Sara Tucker's Blog, page 4

Why I Should Be President

Ever since I had a complete nervous breakdown for two days last spring, I have been wondering what to do with the rest of my life, and this morning, while peeling carrots for chicken curry, it came to me: I should run for president! Consider:
(1) I have never before run for public office and I have no political experience of any kind. This alone should endear me to millions of voters at both ends of the political spectrum.
(2) I happen to be a woman, so my presidency would be just as historic as Hillary's but without all that baggage, since I have never met Henry Kissinger or Dick Morris or any of those people.
(3) I have a nice husband. He would make a fine First Whatever. He is an immigrant, but the right kind of immigrant. Meaning that he comes from a country that is part of NATO.
(4) I can read (handy when using a teleprompter) and write (handy for signing bills into law).
(5) I do not have a dog. After I am elected, I will need to get one (every White House family should have a dog). Deciding what kind of dog I should get will spark a national debate, one that diverts media attention during my first 100 days. This is when I plan to sneak controversial legislation through Congress—i.e., while the dog debate is going on and attention is diverted.
(6) I love the arts. Every artist should vote for me. We will do lots of art projects while I'm in the Oval Office.
(7) I have not named any buildings after myself, so if you decide to name your building after me (because I'm the first woman prez and artists love me and all that), you can be the first.
(8) I am not as elderly as my potential rivals, both of whom are due for a major stroke or something. At least Ben Carson seems to think so, and he's a doctor so he should know.
(9) I am basically of sound mind, despite that wee episode back in April, which I will fully explain as soon as Donald Trump publishes his tax returns.
(10) Speaking of tax returns, I have filed one every year since 1972 and I can prove it. I used to spread everything out on the kitchen table but now I use Turbo Tax (like Mrs. Sanders). I have never been audited. Somewhere I read that never being audited is not necessarily a good thing (it means you might be paying too much), but for me it is.
Bonus: I have never been to prison, except to visit friends and relatives. My husband did once spend time in a Zambian jail cell, but that was before I knew him. Besides, he was never formally charged with a crime, and ultimately he escaped. If you want more details, you can read them here.

Why I Didn't Write This Week

Fakarava Lagoon on Bora Bora. This is where I was, mentally, on the evening of June 27. Photo: Grégoire Le BaconI was actually sitting right where I am now, on my living room sofa in Avon-sur-Seine, watching a YouTube video about Bora Bora, when I heard the thunk. It was nearly 7 p.m., and the street below our apartment was streaming with rush-hour traffic.   The thunk was followed by dead silence and then a shout.   That thunk, I thought, was a car hitting an object that was not very solid. Possibly a bicyclist or a pedestrian.   My husband had gone down the street to Le Smile, the neighborhood pub, to have a beer with his friend Pascal.   I thought, Patrick should be almost home by now.   I thought, maybe I should investigate.   I thought, but maybe I’ll just sit here and watch this Bora Bora video instead. Because if something bad is happening down there, it’s really not my business. There is nothing I can do. And Patrick will be home soon. So I’ll just finish watching this video and then we’ll have dinner.   And then the phone rang. And I thought oh, shit.   A man’s voice said in heavily accented English: “Your husband has been in an accident. He is in the street. He is okay. The doctor is here.”   There was some muffled discussion and my husband’s voice came on the line.   “Hello, darling. I’ve been hit by a car. I’m just across the street from the Carrefour Market.”   “I’m coming.”   Eight days later, Patrick came home from l’hopital de Fontainebleau with a broken pelvis and some spectacular bruises. His arms were wrapped in gauze, and there was a big bandage on his head. I went to the pharmacy for a wheelchair, a walker, pain medicine, sleeping pills, bandages, and compression socks.
   That is the number one reason why I didn’t write this week. Or last week. Or the week before. The accident happened 25 days ago.

Malintent: Airport Scanners in the Era of ISIS

This morning, as I was rifling through an online archive of stuff I wrote several years ago for Condé Nast Traveler I came across this ancient blog post about airport security (below), which mentions something called Malintent. The scanning system, which Homeland Security was developing at the time, was supposed to read your mind and warn the nation's supercops if you were planning to commit a crime. I, for one, assumed the crime would take place in midair, or perhaps on the runway, unless Malintent stepped up to save the day. Needless to say, the entire scenario sounded very Orwellian and sinister.   Given recent events, I decided to check what was happening with Malintent. According to the DHS website, they're still working on it (it's now in a testing-and-tinkering phase).   Europeans were not too keen on the scanning booths that were emigrating from America in 2008. Maybe they realized their limitations. It is hard to imagine how even Malintent might have prevented what happened in Brussels this week. Obviously, the world has changed a lot since the spyware development program began. By the way, the proper name for Malintent is Future Attribute Screening Technology, or FAST. 
October 31, 2008Europe Balks at the Scanning Booth
The future of security scanning?
AP Photoby Sara Tucker
Invasion of the body scanners!
Digital penetration!
The TSA wants to see you naked!
   Such were the warnings when scanners that bare all began cropping up in the nation's airports last year, starting in Phoenix. "Are you up for this?"  Slate  asked its readers as JFK and LAX stood in line to receive the equipment. "Are you ready to get naked for your country?"
   Then came this year's rollout and another spate of headlines. "Body-scanning machines that show images of people underneath their clothing are being installed in 10 of the nation's busiest airports," announced  USA Today  in June, calling the proliferation "one of the biggest public uses of security devices that reveal intimate body parts."
   But apart from the media and the  ACLU , nobody seemed to care. Instead of an invasion of privacy or an Orwellian threat to their personhood, most passengers caught in the bovine shuffle through airport security perceived the glass booths as just another boring obstacle in the long, dull slog to their departure gates. That's because they "have no idea how graphic the images are," contends the ACLU's  Barry Steinhardt .
   "In a nation infamous for its loud and litigious protesters, the silence, the absolute and utter silence on this issue is screaming," fumed a reader at  Slashdot .
Now, however, the scanners are popping up in European airports, and the Europeans are saying  not so fast . Citing "serious human rights concerns," EU lawmakers last week called for "a detailed study of the technology before it is used." Germany denounced the equipment as "nonsense."
The word from America: Get over it. Body scanners are "the wave of the future," a TSA official told USA Today back in June. "We're just scratching the surface of what we can do with whole-body imaging."
   In the works:  A scanner that can read your mind . " Like an X-ray for bad intentions " is the way Fox News describes Malintent, a contraption that uses sensors and imagers to determine whether a passenger, say, is planning to blow up the plane.
   "There is a point at which you think--I can't write about this, it's a joke or a skit," notes technology blogger  Renee Blodgett . "But it's not." Still in the testing phase, Malintent looks "very promising," according to a DHS spokesman.
   To those who would dismiss such gadgetry as " security theater ," a reader of the "common sense" blog  Ugly Ass Opinion  ("Common sense still kicks ass") has this to say: "Homeland Security will now be sending an agent to live in each of your homes to make sure you're not a terrorist. . . . You must feed and clothe him at your own expense. He will bring his own toothpaste, though."

Further reading:
* India's use of brain scans in courts dismays critics  (International Herald Tribune, September 2008)
* The Things He Carried : Airport security in America is a sham (Atlantic Monthly, November 2008)
* Homeland Security detects terrorist threats by reading your mind  (Fox News, September 2008)
* Homeland  (video): A seven-minute "thriller" from the  48 Hour Film Project  (Best Editing, 2008)

You Could Win a Dryer!

That is the subject line in an email that came today from Town and Country magazine, to which it seems I subscribe. A dryer? I had to know more, so I clicked. Sure enough, Hearst (the magazine’s publisher) is giving away a General Electric Gas Dryer With Stainless Steel Drum and Steam. For clothes. I don’t know what I was expecting. A dryer for apples, maybe? Or hair? Or coffee beans? Or . . . well, anyway, this one is for wet clothes. Do I want a dryer? No, I don’t. I already have one. Two in fact. One in Vermont, and one in France. So I didn’t enter the sweepstakes.
    But it got me thinking: Why would Town and Country, a posh magazine if ever there was one, come after me with a prosaic household appliance? I guess because Hearst also owns Good Housekeeping and lumps its subscribers together, but still. If I were into housekeeping (which I’m not), a nice prize would be a butler. Or a two-week vacation in the Bahamas, or a chalet in the French Alps.
    The incident reminded me of the time my husband, newly arrived in Fontainebleau (also posh, at least by our standards), was invited via a telemarketer to attend a luncheon about sweaters. It was a free lunch, so he went. The lunch was in a restaurant on Rue Grande, and there were about 40 people there. Everyone at his table thought they had come to hear about sweaters and enjoy French cuisine. Wrong: The presentation was about mattresses. To this day, he cannot explain it.    PS: If you need a dryer, feel free to use my name. It seems you have two chances to win. Runner up gets a top-loading dryer with interior drum light. Your housekeeper is gonna love it.

Hunting Giants: A Spring Pilgrimage Through Western North Carolina in Search of the American Chestnut

Lumberjacks stand beside old-growth chestnut trees in North Carolina around 1910. (Forest History Society, Durham, N.C.)
“Imported on plant material in the late 19th century and first discovered in 1904 in New York City, the blight—an Asiatic fungus to which our native chestnuts had very little resistance—spread quickly. In its wake it left only dead and dying stems. By 1950, except for the shrubby root sprouts the species continually produces (and which also quickly become infected), the keystone species that had covered 188 million acres of eastern forests had disappeared.” —The American Chestnut Foundation
By Forrest MacGregor In a region famous for its picturesque settings, Francis Cove is exceptional, a rather largish bowl with an encircling ridgeline in the mountains of Western North Carolina, about two miles from downtown Waynesville. The cove faces more or less northeast and opens into a little valley. In the nineteenth century, this area produced some of the largest American chestnut trees ever recorded.Except for the high tannin content and the resulting rot resistance of the wood, chestnut appears not to have been much valued as a timber species. It splits too easily for framing uses, and it often grew with a twist, somewhat offset by the fact that it might grow 100 feet before branches disturbed the trunk. This made it possible to get very long, unblemished beams from chestnut.Around Waynesville, its chief value was for tannin extraction, and the Champion Paper Company of my childhood was the Champion Chestnut Extract factory of my father’s. Times change. The hill folk used to harvest the chestnut mostly for the tannin, and they called it “acid wood.” It was the chief source of natural tannin in the U.S. before the blight, and there was so much chestnut that many of the extraction factories were able to continue operation into the 1960s using standing dead stumps.
    Somewhere I had heard that the largest American chestnut on record was about twelve feet in diameter. One day I repeated this bit of hearsay in a casual conversation with someone at the American Chestnut Foundation(the goal of the ACF is to develop a blight-resistant tree and restore the American chestnut to its native range in eastern woodlands); one thing led to another, and retired UNCA professor Dr. Garrett Smathers dug up an actual reference, a tiny mention in Charlotte Hilton Green’s 1939 book Trees of the South. There she states, “Perhaps the largest of our American chestnuts was one in Francis Cove, western North Carolina, which had a diameter of seventeen feet and a height of more than one hundred feet.” Another colleague found a similar reference in a 1915 issue of American Forestry, which stated that “a tree with a diameter of seventeen feet has been recorded from Francis Cove in North Carolina.” Well, Garrett Smathers actually knew where Francis Cove was, and recalled knowing someone who knew where the stump of that old giant was. That’s how these things come about: threads of memory, oral history, dim recollections, some persistence and curiosity sometimes lead to the real thing. Thus began a pilgrimage in search of evidence of the perimeter of that tree. Garrett dug up some names, including Gene Christopher, who was a relative of Garrett’s late friend Mr. “Pink” Francis.
A Visit to Francis CoveFrancis Cove has been populated with the Francis and Christopher families for quite some time. In 1887, William Francis chose the site for a water-powered gristmill, now on the National Register of Historic Places. Today, Francis Cove is home to Christopher Farms, a small orchard that has been in family hands for generations.Gene and Doug Christopher run not only the orchard but also a small retail produce enterprise, a slightly modernized version of the old mountain stores, which you can find today only in truly remote parts of Western North Carolina. The Christopher Farms store sells real sourwood honey (not clover with a sourwood label), a wide variety of apples, locally produced eggs, and 100 percent pure maple syrup. (A poster above the shelf of maple syrup informs you that Aunt Jemima syrup is 2 percent maple and the maple content of Log Cabin syrup is zero.) One of the store’s niceties is that you can call up and someone will take your order over the phone and box up the groceries so your granddaughter can pick them up—as one young woman was doing I arrived at the store.With me was Dr. Paul Sisco, a geneticist for the American Chestnut Foundation and a world expert on this species. Our visit had a purpose other than getting us outside on a promising early spring day. We were trying to install a small demonstration chestnut planting at the Western North Carolina Nature Center in Asheville, forty minutes away, and we thought it might be nice to give folks a concrete idea of the actual size of these “redwoods of the East” by placing our kiosk in the center of a gravel pad of the same dimensions as a cross-section of this arboreal monster.When we arrived, Gene (whom I had spoken to earlier on the phone) was off at jury duty and brother Doug was manning the store. Doug managed to break away from the busy phone long enough to walk us outside and point out where we should look. Neither he nor his brother had been up to the site for maybe fifteen or twenty years, and neither could promise that we would find anything. Doug volunteered a couple of interesting items: There were actually two big trees, the second nearly as large as the first; in the old days you could turn a cart around inside the larger tree. After giving us directions, Doug returned to the phone, and Paul and I were on our own.Up through the woods we went. I was carrying an arsenal of camera hardware, including a digital camera and a camcorder, a vial for collection of chestnut debris for carbon-14 dating, orange flags to mark the perimeter for photographing, rope, a ruler, just the basics. Paul had about the same amount. Optimists. We stopped in the area where Doug had indicated we would find the first stump and began looking around.As a woodcarver, I have found that chestnut has two distinct features. One is its slight baby-aspirin tint, coming from the tannins that preserve it. The other is its ease of carving, particularly when one is carving contours. As a rough field test, I use my pocketknife to shave through the exterior rot of a fallen limb, scrape down to solid wood, and then carve a curved cup. If it is “easy enough” and it is orange, it’s a safe bet it’s chestnut. Since these hills used to be covered with the stuff, it’s a pretty safe bet anyway.Paul and I spent twenty minutes walking around the first site. The earth under our feet had that unmistakable feel of a springy mattress stuffed with centuries of humus, penetrated with the bones of dead trees and stumps—some of them chestnut but none of them large. Trickling invisible water . . . mushy, muddy places where seeps emerged out of sudden dips in the slope . . . wildflowers. Our exploration yielded some briar cuts, a warning from a neighborhood brace of watchdogs, and not much else. Halfway through the first site visit, I returned most of my data-collecting gear to the car.


The Second SiteThe second site was at the top of the abandoned orchard. It had a lot of fallen timber. In the right places, chestnut has the look of driftwood, but here it looked more brown on the exterior. Doug had volunteered a few comments about the out-of-towner who had come up several years ago, planted the orchard between where the two trees once stood, then disappeared, leaving acres of untended trees right next to the impeccably maintained orchards of Christopher farms. The fellow had also overseen the obliteration of the entire mountainside of its timber. “Made his million and went back to Florida” was Doug’s comment on the subject. Paul and I spent another half hour wandering in ever widening circles. The spring ground, even in late March, was beginning to sprout a lot of wildflowers. I felt guilty stepping on the bloodroot, trout lilies, wood anemones, and squirrel corn, and was truly surprised that they were out in such early abundance. I normally don’t even look until late April or early May. Much of the fallen timber turned out to be chestnut, based on my little field test, but we were unable to locate the stump of the old giant. There was a lot of water and moisture on this side of the mountain, perhaps accounting for faster rot (and poorer fortunes for two amateur giant hunters) as well as for the size of these huge trees.Nor were we able to find chestnut sprouts. The leaves were not out yet, but you can still usually identify them. Paul had heard that where you find chestnuts easily today is in places where they grew most poorly in the past. That’s because many trees have problems growing in those places. But where they formerly grew best, any tree can grow, and the niche of the chestnut was quickly filled with other species. In fact, some biologists say that the best thing ever to happen to biodiversity in our mountains was chestnut blight, since the more commercially valuable oaks, poplars, and hickory colonized the empty chestnut stands. (These biologists don’t get invited to my house for dinner much!)
Vanishing TracesWe went back down to report to Doug that we had found nothing and were fortunate to run into Gene, who had just gotten off jury duty. He took a few minutes to run us back up the hill and point out exactly where the tree had been. We had been looking about 100 yards too far to the left, and he pointed out the little rise and the flat upon which he recollected the stump had been. Gene said that the big tree had yielded twelve to fourteen chords of acid wood, or about 1,800 cubic feet. His grandfather and father had harvested it around the turn of the century. He also said that the forest we were looking at had already been cut twice in his lifetime (he was about sixty years old) and that it was within twenty years of another harvest. That would mean one heck of a lot of productivity for this site, and might explain why the biggest chestnuts were found here.Gene drove back down the hill to the busy store, and Paul and I trudged through the woods to the designated place, but we were unable to find even a hint of the big tree—which is pretty much what one would expect when a tree has been gone for 100 years. It’s a miracle that there was any crumb left fifteen years ago when Gene recalled last seeing it.We just don’t find big chestnuts stumps any more. Even the biggest stumps can’t last forever. But at least we did get to the site. The earth that supported these big trees remains intact, no matter how many “foreigners” mow it down from time to time. It can support the chestnut again. All that’s missing in the equation is the chestnut, and we’re working on that. I’m planning a visit back there in 700 years to see the replacement trees. Paul, unfortunately, will be too old by then to go with me. But I’ll take some pictures for him.And the site did yield something for me: a rusted lucky horseshoe, complete with a nail or two. Maybe off a horse and cart that used to turn around in the old stump? I’d like to think that, anyway.  Forrest MacGregor is an engineer, inventor, and artist who hails originally from the mountains of Western North Carolina. He currently lives in Randolph, Vermont. Much of his art and writing explores modern man’s relationship to technology.

Darcy Daniels: My Most Helpless Moment

Darcy Daniels and her husband were living in my hometown of Randolph, Vermont, when their three-year-old daughter became critically ill. Today Darcy sits on the Family Advisory Council at Massachusetts General Hospital, teaches history at Mount Ida College, and writes a blog for parents of chronically ill children. The following post, used with permission, is from her blog Brave Fragile Warriors. 
By Darcy DanielsAs the mom of a chronically ill kid, there are things that get thrown at me all the time with doctors, nurses, school nurses, pharmacies, insurance companies, etc. My daughter takes a nice cocktail of daily medicines, along with blood sugar checks and other concerns due to her immunosuppression. Yesterday alone, I had two calls from the school nurse, two from the specialist’s office about prescriptions and appointments, another to confirm an ultrasound, and one visit to the primary care physician, for (of all things) a sprained knee. There are no breaks with this child. It’s a lot, and it can wear on you. However, I have grown as a person and a parent since Wendy was originally diagnosed, and sometimes when I’m feeling a tad overwhelmed, it’s helpful to visit my most helpless moment to see where I am today, how far I’ve come, how far we’ve all come. Writer, history prof, mom: Follow Darcy on
Word Press at Brave Fragile Warriors.    It was one of the first weeks that we were in the PICU of Massachusetts General Hospital. We had been transferred first from our local hospital to Dartmouth, and then transferred again to Mass General. Wendy was three and a half, and normally active to the point of hyperactivity. She was always running, always joking, always testing the limits of EVERYTHING including my sanity. Then her illness came and she was in terrible pain, she was dehydrated, her kidneys had shut down along with other organ failures. She was in really bad shape.    Doctors came in and out, whole teams of them, explaining to us what was going on, what was happening, what they were trying, how long we would be there. It was terrifying and isolating and we had to learn a whole new vocabulary over night. I would stand at rounds and take notes, of the doctors, their names, their specialties, what they were saying, what I didn’t understand, and then after they left, I would sit down and google the terms and try and piece together what the hell was going on.    It was like living in a nightmare.    Wendy was largely unconscious, and had tubes in and out of her with medicines and different solutions. I had a flurry of emotions: fear, isolation, uncertainty, but the number one thing I felt was helpless.    As a parent, I was used to calling the shots for everything (with my husband of course). What Wendy ate, what she wore, making sure she brushed her teeth, making sure she had the proper number of minutes for her time out. Worrying whether she’d make her milestones, if she was eating enough vegetables, you know the drill. Too many decisions that we as parents make ourselves crazy over, wishing there were a no-fail guide book to read and learn from.    Likewise, every parent has felt helpless at some point. We all have to let our kids experience life on their own terms, and that means getting hurt. How many of us felt helpless when their kid rode with out training wheels for the first time? Sang solo in a musical production? Had to get vaccinations? Had a badly scraped knee? We are helpless because we just have to let the moment happen, but hopeful that it will go as well as it can go. That’s parenthood: responsibility, helplessness, hopefulness, angst and joy.    Early on in Wendy’s illness was when I was the most helpless because I went from being the Primary Parent In Charge, to just sitting there while other people tried to save her life. I couldn’t do much more than answer questions, sign consent forms, try to make sense of it all, and hold her tiny hand. At some point, one of the nurses took pity on us and decided that we should hold Wendy, that it would be good for all of us if we could do this one, simple, thing. But it’s not simple with all the tubes and wires, all the timing, all the schedules.    It took the nurse the better part of an afternoon to plan when to unhook, when to drain, when to unplug certain wires and tubes. Between rounds of dialysis, before labs. Slowly things were capped off and Wendy was ready to be held. They sat me in a chair and brought her the two feet she needed to travel from the hospital bed to my lap.    Here is where the most helpless part kicks in. When they put Wendy in my arms, I was holding her with both of my arms supporting her from beneath. And I couldn’t help it, I started crying, out of the pain that she was suffering and the joy of holding her again, and the uncertainty of our future. The tears just ran down my face. But I couldn’t wipe them. They rolled down my face and splashed onto Wendy, and my arms were pinned beneath her. I couldn’t wipe my own tears and other people had to wipe them for me so they wouldn’t fall on my impossibly sick child and I couldn’t do anything about it.    That was my most helpless moment.    It is unlikely that I will ever be that helpless again, because I know so much more, can do so much more, and Wendy is so much stronger. But it helps to remind myself that even at my most helpless, that people were there to support me, and even at my most helpless, we all made it through.    And we will again.
Darcy Daniels is the mother of two girls and a professor of history at Mount Ida College in Newton, Massachusetts. Her blog is called Brave Fragile Warriors. Check it out here.

Voices From Home: Two Weeks in Tuscany, a Year Germany, and a Great Dane Named Ivan

Addison in Cologne, Germany.For several years now, I’ve had this crazy notion that involves arm-twisting folks from my hometown—as many as possible—into writing down their stories. My dream is a library of personal histories by, for, and about the people of Randolph, Vermont. I began working on the project a few years ago, and the upshot was Korongo, the publishing company that Patrick and I started in the back of his art gallery on Merchant’s Row. Then we closed the gallery and moved to France, and I set the dream aside. But dreams die hard, so recently—while enjoying another balmy winter in France but missing my hometown—I invited some friends with Randolph roots to write up a few stories for Sadie & Company. Daryl Grout wrote about  Two Weeks in Tuscany that marked 32 years of marriage for him and his high-school sweetheart. Joann Farnham Magee responded to my request by sitting down and writing  Ivan’s Story,  a moving account of the months she spent trying to win the trust of an abandoned Great Dane—all last year I followed their encounters on Facebook. Sixteen-year-old Addison Blanchard-Rooney sent me a Letter From Germany, where he is spending his junior year. His letter was, by sheer coincidence, just what I needed—funny and inspiring, a reminder that discomfort can lead to surprise and even awe. For some reason, Randolph produces a lot of good writers. Iceland and Norway, too—must have something to do with long, dark winters. I am grateful to Daryl, Joann, and Addison for their contributions to Sadie & Company, and for helping to get my “Randolph story project” back on track.

Addison J. Blanchard-Rooney: A Letter from Germany

Can any of you recall a time in your life when you were puzzled about how to flush a toilet? Now, I’m aware that that’s a highly unorthodox introduction to any piece of writing, but really; please think on the matter. Does a solid memory not come to mind? For most people, that would make sense. However, that’s a good example of my reality lately. On September 5, 2015, I lived through this very moment. The day I moved to Germany. And that, my friends, welcomes you into the life of becoming an exchange student exactly as all of those brave enough to take on this endeavor are welcomed: that first moment, which in retrospect is the most raw combination of funny, embarrassing, and downright humbling.  To begin more properly, I ought to introduce myself. My name is Addison Blanchard-Rooney, and I’m spending my junior year of high school near Cologne, Germany. I come from a small town in Vermont, and since that first memory of being confused, my life has been a mixture of adventure, new fun experiences, and eye-opening realizations, topped with silly foreign language faux pas, drizzled with deep conversation, and baked for an hour at 300 degrees. (Fahrenheit, mind you—even after nearly five months of being here I still couldn’t tell you that in celsius if my life depended on it.) That’s what I call the recipe of being an exchange student. Up to now it’s been smelling quite good as it’s cooking. I haven’t tasted the end result yet; that part comes in July when I fly back home. But I already know of all the years I’ve cooked, while that may not be many, this will be the one to get a Michelin star.  My daily life here leaves me with no complaints other than the odd half-rain/half-snow weather I’ve most decidedly not gotten used to after coming from my fluffy white winter wonderland of Vermont. I wake up and begin my day most mornings with some sort of German roll topped with varying sausages and spreads. My favorite is liverwurst. I like to remind myself that it’s similar to pâté, to feel fancy.
  I then walk to school, a 15-minute journey through the center of town, before getting to the third biggest high school in Germany, where I learn many things about history and German grammar and biology but where I also am asked by peers to say things like “Donaudampfschiffahrtselektrizitäten-hauptbetriebswerkbauunterbeamtengesellschaft” (to be fair, Germans can’t say it without reading it anyway) and if I like Donald Trump.  So there’s the everyday life and there’s also the big “This is why I’m here” moments. Moments like dreaming in a foreign language for the first time and realizing you finally used a new grammar concept correctly in speech without thinking about it first. (This is hard. For instance, German has five words for “the,” and sentences look like this: “I want at beach swim go, because it hot is.”)   There are the moments when your breath is taken away. This happened to me when I stepped into the main hall of the Cologne train station for the first time and stood like a deer in headlights as I looked up, awestruck as the Cologne Cathedral looming above me, its presence totally tranquil and beautiful but with mocking undertones making me feel ridiculously small and young. Never before was I put in my place by a building.   There are also the more political moments, such as seeing first-hand how the refugee situation is actually being handled. For instance, just 400 meters from my house here, the city government is planning on building a complex for the refugees accommodating 800 people. While almost every individual I’ve met has supported the refugee issue, situations such as this, where the city decides to cram the people together whilst looking past the several zoning regulations about to be broken, really frustrate citizens. After all, Germans are very, very rule-and-order-following people. Just one more of the never-ending list of differences ranging from gender roles to pen styles to lack of bagger at the grocery store. And boy, do Germans love their sales at the supermarket.  I don’t see a time in the near future where the surprises like this will stop coming, and I couldn’t be happier about it. That’s why I came here—to be immersed somewhere totally new. I finally am, and ladies and gentleman, I’m flippin’ loving it.
# # #Addison Blanchard-Rooney is 16, from Randolph, Vermont and currently living in Leverkusen, Germany. His interests span the polar opposites of more sophisticated things such as writing, traveling, cooking, and learning foreign languages, as well as being a typical teenage boy enjoying sleeping in, computer games, and Netflix. He hopes to one day work in international politics, journalism, and/or linguistics, and his bucket list includes skydiving, entering a pie-eating contest, and learning how to whistle. You can follow Addison's blog on Wordpress. 

Joann Magee: Ivan’s Story

By Joann "Jo" Farnham Magee

It all started in early January 2015 when I found a Great Dane lying in a ditch near our home. As I approached him, he raised his head and hobbled to his feet. He didn’t immediately run away, but he made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with me. As I spoke softly to him he started to walk off, and that is when I noticed his leg wound, which was visibly open down to the bone. As I stood watching, he ran into the woods, where he had apparently been living for quite some time given his deteriorating condition. He was so thin and could not put any weight on the wounded leg. The next week or two I saw very little of him. He would go to our pond to drink and then run back into the woods, not giving anyone a chance to get close. My neighbor said that he thought the Dane had been dropped off, as no one in our area had a rental cabin or a large dog—and he has lived in the same place for over fifty years and would know. Mid January we had a light snowfall, and my husband and I went walking into the woods, following the Dane’s tracks in the snow. We were able to see all of his trails, which seemed to just circle around with no definite stopping place.

Lessons in PatienceIn early February, while on a walk, I found the Great Dane’s hideout—his base camp area, which happened to be in the next pasture from our home. Since my first sighting of him I always carried warm hot dogs in my pockets whenever I went walking, for I never knew when I would come upon him. I had at this point named him Ivan, for it seemed like a strong name to me, and for him to survive in the freezing winter without food or a warm shelter was a definite sign of strength. From that day on I started taking food to him twice a day, at the same time every day, sitting for hours through any type of weather, hoping to see him come to eat. It was a long process, which helped me find patience, which is indeed a virtue. Each trip to the pasture, about a quarter of a mile one way, I carried my sitting stool, my phone, my BB gun, a bowl with kibble, a can of dog food, baggies with warm hot dogs and chicken, and a feeding bowl—which happened to be an extra bowl I had for my heifer, Breaker, who I rescued when she was only two months old. I gave Ivan small portions of food initially, as I did not want to give him too much in case his system had a problem processing too much food too soon after having so little so long.    Initially Ivan would appear, see me, then run away back into the woods. I was so tempted to just take him his food and leave, but I thought better of it, as I wanted him to associate food with me, to hear the sound of the can of food opening, to hear my calling his name and know I meant him no harm. Day in and day out I went, morning and night, regardless of the weather, to bring him food. His leg wound looked terrible, but it was no longer open to the bone. To aid in his healing I started putting an antibiotic in his food bowl inside hot-dog pieces.
Hot Dogs and Freezing ColdAfter having Ivan see me each time he came to eat and my leaving trails of hot dogs and chicken that brought him ever closer to me, I was thrilled to see him actually leave the shelter of the wood line and come closer. I neither made any sudden moves nor spoke to him as he approached. I wanted him to know that I would not harm him in any way or make any demands on him.     It was now March, and the weather was getting progressively colder. I would sit for hours in freezing rain, snow, and wind, with temps of a numbing 16 degrees down to zero. I wanted Ivan to know he could count on me to be there always. I found myself praying to the dog Gods for Ivan to surface and to eat. I found myself crying when he didn’t, for I wondered if my presence was keeping him away, thereby prohibiting him to get the nourishment he so sorely needed. Just when I thought he had moved on, he would enter the pasture from a different point. Sometimes when he saw me, he would leave only to circle around and come back from a different direction to eat—progress!
    The owners of the property where Ivan was hanging out were soon to be there camping, which I knew would scare Ivan away, so for the next two weeks, I kept moving Ivan’s food bowl closer to our pasture and away from the area where the owners would be camping. Ivan managed to find his bowl each day and gobbled down his food. A friend gave us a large crate to put in the field so we could make a shelter for Ivan to get out of the wind, rain and cold.
Getting CloserBy the second week of March, Ivan felt comfortable enough with my presence and me hanging around, that I started talking to him, sometimes singing (which I found may have been the cause for him not to appear for two days). I wanted him to get used to me and my voice.
After a lot of coaxing and my gentle voice, he did come up to me and gently took a piece of hot dog out of my hand, but he would immediately cringe and back away, sometimes growling or barking. He would whine while approaching as if to ask me not to hurt him if he came closer, but in no way was he ready to trust me completely. I did not attempt to touch him, as I think that would have taken us back several steps. Both morning and evening meals I would see Ivan go into the crate to grab pieces of hot dogs and chicken I had put inside, but he would not use it as a shelter. He would go back into the woods almost immediately after eating. Then one day toward the third week in March he came and sat beside me and nudged my pockets, as he could smell the hot dogs I had buried in there. I told him I was going to pet him, and although he cringed when he saw my hand, he allowed me to pet him for several minutes. I spoke softly to him and continued for about the next half hour. It was almost dark by then, and I told him I needed to go home and that I would see him tomorrow.

A T-bone SteakMarch was a very cold month for anyone to be out sitting in a pasture—or for finding shelter if they were a stray dog. The temperatures ranged from zero to 17 degrees, with freezing rain and snow hitting my face as I waited and waited for Ivan to appear. My husband kept texting me to see if I was okay and asking how much longer I was going to wait. I think at one time I had waited up to six hours for Ivan to make an appearance as I sat freezing on the little stool I carried with me. Just as I was about to leave and trudge home, feeling totally defeated, he would come out of the woods and bark at me, which I assumed was him either saying “Hello” or “Are you still here?”     The next morning, as I fixed his food bowl, he came to eat, and then just started barking at me loudly and lunging at the same time. This went on for about 40 minutes nonstop. My husband heard him from our house and was worried that I was in danger. I assured him I was fine and that Ivan just had a lot to say. While Ivan was barking at me I would just gently say, “I know, it’s terrible what someone did to you. I would never hurt you.” He was so loud that my pet heifer, Breaker, came running across the pasture to see if I was all right. I had brought Ivan a T-bone steak bone, and after he had finished barking I gave it to him. He immediately carried it to a spot near the fence and devoured it. Breaker, along with some of the younger bulls and heifers who had joined her, stood watch over him to make sure I was okay.
A Miracle—and a SetbackOn March 20, about three months after seeing Ivan for the first time in the ditch, the most miraculous thing happened. I was putting Ivan’s food in his dish and I called for him, saying, “Ivan, breakfast!” and he immediately came loping out of the woods, whining, with his tail up and wagging. He started eating while I still had my hand in his food dish stirring the combination of kibble, hot dogs, chicken, and antibiotics. After he was finished he came to sit beside me, and after a few minutes I asked if he wanted to walk with me a bit. I got up and started walking away. I looked back, and Ivan was following me. I walked along the creek and around into the pasture with Ivan following behind me. I went back to our feeding spot, collected my things, and said, “I am going home now. Do you want to come with me?” and off I went. Ivan was right by my side, and I would stop every few feet to hug him and tell him what a good boy he was. We made it all the way home, but when we got into our yard, Ivan panicked and ran off. Thinking I had moved too fast and expected too much, I was devastated. To watch Ivan run back into the woods broke my heart.
A Disastrous Date
The following day was another huge progress report. At 7:30 a.m., I went as usual to feed Ivan, and after a great bonding experience he again followed me home. He sat with me outside, and when my husband opened the door to come outside, Ivan was very protective of me and barked and lunged at him. I told my husband to go and get a warm hot dog and come out slowly and offer it to Ivan, which he did with great success. We then opened both doors of our house, and Ivan went in one and came out the other about ten times, until he felt certain he was not going to be trapped. Within 20 minutes Ivan was stretched out on our living room floor.
  We had plans to go to brunch with a friend, and when it was time to go, much to my surprise Ivan jumped in the car over me and decided he was going to go too. He would not come out of our car, as if to say, “No, you promised you’d never leave me.” It absolutely tore my heart to pieces to take him out of the car and drive away. My heart was wrenched out of my chest when I looked back and saw Ivan running after our car. I did not want this to happen after working so hard to get him to trust me. I twitched all through brunch and couldn’t wait to get home to Ivan. Everyone was telling me that this was a good thing, that Ivan would know I would leave and come back, but I was panicking thinking that I had totally blown my one chance to finally get Ivan to trust me completely. Sure enough, we get home and there is no sign of Ivan.

Two Long DaysThat evening I took Ivan’s dinner at the normal time and there was no sign of him. After sitting until dusk, I again walked home dejected and feeling guilty. I could not wait for morning to arrive. I was up and out by daybreak with Ivan’s food. It had rained all night and was extremely foggy, and a torrential rain was still coming down, with heavy wind and freezing temperatures. I sat and waited. And waited. No sign of Ivan. I cried hysterically, texting my husband, saying I had blown it, that it was all for nothing, that I had totally blown Ivan’s trust. My husband told me that everything would be fine, to be patient, to not give up.     I sat in the freezing rain for five unending hours of crying, feeling defeated, feeling devastated for Ivan, feeling like a failure, and feeling like a total jerk but knowing I would not go home until I absolutely had to when it got too dark. As I sat there with my head bent to keep the rain and wind out, I heard a whine, and I look up and Ivan is coming through the woods to me. This time, instead of going immediately to his food dish he comes to me and pushes into me. I hug him and cry some more. After he eats, I say, “Let’s go home, Ivan,” and he follows me. We go inside, and Ivan immediately makes himself at home. He lets me give him a bath, as he is covered with pine tar and caked mud. He lets me towel him off, and then we snuggle on the sofa. My heart is swelling for the amount of courage it took for Ivan to make the ultimate sacrifice to trust me.
Love and GratitudeEvery day Ivan was with us was one of great joy and love. He went everywhere with me and for a couple weeks would never leave my side. If I got up to leave the room he was there with me every single time. He loved riding in the car, and he loved going to Home Depot every day on our way to work. He loved walking and did beautifully on a leash. He was my “Baby Boy.” Ivan had many trials and tribulations to overcome. Our visit to the vet found he had arthritis, a degenerative disease in his hind legs which would eventually paralyze him, and several other small issues.    He was almost ten years old, which is amazing, as most Great Danes have a life span of six to eight years. His wound was inoperable, as it had been too long since the initial injury, so it had to heal from the inside out, which takes a long time. Ivan also had to have a cancerous growth removed from his lip, which was benign. He was also bitten by some sort of snake in August, and the bite became infected and had to be lanced. The poor guy just couldn’t catch a break.
  His bad leg started to swell in October, and he began limping badly, some days being much worse than others. We took him to the vet for an X-ray and received the worst news ever. The X-ray showed Ivan’s leg was riddled with a very aggressive bone cancer, leaving very little bone in his leg. The vet said an aggressive cancer at this stage had undoubtedly metastasized into his lungs, and at best Ivan had only a couple of months remaining and that those months would be spent in excruciating pain. The remaining bone was so brittle and thin that his leg could fracture in any given second, so the vet strongly suggested we get Ivan out of pain.    We made the decision to have Ivan put down right then and there, which was not an easy decision to make, yet at the same time it was the easiest decision to make. Ivan had suffered so much already before I found him. We had a wonderful seven months with him, during which he taught us so much and gave us so much love. We could not make him suffer any longer.    Ivan passed away with his head in my lap and my love for him bursting through every fiber of my being. It was an absolute honor and a once-in-a-lifetime experience to have had the opportunity to go on this journey with Ivan, and I will forever be grateful for it and for Ivan.# # #Joann Farnham Magee is a native Vermonter who married her high-school sweetheart—she and Ridge will celebrate 46 years together in November 2016. Jo is a pencil artist, an LP vinyl-record collector, a mother, a grandmother, a Harry Potter fan, an avid reader, and a golfer. She loves to travel and to go back “home” to Randolph, Vermont.
# # #Joann sent me many photos of Ivan, spanning their entire journey together—more than I could fit into a blog post. So I put them into a slideshow, and Joann did a voiceover. I think my favorite image is of the two of them fishing in a nearby pond. —Sara Tucker

Ivan’s Story

By Joann "Jo" Farnham Magee

It all started in early January 2015 when I found a Great Dane lying in a ditch near our home. As I approached him, he raised his head and hobbled to his feet. He didn’t immediately run away, but he made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with me. As I spoke softly to him he started to walk off, and that is when I noticed his leg wound, which was visibly open down to the bone. As I stood watching, he ran into the woods, where he had apparently been living for quite some time given his deteriorating condition. He was so thin and could not put any weight on the wounded leg. The next week or two I saw very little of him. He would go to our pond to drink and then run back into the woods, not giving anyone a chance to get close. My neighbor said that he thought the Dane had been dropped off, as no one in our area had a rental cabin or a large dog—and he has lived in the same place for over fifty years and would know. Mid January we had a light snowfall, and my husband and I went walking into the woods, following the Dane’s tracks in the snow. We were able to see all of his trails, which seemed to just circle around with no definite stopping place.

Lessons in PatienceIn early February, while on a walk, I found the Great Dane’s hideout—his base camp area, which happened to be in the next pasture from our home. Since my first sighting of him I always carried warm hot dogs in my pockets whenever I went walking, for I never knew when I would come upon him. I had at this point named him Ivan, for it seemed like a strong name to me, and for him to survive in the freezing winter without food or a warm shelter was a definite sign of strength. From that day on I started taking food to him twice a day, at the same time every day, sitting for hours through any type of weather, hoping to see him come to eat. It was a long process, which helped me find patience, which is indeed a virtue. Each trip to the pasture, about a quarter of a mile one way, I carried my sitting stool, my phone, my BB gun, a bowl with kibble, a can of dog food, baggies with warm hot dogs and chicken, and a feeding bowl—which happened to be an extra bowl I had for my heifer, Breaker, who I rescued when she was only two months old. I gave Ivan small portions of food initially, as I did not want to give him too much in case his system had a problem processing too much food too soon after having so little so long.    Initially Ivan would appear, see me, then run away back into the woods. I was so tempted to just take him his food and leave, but I thought better of it, as I wanted him to associate food with me, to hear the sound of the can of food opening, to hear my calling his name and know I meant him no harm. Day in and day out I went, morning and night, regardless of the weather, to bring him food. His leg wound looked terrible, but it was no longer open to the bone. To aid in his healing I started putting an antibiotic in his food bowl inside hot-dog pieces.
Hot Dogs and Freezing ColdAfter having Ivan see me each time he came to eat and my leaving trails of hot dogs and chicken that brought him ever closer to me, I was thrilled to see him actually leave the shelter of the wood line and come closer. I neither made any sudden moves nor spoke to him as he approached. I wanted him to know that I would not harm him in any way or make any demands on him.     It was now March, and the weather was getting progressively colder. I would sit for hours in freezing rain, snow, and wind, with temps of a numbing 16 degrees down to zero. I wanted Ivan to know he could count on me to be there always. I found myself praying to the dog Gods for Ivan to surface and to eat. I found myself crying when he didn’t, for I wondered if my presence was keeping him away, thereby prohibiting him to get the nourishment he so sorely needed. Just when I thought he had moved on, he would enter the pasture from a different point. Sometimes when he saw me, he would leave only to circle around and come back from a different direction to eat—progress!
    The owners of the property where Ivan was hanging out were soon to be there camping, which I knew would scare Ivan away, so for the next two weeks, I kept moving Ivan’s food bowl closer to our pasture and away from the area where the owners would be camping. Ivan managed to find his bowl each day and gobbled down his food. A friend gave us a large crate to put in the field so we could make a shelter for Ivan to get out of the wind, rain and cold.
Getting CloserBy the second week of March, Ivan felt comfortable enough with my presence and me hanging around, that I started talking to him, sometimes singing (which I found may have been the cause for him not to appear for two days). I wanted him to get used to me and my voice.
After a lot of coaxing and my gentle voice, he did come up to me and gently took a piece of hot dog out of my hand, but he would immediately cringe and back away, sometimes growling or barking. He would whine while approaching as if to ask me not to hurt him if he came closer, but in no way was he ready to trust me completely. I did not attempt to touch him, as I think that would have taken us back several steps. Both morning and evening meals I would see Ivan go into the crate to grab pieces of hot dogs and chicken I had put inside, but he would not use it as a shelter. He would go back into the woods almost immediately after eating. Then one day toward the third week in March he came and sat beside me and nudged my pockets, as he could smell the hot dogs I had buried in there. I told him I was going to pet him, and although he cringed when he saw my hand, he allowed me to pet him for several minutes. I spoke softly to him and continued for about the next half hour. It was almost dark by then, and I told him I needed to go home and that I would see him tomorrow.

A T-bone SteakMarch was a very cold month for anyone to be out sitting in a pasture—or for finding shelter if they were a stray dog. The temperatures ranged from zero to 17 degrees, with freezing rain and snow hitting my face as I waited and waited for Ivan to appear. My husband kept texting me to see if I was okay and asking how much longer I was going to wait. I think at one time I had waited up to six hours for Ivan to make an appearance as I sat freezing on the little stool I carried with me. Just as I was about to leave and trudge home, feeling totally defeated, he would come out of the woods and bark at me, which I assumed was him either saying “Hello” or “Are you still here?”     The next morning, as I fixed his food bowl, he came to eat, and then just started barking at me loudly and lunging at the same time. This went on for about 40 minutes nonstop. My husband heard him from our house and was worried that I was in danger. I assured him I was fine and that Ivan just had a lot to say. While Ivan was barking at me I would just gently say, “I know, it’s terrible what someone did to you. I would never hurt you.” He was so loud that my pet heifer, Breaker, came running across the pasture to see if I was all right. I had brought Ivan a T-bone steak bone, and after he had finished barking I gave it to him. He immediately carried it to a spot near the fence and devoured it. Breaker, along with some of the younger bulls and heifers who had joined her, stood watch over him to make sure I was okay.
A Miracle—and a SetbackOn March 20, about three months after seeing Ivan for the first time in the ditch, the most miraculous thing happened. I was putting Ivan’s food in his dish and I called for him, saying, “Ivan, breakfast!” and he immediately came loping out of the woods, whining, with his tail up and wagging. He started eating while I still had my hand in his food dish stirring the combination of kibble, hot dogs, chicken, and antibiotics. After he was finished he came to sit beside me, and after a few minutes I asked if he wanted to walk with me a bit. I got up and started walking away. I looked back, and Ivan was following me. I walked along the creek and around into the pasture with Ivan following behind me. I went back to our feeding spot, collected my things, and said, “I am going home now. Do you want to come with me?” and off I went. Ivan was right by my side, and I would stop every few feet to hug him and tell him what a good boy he was. We made it all the way home, but when we got into our yard, Ivan panicked and ran off. Thinking I had moved too fast and expected too much, I was devastated. To watch Ivan run back into the woods broke my heart.
A Disastrous Date
The following day was another huge progress report. At 7:30 a.m., I went as usual to feed Ivan, and after a great bonding experience he again followed me home. He sat with me outside, and when my husband opened the door to come outside, Ivan was very protective of me and barked and lunged at him. I told my husband to go and get a warm hot dog and come out slowly and offer it to Ivan, which he did with great success. We then opened both doors of our house, and Ivan went in one and came out the other about ten times, until he felt certain he was not going to be trapped. Within 20 minutes Ivan was stretched out on our living room floor.
  We had plans to go to brunch with a friend, and when it was time to go, much to my surprise Ivan jumped in the car over me and decided he was going to go too. He would not come out of our car, as if to say, “No, you promised you’d never leave me.” It absolutely tore my heart to pieces to take him out of the car and drive away. My heart was wrenched out of my chest when I looked back and saw Ivan running after our car. I did not want this to happen after working so hard to get him to trust me. I twitched all through brunch and couldn’t wait to get home to Ivan. Everyone was telling me that this was a good thing, that Ivan would know I would leave and come back, but I was panicking thinking that I had totally blown my one chance to finally get Ivan to trust me completely. Sure enough, we get home and there is no sign of Ivan.

Two Long DaysThat evening I took Ivan’s dinner at the normal time and there was no sign of him. After sitting until dusk, I again walked home dejected and feeling guilty. I could not wait for morning to arrive. I was up and out by daybreak with Ivan’s food. It had rained all night and was extremely foggy, and a torrential rain was still coming down, with heavy wind and freezing temperatures. I sat and waited. And waited. No sign of Ivan. I cried hysterically, texting my husband, saying I had blown it, that it was all for nothing, that I had totally blown Ivan’s trust. My husband told me that everything would be fine, to be patient, to not give up.     I sat in the freezing rain for five unending hours of crying, feeling defeated, feeling devastated for Ivan, feeling like a failure, and feeling like a total jerk but knowing I would not go home until I absolutely had to when it got too dark. As I sat there with my head bent to keep the rain and wind out, I heard a whine, and I look up and Ivan is coming through the woods to me. This time, instead of going immediately to his food dish he comes to me and pushes into me. I hug him and cry some more. After he eats, I say, “Let’s go home, Ivan,” and he follows me. We go inside, and Ivan immediately makes himself at home. He lets me give him a bath, as he is covered with pine tar and caked mud. He lets me towel him off, and then we snuggle on the sofa. My heart is swelling for the amount of courage it took for Ivan to make the ultimate sacrifice to trust me.
Love and GratitudeEvery day Ivan was with us was one of great joy and love. He went everywhere with me and for a couple weeks would never leave my side. If I got up to leave the room he was there with me every single time. He loved riding in the car, and he loved going to Home Depot every day on our way to work. He loved walking and did beautifully on a leash. He was my “Baby Boy.” Ivan had many trials and tribulations to overcome. Our visit to the vet found he had arthritis, a degenerative disease in his hind legs which would eventually paralyze him, and several other small issues.    He was almost ten years old, which is amazing, as most Great Danes have a life span of six to eight years. His wound was inoperable, as it had been too long since the initial injury, so it had to heal from the inside out, which takes a long time. Ivan also had to have a cancerous growth removed from his lip, which was benign. He also got bitten by some sort of snake in August, which became infected and had to be lanced. The poor guy just couldn’t catch a break.
  His bad leg started to swell in October, and he began limping badly, some days being much worse than others. We took him to the vet for an X-ray and received the worst news ever. The X-ray showed Ivan’s leg was riddled with a very aggressive bone cancer, leaving very little bone in his leg. The vet said an aggressive cancer at this stage had undoubtedly metastasized into his lungs, and at best Ivan had only a couple of months remaining and that those months would be spent in excruciating pain. The remaining bone was so brittle and thin that his leg could fracture in any given second, so the vet strongly suggested we get Ivan out of pain.    We made the decision to have Ivan put down right then and there, which was not an easy decision to make, yet at the same time it was the easiest decision to make. Ivan had suffered so much already before I found him. We had a wonderful seven months with him, during which he taught us so much and gave us so much love. We could not make him suffer any longer.    Ivan passed away with his head in my lap and my love for him bursting through every fiber of my being. It was an absolute honor and a once-in-a-lifetime experience to have had the opportunity to go on this journey with Ivan, and I will forever be grateful for it and for Ivan.# # #Joann Farnham Magee is a native Vermonter who married her high-school sweetheart—she and Ridge will celebrate 46 years together in November 2016. Jo is a pencil artist, an LP vinyl-record collector, a mother, a grandmother, a Harry Potter fan, an avid reader, and a golfer. She loves to travel and to go back “home” to Randolph, Vermont.