MY POT FARM

 

          Something else that’s making me happy is my pot farm…no, not that kind of pot (although that kind of pot would probably make me very happy as well), but vegetables in pots. They are all doing quite well and I’m a happy harvester and hope to keep doing so for a few more months.

          Last year was a horrible year for my pot farming. My tomatoes did not do well for the first time in a very long time. I usually had way more than enough to give to family and friends, but not last year. I was lucky to have enough for myself. The same for the zucchini (and who can’t grow zucchini???), but the delicata squash did provide me with a few succulent fruits.

          I wasn’t sure I would actually farm this year, but I went ahead and bought the dirt at Costco since I’d had Haley and her guy empty out all the pots last fall. They sat dormant over the winter and I cleaned them and sprayed with a 50/50 combination of water and bleach to kill off any fungi or other bacteria that might have been responsible for my poor return last year.

          Apparently, my decision to do that has paid off. So far, I’ve harvested enough snow peas to have two servings as well as cut up a handful in my salad. I also have another huge serving waiting in the fridge. I’ve harvested enough zucchini to give one away, make a loaf of chocolate zucchini bread, put some in my salad and make zucchini fritters twice. Tomatoes are now beginning to get ready to harvest, but I’ve been able to eat all that’s been produced so far. There’s lots more on the way though.

          I’ve one small delicata squash I could probably harvest now, but I’m going to wait. There appear to be several others growing. Unfortunately, with both the delicata and the zucchini, the fruit begins to form and then it turns yellow and falls off. I may be watering them too much, but I’ve cut back so will have to wait and see if that was the problem.

          Finally, the raspberry bushes gave me almost a gallon bag of berries.  I’m planning to cut them way back this fall and restring the wire. Part of the problem this year was the lack of wire support. It is also trying to spread elsewhere and I’m ignoring those vines. I’ll dig them up in the fall and put them back in the bed where they belong.

          The Karlberg Memorial Apple Tree even produced one (1) apple this year after not producing anything for years. I had the tree pruned, but that wasn’t the first time I did so during its dormant period so I have no idea why it gave me one apple…maybe to tease me by reminding me how good they are. I did pick it too soon so it wasn’t quite as juicy as I would have liked, but Kuma and I ate the whole thing. Perhaps the bees were out and about when the tree blossomed this year, although it didn’t have a lot of blossoms either.

          As for other plantings in the garden and not in pots, I found out the beautiful yellow bush I like is actually loosestrife. Loosestrife has a reputation for spreading like wildfire and is hard to eliminate. I have white loosestrife I dug up and eliminated years ago, but I noticed it’s back this year. I’m going to dig up the yellow one, divide and replant it in in a couple of places where it can spread if it likes. My peonies were lovely for about a day and then the rain pretty much did them in. The cala lilies continue to spread all over the place even though I keep trying to dig them up…they must be talking to the loosestrife. They are done blooming as are almost all the other lilies. The dahlias are getting ready to blossom…two opened just this week and I’m hoping they do well this year. The bee balm is blooming, my Auntie’s fuchsia and the various hydrangea are blooming away as well.

          If you were a true gardener or a professional, you’d look around my garden and find lots of things you would have done differently. It’s definitely not going to appear as one of the gardens in the Lake Forest Park Garden Tour. But, that’s just fine with me. I enjoy sitting on my deck with coffee, ice tea, a drink or glass of wine and looking at what my efforts have produced. I pat me, myself and I on the back and tell me, myself and I that eventually, sooner or later, whenever, we’ll get out there and work to make it look even better. Meanwhile, we’re all happy with our results.

SCHOOL MEMORIES

 

          The other day I was having a conversation with my granddaughter Haley. We were talking about how she’d like to live in the country at some point in time. This led to my telling her about a couple of Idaho memories that came to me just then.

          It must have been first or second grade when the class learned how butter was made. The teacher brought in a Mason jar of cream. While she read us a story, we passed that jar from desk to desk, each of us shaking the contents for however long our allotted turn lasted. It was amazing how eventually we ended up with butter which the teacher spread on saltines and we all sampled.

          Haley told me there was some report on TikTok about how people were putting cream in a container then into a plastic bag and finally into the dryer. As that bag flopped around in the dryer, it apparently made butter. I don’t think there were clothes dryers in 1950.     

          In probably second grade, the class made ice cream in an old ice cream churn. Again, the teacher brought the churn and cream to class, and I remember some of the boys being sent outside into to scoop up snow and ice to help with the process. I don’t remember much else about it although I’m sure we all got a chance to help churn the cream.

          I haven’t thought about that old school in some time. It was past Burke and the silver mine, across the bridge over the river and up a hill. I think there were enough kids back then to make up one class per grade. It didn’t have a kindergarten, so my mom lied about my age and put me in first grade when I was four, almost five years old. It was fine though because I was already reading. I believe it held grades one through six, but it could have been through eighth grade. I don’t remember if there was a junior high school, but I’m sure there was a high school which would have been in Wallace.

          We began every day saying the Pledge of Allegiance and singing the Star Spangled Banner. I don’t remember much else about the classes (I only attended through third grade). I do remember learning to write cursive. It was the old Palmer Method of Cursive Writing. I never became an exemplary student of this method, eventually trying various methods of writing. I tried writing backward as though left handed, tried printing rather than writing, and finally ended up with a sort of cross between printing and writing. The one person I’ve known who had beautiful Palmer Penmanship was a previous boss. I never ever had to try to figure out what he wrote because the penmanship was perfect.

          Now, of course, my writing is absolutely horrible. I thought perhaps it was because I’m older, but I think the problem is that I rarely write anything out. I write a few checks each month, short reminder notes sometimes, but that’s about it. So, I think my handwriting suffers simply because I don’t utilize it. I wonder what my old boss’ penmanship looks like now?

          I began fourth grade in Burke Elementary, but the family moved and I ended up at B.F.Day in Seattle. I remember being shocked by the fact the curriculum (which was a word I didn’t know then) seemed to be the same as what I’d had in third grade in Burke. My mom always thought that’s when I became lazy about schoolwork and it might have been. I do remember one spelling test where I misspelled one word and was so upset with myself. The word was field and I spelled it feild. I knew that word, had already had it and still missed.

          To get to school in Idaho, I had to catch a bus that took me up the canyon. There was always a passel of us waiting to get on to go as well as to come home. Imagine my surprise when we moved to Seattle and I had to walk from my house to the school…all uphill!!! Even after graduating to junior and high school, I walked to and from. There were no Seattle school busses then because most children attended their neighborhood schools. At least that’s how I remember it.

          There may have been Seattle school busses by the early 1960s because I remember my senior year of high school, there were three black students, the first ever during my time there. Two girls and one boy and they pretty much hung out together on their own. I remember feeling sorry for them because they seemed a little lost and yet I didn’t make a single friendship overture. I’m sorry about that now because getting to know them could have added much to my life and maybe theirs as well. 

           It’s funny how Haley talking about wanting to eventually live out in the country led to these memories, days after our conversation. Guess my old 286 is still plugging away up there.

I'M NOT STAGNATING

 

          After I published yesterday’s blog, I got to thinking…something which I should try very hard not to do…that perhaps it made it seem as though I were living in the past surrounded by just memories of what had gone before and stuff acquired in the past. Sort of stagnating at this stage of my life.

          The post was about how happy I am to be in my own space, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t ever leave it to have new experiences and acquire new stuff…although I don’t try to acquire much because I don’t need it. Still, if I see something that speaks to me, I do purchase and add to my collection.

          Leaving my home adds to my happiness as well. I’m so grateful I’m able to drive myself wherever I want to go, to handle my finances and medical care without assistance and engage with my friends and family.

          My friends add so much to my life. It’s not just knowing they are there and ready, willing and able to assist me with whatever idea or need either I or they come up with. Dialogue over coffee, during walks, or just sitting around adds much to my life, and hopefully theirs as well. Lunches in new or favorite places is always a lot of fun, especially if there’s a bigger group of us. Still, the one-to-one lunches are great as well and I eagerly look forward to them whether they are planned or impromptu.

          Family, of course, also hits the happiness button. Phone calls and visits are always keenly appreciated and enjoyed. I, of course, would love lots more of these and think fondly of the almost mandatory Sunday dinners at the grandparents or parents when I became older. I also remember being annoyed by the manditoriness (is that even a word?) part of those dinners, but in some ways wish I had a way to require my own family members to show up here Every. Single. Sunday. I also know times are different now and covid certainly changed the way a lot of folks interacted during and now after.

          However, knowing my kids are just a phone call away and more than happy to help out if help is needed makes me happy and is very reassuring. I try not to be a pest and ask for assistance only when it’s actually needed. It would be so easy to become a nuisance just for the joy seeing their faces and having them here. Of course, I could whine for help with the least little thing to make that happen, but it makes me proud of myself when I’m able to solve whatever the problem may be on my own.

          So, while I’m happy in my home, surrounded by my stuff, I’m not stagnating. I’m out there looking for good times and great stuff…just wanted to be clear about that.

BY JOVE, I THINK I'M HAPPY!!!

 

          Now and then, usually when I’m holding a glass of wine, I tend to reflect on stuff. Just lately, I was reflecting on how things are in my life and came to the conclusion that I’m pretty well off, that I’m pretty happy even though my life doesn’t contain what I thought it would at this point in time.

          After John died, I thought I’d do a lot of traveling, but only got one cruise in before covid shut the world down. Still, I figured that once the world returned to normal, whatever normal may be, I would be flitting about visiting all the places I hadn’t yet been. That hasn’t been the case even though I have friends who are out and about and seem to have wondrous trips be they national or international.

          I guess what I find kind of amazing is that I don’t feel unhappy about the fact my passport doesn’t have any new stamps, that my miles are just sitting there, and my suitcase remains in the closet. In my reflections, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m happy right where I am. Not only that, but I like where I am.

          I’ve lived in this house for fifty-four years. True, there are things I’d like to change but am not willing to spend the funds to make those changes. There are also the projects I’ve done that haven’t turned out well. Still, it’s all mine.

          The house is full of my stuff, stuff I’ve collected during those fifty-four years and, in some cases, before I ever moved in here. I can look around at the various things and am reminded in almost every case of an event or someone who was responsible for a particular item. I can also remember where I found various pieces, none of which could be called object d’art. Each item has meaning for me though and I enjoy all the memories that accompany my acknowledgement of the possessions that surround me.

          Memories and possessions aren’t limited to just inside the house. When I look outside or go outside, there are trees, shrubs and plantings that bring memories alive. The fuchsia that comes back every year makes me thing of Great Aunt Lola and how much she and Uncle Ike enriched my life. Of course, there’s the Karlberg Memorial Apple Tree which provides thoughts about how the boys hated peeling all those apples in August but loved the pies brought out in winter. There are also the memories of each pet and John that now reside beneath that tree.

          John’s grandma’s grape which is now grown high into the trees in the greenbelt. The birds love the grapes, but they never really get big enough to do much with. The raspberries we planted decades ago and how John loved picking them fresh from the vine for his morning cereal. The magnolia purchased by the kids and the pink dogwood given by John’s sister when my mom died. I could probably walk you around and tell you many garden tales.

          I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m happy and content right here in my own space. I don’t feel a particular longing to hop on a plane and go elsewhere although I’m sure I’d be delighted with the trip. Of course, that’s not to say that I won’t decide to travel…the Viking cruise from Budapest to Amsterdam does sound delightful. I may just decide to treat myself to that eventually.

          And, finally when it comes to counting my blessings, there’s Kuma. He’s my anchor; and were I to decide to travel, he would go with me depending on the destination or I’d make arrangements for someone to care for him in his space in my absence. Kuma continues to delight me on a daily basis, and I’ve come to the conclusion he’s decided to mother me whether I like it or not. I wrote a lot about his interactions with me in his birthday post on July 7th. 

          So, regardless of what’s past and what may lie ahead, I am deeply grateful I can acknowledge to myself my gratitude for my life as it is now.

I'M AN ADDICT

 

          I simply have to confess…I’m an addict. And, no, I’m not addicted to Oxy, heroin, speed, marijuana, diet pills or anything else that is either illegal or prescription only. To be perfectly honest, this addiction came as a surprise and I probably deserve it since I was so smug about watching television…sorry, haven’t seen that, I read!!!

          It’s been a bit of a while since I discovered the Food channel and I’ve become an addict. I’m fascinated by shows like “Beat Bobby Flay,” “Chopped” and will even resort to watching Guy Fieri’s Triple D and Triple G shows on occasion…I’m not a bit Guy fan.

          In almost every show, chefs are given an ingredient or ingredients with which they are to make a dish. Now, that’s just fine. I could do that I’m absolutely, positively sure. Unfortunately for me, the chefs are given a time limit. Those times range from twenty to forty-five minutes. I don’t think I’ve yet seen one show where the chef doesn’t come up with a usually very attractive result on a plate in the allotted time.

          Now, if it were me, I’d barely have figured out what I was going to do with sweetbreads or camel cheese or headcheese or a wide variety of other items that I’ve never either seen or even heard of. While the other chefs would be plating their concoctions, I’d undoubtedly barely have started because I’d have to Google the ingredient. I don’t even know if that would be permissible, but it would be the only way I could come up with a recipe, and I might have to Google, “Sweetbread recipes.”

          These shows always have judges that are famous or semi-famous. I had never heard of any of them, including Bobby Flay and he has like thirty-two seasons of I don’t know how many shows. The chef has to explain to the judges what they’ve made and the ingredients used. The judges sample each plated dish and provide feedback to the chefs. The chef who didn’t highlight the ingredient(s) and/or wasn’t able to make a tasty creation is then eliminated from the contest and the show moves on.

          I do have to say I’ve learned a few things from watching. Want the seeds out of the pomegranate, you cut it and then bang it with a wooden spoon over a bowl. The seeds fall right out.  Want to use a lot of garlic and not spend valuable minutes peeling, squeeze the entire bulb or hit it with a wooden spoon. I’m even trying a few things like using my garlic press for the garlic as opposed to chopping and taking chances with some of my dishes by using spices I’ve never utilized.

          The other thing about these shows I find amazing is some of the ingredients they employ and which they apparently find in the handy pantry at the back of the   room. There’s no way I could ever afford to use lots of saffron or caviar in whatever I was making. They also are given cuts of unbelievably expensive cuts of meat and/or fish and then the chefs don’t begin to use the entire piece. Or, for instance, one chef took a rack of lamb, cut off the meat and put it through a grinder…horrors. I cringe sometimes when I see what they are using and how much of it is wasted. That is if it is wasted, but I don’t really know.

          Then, there’s the final dishes. There’s one from each chef. Usually, the shows begin with either two or four chefs. There are always three judges, but the chefs prepare four plates. Who gets that fourth plate? Finally, the judges take bites of the dish and provide feedback, but I don’t know if they go on to finish the dish or it’s simply discarded. If it’s simply discarded, what a waste. I’m hoping the camera crew gets the leftovers.

          You’ll have to excuse me now; I think there’s a new episode of “Beat Bobby Flay” from his fifteenth season I haven’t seen yet and it’s due to begin in just a few.

          So, there you have it. My name is Paula and I’m an addict.

IDAHO MEMORIES

 

          When I began the lost post about my semi-feral childhood, it brought back so many memories but none that seemed worth an entire blog post. So, I thought I’d put them into memory paragraphs in no particular order. And, even though I managed to delete that one post, the old 286 managed to dredge up quite a few recollections

          When it snowed in Idaho, IT SNOWED!!! I can remember my mother dressing me in my snowsuit so I could go up the road to the post office. I don’t remember being scared at the time, but the snow was way higher than my head and it was still snowing hard. I made it there and back, but now wonder what my mother was thinking or what was so important at the post office. Most likely, she just wanted me gone temporarily so she could have some peace and quiet.

          Our water came from a spring up the road. It was administered by the wealthiest family in the small community…they had a really nice house and their daughter rotated her friendship through the community’s group of girls. I always felt special when she chose me because her house was so nice and she had the best paper dolls.

          Anyway, about the water. It was the coldest water right out of the faucet. Every summer the men in the community would go clean out that spring and do whatever repairs were required. For several days after that day, the water out of the faucet held worms, moss, dirt and unrecognizable stuff. Didn’t take long for it to clear up though.

          The family down the road had fourteen children and it would have been eighteen if four additional ones had survived. The mom rarely left the house because she was HUGE. Maybe once a summer, she’d manage to get down the stairs of the house, down the stairs to the road and then mosey up the road surrounded by many of her children, talking to the various adults as she passed. I was always amazed at her size. Once I understood about having babies, I was even more amazed by her.

          That family also had an outhouse of which I have two memories. The first is that since I had indoor plumbing, I enjoyed (hey I was a kid) using their outhouse. I remember dashing to it and yanking open the door only to find the dad enthroned. He yelled. I ran. The second memory is of how they cleaned up that outhouse. The older sons were given the job of shoveling the contents into wheelbarrows, wheeling them across the road to the edge of the riverbank and dumping the contents there. This was also the community dump.

          You’re probably appalled by the previous paragraph as I was then and now, but the river was not pristine. The silver mine in Burke Idaho poured tailings into Canyon Creek and until the late 1990s, raw sewage was pumped into the creek as well. The canyon and creek became an EPA superfund site. The last time I was by there, six years ago, the creek ran clean and clear and Burke was a ghost town.

          For a while my uncle and his family lived on the other side of the creek. To get to or from his house, I could walk down the road and cross the creek on a car bridge, or I could use the pedestrian bridge. The smaller bridge was faster but very very scary to a little kid. The old man who lived right by the walking bridge took care of it. I don’t know if he just did it because it was there or if he was paid to do so. In any case, he used whatever pieces of wood he could find to replace those that had fallen or rotted. Those replacement pieces were not always adjacent so I had to hang on to the railing, which wasn’t always the safest either, and take a huge step to get from one board to another. Meanwhile, that dirty, gray water rushed on by below and I just knew if I slipped, I’d be a goner. Still, I used that bridge more than the car bridge.

          Whenever there was a mining accident, a huge whistle would blow and it’s sound carried up and down the canyon. Wives, mothers, grandmothers and children waited for news, fearful their man had been caught in some disaster. I don’t remember being worried when this happened, but looking back now, while my mom and grandma may have smiled for me, they were quite concerned. The only person I ever knew or knew of that was injured in the mines was the man next door. He lost part of his leg and had to retire. Still, I think that’s why mom and dad decided to move the family to Seattle. Both my uncles left the mines as well; one to California to work in an airplane factory and the other to work for the railroad. The railroad man still lived in Idaho until his death.

          Our little house wasn’t much. It was basically five rooms, i.e., living and dining room, kitchen, and two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms gave up some space when daddy installed a bathroom. I was quite the envy of my girl friends who had the outhouse. My grandma and I had one bedroom and my folks the other. Adding my brother and sister may also have had something to do with the move to Seattle…we needed more room.

          It wasn’t until John and I bought this house that I found out my folks had owned their house and garage, but not the land beneath it. I was still corresponding with the next-door neighbors then and received a congratulatory letter about our house purchase as well as the news the old drunk who’d moved in to my house all those years ago had finally sold his house…drum roll please, for $1,500.00. I now wish I’d thought to ask my parents how much they sold it for in 1953.

          In any case, my mother and grandmother kept that house immaculate. There were sheer curtains at the windows and twice a year, spring and fall, those curtains were taken down, scrubbed on a scrub board, stretched on some contraption made of wood with little pins along the edges (wish I knew what this was since I’ve never ever seen another one) and rehung when dry. That’s where I learned how to keep house using elbow grease and soap. You didn’t have vacuum cleaners or other labor-saving devices. You used a broom, got down on your hands and knees and scrubbed.

          In that house is also where I learned to iron. I started out with my daddy’s hankies. In those days, every single piece of clothing was ironed after it was washed in a big tub with a scrub board and rinsed in another big tub. Even my dad’s tightie whities were ironed. I do have an ironing board and iron, but they are seldom used and I never ever ironed John’s hankies or jockey shorts.

          There was a small stove in the living room that heated most of the house. I now cannot remember if there was a wood-burning stove in the kitchen as well. I remember the living room stove well because I was entranced by my new little brother and wanted to see while mom changed him. Since I couldn’t get to them by going around the front, I crawled around the back and burned the heck out of my left arm on the stovepipe. Not only was I injured, but mom was pissed I hadn’t listened to her. Sort of served me right, I guess. I think you’d have to look real hard to find that scar now.

          My mom was a superb cook and baker, most of which she had to give up when we moved to Seattle and she had to get a job. I’m sure she made bread, but what I remember best are the cinnamon rolls she’d whip up. Those, cakes and pies, oh my. My mouth waters just remembering how good they tasted. And biscuits, again, oh my!!! I’ve never ever been able to make a biscuit like my mom and grandma. On school mornings when I didn’t want to eat my mush, I could be bribed with a piece of pie or cake. I’m sure she made cookies too, but those didn’t claim a place in my memory.

          This was probably way more of a stroll down my memory lane than you actually wanted. In any case, it’s wine time, so I’m going to stop. Perhaps that wine will cause my old 286 to dredge up more memories of me, myself and I under the age of eight.

IMMUNITY LAPSED

 

          It’s been almost 57 years since my body was the recipient of enough mosquito saliva to cause my immune system to do whatever it did that kept me free of mosquito bites for all that time.

          It was on my honeymoon in 1966 that I counted forty-five mosquito bites on JUST my left leg. I still had one more night to sleep in our little cabin in Acapulco. I was simply covered in mosquito bites. To make our honeymoon even more enjoyable, we swam out into the bay to the raft tethered there. John was horribly sunburned in the process. We thought if he was under water, he wouldn’t burn and we were wrong.

          To make matters even better, in 1966, couples were given twin beds as opposed to double, queen or king size beds. We did end up using both twin beds for a couple of nights because being touched caused my mosquito bites to itch horribly and John’s sunburn was very painful. Good thing we thoroughly enjoyed lots of marital bliss before the bites and sunburn.

          Anyway, back to now and mosquito bites. Over the years, I’ve been quite smug about how mosquitos left me alone. I’d recite the tale of forty-five bites and laugh about how lucky I was. Now and then I would receive one or two bites a summer and actually enjoyed them because it was so fun to scratch the itch. As of today, there is no longer any pleasure in scratching because I have way too many bites. Apparently, my immune system’s response to mosquito bites has finally worn off.

          I haven’t seen or heard a single mosquito. I cannot swear they are mosquito bites, but they certainly look and feel like it. And, either a single mosquito finds me so tasty it has to bite me more than once close to the first bite, or she (only females bite) is calling all her friends in to feast since I have five bites on the inside of my left shin in the radius of a small coffee cup. That grouping stings more than it itches.

          On the outside of my left leg, there are four large itchy bumps as though she either began just below the edge of my shorts and worked her way down or vice versa. On my right leg, I have two on the inside and four along the outside of my calf. They are almost through itching…I think. The last bites are on my left arm. Those two not only itched, but the area seemed a bit painful. They are now fading.

          Of course, these may not be mosquito bites, but I can’t think of what else they could be. Spider bites are a possibility, but I always thought they were much smaller. I guess it serves me right to have been so smug for so long. Still whether it’s mosquitos or some other bug, I do so wish I had my immunity back.

KUMA IS ONE YEAR OLD

          Happy happy birthday to Kuma. He turned one year old today. I looked back at some photos and couldn’t believe how small he looked the beginning of October when he was three months old. I tried to take a similar photo to show the difference, but I no longer have those pillows and, as you can see, he doesn’t fit on the couch any longer either (both posted on Facebook).

          I cannot begin to express how happy I am to have Kuma in my life. He’s made such a huge difference to my being lonely and depressed. Let me tell you about some of the interactions that always…okay almost always…make me smile.

          Kuma almost always gets me up at 6:30 am. If I get up at an hour or so before that to use the bathroom, he seems to understand me when I say, “Mommy has another hour.”, or thirty minutes or whatever. Sometimes he even allows me to sleep until almost 7:00 am. But, when Kuma decides it’s time for my feet hit the floor, he walks all over the bed and me, tries to find my face or ears so he can lick them clean or my hands so he can try to get me to pet him. Sometimes, the way he walks all over me, is almost like getting a massage.

          First stop is always the bathroom and Kuma wants to stand beside me while I pee so I can scratch his back end. Then, it’s his turn and we both go outside. If the weather is bad, I only go as far as the door. Back inside, I make myself a latte and we settle on the couch to watch “Good Morning America.” Initially, he brings me his bally-ball and I toss it down the hall for him a number of times. When I’m ready to drink my latte, I say, “Okay, mommy has her coffee.” and he stops trying to get me to play and simply lays down alongside my legs. Once my glass goes back on the coffee table, however, it’s play time again.

          Kuma waits patiently while I do my exercise program and becomes a bit more impatient as I prepare my breakfast because he knows he’s going to get a big treat. He doesn’t expect to get any of my breakfast the same way he expects to get a bite or more of whatever else I eat during the day. Maybe he doesn’t like yogurt and granola or maybe I’ve never shared it.

          When it comes to going places in the car, Kuma is always ready to jump in and plop himself in the navigator seat. I didn’t think he’d ever take to putting his head out the window, but just lately he’s finally been doing so. There are times when he sees another dog or even a person and he’ll begin to bark, but “NO BARK!!!” usually brings it down to a quiet growl. He’s not getting to go as often now because of the weather. I won’t take him even if I figure I can park in the shade because the car gets too hot.

          When it’s time to end the day, Kuma lets me know beginning about 7:00 pm. He sits at the entrance to the hall and looks at me. If I don’t respond, he will come over to the couch and try to get my attention. When I say, “Bedtime peepee?” he’ll dance around until I get up and we go outside. Then, until 8:30 pm, Kuma continues to go up and down the hall and look at me as if to say, “C’mon, it’s bedtime.”

          I have to laugh when I stay up later because Kuma becomes very frustrated with me because I don’t get off the couch and perform my nightly routine at the right time.

          Once we’re in the bedroom, Kuma gets on the bed and supervises my final preparations. Once I’ve laid back, he makes himself comfortable fairly close to me. Sometimes, he moves to the little bench at the foot of the bed and stays there until the television goes off and I’ve assumed my sleeping position. Then, Kuma comes back onto the bed and plops himself down (feels like he weighs over a hundred pounds), so he’s right up against the small of my back…I like that and it feels very good.

          It doesn’t matter where I go in the house, Kuma is right there with me. I’m rarely out of his sight and sometimes he’s so close he steps on the back of my flip-flop. My fitness instructor is always telling us older folks we need to be constantly aware of our surroundings. With Kuma so close, I have to be always aware or I’d end up on my ass.

          Of course, everything hasn’t been absolutely wonderful for the last nine months. He did eat my hearing aids, glasses and one of my favorite shoes, but he taught me to make sure I put everything up out of his reach. It’s pretty much become a habit and I’ve only myself to blame if I fail.

I tried to train Kuma to use only one part of the yard for his bathroom, but when the barricade came down, he figured the yard was his domain. I wouldn’t mind so much if he stayed out of the flowerbeds, but he thinks those are his as well. I stopped counting how many flower starts he managed to break or trample and started to utilize all the dahlia cages I’d made as well as all the tomato cages I had saved up. True, my garden doesn’t look perfect due to all the cages, but the flowers show through, don’t get broken and I don’t get annoyed.

          Karma and Kaizer were rat terroirs which were bred to take care of the rat population in the White House. They never once tried to catch any of the wildlife in my garden. Kuma thinks it’s his duty to dig after the moles and/or the rats/mice that use the mole tunnels to get around. I keep telling him, “No digging.”, but he just ignores me because the pursuit of those rodents is more important and fun. Kuma also thinks the birds that come to visit are intruders as well and will chase after them.

          My final complaint about Kuma is how unglued he becomes when he’s on a leash and sees another dog. It’s more my problem than Kuma’s because I know what needs to be done to train him to not do this, but I’ve been lazy when it comes to this behavior. It’s on my list to accomplish.

          So, Kuma is now one year old. The time has flown by and I’m so grateful to have this smart, funny, furry puppy living with me. At dinnertime, he will receive some well-cooked meat as his birthday treat. I won’t add a candle, but I will be singing the birthday song as he is served…not that I haven’t already sung it to him multiple times today.