One hundred twenty-four years ago, J. B. Lippincott Company published a book of poems, by William Cullen Bryant. I recently came across that book while looking through some of my mother’s things and it was a bittersweet moment to be sure. The book is mine now, but it will always be something that was hers.

I remember seeing Mom read that old book, smiling and taking in words that seemed to have secret meaning. Perhaps a handsome suitor discovered it in an old bookstore and presented it to her. I can only surmise, of course, but being that it’s a book of love poems, it seems a possibility.

The book is frail and smells of time and distance. Both front and back covers are hanging by a thread, and the front has a burn mark as though the book had, at one time, come too close to flame. Bedtime reading by candlelight perhaps?

As I turn the pages, I take care so as not to cause them to break loose from their binding. They crinkle like autumn leaves trod upon by meandering feet. The edges of each page are frosted with gold, and just inside the front cover is a black and white sketch, which is protected by a thin piece of transparent tissue. And when I touch it, it makes me feel as though I’m touching something special. Something to be treasured.

It’s not just a book. It’s a memory. Part of my mother’s past. Digital downloads and e-books will never replace a book such as this. No matter how much time passes, an e-book will never have that old book smell. Its digital pages won’t ever become fragile…or special.

I know things are changing, and they have to, don’t they? Else how would we humans progress? But I fear progression at times comes with a price. If books should one day become a thing of days gone by, will our children’s children ever really know their true wonder?

Yes, like it or not, times are changing. And if there’s something from your past that you hate to see go, I’d love to hear about it.

ever blond,

Alexa

Ah, falling in love. It’s something I began to look forward to by the time I’d reached my tenth birthday, thanks to watching Doris Day movies with my mother. I naïvely believed that once it happened, some unseen force would cause me to gaze into the sky and I’d open my mouth and out would pour lovesongs. Nevermind that I’d never once seen or heard such a thing in real life; it was on TV, so it was real to me. (Who says TV doesn’t influence our thinking?)

Oh, my heart has leapt a time or two and my stomach has turned a few somersaults. And, yes, some well-placed kisses have made me feel like I might swoon. (Swoon: a term used by women my mother’s age to mean they’re about to pass out. And, FYI, if I did in fact pass out when a man kissed me, I might be wondering if he’d put something in my drink.) My mind has spun, my chest has heaved, and my hair has nearly caught fire. My heart has raced, my toes have curled, and my knees have gone weak. But not one damn time have I ever come close to breaking out into lovesong…not even close. Not even a perky little jingle.

I think the TV lied to me…and it’s only taken me a few decades to figure that out.

So tell me…is there something you believed as a child, only to grow up and find out it wasn’t so? I’d really like to hear about it…and no fair saying you believed in Santa, the Easter rabbit, or the Great Pumpkin.

ever your blonde,

Alexa

Ah, a day spent hiking in the mountains. Me and my faithful companions, trotting by my side. What could be better? Wait–my faithful companions weren’t trotting by my side. Waa, they’re both injured, and had to spend the day at home…all by themselves.

Okay, this isn’t really about my dogs spending the day alone. But it is about our furry friends. I did go up hiking yesterday and it was glorious, being up where I could practically smell the clouds–refreshing! I sat in the sun for a while, I took some pictures, I thought about life, in general, and wondered what my friends were doing at that very moment. In particular, about my friend, Sharra…but she’s a subject we’ll discuss later. No need to interrup this rant for her right now.

So, dogs. What is it about them that makes us go all squishy inside? Their big, soulful eyes? The way they love us, no matter how we treat them, neglect them, spoil them, push them away when we’re not feeling sociable, pull them close when we need a furry shoulder to cry on, kick them (not me, I assure you) when we’re down, kiss them (also not me) when we’re happy, play with them, hike with them…

Did somebody say hike? Oh. That would be me. So as I was saying…I was up hiking yesterday and it was a beautiful thing…until I started my four-mile trek back down to the parking lot. I counted no less than fifteen pooches making the trek up–in SEVENTY DEGREE HEAT! Which is fine, if you’ve been thoughtful enough TO BRING WATER FOR THEM! But, unfortunately, most don’t. For some reason, people don’t think their dogs need water…EVEN THOUGH THEY’RE WEARING A FUR COAT IN SEVENTY DEGREE HEAT!

Why? Why would you go hiking and not think to bring water for your furry friend? Do you not know he’s a living being, that he eats and drinks to stay alive, just as you do? Do you not know he’s not capable of sweating to cool off, as you are?

I passed one dog (and his owner) on the trail, and his tongue was hanging so low to the ground, he was using it as a fifth wheel. Does he need water? I asked his owner. His owner gave me a blank stare, so without hesitation, I pulled my own water supply from my pack and I gave the dog a drink. He returned my kindness with a tail wag and I knew at that moment, I had done good. I had done what his master hadn’t thought to do.

I know many of you may think seventy, or even sixty, degrees, isn’t that warm for a dog. But I can assure you, it is. As I said, they’re wearing a fur coat, and they aren’t able to sweat to cool off as you and I do. I guarantee you, if you’re hot, they’re hot too.

And while we’re on the subject, let’s talk, for a moment, about you leaving your dog in your car. During warm weather (and I mean anything above 60 degrees), we all need to be aware of how fast and how hot the inside of our cars can get. Even on a seemingly mild day, a dog can quickly become heat distressed. If you’ve ever left your dog in your car and have come back and he’s panting, excessively drooling, barking, whining, or breathing rapidly, you’ve left him too long. He may be glassy-eyed and have dark red gums. At this point, his body temperature has risen and his brain cells may be dying.

If this happens, treat your pooch by bringing him to a shady spot. Slowly cool him by placing him in cool, not COLD, water. Apply ice packs to his head and neck. If at all possible, take him to the nearest veterinarian.

If you’re unusre of whether or not it’s too warm to leave your dog inside your car, try this safety check. Sit inside your car, with your windows rolled down just an inch or two…oh, and don’t forget to put on the fur coat. If you can’t stand the heat, neither can your dog.

This message is brought to you by animal lover, Alexa Darin. I’m currently on my summer mission to help people understand the danger of leaving their furry friend inside their warm car. Remember: dogs die in hot cars!

My friends envy my gardening skills. Ooh, aah, it’s so lovely, like having your very own park. (I will agree, my yard is rather park-like…and I pay enough in property taxes, so when is the county going to send in the worker bees to do the work?) But what they don’t see is all that I go through to keep it looking the way it does. For instance, there’s clipping, mowing, weeding, sweeping, planting, watering, barking, etc. (I’ll stop with etcetera, because to continue on would, in all likelihood, remind me of things that probably need my attention this very moment.)

Hmm…now that I think about it, I only trimmed one of my little giants yesterday, which means I’ve still got one of the furry little b@$!@^d$ out there waiting for a haircut. And let me see…Oh, I forgot to sweep my sweet little meandering walk-way this morning (for the billionth time since I’ve lived here). And then, of course, I need to make sure those tiny patches of grass I accidentally sprayed with Round-up–that died and so I had to dig up, re-dirt, and re-seed them–aren’t drying out. And while I’m out there, I better make sure the moles–grr–aren’t back and winding their way through my flowers beds. Geez, and lest I forget, I really do need to scour every inch of my garden for errant groundcover strawberry plants (that I’d planted because I thought they’d look really cool, and then I wouldn’t have to spread fresh bark each year, but they’re not cool, ’cause I planted the wrong variety–a variety that grows and climbs and chokes out everything in its path!–and so now I have to be diligent about nipping them–literally–in the bud, or ELSE!

Ah, yes, a lovely garden is so enjoyable to come home to. So enjoyable to look at. And it’s certainly enjoyable hearing all those oohs and aahs. But at what cost? My sanity, I think. Plus, how will I ever get any writing done when I’m obsessing over every little plant that needs my attention?

Why oh why can’t I be like my friend–who shall remain nameless, ’cause I want her to continue to be my friend–who lets it all go? Yes, she has weeds. And, yes, some of her plants turn brown during the summer months. But somehow she gets by. She walks right out her front door, gets in her car, and doesn’t give a second thought to how un-round (is that a word?) her plants are. Me? If a plant in my yard can be pruned/trimmed to round perfection, I’m on it. And once I’ve made it round, it has to stay that way…can’t go back to its natural state. It just wouldn’t be right to let it go, once I’ve beautified it. That would be neglect, right?

Aargh! I really need to wrap this up, so I can get out there and do some trimming. I’ll get back to my writing tomorrow. Perhaps the only way I’ll ever stop obsessing about my yard is to sell this place. Anyone interested?

How about you? Do you have something you just can’t let go? And what do you think would happen if you did? I’d love to hear about it.

Till next time….

My BFF Sharra recently showed up on my doorstep in tears. “I’m getting old,” she cried. To which I replied. “Thanks. Since I’m older than you, what does that make me?”

“Prehistoric,” was her answer. I disagreed, of course, as I have just now reached my prime. But Sharra is my BFF, so I felt it my duty to ask her what’d happened to bring her to her current state of mind. She explained she’d been out shopping, and nary a member of the male species had ogled her. FYI, men always ogle Sharra. Or at least they used to…until they became womanized (the process by which a man is trained to ignore the stirrings below his belt).

Ah, ogling. I remember the days fondly when men used to look at us women like they could see right through our clothes. Call me old-fashioned, but I kinda liked it when a man had a momentary lapse in judgment and his eyes were allowed to roam…all over my body. Were it not for such furtive glances, and, yes, sometimes blatant gawking, many of us may very well have spent our lives in unhappily unwedded bliss. (Trivia note: women over the age of 40 have less than a one in one thousand chance of ever having a man ogle them all the way to the altar.)

For those of you who don’t know (meaning those women born after 1990), ogling used to be a part of the mating ritual. An art form, so to speak. It went something like this: man ogles woman, woman smiles, man smiles back, woman flips her hair, man feels things below his belt begin to stir…and he approaches woman, woman begins to feel all squishy inside, man asks woman if she’d like to grab a cup of coffee, woman nods and blushes…and if all goes well, they’re off to the altar.

Sadly, though, this scenario almost never unfolds. Men are now so hesitant to admire our beauty (for fear of being arrested, fired, or kicked in the groin), that chances are we won’t ever have the opportunity to turn down that cup of coffee. And, thus, we may never make it to the altar.

So what does the future hold for us women, now that we’ve roared? Have we switched roles? Is it now up to us to do the chasing? (God, I hope not. My feet are sore, and I simply can’t run as fast as I used to.) If so, are we okay with being labeled brazen, slutty, aggressive, domineering, or just plain desperate (which are all words men use to describe women who chase). Yikes! I don’t know about you, but I don’t like any of those labels.

Yes, sadly, we may have cured men of making unwanted advances, but in the process, we may have gone too far. (Remember the old saying…what goes around, come around.) I think we may one day find ourselves on the other side of this sexual war. In our desperation to be equal, and to have men stop paying attention to our womanly attributes, men may one day (sooner than later, I suspect) be screaming sexual harassment right back at us. Only time will tell…but perhaps this is one instance where we women may end up wishing we’d been more careful what we’d wished for. What do you think?