Memories

**Minnesota Vikings quarterback Brett Favre walks across the field after the NFC Championship NFL football game against the New Orleans Saints in New Orleans, Sunday, Jan. 24, 2010. AP Photo.**

I started to sit down a couple nights ago to rip on reminiscing, then a funny thing happened. I joined the, "You Know You Grew Up in Webster Groves When . . ." Facebook group, and I started recollecting. I didn't "indulge in reminiscence," as one dictionary defines reminiscing. I did, however, recall some funny incidents from my youth, recollections prompted by others' comments within said Facebook group. Like, melting crayons in the back of the classroom at Douglass Elementary School with Jim Biggs and Mark Pankoff, among others. There was a 1,000-degree radiator back there, and we spent the better time of the year putting it to good use. That was a "team" classroom, wherein you had two grades--and about 60 students--in one classroom, with two or three teachers. Somehow, we all learned our ABCs and 123s. This particular class was third grade for me, the other half fourth grade. I recollect.

There's a time and a place for sitting back and yearning for the days of yesteryear. I've just never really found that time or place. I learned a long time ago that if you fret over your getting older, you'd better watch out, 'cause ten years down the road, you're going to realize you weren't that old back then and you spent time in sorrow over nothing. Rarely has there been a day in my life when I didn't think better days and times were forthcoming, and just about every day I've lived has been pretty good.

Time goes by so fast that my life seems like a pretty compact series of events, all good, including today. I'm older but not old. I'm older than Brett Favre, beat him by seven months, though I'm sure this week he feels a heck of a lot older. I don't think he continues to play to regain past glory. I think he plays to find new glory, looking ahead rather than behind. I play hockey not because it is some form of arrested development but because I get better every time, and I love doing cool new stuff on the ice. One time, not too long ago, someone said to me, in regard to my still playing hockey regularly, that "you have to grow up sometime." That was one of the dumbest comments I've ever heard, so I moved on--forward.

There are periods of my life past that I would love to re-visit for fun, but there are not past times I yearn for. I like Facebook for communicating about today and what's coming, but not so much for what happened yesterday. Sometimes it feels as though you're in the midst of a clan of have-losts. I've always felt more like a will-gain.

Memories are good, you wouldn't want to be without them. I have good memories, and I think of them--and even dream of them--often. Maybe why I dream of them is because I don't verbalize them too frequently, unless it's a funny story or the like. Sometimes I tell them in a manner to intentionally sound old. I loathe the day I tell them and unintentionally sound old.

I guess memories are kind of like a good snowfall, a nice novelty from time to time but amazingly annoying in repeated doses.

I like old people, and I like hearing them tell stories of the past. I like history, and I think "simpler times" are appealing to everyone. I just don't like not-so-old people who sound old. Maybe that's cause I have an 85-year-old grandmother who can beat us all at Wii bowling, and a 91-year-old grandmother who makes me laugh every time I talk to her. I think it's safe to say they're both old, but I don't think of them as old. I think by that age you've figured out you'll be older tomorrow, so no reason to act like you're old today.

One of my favorite things about Bernie was she never acted old. Ready to play, every day.

Me, well, I'm pretty certain tomorrow will be an ever better day than today.

Kibbles n Bits

***This is an x-ray of Todd Fedoruk's face. Todd plays in the NHL. Note the titanium plates throughout and the posts where three of his front teeth should be. Scroll to the bottom if you'd like to see how Todd's face ended up like that.***

Sticking with the sports theme, we all knew Mark McGwire was more juiced than Newton, but we all owe him a big round of thanks for clearing up that all those big, fat, juicy home runs he hit were entirely the result of natural talent, not steroids. Let's ask someone else about that, say, Charles Yesalis, professor emeritus at Penn State and one of the country's foremost experts on steroids (AP). "If you have that God-given skill of hitting 100-mph fastaballs, and curveballs, and then you make that person bigger . . . take Bambi and Godzilla with the same skill level, who's going to hit the ball better?"

Of course, all this is Bud Selig's fault, probably the Player's Union too, for if baseball players would have been required to pee in a cup much sooner, none of this would've happened.

Speaking of urine, I was at the nice little coffee shop a couple blocks from my house yesterday, took a trip to the restroom, and some fine gentleman had pee'd all over the toilet seat--like, where a person sits down. I didn't have to sit but of course thought this sucked, especially since shop owner Steve had been savvy enough to install a little urinal in the restroom, so guys wouldn't pee on the toilet seat! So, not only did the perp pee with the seat down and all over it, he did so in a single-person bathroom that had a urinal two feet away. Are we in Wisconsin???

Speaking of Wisconsin, the Packers are idle this weekend. And the next. And the next . . .

Night night. Oh, don't forget to watch Todd Fedoruk fight.

Update: The Fedoruk fight is so gnarly, you can only watch it on YouTube 🤷,

The Lighter Side . . .

Yesterday & Today

A year ago last night was the last I slept with Bernie. That, of course, means today is the anniversary of me letting her romp on off to Puppy Heaven.

Really though, today for me is no different than the other 364. I think of her everyday, miss her most of the time. I put her doggie beds away a few months ago. Her leash still hangs where it always hangs, hasn't moved since I hung it one year ago. I put away my Christmas cards today, they were sitting on a bookshelf, as are the sympathy cards given to me a year ago. I thought about putting them away with the Christmas cards, but they're just so damned nice I left them. Most came from unexpected people, primarily neighbor folk who noticed her absence in my yard and inquired with other neighbors, I suppose. Good gossip, we'll call it.

I did take Bernie's clips of fur out today, around noon which was about the time she went to sleep a year ago. Oliver the dog was here with me, he liked the fur. I couldn't keep him away from it, truthfully, so it must still smell like a dog. It's still soft.

It snowed today. Probably one of the emptiest feelings I've ever had is when I came home from the vet last year, leash in hand with no dog on the end, and saw Bernie's paw prints from when I'd taken her to the vet less than an hour before. In a way you want to clean them away, but in a bigger way you want them there forever. She would've liked today here, cold and snowy, snow blowing everywhere. She would've laid outside and watch me clean the snow, her getting up occasionally to sniff around. Then we would've gone inside, her black outer coat covered with snow. I'd say, "Bernie's my little white dog," and I'd fetch one of her towels. We'd make a game out of drying her off. Then she'd shake, all fluffy again.

It doesn't seem like a year, couple months maybe. Time goes by fast, and since her loss is a peretual one, it will probably never seem like a year, or two, or five. She had a huge impact on my life, I did things I never would have done had I not had her. One thing I am sure of, certain, is that I'll never have another dog that was so much a part of me.

That is why Bernie is Bernie, and why I'll always have Bernie.

Home

To follow-up on the previous post, I'm certainly glad that Marley remains with his family. It begs an interesting question, what do you do with your dog when he or she passes on? Oh, their spirit carries on, but there is the tidy matter of the furry creature itself. Some bury, others cremate, and I suppose others just leave their beloved with the vet.

I don't know what we did with Frosty. Probably the latter, as this was about 25 years ago, and I think common practice was to do just that, say goodbye and leave it at that. Poochie, on the other hand, was my dog at the time she passed, so I had to decide what to do. Bernie, I, and Poochie lived in Tahoe at that time, and I had always thought about burying her in the mountains, where us three had spent several super years at play. However, the other side of that was that I knew someday I would be leaving Tahoe, and Poochie if I buried her there. The second negative, in my view, was the weather. Mountain storms can be wicked--big bad winds, wild snowfall, and general unpleasantness. I wouldn't want to be laying in the midst of one of those storms, and I'm sure Poochie wouldn't either. Plus, there are bears and coyotes out there! So I didn't bury her in the mountains.

I decided to have her cremated . . .

. . . in a "clean" kiln, meaning no other ashes were present. Then the remains are returned to you, your dog's and your dog's remains only, for you to do with as you please. Poochie was returned to me in a cedar box, with a nice memorial certificate. I thought of spreading her ashes in the mountains but decided against that, for the same reasons I didn't want to bury her in the mountains, mostly though because I didn't someday want to leave her in Tahoe all alone.

Bernie. Well, there was never any question that I'd do the same with Bernie, have her ashes returend to me. It's bad enough, of course, for your companion to exit to puppy heaven, but to me even worse if I didn't have the ever-lasting dog by my side.

So, Poochie and Bernie are both home, actually a few feet from me right now. They are in their original boxes, with clips of each dog's fur resting on top. I don't really do much with them, other than an occasional glance, sigh, and subsequent greeting to them. From time to time I'll touch the fur. Mostly, though, they're just there, exactly where I want them and they want to be.

Home.

Bringing Marley Home

Today I re-direct you to an update on Marley, the star creature of "Marley & Me."
Click the link below.

Bringing Marley Home | Parade.com

Nothing Runs Like a . . . Black Dog

***Dad bought this tractor in August 2005. Clearly, this was a really big deal to us Caruthers folk.***

I have family in southwest Missouri, farm country. As a kid, I'd spend a week or two each summer down there, 90 percent of that time on either my grandparents' John Deere lawnmower, similar to the one above, or on one of my grandfather, Uncle Tom, or Uncle Carl's REAL tractors, farming the fertile soil--black gold, we call it--of rural Missouri. I'd sit on one of the fenders and supervise, and was damned good at it.

I also enjoyed every second of it.

These days, I don't get on a big farm tractor very often. When I get the opportunity, though, I take it. For the first couple years after I moved to Minnesota, Bernie would accompany me on my visits to the farm. She had mixed feelings about that: Loved being outside and getting filthy and chasing critters and all that, but frequently voiced displeasure about having to sleep outside--more to the point, sleeping outside while I was inside. Had I pitched a tent in the front yard for myself, she would've gladly slept outside.

So back to the tractor. Bernie was ten years old now, so while still hearty, safe to say her spring chicken years were behind her. Well, Uncle Tom wanted to go move some hay or something exciting like that, and I just had to go. So I jumped on the fender of the tractor, and away Tom and I went. Along came Bernie, as there was no way she would let me escape the watch of her eyes. She started trotting on the gravel road behind the tractor, which I suppose was going 15 or 20 mph. We were going about two miles, and I seriously wondered whether the dog had the stamina to follow all the way. Honestly, I thought she might drop dead.

She didn't, though I think she might have walked the last bit and caught up with us again upon our return--I don't remember. I do know, though, that she carried on behind us in a nifty trot for far longer than you'd expect of a dog her size and age.

A big, strong heart Bernie had indeed.