Memories from a Photograph

I love the photo at the top of this post. It says so much, and it shows that a picture truly can be worth a thousand words.

I have seen this building before, but as I was driving to Durango, CO, to meet a group for a hiking trip, I knew I had to stop and take a picture. I made a U-turn as soon as I could and drove back into the parking lot.

I love the photo's simplicity -- an old truck and an old building with classic advertising on the side. But most of all, I love the memories it conjures in my mind ... memories of a time when life was simpler and moved at a slower pace ... memories of my childhood.

The truck creates images of a rural area with dusty, rutted, unpaved roads. The sign, of course, is instantly recognizable from its colors and script. Coca-Cola Classic is my absolute favorite soft drink, a guilty pleasure I enjoyed every morning for many years until my doctor told me that I need to watch my sugar intake. So now, aside from the occasional can of 'real' Coke, I limit myself to sugar-free soft drinks.

I remember summers spent at my grandparents' place in rural southern Illinois. Days were hot and humid, and we kids were on the go from the moment we awoke in the morning. There was no air-conditioning in the house, and we rarely watched television. Instead, we ran around outside, we played with our cousins who lived down the hill, we rode their horses and their homemade go-cart. We explored the woods and the pond filled with small fish and snapping turtles.

The truck reminds me of my grandfather's old 1947 Chevy. My grandmother didn't drive, so my grandfather did all the driving. In those days, there were no seat belts or air bags or other safety devices that make today's vehicles much safer. The car didn't have a radio or air conditioning, and of course it was black (the only color available at the time) and it had a manual transmission. The car also had a huge back seat, and it smelled of age and must and dust. I was saddened when, after my grandmother died and my grandfather entered a nursing home, the car was sold. And their simple, cozy old house was sold and torn down, replaced with a more modern home.

I haven't been back to that part of Illinois in many decades. Most of my relatives have either died or no longer stay in touch. I don't ride horses or go-karts any longer, my house is air-conditioned and my car has all the luxuries I want or need. But it's nice having these old memories revived by a chance encounter with an old truck and some classic advertising.

Family Resemblances

Every so often, I walk our two dogs separately, rather than at the same time as I usually do.

As I watched my 14-1/2 year old Lab/beagle, Mila, struggle along on her arthritic hips, I was struck by the similarities she and I share. She has arthritis in her spine and hips; I have arthritis in my hands and bursitis in my hips. Her coat is short, blonde and thick; my hair is short and thick, and it used to be blonde. It's now mostly gray. Mila has gorgeous golden eyes; I have always loved the fact that I have beautiful blue eyes.

Our similarities, however, go well beyond the physical. Both of us prefer solitude and quiet. Neither of us cares for a lot of physical attention. Neither of us is very playful, and both are quiet and serious. Both of us have long nails, mine by choice, hers because she hates having her nails trimmed. Both have hearing problems. I lost most of the hearing in one ear when I was 10 years old; Mila has lost most of her hearing as she got older. We both love being outdoors and exploring the world around us. Both of us are short.

Our other dog, Tia, is a golden retriever. She and my daughter are much alike. Both have long hair, although Julia's isn't as blonde as Tia's. Both are playful, sometimes goofy, and very social. They both make friends easily and love being in the thick of things. And both dog and daughter are very vocal.

I have seen pictures from dog/owner look-alike contests, and although I don't think Mila and I really look alike, it is interesting how much we have in common. I didn't adopt Mila because of her personality. Indeed, I found her in Houston, having apparently been dumped when she was pregnant. We adopted Tia because my daughter fell in love with her fun-loving personality.

It's interesting how our two dogs reflect the personalities of the people in our household. It takes all kinds and all personalities to make the world interesting. I am blessed to have a diverse and loving family with which to share my life.

Unfulfilled Dreams

I want to be a writer.

There. I have put it down in black and white. I want to be a writer. I first discovered my talent for writing in middle school, and I did a lot of writing in my careers with a large humane society and later with NASA. But there were so many limitations and restrictions on my writing that it seldom satisfied my creative side. I have had articles published in some specialty magazines and in the local newspaper while I was in grad school. And I won some writing awards from the Dog Writers' Association.

Since I retired, I have written regularly in this blog. I made a book available of my favorite blog posts, but it sold only a handful of copies. Late last year I finally finished a book about my experiences -- good and bad -- as I raised my daughter, adopted from Russia at age 11. I wrote this book at the urging of an attachment therapist, who believed that my story would be helpful and supportive to other adoptive parents. To date, it has sold only FOUR copies! It is available via the button at the upper right of this page, as well as through amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. But promoting a self-published book is not easy, and although several people have commented that they "can't wait to read" the book, few have actually followed through and ordered a copy.

So I write for the sheer pleasure of writing. I simply love to write. I don't want a writing job with daily deadlines, and I cherish the freedom to write about whatever appeals to me. I just wish that people would actually read what I write! Getting paid for my writing isn't important. But I would like to know that people read, and maybe, if I'm lucky, find some value in, my writings.

I write about many things -- nature, volunteer work, wolves, adoption, personal growth, family and many other topics. I find inspiration for my writing from many sources -- personal experiences, newspaper ads, something I see or hear about on the news or in conversations with others.

I don't have the wit of an Erma Bombeck. I don't have the imagination of a J.K. Rowling. I simply write about what I see, experience or feel passionately about. I don't have aspirations of writing the next New York Times best seller. But I do intend to keep writing. I love writing, and I love experimenting with words until I find just the right word, or phrase or sentence, to convey my thoughts. I love reading a well-written article or book and wondering whether I could ever write as well as that author. The late Albuquerque author Tony Hillerman is a favorite author, although he wrote fiction, something for which I definitely don't have the talent.

I most likely never will be considered a writer, but rather, as someone who writes. There is a huge difference in these descriptions. People have told me for years how much they enjoy my writing. But it's no fun to write post after post with no feedback or commentary. If you enjoy reading this blog, please sign up as a follower (there is a link on the right side of the page) and invite your friends to sign up, too. If you have a comment about a particular post, please use the comment function at the bottom of each post to submit your statement or question. If you have an idea for a future post, I would love to hear about it. I see the statistics. I know that people are reading this blog, from countries around the world. But please, I need some feedback.

In any event, I will continue to write and hope that some day, I truly will be considered a writer.
 

The Green Bowls

After my father died last year, the task of cleaning out his condo fell primarily to my sister and me. She, our brother and sister-in-law, and I all wanted to keep a few things as mementos of our parents.

My brother took our father's World War II Navy uniform and some Navy photographs. My sister wanted a ceramic cat. I kept three green ceramic mixing bowls. Although all are green (one is green and white), they are not part of a set, as each bowl's color and style are different. Fortunately, however, they are the right size to nest inside one another, which made carrying them home on the airplane a bit easier.

I have put away my set of glass mixing bowls and now use these old bowls exclusively. I have no idea how old they are or where they came from. There are no markings on them that can identify the brands, manufacturers or when they were made. Nor do I know their source: Did my mother buy them, or did she get them from her mother long ago?

These bowls are deeper than my newer mixing bowls, and as strange as it may seem, they have the 'personality' or character the newer bowls lack. It isn't just the color, texture or composition of each bowl, either. The largest of the three shows evidence of age and many years of use. They have a history, and they are a link to a simpler time. I wash them by hand, not in the dishwasher, and I don't know whether they can be used in a microwave. And that's OK. I am happy to wash them by hand. Microwave ovens and automatic dishwashers weren't even in use when these bowls came into the family.

I'm sure these old bowls have little monetary value, but they are valuable to me. These simple green bowls are a connection to my late mother, who was an excellent cook. Using them often brings back memories of the wonderful meals she created from scratch for her family. I am nowhere near the cook my mother was, but using these special mixing bowls still sometimes conjures up memories of Sunday meals after church, the entire family seated around an antique oak dining table. Aside from the occasional meal of liver and onions, and the stewed breaded tomatoes, everything was delicious. Some of our favorite meals included fried chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy and corn, and roast beef with noodles. Chicken and dumplings (homemade, of course) and homemade cinnamon rolls are other favorites.

But more than just being a connection to my mother, these bowls also serve as a connection to a simpler time, a time when doors were left unlocked and kids played in the neighborhood on their own all day with no worry about their safety. My childhood was a time of family togetherness, of evening and Sunday meals around the table, of homemade food prepared from fresh ingredients, a time of simply sitting in the back yard on a hot summer day.

No, these simple mixing bowls are much more than just old pieces of kitchenware. They are reminders that sometimes the most precious things we inherit aren't pieces of jewelry, money or other 'valuables,' but simple, utilitarian, everyday items rich in memories.

Paying It Forward

Last December, my daughter and I stopped by a grocery store to pick up a few items. I was shocked when the man ahead of us told the cashier that he was buying our groceries. After thanking him and telling him he had just made my day, I added that I would pay it forward.

A few times since then I have recalled my pledge, but the situation never seemed quite right. But recently, as I stood in the express line with my three items, I noticed a young man in line behind me. He was buying a dozen yellow roses. "Perfect!" I thought. "This is my chance to pay it forward."

I told the cashier that I wanted to pay for the flowers, in addition to my purchase. Both he and the young man were shocked. I explained that someone had bought my groceries one day, and that I was just paying it forward.

I relate this story not to brag, but to encourage others to pay it forward as well. Small acts of unexpected kindness or generosity can brighten the day not only of the recipient, but of the giver as well. It just feels good to do something nice for someone, with no expectation of repayment or anything in return. An act of kindness to a total stranger makes the experience even sweeter.

Paying it forward is quite simple. Just be on the lookout for opportunities to help someone by doing a random act of kindness. This can be as simple as helping someone carry their groceries to the car, or paying for a meal for a veteran or homeless person, or raking a yard when the homeowner is away. The person should be someone you don't know, or don't know very well. If the recipient of your kind act wants to pay you back somehow, suggest that he/she instead pay it forward.

This is important. We want to start a cycle of paying it forward, an ever-longer chain of people doing something nice for someone else with no expectations or strings attached. Suggest that the person you helped do the same for another person, or even for more than one person. People have paid the toll for the next five drivers in line at a bridge or toll road; others have anonymously paid off strangers' lay-away charges during the holidays. The possibilities are limitless, and they don't have to cost a lot of money.

After the horrible murders of teachers and elementary school children in Newtown, Conn., late last year, NBC News reporter Ann Curry sparked a movement to encourage people to carry out 26 acts of kindness, one for each of the victims. People enthusiastically embraced this simple way of not only honoring the victims of a senseless killing spree, but also as a way to do something positive and make the world a better place. They are, in effect, paying it forward. Many also used this as an opportunity to teach their children to pay it forward, by creating and carrying out their own acts of kindness.

The news and Internet are filled with stories of abuse, suffering, killings and people who just don't care. A single random act of kindness won't change the world, but maybe, just maybe, it will brighten the day of someone else. Maybe an unexpected act of kindness will make somebody decide to pay it forward, too. I will never know whether the young man with the roses will pay it forward. I hope he will.

At the very least, my little act of kindness brightened this young man's day, and most likely the store clerk's, too. As someone posted on Facebook, " [I] still find myself being more kind, patient and tolerant on a daily basis. Those first 26 acts of kindness changed my life. I needed this to realize there is still so much good inside me and in the world."

It feels good to know that I fulfilled my pledge to the man who paid for my groceries. And now I'm on the lookout for more little ways to help. There is no downside to this. Even if your kindness isn't appreciated, you should feel good.

The Gift

Today I want to write about a very special gift.

First, some background. I adopted my daughter from Russia the day after her 11th birthday in 2004. The intervening years have been a roller coaster ride of good times and bad, of challenges and victories, of setbacks and progress.

Like many children with a history of trauma and time spent in an orphanage, she doesn't always think or react the way a child with a more stable, loving upbringing would. She has attachment issues, and forming appropriate relationships is a challenge for her. It has taken me years of research, reading, experience and talking with therapists and other adoptive parents to sort of understand how her brain works.

But despite everything that has gone on, her adoption has been a gift. It wasn't a gift from her birth parents, who neglected and abused her and who ultimately lost their parental rights. But her adoption was a gift to me nonetheless. The gift was in being able to help, and watch, my daughter learn to deal with her traumatic past, a past that will forever haunt her to some degree. She has had to learn to love and to be loved, to allow me to take care of her, and to realize that she deserves a loving mom and a wonderful life. She is a wonderfully kind and compassionate young lady (now 19 years old). She loves little kids and animals, especially dogs. Her gift to me has been allowing me to help her grow from girl to young lady, from one who was unable to give or accept love to someone who now believes that she deserves to be loved, from someone who saw no future to a young woman looking forward to a bright future.

Recently I experienced adoption from the other side of the fence, when my daughter became pregnant at the age of 18. She isn't in a position to raise a baby, so she decided to put the baby up for adoption. As an adoptee herself, she rightly worried about her baby daughter suffering from the attachment issues with which she has struggled. But a friend of mine, a developmental psychologist, has reassured us that the baby shouldn't be faced with attachment issues since she will not spend time in an institution, being passed from caregiver to caregiver. She will be raised in a stable, loving, two-parent home. Her needs for affection, food, clean diapers and other essentials will be met on demand rather than according to a predetermined timetable as in the orphanage. The adoptive parents have been educated about attachment issues and how to help their new daughter form strong bonds with them. They have received instruction from the adoption agency, and they have read books about raising an adopted child. I shared my hard-won knowledge about attachment issues with the mom. And the baby went home with them when she was just two days old.

Giving a child up for adoption is a challenge for most mothers. It is not an easy decision to make, no matter how wonderful the adoptive family is. My daughter's head knows that she did the right thing. Her heart, on the other hand, still aches from the decision. Signing the court papers formally and irrevocably relinquishing her parental rights was a heartbreaking act.

I hope she realizes that her selfless actions were a wonderful gift to the family that adopted this baby girl, a family that longed for a child to love. It was a gift to the little baby as well -- the gift of the best chance at a wonderful life given by the young woman who grew to love her over the 10 months of her pregnancy. And although she probably wouldn't want to admit it, it also was a gift to herself. Now she can pursue her hopes of going to college, something she would have been unable to do had she tried to raise the baby herself. I told her recently that since she has made the painful decision to put her baby up for adoption, it is now up to her to take full advantage of the opportunities open to her. And by choosing an open adoption, she will be able to watch this little girl grow up, to follow her progress and to be part of her life. The baby will one day know her birth mother and the love she has for her.

Adoption is a gift. It is a gift to the child who is adopted and given a loving family. It is a gift to the adoptive parents, who are given the opportunity to raise and love a child. And although it may not seem such, it is a gift to the birth mother, who is able to offer her child an opportunity for the life she is unable to provide at that time in her life.

I am incredibly proud of my daughter for the gifts she has given the world, as an adoptee and as a birth mother.

Lobos Spotted on the West Mesa

"Lobos Spotted on the West Mesa" screamed a headline over a close-up photograph of a wolf. It was part of an on-line ad for the University of New Mexico, whose sports teams are known as the Lobos.

Photo by Joan Hellquist

How ironic is this? And how very sad. The state's flagship university has as its mascot the lobo, or wolf, a species fighting extinction in this state. The Mexican gray wolf is the rarest and most unique subspecies of gray wolf. Sadly, there are no lobos to be spotted on Albuquerque's West Mesa, or in the rest of the state except for a very small area in the southwestern corner.

Efforts to reintroduce the Mexican gray wolf into part of its former habitat in the so-called 'boot heel' of New Mexico and small areas of Arizona began in 1998 with the introduction of 11 captive-bred wolves. The goal of 100 wolves in the wild by 2011 has fallen far short. The 2011 census showed 58 wolves. The 2012 wolf census found 75 wolves, including 20 pups, so seeing a 30 percent increase over the past year is encouraging. However, several wolves were found dead last year, either shot or poisoned. Some of those executed were the alpha members of their packs. Emotions against reintroducing wolves into the wild run very strong among the ranching and cattle communities. Despite federal compensation for any cattle killed by wolves, many cattle ranchers persist in their hatred of wolves.

In addition to the removal of gray wolves in Idaho and Wyoming from the protection offered by the federal Endangered Species Act, the New Mexico Game and Fish Commission claims that it is powerless to prohibit trapping in the Gila Wilderness, part of the gray wolves' native territory. Sadly, a good number of these animals end up shot and killed by cowards.

Since moving to New Mexico, I have been blessed with the opportunity to spend time in the company of wolves and wolf/dog mixes. Every experience with them has been unforgettable.

I love going to see Hokshila, a timber wolf. Weighing more than 120 pounds and standing 6'3" on his hind legs, Hokshila clearly loves people. He sticks his muzzle through the fence and leans against it whenever anyone stops to pet him. I have spent time sitting in the pen with Liberty, a quiet wolf/malamute mix and cancer survivor. Bindi, the wolf/coyote/husky mix, is seemingly everywhere. He is allowed the run of the property (all of it is fenced). At one point he 'melted' onto the ground in pleasure as I massaged his neck and ears. So much for the big bad wolf of fairy tales and myth.

Photo by Sue Isley

On a visit to another wolf sanctuary, my face was smothered with kisses by Dakota, a timber wolf who planted his paws on the shoulders of visitors to his enclosure. He is hardly the ferocious beast portrayed by the anti-wolf crowd.
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Another time, I really got a sense of how much these animals love kids. One boy, perhaps 8 years old, was visibly terrified when he first spotted Hokshila. The boy's body stiffened, and his face was frozen in fear. A few minutes later, he and his two younger brothers happily posed for a picture with Hokshila. What happened during those few short minutes to change the boy's perception of this big wolf? Clearly something happened on a non-verbal level. Hokshila had turned terror into acceptance, a face frozen with fear into a face marked by a big smile.

A young mother sat on the grass with her baby, who could stand up with some assistance from his mother. Bindi, who had not shown much interest in other people at the public event, walked up to them. The mother stood her baby up, and he reached out for Bindi, who promptly covered the baby's face with kisses. While startled, the baby did not cry. Bindi then sat down in front of the mother and baby in a protective posture, as if saying "Don't even think about hurting this baby!" Bindi recognized the vulnerability of the baby, and his protective instincts kicked in. He wasn't menacing or growling at people to keep away, but his alert face and posture clearly showed that Bindi was on the job.

It was fascinating to watch people's reactions to the wolves. Some were apprehensive and stood back, while others were very interested in meeting the animals. Most seemed pretty blown away after spending a few minutes with animals usually maligned in the news media, fairy tales and cartoons. One young man walked by, made a U-turn, and stood looking at the wolves. "I don't like dogs," he said. But soon he was tentatively offering his hand to one of the wolves, who promptly licked it in greeting. This young man spent a long time talking to the founder of the rescue group. By the time he left, his attitude toward the wolves was remarkably different. Education and a positive experience made all the difference.

Perhaps some day there really will be 'lobos on the West Mesa,' not the kind that wears cherry-and-silver T-shirts, but lobos of the four-footed kind.