It all started when we first got together after nearly 40 years. We had worked together 37 years prior for Burger King Restaurants in Chicagoland. Eventually, our lives went very different directions, my family to Dayton, Ohio, Seattle, and back to Montana. Scott stayed mostly in the upper Midwest. Then one day when I was back in Montana, I typed Scott’s name into a Facebook search. A photo popped up but looked nothing like what I remembered him from Burger King days. A lot of years had passed for both of us so that was to be expected. I doubted that I looked anything like he might remember me, even if he did remember me. We worked together for a very few months at Burger King.

A year to the day later from when I did that FaceBook search, he responded to my private message. Low and behold it was him. By the early 2010’s, I had been divorced for a few years and his marriage was moving in that direction. Eventually, and a few more years passed us by, we got together through texting and a few phone calls.

Finally, we decided to get together in June of 2016. My mother had passed, and there was space in my life for other things including a guy. I had moved to Billings, Montana, in January 2016 after my Mom’s passing the previous August. Scott flew out to Montana in June for a few day’s visit, our first meeting after 37 years.

He had expressed interest in seeing buffalo and Yellowstone Park. He arrived on a Tuesday exhausted because of sitting on the tarmac at the Minneapolis airport for several hours for some unknown reason and finally landing at the Billings airport after 1:00 a.m. Plus, he was two weeks out of rotator cuff surgery with his arm in a sling and on pain meds. We did some things around Billings Wednesday and Thursday, then headed to Yellowstone Friday morning.

Scott had never been to Montana so Montana distance made no impression on him. We measure distance in driving time. It’s over 5 1/2 hours drive from Billings to Old Faithful Inn and the geyser. I think Scott imagined it was going to be a short couple of hours. We went through Red Lodge and over Beartooth Pass then down through the Lamar Valley. I prayed that the Lord would bring out at least one buffalo. He didn’t disappoint. We saw lots and some up very close. By the time we got to the Park entrance we still had about another hour and a half to drive. Scott was in a great deal of misery from his shoulder surgery. Hearing that we still had a long way to go brought a series of moans and groans that spoke to the pain he was in.

Old Faithfull was grand as ever. The couple sitting next to us where there celebrating the young lady’s birthday. We learned her name was Sarah. Scott started singing “Happy Birthday” to Sarah as Old Faithful reached it’s apex. The surrounding group of strangers joined in to make Sarah’s special day even that much more grand.

Then it was a short drive out of the park to Gardiner and onto Chico Hot Springs where I had a cabin rented for the night. Actually, that was probably another two and a half hour drive. While getting gas in Gardiner, Scott went into the gas station office to get a cola. In visiting with the owner, it came out that they both had had rotator cuff surgery. The owner got Scott a pack of ice to put on his shoulder and hopefully ease his pain. As I was paying, I ask the owner how much further to Chico. He said probably a short 35 miles maybe another 40 minutes. Scott, literally, screamed like a little girl, “35 miles!?! She’s going to kill me!”

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “We better get going because we have dinner reservations.”

If looks could kill, I’d be the one dead. Off we went.

By the time we got to our cabin at Chico, Scott was in no mood for dinner. He just wanted to get out of the car and possibly get some sleep. The cabin had a lovely hot tub so I ran him a tub full of soothing hot water. After helping him navigate into the tub, I thought he could use some of that wet heat on his shoulder, so I pushed him further down into the tub. The bottom of the tub was a bit slippery, and he went all the way under. He came up sputtering with fire shooting out of his eyes. That was the second time I heard him yell, “What are you doing, trying to kill me?!???”

Then he sputtered, “Get out and turn those damn lights off so I can relax and not fear for my life.”

I objected, “You won’t be able to see anything. Are you sure you want the lights off”?

“You couldn’t possibly care. Just turn them off and get out”!, he yelled in no uncertain terms.

It was a fast drive back to Billings the next day, Saturday, to drop Scott off at the airport to fly back to Minneapolis. He sat with his head leaned against the door, his eyes closed the whole way. No words were spoken.

Some grand vistas flew by as I sped down the freeway. I wasn’t about to wake him so he could look at any of Montana’s spectacular scenery. At last the airport drop off area was in front of us. He grabbed his bag, gave me a perfunctory hug and a kiss on the cheek, then he disappeared into the Billings airport.

As I was driving out of the airport parking lot, I muttered to no one, “Well, I’ll never see or hear from him again”.

The shoulder healed. The Yellowstone “pain” experience faded into the memory of Old Faithful geyser shooting skyward as a small group of strangers sang “Happy Birthday” to Sarah. The shoulder pain faded even more as Scott remembered the multitude of amazing buffalo that walked within touching distance of the car. And now we laugh at the “scream” in the gas station when Scott heard how much further we had to drive and the subsequent loving push under the water in the hot tub.

That was the first of several events that continue to have Scott asking me if I am trying to do away with him.

There was another hot tub event where the drain plug wouldn’t release. It was as if the plug had formed a vacuum and nothing that we could do to get it to pop up worked. Because of the water depth and the difficulty of getting out of those tubs, Scott couldn’t seem to get out. Even one of those attempts at getting out had him slip under the water with feet in the air. Try as I may, I couldn’t get him upright. Finally, with the help of a towel and a lot of pulling, he was able to sit up with his chin just above the water. Once again, he accused me of trying to kill him. I was about to call the front desk, when I thought to use my metal nail file to pry the drain cap up just enough to brake the suction. Scott, saved at last!

These events might have not been so infuriating to Scott if I hadn’t laughed hysterically the whole time as he was accusing me of attempted murder.

He accuses me of upping the game when we moved into a lovely home in Hudson, Wisconsin in September 2017. I told him when we looked at the house before buying it, that the gas stove would have to go. He resisted, saying that a new stove would cost a lot, and I could do just fine on a gas stove.

I said, “I am not safe cooking with an open flame. Seriously!”

He looked at me with raised eyebrows and said, “You’ll be fine.”

The control knobs for the gas stove were right in front, waist high. It was about week two cooking on that stove, when Scott woke in the night smelling gas. I was sound asleep. He discovered one of the knobs had been turned just enough for the gas to start but now enough to engage the pilot light. He got it turned off and opened up windows, letting me know that we had an issue. A few days later the same thing happened. By now, Scott was angry that I wasn’t turning off the stove the right way. I assured him I was. Then came the accusations that once again I was trying to kill him.

I shot back, “That’s absurd, and you know it. I don’t know how this is happening”. These so called “attempts” were potentially catastrophic endangering both of us.

It couldn’t have been more than a few days after that second time that the same thing happened, but this time Scott didn’t wake up right away. This time, I awaken to Scott yelling frantically that the house was full of gas and don’t turn on any lights. He ran to the kitchen, turned off the knob that was slightly past “Off”, and started opening up windows and doors. We ran outside waiting for the house to air out or explode. After a good half an hour, we went back in to find the house was once again safe. I finally figured out that the knobs were catching on my belt buckle and turning on just enough to engage the gas but not the pilot light. That next day we bought a flat top stove. He knows now, I ONLY will cook on a flat top stove.

The next big “try-to-do-Scott-in” event was using a tens unit. If you have never used one or don’t even know what one is, it is a small electrical unit with wires coming from it. These wires attach to pads. The pads can be place on the body where there is pain. Mild electric shock stimuli vibrates through the pads to stimulate muscles and tendons to increase blood flow and hopefully alleviate pain.

Scott was experiencing shoulder pain probably from the rotator cuff injury and resulting surgery as well as long-term over use. We decided to try the tends unit for possible relief. I attached one of the pads to each of his upper shoulder blades in the back. I turned on the machine and waited for the electrical stimulus to start. He said it wasn’t working so I increased the intensity. Now, the left pad was working fine but not the right one. I tried to read the miniscule print on the very tiny instruction sheet most likely written in China or Taiwan. I saw where it said to apply some moisture to the pad and re-attach it. I read nothing about turning the machine off first. Those words might have been there and “logic” says that such an action would make sense. BUT, I didn’t!

I applied a few drops of water from the sink onto the pad and slapped that baby back on his right shoulder. Instantly, Scott’s right arm shot up into the air, his hair stood on end, and he screamed like a little girl being tortured. With his left hand, he yanked the wires off. I know I should have immediately consoled him. But, instead I fell on the floor laughing so hard I couldn’t speak and every time I tried, I laughed harder, especially, when he accused me of actually trying to kill him this time.

His right arm hung limp at his side. “I can’t even lift my arm”, he whined. That brought more gales of laughter from me.

“How’s the pain in your shoulder”?, I said with tears running down my face.

If looks could kill, I’d be dead.

Eventually, his arm got all the feeling back. It took a couple months. It works just fine. He still has pain in his shoulders.

We no longer have the tens unit.

That’s the last big attempt I have made on his life. I like having him around. I always liked having him around. I’m working on building his trust in me. He only accuses me of putting him in harms way when I take a turn that he thinks the cars coming toward us are too close and are on his side of the car. He would take the brunt of a collision if we were to get hit. I assure him I had plenty of room for the turn. I’m working on that. It’s a work in progress.

I like these yearly sun markers. I particularly like the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, when the winter days start getting longer. That is a joyful day for me. The Summer Solstice marks the longest day of the year, and then the days start getting shorter. It’s still a celebration day marking the beginning of warmer weather and the outdoor activities that go along with that.

Scott and I are gardeners. We appreciate the warmer days that allow for digging in the dirt, planting beautiful flowers that attract bees, butterflies, pollinator insects of various kinds, and birds. We are doing container planting since we are in an HOA, and we can’t plant in the common areas. I often say we are doing pot planting but that might give the wrong idea as to what we are actually doing.

In 2003, I moved back to my hometown, Lewistown, Montana, a couple years after 911, and lived there for the next 12 years. My mom and brother still lived there. I had a good-sized group of lady friends with whom I re-established old friendships with along with new friends that I made when I got there. Every year, these ladies celebrated the four sun events; Spring Equinox, Summer Solstice, Autumnal Equinox, and the Winter Solstice. These celebrations were mainly potluck gatherings at someone’s home with wine and mixed drinks. We generally had an exchange of some kind. One year, we were to bring a hat and explain why we had it or what prompted us to get or buy it in the first place, along with any story or detail that went with the hat. I brought a beautiful white felt brimmed hat with a wide cream colored grosgrain ribbon around the crown that was fastened with a tailored bow. It had a wide-holed veil that loosely bunched around the front half of the brim. It was classy and fashionable in any day-in-age. I don’t recall when or why I bought the hat other than I was struck by its understated elegance.

So, the story that went with the hat involved a new acquaintance that I had when I first moved into the townhouse complex after my divorce from a 35-year marriage. His name was Wes. Wes lived just across the walkway from me.

Wes taught Seattle millionaires how to drive their fancy sports cars on the Evergreen Speedway in Monroe, Washington. He invited me to go to the Speedway one summer Saturday to watch the drivers. While there, one of the other spectators drove up in a yellow Spyder convertible kit car. Wes and I were looking over the car when the owner stopped by to answer any questions we might have. He appeared to be older than me and nice looking. I was intrigued as we chatted more. One thing led to another, and this guy, Brian, invited me to go for a drive in his Spyder the next Saturday. He said to be sure and wear a hat. He didn’t specify what kind of hat. That Saturday rolled around. I dressed up for the outing with nice slacks, a dressy blouse, low heals, and “that hat.” Brian held the door for me as I lowered myself into the very low seat, fastened the seat belt, and donned my fancy hat.

Brian look quizzically at me as he stepped over the driver’s side door and eased into the driver’s seat. He shifted into first gear and slowly drove out of the parking lot and onto the freeway ramp. He glanced over at me and said, “It that the hat you’re going to wear?”

I jerked back in an auto-response of surprise and slight indignation, replying, “Of course!”

He laughed, “You don’t have a baseball cap? I mean, really!”

Defiantly, I said, “Nope! This will be fine.”

I’m not sure I had ever worn a baseball cap, and certainly, no such thing could be found in my house.

He laughed, knowing that I will never see that hat again once he steps on the gas… which he immediately did.

He put the Spyder in gear, stepped on the gas and launched onto the freeway at about 60 miles an hour. He was just getting started. I could feel my lovely hat starting to loosen on my head. I liked that hat, so I yanked it down more and held it in place with my right hand. I glance over at the speedometer. The indicator arrow was now at 85 miles an hour. The wind was whipping over the windshield and caught the brim of my hat just right so it flipped off my head. Thank goodness I still gripped the brim of the hat or it would be long gone. That did it. I shoved it on the floor under my legs. I looked over, and Brian was laughing as he stepped on the gas that much harder. I stopped looking at the speedometer. He had turned his baseball cap around so that the brim was facing down the back of his neck. No way was he going to lose his hat. My hair was whipping around in every which way. I prided myself in a “no-hair-out-of-place” hairdo. Guess I should have had a hat like Brian’s. If Brian is still alive, I bet he tells that story of the lady who dressed for a dinner date with fancy wide brimmed hat that he took on a fast-drive freeway outing.

That was my contribution and story that went with the hat for the Solstice celebration.

Another year, we were to bring something that we had made for a gift exchange. I pondered this quit some time. I am a good cook and baker. I considered taking something that I had cooked or baked – casserole, canned pickles, homemade jam, or homemade baked cinnamon rolls or bread. Any of those would have been great. I do crafts and watercolor and colored pencil art works. One of those would have been good. Then I happened upon bringing a copy of my poems. I have some thirty odd poems that I have written over the years, several of which I wrote when my two boys were little, and I was a stay-at-home mom. These poems are on my computer, so I just had to print them off on nice paper and bind them on my office comb binding machine. I used a copy of one of my colored pencil drawings as a cover, so it was a  double gift in a way. These poems are very personal and follow several years of my life in what I thought and experiences I had. I was proud and pleased with my contribution. It wasn’t the first item to go in the gift exchange, but it wasn’t the last.

Each year, when I was in Lewistown and the Summer Solstice gathering was planned, I would be sure and ask my mom if she would like to come along. I told her she knew several of the women, and she would be more than welcome. To make the invitation a bit more fun, I would invite her by saying, “Mom, my lady friends and I are celebrating the Summer Solstice next Saturday evening. We are having dinner, and then we’ll be dancing naked under the moon and stars. Please say ‘yes’ that you will come.”

Every year, she would graciously decline, saying with a disgusted frown on her face that those were my friends that I should go and have a good time. Once she made up her mind, there was little chance of changing it, so I let it go at that.

Finally, one year she caught me by surprise when I asked her to join me for the naked dancing Summer Solstice Celebration she said, “My Dear, I know you’ve ask me several times a year for years now. I have always said no to your invitation. This time, I seriously considered joining you, but regrettably, I have to decline. You know how particular I am about how I look when I go out. I always want to look well put together and well dressed. I looked at my birthday suit this morning, and it’s too wrinkled. I don’t see a way to get those wrinkles iron out. So I won’t be joining you and your friends.”

Oh, she had a fun sense of humor at times. We both laughed. I still laugh to this day thinking about her standing there in the kitchen with her arms crossed as she often did telling me her birthday suit was too wrinkled to be dancing under the night sky.

I won’t be dancing naked under the stars and moonlight tonight. We live in a townhome community. I don’t want to get arrested for being a public nuisance or indecent exposure. I will have a glass of wine and toast the advent of summer and the joys that summer days bring. I won’t think about the days getting shorter. That will come when the Autumnal Equinox rolls around. Happy Summer Solstice to you.

Several years ago, I reconnected with several of my high school classmates at my 25th year class reunion. At the social gatherings, the high school clicks reformed. As I looked around at the classmates, there were those I knew in high school as acquaintances but didn’t socialize with them even though our graduating class only had 99 graduates. One of my girls friends, Linda, reminded me of the time she punched one of the guys in the nose and broke his glasses. He’d snapped her bra while we were getting books out of our lockers. Instinctively, she turned with a clenched fist and let him have it square between the eyes. She said, “You were standing right there and told him it served him right”.

I didn’t remembered.

Later that reunion week, I was resting in my old bedroom downstairs in the dark basement one afternoon, and decided I’d try to remember that incident. I closed my eyes and tried to put myself back in that exact spot and in that very moment. Several of my old girl friends and I had gone to the high school that week and wandered around the halls locating our various classrooms and the lockers we had each year so I knew which lockers Linda and I had been at when this particular incident happened.

Twenty-five years in mind-travel isn’t such a long time and it can be impossible. In this case, I was actually able to replay the entire incident even to the point of vaguely remembering what she and I were wearing. Since then, I have mind-traveled back to various points in time. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how long ago the visitation is. A moment in time comes back to me. Other times, no matter how hard I try, I can’t reconnect. Of course, being in my eighties now, remembering what I had for breakfast yesterday can be a challenge.

When Scott and I first got together, I would ask him about his childhood, mainly to get to know him better. He often times said he didn’t remember much, that I should ask his sister. She would remember. Since then, as we travel through these later years in our life together, he remembers more and shares those past experiences. He is beginning to experience how enlightening this mind-travel can be.

Life on the Pond has settled down considerably this past week. Where have all the critters gone?

We have had a pair of Canadian Geese and several Mallards that have been constant residents since the ice melted in late April. A couple of Koots showed up occasionally. I’ve seen turtles poking their heads out of the water and a couple of muskrats swimming back and forth across the pond before disappearing into the reeds. We even had a pair of swans land on the pond about a month ago. They only stayed for the morning, then were gone. There’s good variety of wild birds. I won’t list them all, but the one special one is the Baltimore Oriole. Scott puts out grape jelly in the Oriole feeders. I’m sure they come by several times a day since we have to replace the jelly frequently.

A month ago, the Spring Peeper frogs cause a deafening chirping very late at night. It’s likened to the ring of a sleigh or Christmas bell but VERY loud. Scott even thought it was someone’s car alarm blasting very late at night and called the non-emergency police line to have someone come check it out. I thought it was some night bird in distress. Nope, just frogs we had never heard before. That frogs stopped about 10 days ago and now, we have the regular low melodic “ribbit ribbit” croak of the lime-green tree frogs from dusk to around 11:00 p.m. Then they go quiet, and we have peace for sleeping. Here’s a link to an image and sound tape of the Spring Peeper https://youtu.be/UwVEI5M-948

This past week, I have not seen the geese, no Koots, and only one Mallard with four fairly mature chicks swimming very early in the morning. When I looked later in the morning, they were gone and have not been back.

I assume that that the bulk of the water fowl are off nesting. It’s early June so the timing is about right. Female water fowl set on their eggs around 25 to 30 days give or take a few days. Perhaps the adults will be back with their little ones in a couple of weeks. We were hoping that they would nest in the reeds that surround the pond. The geese and Mallards seemed to have been checking out and testing a few areas in the reeds over the past several weeks. We were hopeful that one of those areas that we could easily from our living room windows would soon have a nest full of white eggs. No such luck!

Scott has several hanging feeders in a big maple tree by the pond and a couple feeders on our privacy fence just outside our sliding glass door. We can walk down to the pond from here. He scatters duck feed on the ground for the water fowl. It’s fun to watch the parade of ducks, geese and birds enjoying the feed every day. I have counted over 20 different kinds of birds and water fowl since moving to the townhouse exactly 3 months ago today.

This pond is the reason we move into this particular townhome. We really aren’t townhouse kind of people. We like more privacy, more ability to garden and do our own thing around the perimeter of the house. The HOA restrictions don’t allow for the kind of “improvements” that we would like to make. However, the pond is a bonus that makes these other endeavors that we can’t do tolerable.

Scott’s passion is feeding the birds. He has become knowledgeable of the various bird seeds and grains that bring the wild birds and provides appropriate food for each kind. This passion started when we first lived in Western Wisconsin, in Hudson from 2017 to 2023. We had 2 1/2 acres of woodland. We begun to plant perennial pollinator plants and native wild flowers. Our vision was a mass of pollinator plants for butterflies, bees, other insects and, of course, birds all happily doing their thing under a canopy of tall trees. The vision was slowly coming together, until we sold the property and moved to Montana September 1, 2023.)

In the backyard, Scott had several feeders of various kinds in the backyard which attracted approximately 25 different kinds of birds. My passion was watching and recording the various birds and the dates that I saw each kind. I love watching the birds. All the colors, songs and habits of the birds are intriguing. The unusual ones are such a gift. The Indigo Blue Buntings, Wow! Those were rare and we usually only saw them once or twice a summer. The brilliantly red Cardinals were special and we were blessed with many. Bluebirds came by infrequently. And, of course, the Pileated Redheaded Woodpeckers were an amazement. We had a family that lived in the woods and came by occasionally. They seem to be a remnant of the dinosaurs.

When we moved to Montana in September 2023, we once again took up our passion for attracting birds to our home. We lived in the foothills of the Snow Mountains in central Montana just 9 miles from Lewistown. We had a front deck that provided an opportunity to attach shepherd hook feeds to the railings and also put tall shepherd hooks and feeders in the yard. I counted 36 different kinds of birds in that area of Central Montana. When we first moved there, I didn’t think we would experience many kinds, maybe 20 if we were lucky – the expected Sparrows, Robins, Chickadees, Blackbirds, Crows, and Magpies. I was amazed at so many different kinds than just those.

We also had a family of raccoons that enjoy night time eating frenzies at the feeders. They came to “dinner” around 2:00 a.m., cleaned out the feeders, if we forgot to take them in, and then ambled away into the dark. We had a motion sensor light that went on every time the critters came up to the feeders. That was our signal that they were out there. Scott has a habit of staying up into the wee hours of the morning so he knew when they had arrived. Occasionally, Scott would wake me up to watch them. Other than eating all the seed designated for the birds, they were fun to watch.

Now, we’re back in western Wisconsin, the New Richmond area. Our home is a tri-level with the living room upstairs. We have a bank of windows that overlook the pond. My morning routine is to fix my cup of coffee and sit by the windows for an hour or so watching the activities around the feeder-tree, the tree where Scott has several feeders hanging from the branches of that maple tree by the pond’s edge. And watching the activities on the pond. Currently, the feeders are attracting Redwing Blackbirds and Starlings. Robins still hop around the yard picking out worms. The geese and ducks have been noticeably absent from foraging under the maple tree and pond bank where Scott sprinkles cracked corn and the like.

I love the views from my windows. The entertainment is priceless. The resulting research regarding the wildlife, their habitat, and behaviors has been educational and intriguing. Perhaps, I will travel back in time and give you a view from some of my other windows. That will take some time travel to bring back those memories.

Oh, the tricks our minds play on us at this senior age of 80+ years old. Or, maybe at any age. I’ve always been an active person, engaging in physical exercise of one form or another all the way from vigorous weight-lifting to cross country running to chair yoga. Recently, it’s more finger exercises as I maneuver from one button on the TV remote to the next.

So, to the local gym I went, looking for a trainer to help me reach my goal. Izzy was the trainer that worked with me on various types of weights along with overall strength and balance training. She was great and understood what I needed as a senior. I eventually worked up to 90# on the barbell in a deadweight lift. What a thrill. I never believed I would be able to lift that amount of weight and certainly not at age 72. I think back and wish I had gone up 10 more pounds to 100#. That would have been a nice ultimate goal. At 90# of weight, I figured that was enough at the time. I accomplished my goal of being able to easily lift those water jugs.

At another point in time, I self-trained to run a 10k or 6.21 miles in Bismarck, ND. I know many women train and run marathons. I don’t and never did see myself at that athletic level or even a desire to do a marathon. A 10k was a significant challenge for me.

I entered the WMCA 10k fundraiser challenge at the “senior” division level. The senior division was for 30+ years of age contestants. I figured I was safe with that level of competition. I was 34. After all, it was “seniors.” I imagined that it was old people in their 50’s and 60’s. I had a good chance to at least finish in the middle of the pack. Right? Just the fact that I was running that far was an amazed me. Like I said, I’ve always exercised but never thought of myself as “athletic.”

That Saturday morning was sunny and warm already. The announcement came for the senior contestants to line up. I looked around. Wow! I was the only woman and the men that stood beside me were the 30+ year-old men who had once been jocks and had aged into “still wannabe” jocks. These guys looked to be in their early thirties. None of them even had gray hair. What was I thinking? Not one to walk away from a challenge, I planted my feet ready to sprint ahead at the sound of the blow horn. Needless to say, the men quickly disappeared over the first hill. I felt like the turtle left in the dust. I continued my steady jog. The men were actually running, not jogging. I knew if I ran, I would physically be finished by the time I made it over the first hill. So, I jogged. I accepted the fact that I would come in last in the senior division. What a joke, “senior division.”

The designated trail turned from the concrete sidewalk to an asphalt jogging trail to a dusty hiking trail. It went up and down four hills and looped around at about mile 4.

I must have been at about mile 2 or 3. I heard the faint blast of the blowhorn indicating that the next group was leaving the starting line. I redirected my focus on one foot in front of the other and tried to pick up the pace. So far, my legs were doing their best to keep going. The sun was beating down and sweat began to bead up on my face and to trickle down between my breasts. Hang in there, Deb. You can do this. Lordy! How much farther do I have to go?

Whoa! Wait a minute! A little kid about 8 years old just flew by me. My pace faltered as I tried to evaluate what just happened. Wait! There goes another one. And another. And another. This must be the group that took off with that last blast of the blowhorn. Yikes! I’m being outpaced by the kids. Now, a little girl who must be about 6 years old just pranced by, looked up at me, smiled and said I was doing great. My self talk kicked in – “Well, just keep on keeping on. The finish line can’t be that far. I can see the far loop that turns us around and comes back.” The senior men were passing me heading back to the finish line. Little girls and boys kept passing me heading out to the far hills and the loop that would bring them back as well. Their little bodies seemed to float over the ground. I could hear and feel my heavy foot falls. The heat and the distance were taking a toll. As each kid passed me, my positive attitude faltered a bit more. Wow! I might come in last, truly last.

I made the loop which gave me a burst of energy. And finally I came up over the final hill to see the finish line down by the YMCA building. The kids parents were jumping up and down as more kids passed me and crossed the finish line. I halfheartedly smiled and waved a tired hand trying to cover up my embarrassment when the parents cheer me as I crossed the finish line. If I remember correctly, there were actually a couple of kids that finished after I did. The senior men had long since crossed the finish line and were most likely at a bar celebrating, probably talking about the blonde bimbo that thought she could run a race against them. Only in my fantasies did I run the race and out pace a few of the truly old guys but that didn’t actually happen.

One thing about it, I can say I ran a 10k race and finished. That was another thing I never thought I would do. Actually, I never thought about it at all until I signed up that day and lined up at the starting line in the “Senior” division with all those guys.

That brings back to thinking I can do things that, in reality, perhaps there’s more to it than that. Life has a way of shifting and circumstances alter and change.

Barry has been with us for a week now. One would hardly know that he had heart surgery a week ago today. The very tiny incisions in his groan are nearly invisible at this point. He doesn’t seem to be experiencing any adverse effects from the surgery. For a 4-month old pup with a heart condition, he is doing well. His pregnant mom was rescued out of a difficult situation on a North Dakota Indian reservation in one of Coco’s Heart Dog Rescue events called “Out of the Cold.” Barry was born after the rescue. He is so fortunate for he most likely would not have lived if he’d remained in the previous situation.

Barry came to us with little training. He was whelped in an upper floor of a St. Paul apartment building. In his first four months, Barry spent little time outside and had no idea about doing his business outside. He was used to doggy-pee-pads placed throughout the apartment. Barry had some learning to do when he came to us. After a week, I would say he is housebroken. We may still have an accident or two going forward, but that may be due to our inattention rather than Barry’s intentional use of the pads that we do have throughout the house.

About the only dog-commands that he knew when he came to us a week ago, is “no.” Along with “No”, he now knows “sit”, “lay down”, “stay”, and “wait”. He’s learning “heel” and we haven’t worked on “off” yet. Based on the speed of learning so far, I would say Barry is a smart dog.

Barry would like to get out and run. We live in an area where that is not possible. He has to be leash at all times. I keep a pretty short leash so he doesn’t get the idea of running and yanking me off my feet. With his heart condition, which he will have the rest of his life, he is not supposed to be overly active. It all works out.

The first few nights he was with us, I got little sleep, which is to be expected with the arrival of a new member of the family and still a baby at that. The last two nights have been better. Barry is sleeping through the night until after 7 a.m. What a blessing. In my retirement, I have gotten used to sleeping later. Seven o’clock is just fine.

The one area we have to do a lot of work on with is Barry is kennel training. He will go in his kennel if we leave the door open. Once the door is closed, he freaks out with a very loud barks and lots of whining. This will take time. Since we live in a townhome situation, we have neighbors who are not going to be happy with loud barking. This is going to take baby-steps.

Much of my social live and outings have been curtailed due to taking care of Barry. He had constant contact in his previous home so there is a lot of separation anxiety when one of us leaves him a lone in a room. Baby-steps.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton