Tom Ryan's Blog, page 3

Little did we know!

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This from four years ago. We’d thought he was done growing. Meanwhile, 43 pounds later…

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Night Lessons with Emily

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When the world is spinning out of control, as ours currently is, I retreat to simplicity. I practice gratitude, especially on days when it seems there’s less to be grateful for. I take note of blessings big and small, even if I have to hunt them down. I do my best to extend one or two to others on the way. I say my prayers, to no one specific—or maybe t…

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A Little Mary Shelley Goes a Long Way

We are currently on the crown of the little rise in our backyard. Samwise is sitting at attention, watching the woods that lead down to the river. Emily is stretched out at my feet, a black panther looking both regal and calm, her legs splayed in a relaxed manner that belies her recent surgery. I’m in one of the Adirondack chairs by the fire pit. We simply could not stay inside this afternoon. The rain showers stopped, dark clouds drifted east, and patches of blue sky look down on us on this cool afternoon. I’m not sure it will even reach sixty degrees today. How’s that for a change?

We have taken this week to ourselves as I come to terms with the most recent news cycle. It can be overwhelming at times. Surveying those I care about, it’s clear that we’re all in the same boat in the summer of 2020. We’re exhausted by the last three and half years, and COVID-19 and the inability of this country to rally around the developing science and intelligence is depressing. To think that many make it their life’s work to spread disinformation both saddens and sickens me.

I keep returning to that Asimov quote. I know I’ve shared it before, but it continues to fit us.

“There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there has always been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that ‘my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge.”

In 1995, Carl Sagan had similar beliefs in his Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark, and predicted the coming of “a kind of celebration of ignorance.”

What’s a soul to keep from drowning in this sea of despair?

Author Mary Shelley suggested, “There is but one solution to the intricate riddle of life; to improve ourselves, and contribute to the happiness of others.”

These days, my goal is to improve myself and “contribute to the happiness of others.”

To that end, I’ve been spending less time on social media—none on Facebook. I’ve thrown myself into reading essays by those I admire, poetry from the lyrically gifted, and books about nutrition to further my physical reclamation, while I help Emily with hers.

Earlier in the week, a friend miraculously survived a widowmaker heart attack. Not many folks make it through one of those. That had us talking about our near-death experiences, comparing notes. His life flashed before his eyes instantly, while mine paraded on for several weeks in 2016. We both understand that now that we’ve walked that line, our view of things is forever different.

Wrestling with that anew helped me with my perspective this week, as did the good news of his unlikely survival.

Centering our lives around Emily while she recovers from cruciate surgery means both Samwise and I have been sacrificing much of what fulfills us, to make sure she does not feel abandoned. We walk less, and only once a day, and we spend more time inside with her. Not this afternoon, though. These sweetest of summer hours are a rare gift. Tomorrow we begin a ninety-something heatwave again. The windows will be closed, the air conditioner turned on, and we won’t be bathing in any chilly backyard air. But for a little while longer, we get a preview of September.

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On Wednesday, Emily had an appointment with Dr. Rachael Kleidon to remove the staples from her knee. All is well. Rachael wrote, “Her incision looks like a dream! She’s so happy, wagging her tail constantly! She thinks our treats taste like garbage, though!”

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Rachael’s last exclamation reaffirms what I already knew, Emily’s spunk and spirit have returned. She’s all wiggles and wags whenever I suggest we go outside, and I have to keep her from bounding to the door!

Due to COVID-19, Samwise and I were outside waiting for Emily, when Rachael sent that text out to us.

How strange it is not to be with my friends during their appointments. This is new to me. This current life is unique for all of us. I’m reminded of that each time I walk into the Jackson post office and see nearly everyone with masks on. Most days, it’s just what I’ve come to know. But every now and again it hits me, and I realize how drastically different everything is.

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I do not hide from the sad fact that more than 130,000 of our country people have died. It’s impossible to do that. But I also try not to dwell on it.

Lately, to escape, I’ve been spending time in Barnstable, New Hampshire. It is the best medicine.

Wait? You’ve never heard of Barnstable?

It’s the name I’ve given my lilting little village north of the notches in the novel I’m writing. It helps to have a place like to visit each day, spending time with characters who continue to develop either on Black Wing Farm or at McGowan’s Mercantile on the town common. Barnstable is a front porch kind of place, where people know—and like (most of them anyway)—their neighbors.

One of the aspects of writing a novel is coming up with fitting names. I’m a fan of Charles Dickens, and he was the best at this. Names should mean something, after all. They should be memorable.

It is a joy to visit with characters born of my imagination, watching them go about their days. It reminds me of my years writing about provincial Newburyport, where many of the characters seemed to have stepped out of a Frank Capra script.

Between my visits to Barnstable, experimenting (and creating) healthy recipes, putting Emily through her rehabilitation exercises, and walking with Samwise each morning, I am cobbling together envelopes of communion that feed this weathered soul.

Each day I try doing a good deed for another, often a stranger. This morning’s was noting the elderly couple behind me in line at Hannaford. We were all masked, but by their eyes, you could tell they were not feeling their best. Yet they were kind, and, I’d like to think, very much in love. I say this by the way they looked at each other and whispered and touched and, dare I say, giggled.

Before paying, I asked for a $25 gift certificate. When I left, I handed them the gift card. You would have thought they’d won the lottery!

What a gift that was—to me. Twenty-five dollars was nothing compared to what it did to lift my spirits.

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No, this summer is not what any of us wanted it to be. Yes, it sometimes truly sucks and pins us down to the point where we feel the world’s weight and all our worries. But there are ways out. Even if they only come in small doses for now.

I pray we will all get through this without too much more damage and death. I pray for your safety and for that of your friends and family. And I pray that there will come a day when we’ll take what we’ve learned at the darkest times, and use it to light our future.

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“The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we out to say.”~ Shakespeare

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Finding Our Way in the Mid-Summer

Late yesterday, heat still simmered, and humidity bubbled, but we were visited by an enchanting breeze. It swayed the birch trees, spinning their leaves, and renewed us with its kiss. It was the first time in two months the black flies and mosquitoes were not an issue. And the first summer evening when it was comfortable enough to sit outside.

Before Em…

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I Know a Place

I know a place where the river runs so deep, it appears to stand still. Samwise and I headed there this morning. But first, we had to round the pond where the haze set the tone for the day to come. It was so thick we could scarcely see some of the mountains. The sun, usually brilliant this time of day, was a muted by the soupy air, save where it touched…

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River Stones and Fireflies

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The night before I broke down our bed and put the mattress on the floor, as part of turning our hobbit hole into Emily’s rehab center until deep November, I woke up one night to see Emily sitting up and looking out the window. She was so rapt; she did not take notice when I sat up to look out the window with her. Fireflies! Lovely, magical, summer-sent …

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Ocean and Bison Dreams

One of my friends is at her vacation home on Cape Cod this week, and I admit to some envy. Closing my eyes, I envision the salty sea’s scent; the rolling tide; seagulls riding the wind, crying out; sand under and around my bare feet.

I am a man of the mountains, of pastoral settings, verdant valleys, woodlands where the trees share their secrets, and crystal streams sing their songs. Yet, I do love the sea for all her charms and mysteries.

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Three years ago, when I took my first road trip at fifty-six years of age, it was only Samwise with me. I had Bill, the VW Beetle convertible. We drove down the east coast to Savannah, cut across the south until we hit the Gulf Coast, and spent time in the desert and the Sierra Nevada. So many memories. One day stands out above the others, though. Before dawn, we visited Sequoia National Park. I was stunned, inspired, and left in awe. It’s strange to say I underestimated giants, but I had. When we departed, we drove with the top down, descending from the highlands to rolling hills, to the orange groves below. Sam’s ears were flapping; his nose rode high to inhale the changing scents.

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After a long, uneventful drive, we made our way west to Santa Barbara. Oh my! Memories of the glistening Pacific, the palm trees—vastly different than the Sequoias, the salt air, the color of that distant and glorious sea; every bit of these makes me sigh. I am there again.

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There is nothing like the sea.

So while I’m thinking of my friend walking Teddy on the beach this morning, before the crowds on the Cape get to be too much, I genuinely am envious.

I wonder when, if ever, the kind of road trips we’ve taken over the last three years will be possible in the future. It’s not prudent or safe as COVID-19 continues to rage like a western wildfire. I no longer trust hotel rooms, and I would not want to subject others to any bit of virus I might have. The way to go is not to flit and fly from one place to the next, day after day. It’s to go and stay at a location, responsibly.

Yesterday, when I decided Emily needed a change of scenery from our hobbit hole after her surgery, we took a ride to get beets and kale at the Grand View Farm Stand in Conway. The crowds were incredible. The backed-up traffic. The throngs of people walking through North Conway village, very few with masks. Every hotel with ‘no vacancy’ signs out. Do folks not realize the seriousness of what we are facing, I wonder. Or is it that they do not care. Is it ignorance or arrogance?

My friend Tracy wears her mask dutifully when out and about. Her husband made fun of her and refused to wear one. It was an “overreaction” on her part. A few weeks ago, the father of a friend of his, the kind of man who was never sick a day in his life, caught the coronavirus. Within a week, he was dead. Tracy’s husband now wears a mask.

While watching couples walking hand-in-hand through the village, there were several where the woman wore a mask, but the man did not.

I’ve come to see the wearing of masks as science and safety over convenience. Of empathy and consideration, over ignorance and selfishness.

My friend Betsi at the West Side Road farm stand chases those with masks away.

“Please,” she tells them, “I don’t want to get sick. And I don’t want you or those I care about to get sick either. Please take this seriously.”

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Emily is recovering nicely. It’s only four days post-surgery, and she is getting back to being herself. Her tail is wagging more; her ears ride higher. She hates her crate, almost as much as I do, but goes in it willingly when asked with respect. When Samwise and I return from morning walks that feel akin to two friends who have had a vital portion of themselves amputated, we are all reunited, and there is joy. Letting her out of her jail, I have to calm Emi down. She wants to jump and lick, frolic, and rub against me in celebration. She so wants to wrestle Samwise.

Four yoga mats help her scoot around our little hobbit hole with ease, even as she continues to hold her right leg up, that it is hard to keep track of her. She follows me everywhere, since the only time she is in her crate is when Samwise and I go walking.

In the backyard, where I only take her so she can urinate and defecate, I realize I do not need her sling to hold her up. But she is leashed. Thank goodness. For this morning, she wanted to take flight! It was a good sign, and the first belly laugh I’ve had in a week.

This rehab will last nearly five months. It will be worth it in the end. But five months is a long time. No wonder I’m dreaming of traveling. Last night I sent a text to an Iowa friend.

“What do you say we all meet up in Colorado when this shit passes over?”

“Any particular part of Colorado?”

Not really. In our two western trips, it’s the one state we’ve not been in, other than a quick early morning visit to Mesa Verde National Park and a night in Durango.

With the pandemic lockdown earlier this year and our current Emily lockdown, I am dreaming of adventure again. Blessed are our memories and imagination.

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Three years ago today, Samwise and I were in the Badlands, hanging out one last time with the bison. We took a back road into the National Park and saw a herd a hundred yards away. We pulled over, got out of Bill, and sat on the side of the road, watching them graze. There were no other humans within at least a mile. For the second time of that trip, bison came to us. Closer and closer they moved as if they did not care we were there. Within a half an hour, they formed a semi-circle close to us. A bull ventured forward, his tongue swishing effortlessly, seeking us out. A good sign, a ranger told me, “Means they are relaxed.” He stuck his tongue out, slowly moved his massive head in our direction, now just feet away. Another ranger told me about this in Montana.

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“It’s one of the ways they smell.”

Closer still.

Both Samwise and I were mesmerized and comfortable by their nearness. The bull lowered his head and then raised it. Snout-to-freaking remarkable-snout, bison and canine touched with the softness of a feather. Two species coming together. Two worlds. A sense of an understanding I’ll never know.

With my health, being what it was, I cried as we left the bison that morning, headed toward home. I knew I might never see them again.

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We saw them in several places last year, taking joy in introducing Emily to their majesty. Once again, Samwise received a kiss. This time, I captured it.

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Yes, thank goodness for memories. Thank goodness for dreams. I hope we Americans can learn to show the same responsibility and patience for this dreadful virus that the three of us are now exercising with Emily’s restructured knee.

Please, everyone, be safe. Try to take care of one another. Wear a mask. It’s a way of being kind. Treat each other as Samwise and the bison do.

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Hafiz: "Now is the time to know that all you do is sacred."

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I feel for Samwise. He’s lost his way and needs to find his purpose again. There is no doubt he will. For that’s what he does.

At home, he’s indifferent to Emily’s surgery, and Emily herself. He’s not the least bit curious about what has occurred to her. But the last two mornings, when we were on the trails, he was out of sorts. His usual role is to tak…

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Rainy Monday Morning Musings

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There is no sun in this dawn hour; only rain born from yesterday’s thunderstorms. The rivers have been running low since the end of the snowmelt, and the forest and fields are parched. Local milkweed, the nectar of the butterflies, have been struggling to keep from curling. This weather will give new life to the smaller, damaged plants.

The summer scent…

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Emily’s Hero’s Journey

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This morning, I noted sadly, Mother Merganser no longer has thirteen young ones following her about the pond. Now, there are eleven. There was no sign of mourning as the group paddled placidly above their reflections through the rising mists of dawn.

The four Canada geese remain in their favored end of the pond. They floated and were stationary in the w…

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