Until we catch up, Lorelei.

Lorelei W. (Wigglebutt) Johnson 

5/7/2013 - 5/22/2024 

We said our goodbyes in the backyard with Dr. Maura. A high wind came up last night, no rain, or thunder, just a mighty wind that blew all night and, in the morning, there were no cicadas in our yard. So, we set up a picnic basket full of “chimkin,” treats, cheese, and yogurt in the soft grass and got in lots of pats and cuddles. There was no fear, no pain, and no anxiety; only sun, warmth, and love. EJ and I said goodbye, holding her close and talking to our “foofy dog” with those words she knew so well. Where else could we be but to just be there as the needle quietly slipped in and she was free from all burden, one surge, one leap towards the light so easily and joyously, losing all sense of restraint, weightless upon the warm, invisible air. Lorelei was free, the pain of bone and flesh departed, only one long, joyous, soundless bark as she went Home to wait by the Rainbow Bridge until we can catch up.

 - Brigid

Heart of Glass

I have this blown glass vase on my shelf. It is round, not quite bowling ball shaped. Within its form, colors make up the swirling shapes of fish, and as the light shines on them they appear to swim. Designed by glass-maker Edward Hald for Orrefors Sweden, it weighs about ten pounds and was my grandmothers as a young woman, surviving three generations.

Yet as strong as it is, I know that if I dropped it on the floor of my garage, it would shatter into a hundred pieces, schools of little glass guppies flip-flopping to every corner of the room as it broke.

Glass may be defined simply as a super-cooled liquid with a viscosity that for all practical purposes makes it a solid. Glass is rigid at ambient temperatures and soft or fluid-like at elevated temperatures. It is a substance whose exact definition is up for debate. In a broad sense, solids can be considered to be either crystalline or amorphous. Crystals have symmetrical and repeating patterns for the constituent atoms, sharp melting points, and cleave in preferred directions. Amorphous solids show none of these characteristics. The glass state is a category of the amorphous state and encompasses solids that may be softened by heating to viscous liquids, which revert to non-crystalline solids when cooled.

In its lifetime, when its liquid glass is a solid that can be bent and molded, colored, and crafted; but always in its finished form it is still subject to breaking.

You don’t see glass soda bottles as often as you used to, cans having been found to be a cheaper and better medium in which to transport the contents. As kids we were only allowed soda pop on our vacation to my uncle’s ranch. The rest of the time we had milk, water, and Kool-Aid. My vice of choice was Orange Crush in the tall glass bottle, so many consumed during that summer vacation that my lips seemed to be permanently stained light orange.  The bottles then became targets, blown into shining shrapnel out in a stone quarry as my mom keep proficient even if she was no longer the sheriff, then later teaching my brother and me how to safely and responsibly handle a firearm. We were from a long lineage of law enforcement and defense, the duties and responsibilities that came with that honed early, the mantle ours to take up only if it was our calling.

We would shoot until the ground dazzled with the bottles’ remnants in the summer sun, pieces glinting like diamonds. The tiny fragments remained, not flattened by rain to valueless fragments of repudiation but sharp, waiting; still able to cut long after they were laid down into silence.

 As children we didn't think that glass was composed partially of silicon dioxide in the form of quartz, which has some of the structural characteristics of diamonds. Unlike diamond, which has only tetravalent carbon arranged in interconnected six-membered rings, quartz has six-membered rings of alternating silicon and oxygen atoms. The oxygen atoms preclude forming the same structure as that found in diamond.

We knew nothing of that even as we neared adulthood. All we knew was that feeling of pulling the rifle up to our shoulder, taking aim under the tutelage of a parent, and watching that bottle shatter at the pull of a finger.

 I looked around my little home and noticed more glass. The windows, obviously; drinking ware, some red vases on a table, a few more pieces that belonged to my Scandinavian grandmothers. On the desk sits a picture frame, a montage of shots taken at a friend’s wedding, a day of much-needed laughter. In the drawer lies another frame—the glass broken where it hit the wall. The picture of someone in uniform scratched by the breaking glass and then smoothed; as if by salvaging one could mend that which ended in words as shattering as a bullet.

 

All around me are the colors of glass—red and green, crystal pieces picking up the sun that shines so brightly this day, making me smile. A dark piece that reminds me of the obsidian that is used for surgical instruments. Healing pieces to be held by cool hands in the dark. In a bowl is a small rosary, waiting in faith.

In a drawer, a small glass angel grasped tightly in my hand one long day and night, many years ago. In my mind there is still a reflection of a small form in that little angel, tiny white fingers still smelling of the womb, soft reddish hair, her form placed on my stomach for only a moment. I had been afraid to touch her, the palm of my hand bloody from holding that angel so tight those many hours of travail that I’d flayed it open, the doctor unaware it was even with me. I saw my daughter’s form in the glass; she saw her future in my eyes; and we both formed words neither of us were capable of articulating.

In the kitchen sits a small glass bowl, stained, and scarred from the merry-go-round of water spray that was the top shelf of the dishwasher at my parents’ house. I didn’t need another bowl, but when Dad was cleaning out stuff and asked, “Do you want anything from this old kitchen stuff?” I had to bring it home with me in my suitcase.

When I was a child, I had a goldfish named General Finn, one in a long line of goldfish who happily swam and then went to their final rest with a wave of the Ty-D-Bol man and a couple of solemn words. Not wishing to spend the money on a formal tank, Mom cleaned out the bowl without fail every week until I was big enough to handle the glass myself. During the cleaning, she would carefully scoop General Finn up in her hand and place him gently in the little green bowl where he waited in fresh water until his big bowl was clean. Now it just sits empty—but when I see it, scuffed, and clouded, I remember my mom and those little things that she used to do, thinking I’d never ever remember.

 

I wonder if my daughter ever thinks of the one thing I did for her—bigger than anything, yet such a simple act, as small and clear as a falling tear. 

On the wall empty vessels suspended in air, sharp against a background of light, containing nothing, but containing everything. Light and form and dark and shadow collected and radiated into the room. When I was studying martial arts my Zen Master said, “Emptiness is form and form is emptiness”—and looking at the glass I finally grasp what he meant. One minute the glass is nothing but a vessel, the next it is the vessel for all that surrounds it.

 

Glass. Objects formed of science and whim; shaped and molded to possess and display, to cut or heal; lasting for a century if cared for and broken beyond repair with the slightest of doubts. Glass objects hold, they feed, they nurture, and they lay things wide open with sharpness and light. 

So many things around us are as old as time and as necessary. Remembered there on what was a very long day, surrounded by empty vessels, fragmented and silent, and awaiting my tending. As I worked away, I heard the intake of my breath, in and out, fueling the beat of my heart, the whoosh of blood in my veins. Form is emptiness and emptiness is form. As I did what needed to be done, my mind opened; my body filled with purpose and need, as strong as obsidian but fragile as glass.

Home now, I sit and look at the fading light seeking shelter within. In the window, a flash of a fin, swirls and shapes of light, form, and movement that glint on my skin, kissing it with lips as cool as glass. On the desk a goblet in which  water lay where long ago was just a pool of amber—Scotch whiskey, a taste of a sharp knife, not cutting. I remember the taste, but I prefer the clear clarity of water.  

 The sun drops below the horizon. The old vase falls into darkness, the fish still there, yet not, their spirits long since lifted up to sanctuary and refuge. In my hands lie glass beads, lying there like bullets as I recite a litany of prayer for those empty forms. 

 - Brigid

 

Lorelei Update

We don't have a lot of time left with Lorelei Lab, probably just days now though the pain meds are keeping her comfy and she's eating treats, so keep us in your thoughts and prayers. Until then we are taking some vacation days to spend as much time as possible with her.

Brigid and EJ.

Road Trip Remembrances

It's hard to believe that it's been 10 years since we lost Barkley.  But I am so very happy for all the photos we took, especially the ones on our commute from Indy to Chicago for several years.  I never took my eyes off the road, I just held up the little point and shoot, aimed it into the back of the truck, and took a shot.  Thanks for the memories---

---As the truck headed down south, into farmland, happy to be away from the thicker traffic, the snow was still piled high from the massive storm almost two weeks ago. The drifts looked so serene, waves tossed up against farm fence, but other signs told of the dangers that had been here, two cars still in ditches and the one jackknifed semi in the median, as well as spots where a Saturn  and a Smart Car shed their skin, bits of fiberglass and plastic strewn about, the rest of the remains removed in a bucket.

But we were even more happy to be past the outskirts of the city, that short stretch I must travel that makes me very anxious not to break down.  There's one stretch, where, but for the highway, and the knowledge, you wouldn't know you were in a city.

There are the houses, some farm style, probably erected when this was just farms, fading and falling, some windows shuttered or broken, some still lived in, overgrown plots littered with the broken and the unused, buckets, tools, machines, things that once were crafted to serve a purpose of function or work, left to lie idly by those that either abandoned these places or live idle within.  Even the trees, bend down as if tired of making an effort, blossoming each year in the sullied impiety that is a once thriving place that dies through uncaring neglect, its burgeoning, nothing more a bitter and tenacious scrap of another season's memory, than a desire to grow and thrive.

It is with a sigh of relief, that I take that final dogleg south.  

This stretch of highway has been driven a hundred times, yet each drive I notice something different.  It's not the obvious, giant "HELL IS REAL" sign (we're on I-65, we already know that) or the XXX Family Restaurant (sorry, when I think "XXX", family restaurant just doesn't spring to mind). Rather, it's an old barn, now razed, it's a river that's left its banks, it's a tiny little cross with a name by the side of the road.

I don't listen to books on tape for these drives. Sometimes, music plays, sometimes it is silent. Mostly, I keep my senses on the road, for this is a treacherous stretch of large trucks, often as inattentive as they are massive. Sometimes you have one in front and one behind and gaining, no place to go if the one in front decides to stop, my truck only the Oreo filling between several tons of steel, and I retreat to the slow lane, where I'll happily let teenagers give me that "look" as I do the speed limit.  I've driven this stretch often enough to know that the opposing forces of a semi's mass and my will if drawn suddenly together, would be a meeting that could be irremediable.

Sometimes they give you a warning before they try and kill you, a signal before they suddenly dart into your lane,  just feet in front of you, making you slam on your brakes, so they can pass the truck going .3 mph less than them. Usually, though, the danger is inarticulate, not knowing it's danger. So I listen as well as watch.

There are always the signs, fast food, gas stations, some bright shiny new, an Arby's and a Super 8 that's been a welcome respite from this road in bad weather for many people. There's a new McDonald's, advertising large clean restrooms (a welcome change from the ones further north where they have to lock them because someone might break in and clean them). Then there are old signs, weathered, leaning away from the wind.  Failed businesses dot the landscape, "Boom City", a faded but futuristic looking abandoned fireworks place that stands in isolation in a landscape of cornfields. So out of place in a remote, rural area, it looks like some alien craft that just landed there and built itself a parking lot as they waited for the mother ship.

As I drive and look, I think.  To the phone hopefully not ringing at 2 a.m., to the days ahead, to the days past as I see the Indianapolis 103 miles sign and realize I'm more than halfway there and smile as I relax into the seat.

There's a time in every trip, no matter how long, where you settle into the drive. As a family, and for my Dad, when we were kids, the driving on our vacation trips seemed almost effortless, as we watched the landscape change from green to brown to mountains and back to brown and we'd hear stories of his youth, of he and Mom growing up together in Montana, the radio off, the only music the sound of my Mom's relaxed laughter, a laughter I can still sometimes hear. For I hear her voice in mine. I'm told we sound alike, and there are days I can crack open the window and the warmth of the wind will blow in and around me, warming my cheeks and the back of my throat and as look up to a contrail that has caught my eye, our laughter will echo in the wide spaces ahead.

What I recall of those long ago trips, other than the laughter, was just sitting and looking out the windows for miles, for what was most memorable were the landscapes, stopping when we got tired or thirsty and actually looking and touching the wonders we'd read about in school. The Grand Coulee Dam, the drive-through redwood tree. Then back in the car, with postcards and maybe a souvenir baseball hat. I saw mountains and tumbling landslides, and fish leaping against gravity up a ladder, and once even a buffalo, kept on a small piece of range on which resided a little restaurant.

But on this drive, all am thinking about is what I have in front of me, the tumbled landscapes of glacier stone and great pristine rivers, thin as a rope from the air. Anything that really requires my mind, the gas and engine instruments, a scan for traffic, occurs in brief, unhurried intervals as the truck carries me with it, all those memories and thoughts of past road trips, of tears, of childlike bursts of laughter, of family, mechanical, rhythmic memory of the past that I carry with me forward.

The open road, a dimension free of time and space that flows from childhood to the trembling, secret ardor of the future. It's a road little changed from a child's hand out the window in the breeze, to the older foot on the gas pedal of an old British car, on a Summer day,  pressing down, carrying with it the echo of childish want, the passion, and unrest of adulthood. The road rushing under, rushing on. Way too quickly.

As we near where I will live during the work week, Barkley leans into me, as if recognizing what is going past the window, flowing smoothly from left to right, buildings, and doorways, a small expanse of marsh, each in its ordered place, there in the dimming light. Perhaps he recognizes those things as we draw near. Either that or he is listening to something much further away then the small dimensioned vehicle we are riding in. Perhaps he only pretends to be listening, because, in his heart, he already knows the sound.

I listen too, not just look, to the whoosh of the garage door, to the creak of a door, to the falling into a simple place with old Mission furniture, a framed photo on the shelf and a Cross on the wall, reminding me that I am all alive, but never alone.

 - Brigid

She Doesn't Worry

She doesn't worry about things she doesn't have.

Or how she is going to obtain them.

She is just as happy going for a drive in an old Chevy truck as a brand new Mercedes.

She doesn't worry about how many Facebook friends she has, who is on First, or how many calories there are in a bacon cheeseburger.

She doesn't care about your age, your weight, your tax bracket, your biological clock or what is on TV.  She only knows that soon, the people she loves will be home.

On those days that I come home drained from a difficult day, tears in my eyes and the worry of ghosts in my soul, she simply lays her head on my knee and looks up, as if that moment is what she lived for.  Her tail will wag with a healing that humans can't always give.

If there is a ball to be thrown,  she will abandon all restraint and give every fiber of herself, to reach that for which was before, only a dream; unmitigated glory.

Her life is not deadlines, or deals or caring about the things that in all reality, will not matter at the end of a life.

All she cares about  is how to bequeath that for which sustains her,  in her too short life, her faith and her love, as she patiently waits.

There are days when I wish we were all, more like a dog.

 - Brigid