Caleigh O'Shea's Blog, page 16

Monkey’s First Poem

Some pursue happiness, others create it. ~Author unknown

I caught a bird, a pretty thing:
White of belly, black of wing.
Of course, my mama had a fit;
Didn’t concern her, not one bit.

I snagged him as he flew through the air.
Why not, I thought? He was right there.
And Mama has taught me how to catch.
A flying object is an easy snatch!

This bird felt different from my other toys:
Lots of feathers, not much noise.
But Mama wasn’t playing with us;
She was inside, making a fuss.

She saw that bird hanging from my mouth.
The next thing I knew, the door to the south
Opened with a crash and there she stood —
Mad as a hornet and that wasn’t good.

Outside she flew; a shovel she’d brought.
Is this some kind of new game, I thought?
But no! She sped without a word
Toward my prize, my little bird.

She scooped him up and shouted “No!”
And toward the fence she decided to go.
Hoisted that shovel and tossed him away.
Oh little bird, come back and play!

Note: Mama says this poetic form is in rhyming couplets. I Monkey have no clue!

Rain Brings Mud

In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. ~Margaret Atwood, Canadian poet, novelist, activist, and teacher

Maybe Ms. Atwood was onto something, but I’ll wager she drew the line between the scent of “dirt” and that of “mud.”

Rainy, muddy mess

Many moons ago, we applied weed-and-feed to our lawn in an effort to drive out the weeds and promote the growth of lush, green grass.

It worked, and our yard was a thing of beauty.

But the past decade or so, we’ve had a lawn crew do the mowing, Spring and Fall cleanup, leaf-mulching, and so forth, and to my knowledge, they haven’t used any weed or feed treatments.

Meaning, our yard struggles to look one iota better than anybody else’s. In fact, it struggles period.

Perhaps having a little Monkey might be one reason for its sad state, but in his defense, even the front yard — where he never ventures by himself — looks pretty shabby.

All it takes is a little rain, and we’ve had way more than our share lately, to turn portions of the yard into muddy messes.

Oozy, gooey mud

Normally, I wouldn’t care. I don’t aspire to Yard of the Month recognition, and it’s not like I feel a need to wander across the grass on a daily basis.

What bothers me is having a long-haired dog who MUST patrol the perimeter every time he goes outside. Who MUST wade through all the mud and then race inside assuming he can track that mud through the house.

I’ve got a rug and towel beside the door, and Monk has been trained to endure feet-wiping in inclement weather.

He doesn’t particularly like it, not that I care. It’s way harder for me to get on my hands and knees to clean the floor than it is to towel off his four paws.

I thought this would be a challenge during winter’s snows, but Spring rains are lots worse. Snow melts; mud oozes. And since I don’t want to retrain Monkey to use a pee-pad, he has to go outside.

So we’ll soldier on. Eventually, the rains will stop, and the sun will return.

Dirt is bound to clean up easier than mud, too. Right?

What’s Valuable to You?

Who does not thank for little will not thank for much. ~Estonian proverb

The other day, Monkey and I were walking along when a truck pulled up beside us, slowed, and its window slid open.

‘I’ll give you $15 for that dog,’ said the stranger with a twinkle in his eye.

I thought about it for a half-second, then replied, ‘You know, there are days — like when I have to pick up this (and I showed him Monkey’s filled poop-bag) that I might take you up on that offer.’

We had a nice chuckle before he drove off.

The encounter left me pondering how much — or how little — we actually value things in our lives.

No doubt, all of us have struggled through two incredibly difficult years. The COVID pandemic (which isn’t completely over still), rising inflation, supply chain woes, the ongoing conflict in the Ukraine, all sorts of challenging weather conditions, and so on have led many of us to stop watching or reading the news for fear of what’s next.

But ask yourself: Would I take a nickel to trade places with anybody? To toss away the things I have — the people and pets who love me, my education, my job, my health, my home — in favor of accepting those things from somebody else?

I know I wouldn’t.

How can you put a price tag on love? Or loyalty? Or talent? How can you not be grateful for the air you breathe, the food on your table, the water flowing from your faucet, the electricity lighting your home and office? Even if they’re old, how can you fail to be thankful for the vehicle that gets you from one place to another, the clothes you have hanging in your closet, the fact that you even have a closet?

We’re told that “Gratitude is an attitude,” and I firmly believe that. To grumble and complain that we don’t have more — when so many have far less — feels like the gravest of sins to me.

So no. Monkey’s not for sale. He might be troublesome at times, but I’m growing attached to his Monkey Business!

…we can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasure… ~Thornton Wilder, Pulitzer Prize-winning American novelist and playwright

Practice Before Perfection

Things could be worse. Suppose your errors were counted and published every day, like those of a baseball player. ~Author unknown

Our symphonic band’s first concert of this year took place over the weekend and despite practicing, despite some of us being involved for four (or more) years, we finally found a way to crash and burn.

It was bound to happen, but it wasn’t pretty.

Looking back, we should have known it was possible. Yet we didn’t do anything to prevent it.

In January when we started this semester, we selected four pieces that would become the program for our portion of the concert.

One piece — suggested by a student — consistently got ignored.

Maybe our director didn’t particularly like this piece. Maybe he was on the fence about including it in the program. Or maybe he decided the other pieces needed the most work because of their potential for tripping us up.

I think we played through it — top to bottom — once. Maybe twice.

Even during our onstage warmup the day of the concert, our director jokingly said, “We don’t need to go through this one, do we?”

Seeing a few head shakes in the negative, we put it aside. Again.

Mistake.

Now, it’s true that you can only worry about so many things at once. And most of us were focused on our first piece. A student conductor was to direct that one; we’d given her a hard time in practice, and she was fragile.

So it made sense to think: If anything goes wrong, it’s going to be right here.

Nope. It went fine, as did the second piece.

We were all feeling pretty good. Confident, even.

Then came poor neglected number three, Unraveling. Similar to Bolero, this piece starts mysteriously with section after section picking up the main theme and speeding to the end with a cacophony of sound.

We were in the weeds from the get-go. Eight measures of percussion should’ve set the tempo, but, because that section rarely practices with the full ensemble, we really had no clue what their part was supposed to sound like.

Then an alto sax solo was to play the main melody, but despite having his part down pat, he dropped in and out, trying desperately to catch the rhythm and notes.

That caused our trumpet soloist to flub his eight measures — again, despite knowing his part.

And when we flutes were supposed to enter, we didn’t and tried to play catch up.

Well, the song was nearly half over before the full band got involved and managed to put fingers to keys and mouths to instruments.

To say we were “unraveling” would be a gross understatement.

As would it be to say our director was a bit puzzled.

The poor man’s eyes widened; his mouth dropped behind his mask.

Still, I’ve gotta hand it to him, he kept flapping his arms and hoping for the best.

Eventually, we ended together. Whew!

But all of us were so ready to get off that stage that we zipped through our fourth piece at lightning speed. And I suspect more than one compensatory drink was hoisted afterward.

You know, it never pays to assume you know something when you don’t. Or to spread your focus so thin it can’t cover all your bases. But thankfully, we have another concert scheduled, and Unraveling won’t be on the program.

This time, maybe we’ll get things right.

It is wise to keep in mind that no success or failure is necessarily final. ~Author unknown, 1970s

 

Memories of Dallas

I wish you enough good memories to see you through the bad times. ~Pam Brown, Australian poet

Dallas, April 2015

I

Am still

Missing you,

My beautiful

Soul Dog Dallas, and

I guess I always will.

Two years now. You departed

Right as the Pandemic began,

Leaving me sad and broken-hearted.

At last you’re free from pain and misery.

Time really has helped me process the grief

Of your passing, and I must admit

So has the arrival of a

New Sheltie puppy, Monkey.

He’s not you, nor will he

Ever be, but still

It helps to have

A puppy

Under

Foot.

Note: This poetic form is called Double Etheree.

Growth and Changes

God gives us dreams a size too big so that we can grow in them. ~Author unknown

Sometimes growth and change happen in the smallest of ways. Ways nobody really notices.

Other times, the differences hit you like a load of bricks.

Most bloggers love when readers remind us to do an update on something we posted that piqued their interest. Something they wanted to fill in. “The rest of the story,” as it were.

This post will attempt to do just that.

Tiny Tree

My formerly “tiny” tree has grown and prospered through a long, occasionally-bitter winter season. See for yourself:

I set a yardstick beside it, but I was looking right into the sun when I snapped the photo, and now I realize you can’t see the numbers. Or the yardstick.

Duh.

So I’ll just come right out and tell you — it’s 24 inches tall!

Who’d have thought?

I’m pretty sure the red ribbon I tied around its truck many moons ago is still there, but it’s buried under the snow. That, or some bird decided it would make a perfect doodad for its nestlings!

More good news — If you’ll look real close in my next shot, you’ll see that Tiny Tree has become a parent:

Yep, there’s a baby tree growing off to the left, beside that bigger rock. See it?

I’m definitely not happy with the location Tiny Tree has selected to grow in — next to the drainage pipe and the antenna we used to need before cable TV came along — but who am I to argue with success?

Abandoned House

Last September, I posted about an abandoned house Monkey and I often pass by on our walks.

About how deserted and lonely this limestone ranch house looked, now that its former owner had passed away.

About how hard it must be to sell houses that haven’t been well-cared-for, yet how forlorn such a dwelling must feel.

Guess what? A buyer has appeared!

As you can see from the trailer and dumpster, the new folks have been doing a lot of work — removing the unsightly bushes and overgrown weeds, re-roofing and fixing the chimney, trimming big trees, hauling out stuff too old to serve any purpose today.

When the weather turned cold, they started working on the inside. Since the house has been abandoned for so many years (at least a decade, maybe more), I would imagine they have to redo flooring, paint, appliances, cabinetry, and such.

And, depending on their desires, they might even have to knock out walls, redo the electrical system and plumbing, and certainly undertake a ton of cleanup.

But it’s nice when a house gets another shot at serving and protecting a family that wants it, isn’t it?

Gotcha Day!

You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. ~Kahlil Gibran, Lebanese-American writer, poet, and visual artist

Happy first Gotcha Day Anniversary to my favorite Monkey!

 

Catching a Snooze

Finish each day before you begin the next, and interpose a solid wall of sleep between two. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, American essayist, abolitionist, and poet

Totally relaxed

Eyes shut, limbs splayed, soft breathing

Finally asleep

 

Time for Landon to Go Away!

When it snows, you have two choices: shovel or make snow angels. ~Author unknown

This week, we finally got one of those snowfalls like we had when I was a kid.

Back then, I’d have been happy to make snow angels and get a day off from school; today, the shoveling task falls to me.

Sigh. Adulting can be hard.

“Landon” arrived on Tuesday afternoon with plenty of rain, which transitioned to freezing rain, ice, and eventually, snow as the temperatures fell. By Wednesday evening, we’d had 4.5 inches of the mess.

Then came Thursday, when we got another 2-3 inches. Snow fell much of the day, accompanied by a driving north wind, which pushed the white stuff into deep drifts and made transportation treacherous and inadvisable. Temperatures well below freezing and a wind chill lingering below zero didn’t help matters.

But it was pretty.

This is Monkey’s first snow (well, at least the first one he remembers). And he didn’t particularly want to leave the safety and shelter of the patio:

Despite the nice tunnel I’d shoveled for him:

After some encouragement, he took an exploratory lap around the fence line before scurrying back beneath a patio table:

And giving me The Look:

But, because I know how much most of us love seeing photos from other parts of the world, I’ve captured a few to show you.

Enjoy, or just be glad it’s not happening in your neck of the woods!

Remember, the snow was blowing, so that’s why this looks fuzzy:

I got this one through a window to show how deep the snow is:

By Friday, the sun returned, though it was still below zero. And you’ll have to take my word for it because WordPress isn’t letting me upload any of the pretty shots I took.

Sigh. Yes, Adulting is hard.

Yuck! Gross!

Silent gratitude isn’t very much use to anyone… ~G. B. Stern, English author

Monkey here.

Recently, Mama bought me a big bag of dog food and, because it didn’t have one of those self-closing flaps to keep it fresh, she dumped it into a plastic bin on wheels she’d bought for my predecessor (St. Dallas).

Like so:

But there was a problem lurking within. Check the photo again and see if you can find it. I’ll wait.

Finished?

Good. For those who can’t tell (and for those who wonder if their guess was right), it’s the kibble.

Or rather, the particles in and around the kibble.

Here, have another look:

Nasty, huh?

At first, Mama blamed herself. She thought the kibble at the bottom of the bag had become the kibble on top of the bin, so that’s why there were so many crumbs.

But then she took her measuring scoop and dug around. Imagine how she felt when she saw those disgusting dusty pieces everywhere!

That’s when she called the Purina people.

They were very nice and apologetic. Denied reformulating their Pro Plan so it would have crumbs attached to the kibble. Blamed “mishandling” of the bag for the problem and promised to send Mama some coupons for a later purchase.

The next day, Mama called Chewy, which had sent her the bag in the first place.

They, too, were apologetic and sprang into action, promising to send us a brand new bag a couple of days later.

FREE OF CHARGE!!

How cool is that?!

Since then, the Purina people lived up to their promise and sent us three coupons for money off on the purchase of their dog food. And the Chewy people sent us a big bag of my brand of dog food … without charge.

And the kibble in that bag was just fine:

I guess it’s true what Mama says: the squeaky wheel gets the grease. In this case, Mama’s complaining got me food and coupons (and no, we’re not getting paid by the Purina people or the Chewy people for telling the world what outstanding customer service they’ve got!).

I’m learning my Mama’s a stickler about protesting if she needs to, but at the same time, she firmly believes in giving praise where it’s due. She wasn’t interested in blaming somebody for the nasty batch of food, but she wasn’t going to let the problem fester either.

She can be a tiger, that Mama — glad I’ve got her on my side!