The last days of little Squirt

At 18 years old, the fact that this little American Eskimo dog is alive is pretty remarkable.

But she's always been full of moxie, this little dog, barking and running and brawling with bigger beings since she came into our lives 16 years ago.

When we first saw her, she was shivering in the back of a humane society cage, and we thought she would be this meek little lapdog. She immediately put that to rest, running and playing with Maverick, our Vizsla as if she knew him forever.

Squirt moved in quick little bursts of energy. She would nip at the heels of Mav, then squirt away from him. She always was a Squirt.

She would run with me and Mav, too. pulling on the leash like a sled dog. It was nothing for her to go five, six miles. But a few years ago, her physicality slowly started to erode. I would take her for half mile jogs, then walks, then around the block, then just up the street.

Finally she was reduced to staggering around the back yard like a drunk. Then she lost the use of her back legs.

We carry her where she wants to go. We know that she won't last long, and we agonize over the decision to put her down. Are we keeping her with us because of us, or because of her? Here's the thing: Old dogs usually tell you when they are ready to go. Something dims in their eyes, and they look at you as if asking for your help to make it all go away. So far, Squirt hasn't had that look.

She looks at you with bright little eyes, pointy ears perking around at attention.

Squirt is tough, and there's something innate in her that values life.

Back in the saddle

Tonight's bike ride won't win any Strava king of the mountain points.

I rode 1.6 miles with about an 8-mph-average, a slogging loop through the neighborhood on a single-speed mountain bike.

This was my first bike ride of the year. It was 10 degrees out. I nearly wiped out riding through a three-inch rut made in one of the city streets, where car tires wore grooves into the hard-packed snow that covers the pavement. It was dark.

I'm not sure if it was fun or not.

I had planned to go nine miles, or three loops around my Southeast Wausau neighborhood. 

I wanted to stay close to home. It's dangerous riding at night, and especially so on a night in this winter. No driver is expecting to see a cyclist at 8:30 p.m. in conditions like this, so they're apt to run me down, thinking I was no more than an illusion, a snow mirage.

That is, if the driver saw me at all. Riding through these streets, with their four-foot high snowbanks, is like riding through frozen canyons or a winter maze, and nobody in a car can see anything coming off from side streets. So they -- and I, if I'm honest -- just plow ahead and hope for the best.

Traffic was quiet, though. 

But I turned around halfway through my first loop, or about 1/6th of the way through my journey, because my headlight went dim.

I bought this light last year, and it cost about half what my first car did. I love it. It's a shining beacon that helps lead me through the darkness, and it lasts and lasts and lasts. But even it, as good as it is, needs to be recharged once in a while. I think the last time I had used it was last July.

So really, I'm lucky that it lasted the 12 minutes it did. It goes dim when it runs low on power, giving me a chance to turn around, or worry or get another light for a while longer. I'm not sure how much longer it will last when it goes into the power-saving dim mode, and I'm hoping never to find out.

It's saying much about this particular winter in that I haven't ridden at all, and here it is March 4.

Usually I can ride through most of it, with January the only month I have to take completely off, and even then I can get out for a jaunt or two.

Last year I rode six miles in a temperature of 9 degrees below zero. This year I vowed not to ride if it was below 20.

But it's been so cold, the 10 degrees tonight felt downright balmy, and I was half tempted to wear shorts.

Last year by this time, I had ridden 70 miles. Not much by many standards, but not bad either.

It's going to be tough to catch up. I need a recharge, too.

15 minutes

I've just finished a project in which I interviewed the top academic performers in the Wausau area.

It was illuminating. As I started interviewing these teens, I was impressed with their work ethic, their maturity and their optimism. I expected all that. You don't get to be a 4.0 student at any level without some belief in yourself and future, that it will someday all pay off for you. Most can see it pay off in tangible ways already, by getting scholarships, acceptance to schools such as Yale, etc.

But what surprised me overall was their intellect. Not at how sharp they were, but in really, how ordinary it was. I expected a sort of imbalance, which I have seen in the past in genius-level people. They have trouble relating to others, or lack sense of humor, or whatever. It's a stereotype, I know, and one that this project has basically shattered in me.

All of the kids were bright, of course, but they also were funny, interesting, curious. The one thing that set them apart, and some of them outright said it, was their long-term commitment and discipline toward studying. They had difficulty in some classes, but they worked at it, and overcame the problems they faced.

It's a lot different than what my approach to life. I've always sort of worked on the theory that what "I'm good at" comes naturally, and what "I'm bad at" does too. So I've always done enough to get by at the things that I'm bad at, and concentrated on what I'm good at, but in a haphazard sort of way. I've never really applied a specific kind of thoughtful discipline to anything, except maybe for running and journalism. I've also had a sort of Eeyore attitude toward it all.

These kids studied every night. Usually no matter what. If they didn't like something, they either powered through it or made some kind of game out of it to make it more fun.

I started thinking about that, and my approach to writing. I'm talking about my own writing, such as this blog, and other kinds of fun or creative type of writing that I've always wanted to do but never really have.

I need to take a more disciplined approach to it, which I always knew. I've started to do this by trying to write 15 minutes a day. I say try, because I haven't been too successful regarding it. But I plan to continue trying for that minimal amount of effort. The hope is to build on it, and slowly, the drip will fill the pail.

Only in Wausau

Shortly after moving to Wausau more than a decade ago, I began to notice that there were plenty of strange people around. There were mumblers walking and talking downtown. The biking guy who I would see everywhere, never wearing a shirt and carrying a liter bottle of Sprite, when it was 30 degrees out. The shufflers trudging like zombies along Grand Avenue, moving with their heads down and ignoring all passersby and traffic.

One of the photographers at the paper called them "The Broken People," and I believe that the high number of these people is directly due to the fact that Wausau is the county seat. This is where physical and mental health care services, such as they are, are. There is a methadone clinic here, and low-income housing options for those who have trouble negotiating mainstream society.

It's sort of sad and cool, heartening and heart-wrenching all at the same time. But overall, I'm glad to live in a city that cares at least a little bit about the welfare of troubled human beings. And I think, for the most part, most people who are healthy, fit and able tend to look out for the unfortunate souls that live in our midst.

The thing about the Broken People is that they tend to disregard general safety, pedestrian and traffic laws. They cross busy highways without looking, ride bicycles the wrong way on a four lane thoroughfare and in general do whatever they can to disrupt the flow of everyday life. I kind of like that.

A couple of weeks ago, I ran across something new. Actually, I almost ran over it. I was driving back to work from my lunch, running late as usual and thinking about a story or an interview. I took my general right turn off of Seventh Street onto Scott, and, holy cow, there was a  plump guy sitting in the middle of the street, with a woman standing over him. I first slammed on the brakes and then drove around them.

Did the woman hit the guy, I wondered. It didn't look like it. As I passed the two, I caught the woman's eyes, and there was a pleading look. I was tempted to keep going; I had deadlines to meet. But I couldn't.

I pulled over, grabbed my phone and walked back to the duo.

"He can't get up," the woman said. I looked over to the right and saw a minivan parked nearby, running. Clearly she was the first to stop, and she was looking distraught and desperate.

The guy was sitting in the street, slush and ice surrounding him, dabbing at some bleeding sores on his face with a tissue. "I'm OK," he said.

Clearly he wasn't. I don't think he was drunk, but perhaps he was a diabetic having a low-sugar episode, or he either took took too much or not enough of some sort of medication. His face looked a bit like raw hamburger, or as if had been pecked by crows. It was bleeding in several places. He had a fat face, a bit swollen. He wore shabby clothes, old-person's post-cataract surgery sunglasses and a baseball cap.

"I'm OK. This happens all the time," he said.

Really? You collapse in the middle of the street all the time?

"Look, you've got to move," I said. "You can't stay here. You'll get run over."

"I'll be OK in a minute."

"Maybe I should call someone."

"Oh, no, no," he said. "I'll be fine. You two just go. It'll be OK."

"Look," I said. "I'm not going to leave you here in the street. You've either got to get up, or I call 911."

"No! No, don't do that."

Meanwhile cars and trucks were coming around the corner, slamming on their brakes, and then veering around us. I envisioned all three of us getting clocked by a garbage truck. Maybe they would put us in the same hospital room, in beds next to each other.

"Here, help me up," he said.

The lady grabbed his right arm, I grabbed his left, we pulled and he was dead weight, like a bag of wet sand. "Push with your legs," I said. "We can't lift you if you don't help. And I'll have to call an ambulance."

He gave another effort, and he was standing. "Just lean me against that car," he said. We did.

"Oh thanks," he said. "I'm good now. It's just that I've been real depressed lately." As if that explained everything.

"I know," I said. "But you can't just collapse. Do you need some help?"

"No, I'm fine. I'm good. Thank you both. You've both been very kind. I'm all right now."

"Well, OK," I said. "I've got to get going."

"Yes, yes, so do I," said the woman, and she virtually sprinted to the minivan.

"If you're sure you're going to be OK?" I asked the man.

"Yes, yes. Thanks so much. You've been very kind."

I went back to the office. I thought about the guy, and was angry that he would put himself in jeopardy, and us too. I was angry that he wouldn't get proper help, but thought nothing of asking us for our unprofessional help. But mostly I was worried. I mean, I couldn't force him to go to the hospital, and I wasn't ready to give him a ride or adopt him or whatever.

So I called the line we use to get the duty lieutenant at the Wausau Police Department when we're making our daily calls at work. I told the officer on duty, who I knew, what happened. He said he would send a squad around to check on the guy.

I have no idea what happened. I still feel a little guilty, and a little angry.

Fourth week, 1000 Words Wausau

This was a hard one. The words:

Instrument
Escort
Geezer
Coincidence

Bending spoons
A carpet of rotting foliage


My first try was an attempt to use the phrase "bending spoons" in a way that wasn't completely obvious. It wasn't an utter failure, but, as Kris said, "This was the weakest of the four."

Joe sat at the table, bending spoons.  He knew it drove Ma nuts, but he insisted he couldn’t eat soup with straight spoons.

It wasn’t a coincidence, that habit of Joe’s. Pappy was the same way. When Pappy was a dentist in Blue Hollow, he customized all of his instruments. Folks who came to Pappy to get their teeth pulled or cavities filled were real worried when saw that odd stuff. But he was finished with them, they were patients for life. 

Ma said Pappy worked for years that way, and he bought this farm with the earnings, helping other people deal with pain.  She said he was a genius, but nobody really noticed that part. They just thought he was nuts. Pappy was an old geezer when the revenuers came, and escorted him out his office and threw him in jail. “Just because he didn’t have a piece of paper on the wall,” Ma said. “And he was better’n all those schooled city dentists.”

 Pappy went screaming crazy after that, but when he came to live with us, he just sat facing a wall. 

When Ma came in the kitchen and saw all of Joe’s spoons, she went nuts herself, and kicked Joe and me out of the house. We went into the woods.  We walked through a carpet of rotting foliage, and  Joe wondered if he would be like Pappy when he got old.

“I don’t know, Joe,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of ya.”

So I gave it another try. It works better, both Kris and I think, although it's schlocky. I think I may have been inspired by a Viagra commercial.

“Would you like to take a walk with an old geezer?” Thomas asked.

Virginia looked up from her book, studying her husband over her cheaters. “No,” she said with a smile, “But I’ll go with you.”

They strolled through the neighborhood, falling into familiar steps and route.  They found themselves in Memorial Park. Its trees had shed their leaves a couple of weeks ago, and they stepped across the carpet of rotting foliage.

“I love this smell,” Virginia said, “Reminds me of us.”

Thomas knew. They met at the resort in the Catskills, him performing as a magician, her playing in the 30-instrument house orchestra.

“You were so awkward,” Virginia said. “Remember?” 

“Of course,” Thomas said. “You looked so sophisticated, carrying that violin case, wearing that gown. And I just fooled people by bending spoons. I could hardly speak to you. “

He remembered how she slipped in the wet leaves and how he ran to her. She had gotten up, and was brushing the leaves from her dress. She had shrugged at the damp spots. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Nobody sees my back.”

Thomas escorted her, her arm in his, to the formal dance. He remembered how the words, almost without thought, slipped out of his mouth, “Can I meet you after?” She nodded, and he felt a new life begin.

“It wasn’t a coincidence, you know,” she told him now, with a smile.

“What?”

Virginia took a step, slipped to the ground.

Suddenly, it was 40 years ago.

The end of an era (1000 Words Wausau)

Lounge

Miracle

Coconut

Ring

As many as six

For which I haven’t the skills

 The end of an era

The whole staff of the White Bear Press met in St. Paul at Luigi’s Lounge, the old-school steakhouse/nightclub.

 The seven of us, four men and three women, sat in a half-ring in a high-backed leather booth. We imagined we looked like an early ‘90s version of the Rat Pack, or a modern incarnation of the Algonquin Circle.

Gary was our editor, only because he had a master’s from Columbia University. Ill-equipped to be a supervisor, it was a miracle he got the job.  He was a fast-talker from New Jersey, and he loved irritating moneyed Minnesota conservatives, such as the publisher, Gene, who spent most of the year on his yacht in Florida.

 “I’ve been hired for a position for which I haven’t the skills,” Mike told us when he got the job. “So all I ask of you is that you write as you see best, and I’ll keep the boss off your backs.”

 Luigi’s was Gary’s going away party. The column about gay rights was the breaking point. Our table slowly began to fill with empty glasses. We all drank hard liquor, because that’s what writers drank. Phil, the photographer, was harassed for ordering fruity-coconut drinks. “Hey, I like ‘em,” he said.

Mike ordered drinks two at at time.  He had as many as six empty glasses in front of him, and he showed no effects of the alcohol.

Mike went on to work for a website that covered fishing tournaments, and he’s still there today. I loved that guy.

 

Another 250 words

This 1000 Words Wausau thing is definitely inspiring. So much so that I exceeded expectations and wrote another one this week. Unprecedented! Here's my second 250 words, which I officially sent off:

1000 Words Feb. Week 2

swish

metallic

jungle

crumple

just a pose

Did love begin in that way?

-------------------------------------------------

Old ways love

 When I was 13, Mom started pushing me into the ball toss games at the New Year celebrations.

 “Mom! Do I have to?” I’d ask in English

 “Yes, Hlee, this is what we do. You never know, you might find your husband. It’s how I met your father. In the village, I started the ball toss a lot earlier than you are now,” she said in Hmong, almost singing the words instead of speaking. “By the time I was 16, I had your older brother and sisters.”

 I barely remembered my father, but whenever Mom talked about him, I’d see the vision of him crumpling in the jungle, hit by a communist bullet, as the rest of us ran for the Mekong River and safety.

 It was weird, standing in America, a few yards from Xai, tossing a tennis ball back and forth. His hair was shiny black in the auditorium lights, and the coins on his vest clinked together in a metallic melody. My skirt swished with each throw, and my hat felt like it was about to fall from my head.

 For me, it was just a pose. I didn’t really believe in the old ways. I was going to go to college, become a nurse. I loved Mom, and I knew what she did to bring us here. She got no respect for it. I wanted more for myself and for her.

 But now I have to wonder, did love begin in that way?