Giving Thanks for Family Funnies

This Thanksgiving is for the dogs…

The chop, chop, chop of the big knife on wood breaks through Marvin’s dreamy reverie. With great effort he rouses himself and lumbers into the kitchen to take up his station under the cutting board, hopeful that some errant carrot circle will roll off and land on his turf. Anything on the floor is fair game for Marvin Gardens the now “Olden” retriever. Marvin is so long and lean he looks like an articulated bus. When he goes around corners… he bends in the middle. His characteristic panting is nearly as loud as a bus and his breath… ugh! worse than bus exhaust!

I remember when he first joined the family. It was just before Thanksgiving thirteen years ago. I was driving carpool in the white van and had just picked up my 8^th grader, Megan and her car-pool buddy, Adam. There, in a busy intersection was this bandy legged golden retriever puppy. I told Megan to open the side door and we called to him. He came running over all gangly-dangly limbed and loose jointed. With considerable effort he clambered up into the van. Immediately inside the door he put both front paws on a box of tissues and began pulling them out one at a time, rhythmically, systematically. So proud of his bird retrieving genes, he was also a clown and thoroughly delighted with himself. He made us laugh.

Megan told me and Adam that a boy in her classes, Charlie, had been palling around with this pup all day. We went back to school where Megan found Charlie who assured us that the dog wasn’t his. No one seemed to know from where the golden had come. It was clear this 4-legged had misplaced his owners. We called him “Charlie” all the rest of that day.

Having relieved the retriever of the Kleenex box, we dropped Adam off at his home then hurried back to our house. Using a sweater as makeshift collar/leash I escorted the 6 month old pup, who’d already endeared himself to us with his antics, into our fenced-in back yard. There, for the first time, he encountered MacDougal MacDuff. 

MacDougal, a shelter foundling himself, had already been with us for 6 months and he let everyone know that HE, MacDougal, was ALPHA dog. For the first 5 seconds the fur was raised along both dogs’ backs. As doggie noses know these things, it only took them a heartbeat to sort out the alpha/beta thing. Then, there was nothing to do but PLAY! They ran circles round the yard and around each other roto-tilling the lawn in the bargain. It was hilarious watching them. Marvin was slightly shorter than MacDougal who was very fast but what Marvin lacked in speed he made up for in his rangy gait and being just plain goofy! His entire aura was one of delight with life. “Game? I love to play games! What’re we gonna play next!!??”

Megan and I made signs on her Dad’s cue-card stock to put up all around Oakwood School and in our neighborhood. I called the L.A. Times, The Recycler and a local throw-away newspaper to run ads about a FOUND Golden Retriever. I called two local shelters describing the foundling and leaving our phone number. He stayed that night and the next which brought us to Thanksgiving.

That year was one of our larger gatherings: 37 people for dinner. Three tables; no waiting… all buffet. In addition to our family that year we had several strays (people who were without their own kin for one reason or another). There was very little floor space for all the table legs, chair legs and people legs. The “Charlie, Marvin” being ingratiated himself to all by lying in the middle of the only open floor space so we all had to walk around or step over him. We thought of calling him “Mat.” In fact, we tried out several suggested names that day.

During the following two weeks there was not a single nibble from the shelters, the ads, the signs, or the walking the neighborhood by school. It dawned on us that our mission was accomplished: we had found him a good home. His crazy puppy gyrations made MacDougal look calm. All in all it seemed a good fit. So… we got him all his shots and gathered his nuts for the winter (neutered him) and then set about in earnest to find a suitable name. By late December it was clear that he was a gardener… bringing in whole tree branches and the last of the scraggly tomato crop and zucchini squashes from the yard. So we called him “Marvin Gardens”… in his case it was a verb not just one of the yellow properties on the Monopoly board.

I’m remembering this all as I chop up the left-over vegetable crudités from yesterday’s feast. We were a smaller group, only 16 people. MacDougal passed away last January. Marvin can barely see, hear or stand up but he’s still so full of love and still a clown. Each Thanksgiving brings the memory of his first one with us.

* * * * * * * * * * *

This is the story of Aunt Mickey and the stove top stuffing. Ghosts of Thanksgiving Past…

Aunt Mildred is one of those Aunties who lends herself to good-natured ribbing because she definitely has some quirks. Thanksgiving day 1974 the whole family packed up to go camping at McGrath State Beach. By WHOLE family I mean: My husband and I and our dog, Fairfax (1974 was B.C. – before children), my mom, step-dad and 11 year old brother and their dog, Butchie, my mother in law and her dog Girl, my older brother, his wife and two sons 8 and 4, Uncle Larry (my mom’s brother) and aunt Mickey (Mildred) and their 2 daughters and their dog, Pepper. In addition, Mickey’s brother and sister-in-law, and my then eighty something year old grandparents came for the meal but stayed in a nearby hotel, rather than camping out.

One of Aunt Mickey’s quirks is that she carries about with her an unwieldy fear of germs. It has gotten in her and other people’s way on numerous occasions. It may have to do with her doing a stint as a registered nurse for our old family doctor, Irv King. Something about staphylococcus made her cock-eyed. 

The whole of our camp-out Thanksgiving feast was pot luck. Aunt Mickey was in charge of the turkey & stuffing. So… she cooked that turkey without stuffing it because heaven knows that would magnetize dread salmonella bacterium and sicken us all so we’d croak right there on McGrath State Beach. (I can see the headline: Entire family and dogs wiped out by bad turkey Thanksgiving Day.) Uncle Larry carved that turkey at home. There was only one better carver than Uncle Larry and that was his dad, my Gramps. Well, they froze all the turkey meat in neat foil packages. Auntie planned to warm it up and make stove-top stuffing….which she did from a box over the camp stove in about 3 minutes flat.

It was November at the beach. It was powerfully windy. It was cold… penetratingly cold. Mama Freddy, my mother in law had brought some pot roast bless her heart! And it was warm and fragrant. The turkey never did quite thaw out. To say that the stove-top stuffing was not a hit is like saying that Hitler was not kind. It tasted like the cardboard box from which it came. No one ate it. 

We put it down for the dogs. “Girl,” Mama Freddy’s dog walked over, sniffed it and walked away. Now, this is a dog who ate horse plop from the equestrian trail near her apartment. This is a dog who would eat anything not chained down. My beloved husband called her a Sealy Posturpedic with legs. Our dear Fairfax took a sniff and also walked away which was not altogether unexpected. Mark says Fairfax was an old man in a dog suit. There were many foods from which he’d walk away. And with such attitude! “What? You expect me to eat that? Feh! A dog wouldn’t eat that!” Next up was Pepper, Aunt Mickey and Uncle Larry’s dog…same story… a sniff and a walk. Butchie, my mom & dad’s dog, bless his short-legged Corgi heart walked over to that stove-top stuffing, nosed it a bit, then lifted his back leg and peed on it! He christened it “INEDIBLE!” for all the world to see. Even Aunt Mickey had to laugh. We were roaring ‘til the tears came and nearly froze on our cheeks.

When our children were growing up and would beg us to tell them “Family Funnies” this story was one of the favorites. Marvin is patient with my reminiscing but enthusiastically earnest, doing his ever-hopeful-dance… that some more veggies will fall off the cutting board as I chop, chop, chop.

Written in 2005. Marvin is in doggie heaven chasing tennis balls with MacDougal, Girl, Pepper and Butchie. So is Aunt Mickey. Mercifully, they don't allow Stove Top Stuffing in heaven.

If you give a born procrastinator as task...

A sweet children’s book tells us that if you give a mouse a cookie, he’ll want a glass of milk... like the circular logic extension song, “There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza...” it is satisfying to come back to the beginning where it started.

Today, in order to take a break from too much sitting at the desk doing paperwork, I went into the garage and did a bit of exercise on the trampoline and a bit of yoga. But I noticed that a box with many of my mother’s books and papers had broken down with the weight of other boxes on top of it, so I began to cull and organize - just a little, I thought, so as not to sit too long doing paper work at the desk.

If you give a person with something akin to OCD a task with a finite end point, she’ll complete it before going back to infinite paper work. And once she finishes the box organizing, she’ll notice that the carpet on the floor of the garage needs to be vacuumed, so she'll move all the things in the garage and vacuum. And then, she’ll see that the vacuum needs to be emptied and that the filter needs to be cleaned, so she’ll spend ten minutes cleaning the vacuum filter thoroughly and notice that the brush she used also needs to be washed, so she’ll wash it, then go back to the garage to reassemble the vacuum and put it away, but she’ll notice a lovely picture of her great grandmother from one of her mother’s boxes that wants to be hung in the hallway, so, she’ll get two nails and a hammer and begin to hang it, but notice that the string on the back is so old that it needs to be replaced, so she’ll go back to the garage to get a piece of wire and some thumb tacks and repair the back of the picture, then hang it up just so. When se goes to put the hammer and nails away, she’ll notice that the tool drawer in the kitchen needs organizing so it can open and close without catching on the hammer handle. Once the drawer is organized, she’ll remember to turn off the lights in the garage and see all the paper from her mom’s boxes that wants recycling, and she’ll take it out to the recycling barrel and hear the neighbors playing basket ball and say hello only to get into a conversation about her granddaughter and Thanksgiving approaching - when her daughter and granddaughter, who are dear friends with the neighbors, are coming to visit. Finally, she’ll remember that she meant to take only a short break from writing in the seemingly infinite number of Thanksgiving Cards she had been writing, and go back inside and enjoy listening to music on the radio while writing love notes to all her friends and family... and isn’t it time to make dinner??? 

"If you give a mouse a cookie..." may be more satisfying, but this is MY Sunday story, not the rodent’s. So there!

Building Bonds

Twelve young ones on benches at the long table on the porch, are given paper and markers and told to put their name in the center, and to write or draw in each corner of their page their favorite ice cream, animal, super hero, and game. I’m at the end of the table assisting seven year old Annabel. She’s the most newly diagnosed of this group. Her delicate fingers are shaking and she can't get the cap off the red Crayola marker.

Rhonda, the facilitator, asks each child in turn to hold up his or her sheet of paper and to share with the group what’s on it. We four counselors also are invited by Rhonda to share our names and faves.

As a group, we quickly learn and note that Lina and Brittany and I all like cheetahs, Felix and Janey have the love of pistachio ice cream in common, and that all twelve of these kids came on busses from the same hospital to this session of We Can Family Camp.

What is slow to dawn on the kids is that what makes them feel so set apart from other kids down the mountain - whether at school, church, park or supermarket - is what they ALL have in common here: some form of pediatric brain tumor. What sets this population apart even from other cancer survivors is that the central nervous system doesn’t have as comprehensive a back-up system as some other body parts. When you’ve had some portion of your brain carved out to save your life, it’s a given that you’re going to lose some function - whether eye sight, memory, sensation, cognition, speech, hearing, or motor skills. The crap shoot of brain cancer leaves a bigger footprint than a Yetti. 

I hate cancer. It is an equal opportunity destroyer. These kids are in an even more select group, in that they all come from families where Spanish is the primary language at home. Moms, dads, siblings and patients often have to jump hurdles just to get information in their native tongue.

I'm privileged that I get to play with these kids and their families and to practice my Spanish during these family camp weekends held at Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times in the mountains above Palm Springs. Still, I wish there were no need of camps for kids with life threatening diagnoses.

This weekend is planned out by the We Can staff rather than by Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times. There is a curriculum for the kids' groups depending upon age and whether the group is made up of siblings or patients. Parents appreciate the "vacation" among folks who are truly here to support them feeling buoyed by other families who know these stormy seas. Part of the program includes a doctor meeting with the parent group, and making brief visits to each of the kids' break-out groups.

When Dr. Friendly comes across the leafy path to the Kid’s Kitchen Porch, our group is ready with questions generated by these bright, curious, and compromised children. With him are the camp director whose nickname is Tux, Ashley,  a surgeon, and  another pediatric oncologist named Leah.

These kids think outside the box. Beyond “What’s your favorite color,” which they do ask, they want to know how  Dr. Friendly could tell that they had a brain tumor. Deftly, the good doc turns the question around. He knows nearly all of these young ones personally. 

“Kyle, how did you first know you were sick?”

“Head ache... and I couldn’t see straight. I fall down a lot.”

“Right. And do you remember that we took some pictures of what was going on inside?”

“Yah. They see choomer in my brain.”

“Yes,” Dr. Friendly continues, “we saw the tumor pressing on parts of your brain that you needed for seeing straight and for walking without falling down.”

“My head feel much better right away after you take out the choomer.”

Several others share their experience, but by this time, I’m just inside the kitchen - out of the wind - with Annabel. Only the screen door is between us and the rest of the group. She just can’t warm up  - even with her heavy coat on and my wool shawl wrapped around her and over the top of her head. Her hair is so thin; her face so puffy from the steroids. She is shaking with cold and wanting to “go home.” 

“I hear that you want to go home, Annabel." I am kneeling beside her and have my arm around her shoulders. "In about thirty minutes we’ll all be going back to the dining hall and your mom and dad will be there. For now, we're going to stay out of the wind. Can you  hear Dr. Friendly and the others.?”

She shrugs.

Blowing bubbles distracts and delights her for a while. She giggles softly and masters the angle of how to blow to make a blizzard of bubbles. I see group, and hear some of the discussion. I'm guessing Annabel isn't hearing much beyond the hum of the refrigerator next to her. Mostly, I’m energetically aware that the kids are cozying up with one another... and I don’t think it’s the cold morning that has brought them closer, but rather the recognition that they are among people who understand and care deeply about what they’re experiencing.

Saturday night ends with a dance party. The joy on the faces of parents watching their kids break-out in wild gyrations - just being KIDS, makes this the best paying volunteer job I've ever had. Smiles are the coinage. We are all millionaires.

No Longer Allergic to Oxygen

It’s not the shaky hand which she presses into mine in welcome, but rather the glopped mascara under her eyes - which I remember as always having been meticulously applied - that tightens my stomach and makes my eyes dart.

The scene is sad. Tissues on the floor, books and clothes on the bed. I follow her shaky-gait walk with a sinking feeling.

I gulp, and say to the back of her head as we enter the kitchen, “Jody! I’m glad to be able to see you. Kay said it’s been a set back for you these past few weeks. Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

In truth, I’ve just finished “rescuing” a family friend from her off-the-charts spate of self destructive behavior, which nearly killed her, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of embarking on another rescue mission. Jody’s situation seems dire, indeed. It’s a physical challenge, unlike my auntie’s sister Serena, whose mental diagnosis is “disposaphobia” - a component of deep depression. I arranged to have Serena’s house cleaned out of excrement and rotting food, have the rotted floor joists repaired, so she wouldn’t fall through the floor boards again, and we fumigated for fleas, spiders, roaches and silverfish. I shudder remembering the horror of being covered by fleas so my pants looked completely black, when I emerged from a pitch-black room where she'd asked me to retrieve a lamp for her.



Jody is my children's drama teacher, once a week co-worker in the school library and just-getting-to-know-you-better friend.

I set the bag of chicken soup, salad, baked yams and fresh veggie juice on Jody’s kitchen floor, and begin to clear space on the counter to decant it all from the bag. 

“It has been a rough patch, alright, but I’ve got some good new information which is putting all this in perspective.”

Her speech is halting and tremulous. When I look up there’s a remembered light in her eyes, but the facial muscles can’t quite lift the brows and can’t quite smile. Her elbows are stiff at her sides. Parkinson’s is stealthy, sinister and greedy.

“What’s the good info?”

“This Natural Medicine Organization puts out a newsletter. In it I read that an injury to the top of the foot can be the root cause of this shaking phenomenon.” 

The P word seems to be taboo, so I don’t use it either. 

“I had an incident last year when a jar of peanut butter fell out of the cupboard and hit my instep.” She continues. “Remember when  I was wearing a velcro boot for a few weeks? Small bone broke. I’m SURE that’s when it happened. Something about the nerves there in that sensitive part setting up intermittent signals to the brain...”

“Are there any meds that may help steady your hand, Jody?” I stand up and look at her.

There’s a flash of color rising to her cheeks. Her body stiffens with purpose.

“I’m not taking anything those fraudulent, money-grubbing doctors have to sell me. My naturopath has given me some herbs that work just fine.”

For the first time, I see clearly the path ahead of her. She’s forging it herself. There’s nothing to argue, no sandwich board to don. She’s got to do it her way. It’s not my way. I don’t even know what my way would be - were I faced with this same awful offal portion.  I learned quite some time ago: About all we can do is love each other up and hope each of us makes it home with some amount of grace, dignity, and humor still intact.  It’s certainly not my right or desire to counsel an intelligent woman about what she SHOULD be doing.

I put the kettle on, wash some dishes, make Jody and me a cup of tea and, after some heart to heart and listening to how her family is, I slip out the door and out of her life like a shadow.

I’m not proud of disconnecting. It was the best I could do. I didn’t have spare energy to devote to another drowning victim after the Serena case. All I could do was let another mom from the school know what was going on and help Kay make calls so food could be brought to Jody, on some sort of schedule, by other moms from our kid’s school.

The myth of Psyche and Eros serves as a teaching for me. Aphrodite does not want a mere mortal to marry her son, so she sets Psyche a task of such magnitude, to prove her worth, that she is likely not to succeed. At every turn, Psyche is helped by the songs of birds, or the wind blowing through the reeds, which tell her how to accomplish getting into the Underworld to retrieve something for her would-be mother-in-law.

She is warned that during her crossing of the River Styx, she will see people drowning; hear them call out to her to save them. She must not stop to help them. She must keep to her own task of crossing in the small boat she’s given, or all will be lost. Difficult as it is for Psyche to ignore the cries of the drowning, she holds fast and reaches her destination, completes her task and ultimately unites with Eros. Is this not our task in life: to marry our passion to our soul's imperative?

The succinct modern day synopsis may be: Put on your own oxygen mask first.

Recently, my therapist encouraged me to go to a workshop in February which doesn’t allow the participants to “help” anyone in any way, or they’ll be busted. When she told me that, I burst into tears and started laughing at the same time. BUSTED. I am a care-GIVER, not a care RECEIVER. Receivership strikes terror into my heart. She went on to explain that those of us raised by narcissists (is a pedophile narcissistic?) cannot bear to be in receivership for fear the tables will turn suddenly and we’ll be in danger. We can only be on out-put.

Guess where I’m going in February.

I’m hoping I live long enough to model something more evolved for my daughters than I’ve so-far been able to model.