I had this nagging feeling, like maybe we should pop in a different movie. Things affect you differently when you're a parent, and part of the story involves young boys (and one wooden puppet) being tricked into going to an island, where eventually they will be held prisoner, and sold off. I know it is just fantasy, I know it was a different time back then, but these days cartoons that involve "kidnapping", particularly by means of luring an innocent away, hold a darker meaning to me. I also realized there was a reason I never really liked this one - even as a kid - as there are some dark undertones to it. I can see where some little ones may be spooked by it.

But that's not what bothered me about Pinochio. Two things bother me:

First, several characters, including Pinochio and other boys, smoke cigars. A lot. A simple viewing of a movie isn't going to be THAT much of an influence on my daughter, but it just bothered me that up until last night, my daughter probably had never heard of cigars or cigarettes, although she knows Frosty the Snowman has a corncob pipe to go along with his button nose and two eyes made out of coal. The difference, however, is that Frosty didn't inhale! My precious little one doesn't know anyone who smokes - I don't even know if she's ever seen a cigarette being smoked! My how times have changed...smoking in a Disney film. What next? The F-bomb?

Not quite, but......my daughter has learned a new word, in a new context. Yes, it's VERY mild compared to words both my husband and I have uttered in her presence, but somehow I thought I'd be safe from this in an old Disney film! In this movie, a couple characters use the word "jackass". Yes, they are referring to donkeys or burros, which is totally legit, because as the story goes, when those "bad boys" are tricked into going to Pleasure Island, where there are no rules and the can do whatever they want (ie: be "bad"). So, they smash things up, cause a ruckus, fight, smoke, drink, shoot pool, and before they know it, the gates have been locked and they are now prisoners. What worse, what they don't know is that bad boys turn into jackasses, meaning donkeys, to be sold off by their captors to the salt mines.

The first time the word is used, it's somewhat slurred...even my daughter, with her superhuman hearing, didn't pick it up. But then later, Pinnochio's conscience, Jiminy Cricket, goes on a bit of a tirade....(not quite word for word, but something like...) "Well, if you want to be a jackass, you go ahead and be a jackass! I don't want to be around you if you're gonna be a jackass, so you go ahead and be a jackass if you want to be a jackass!"

Yeah, it's pretty mild, I know. But it kind of bothers me that by Friday my daughter will inevitably call me a jackass. I don't know why it bothers me, because frankly I think they're kind of cute!

Oh man....I need a haircut!