Conversation on a Dance Floor

In the midst of a waltz last friday, I talked to a friend who has listened to my life story. I told her I am a little slow, but have been thinking lately that I should move on - after all my exwife and I have been divorced four years. 'But what a gift she gave me, learning to dance together." "I get to do this, week after week, and she, well, she is stuck with him."

"And there is another clue," my friend said, "about your moving on - that fact that she is remarried."

Photograph

I came across some old photographs while cleaning this weekend, including one of my daughter Alyssa, looking very thin but smiling wide, standing in front of my old blue Chrysler. The picture is not dated, but she was twelve then I believe. She was recovering from a very serious bout with appendicitis.

That was my first lesson that you cannot trust doctors with your health. She went to the hospital on Monday to check her appendix. An intern gave her Tylenol and diagnosed her with the flu and sent her home. After repeated calls by her Mother they agreed to admit her again on Thursday for more tests. This time she got to see the specialist and his diagnosis took five minutes: "She has a burst appendix. Prepare her for surgery, now."

Alyssa was so weak and thin we thought might lose her. During the stay in the hospital I tried to cheer her up, but Dad's silliness was not what she wanted. She could not be comforted unless her mother was by her side, holding her hand.

I don't know how we could have traveled so far from the lessons of that year, that love and kindness are what matters. Everything else is a diversion.

When Alyssa got home and was feeling better she and I had the same thought one friday afternoon - we should visit the animal shelter. There we found puppy Bud, who was on the last day of his stay at the shelter.

Whenever I think of the happiness of those years, it always has to do with walking with Bud and Alyssa and Amy on the Greenbelt. Sometimes Janet would join us. I remember the night we all went down after dark late in June, to see the fireflies next to the cattail marsh, flying above the tall meadow grasses.

I scanned the picture and mailed it to Alyssa. I went over and held the box of Bud's ashes, and read again the quotation upon it: "no matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not even the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail."

Pup's First Trip

Amy let us take her 10 month old puppy with us backpacking. He learned plenty on his first trip, from t he openness, the solitude, the quiet, and the constant playing with Ben, who shares his wild spirit. Those tell chased each other through the woods as our good weather turned to rain, and continued their game as the rain became snow and cold.

At night they slept the sound sleep of a day well lived, and helped warm the inside of my tent. In the middle of the night I awoke and listened to blizzard winds blowing the snow through the forest. That sound was oddly comforting - maybe because I was warm and cozy in my sleeping bag, maybe from knowing that I could handle myself up here in any kind of weather.

We went out exploring in the snow, investigating hidden canyons and rock formations. We came across the remnants of a coyote kill on a snowshoe hair - only clumps of fur and guts and the heat were left. After we moved on and I saw Ben carrying the head I couldnt resist telling him to drop it, then picking it up by the ears and throwing it to him like a ball. Ben leaped high and snatched the rabbit head out of the air in his jaws.

At times we came back to our campsite in the shelter of a large rock, and sat by the fire to warm, and listed to the blessed quiet as it snowed.

There is no doubt that experiences like this change a person. I don't have much patience for loud talk and BS. For me the measure of real character is found out there were few words are spoken. I think the quiet and love of beauty and adventure becomes part of a man - and the same is likely true for those dogs as well. I bet that pup never forgets his mountain journey, at least until the next time he gets to go with us.

Amy has committed to letting me take him along on three backpack trips in 2006. If she was smart she would go with us.