tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56515152211863522082024-02-19T08:04:44.547-05:00Bear with me...WWW.CINDYPACKARDRICHMOND.COMrichmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.comBlogger214125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-23758067034765789762024-01-24T14:08:00.003-05:002024-01-24T14:08:16.367-05:00Tumbling Down Rabbit Holes<p> </p><table style="max-width: 600px; width: 596px;"><tbody><tr><td class="ui-sortable" id="newsletter_body" style="padding: 15px;"> <table block-type="content-text" border="0" class="newsletter-block" id="newsletter-block2" style="max-width: 580px; opacity: 1; width: 562px;"><tbody><tr><td style="padding: 0px 0px 10px;"><div class="editable-text mce-content-body" id="editable_text2" style="color: #383838; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.5; position: relative;"><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> With a to-do list, one could reasonably assume to accomplish at least half of them in a day. My average hovers around twelve percent.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Life intervenes.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I start to do something, get hijacked by random thoughts and find myself down a rabbit hole chasing endless tangents.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Yesterday's romp:</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I have some commissions. Yay!</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I really should go through the thousand images of a recent Hawaiian vacation.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> My computer goes wacky. I cannot print images.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> My iW</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">atch dies.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I am hungry.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Suddenly, I <em>must </em>fix a painting that has been on display for years.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I am embarrassed to have shown it.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> This is not good.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Geisha below, "Kyoto," is riddled with drawing errors. I wiped her out to begin again. But, oh, there are the commissions...</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> As the actress Bette Davis once said, "Life is too damned daily"</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> And, it is only January.</span></p></div></td></tr></tbody></table><table block-type="content_img" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="newsletter-block" id="newsletter-block3" style="max-width: 580px; width: 562px;"><tbody><tr><td align="center" class="image-col" style="padding: 0px 5px 10px 0px; width: 276px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-spacing: 0px; table-layout: fixed; width: 276px;"><tbody><tr><td class="content-block-img" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: center; vertical-align: middle;" valign="middle"><a border="0" class="image_link" data-mce-style="border: 0px; text-decoration: none; color: rgb(0, 132, 180);" href="http://data.fineartstudioonline.com/dataviewer.asp?keyvalue=19311&page=workszoom&subkeyvalue=4917854" style="border: 0px; color: #0084b4; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><img alt="kyoto" src="https://images.fasosites.com/19311/4917854x800.jpg?faso_cdn_v=202307051438" style="border: 1px solid rgb(0, 0, 0); display: block; margin: auto; max-width: 100%; width: 284px;" width="284" /><div class="image_caption editable-text mce-content-body" id="editable_text3" style="color: #383838; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 15px; position: relative;"><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">kyoto</p></div></a></td></tr></tbody></table></td><td align="center" class="image-col" style="padding: 0px 0px 10px 5px; width: 276px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-spacing: 0px; table-layout: fixed; width: 276px;"><tbody><tr><td class="content-block-img" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); text-align: center; vertical-align: middle;" valign="middle"><a border="0" class="image_link" data-mce-style="border: 0px; text-decoration: none; color: rgb(0, 132, 180);" href="http://data.fineartstudioonline.com/dataviewer.asp?keyvalue=19311&page=workszoom&subkeyvalue=5486079" style="border: 0px; color: #0084b4; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><img alt="geisha white copy" src="https://images.fasosites.com/19311/5486079x800.jpg?faso_cdn_v=202307051438" style="border: 1px solid rgb(0, 0, 0); display: block; margin: auto; max-width: 100%; width: 284px;" width="284" /><div class="image_caption editable-text mce-content-body" id="editable_text4" style="color: #383838; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 15px; position: relative;"><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">geisha redo</p></div></a></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-9047428403114802202023-11-11T14:38:00.001-05:002023-11-11T15:59:50.117-05:00TIME<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjfQ13CNKS6EUJMK2GOFfkvwAq-rNzWvGDYKEI2UtWucJmY_ZzpLSjhYKaGuC-BPh5MONqzObFNASshRsCxPZuVAoLNcIukxEYLan-drL9VNxNqZo3k6DOkVrxxb-vJ-ktbRtFd5vcTs2N1TG2CrQjgrOZyoLK5KmYWBDTOeV3Bl--GtkXREXSq5S8IXdc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjfQ13CNKS6EUJMK2GOFfkvwAq-rNzWvGDYKEI2UtWucJmY_ZzpLSjhYKaGuC-BPh5MONqzObFNASshRsCxPZuVAoLNcIukxEYLan-drL9VNxNqZo3k6DOkVrxxb-vJ-ktbRtFd5vcTs2N1TG2CrQjgrOZyoLK5KmYWBDTOeV3Bl--GtkXREXSq5S8IXdc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6o7KTI5TvbRL5JC_6_SOegDG2TJGPClQDC0zXTQxJb1gx7LXBZ9A2nAxSxyHMC5L5EYsaBH_EzMv5-CYRAeivOQjtEYXepPvhiWzDLMY6SFI9xgNcGaXAnCVYbZrvRfo_jKWKxDRj1BMNA86qLul9-BEcJF3yTdH75wz4yWKS_AZkY7r9Nyt6TMIUFc0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="502" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6o7KTI5TvbRL5JC_6_SOegDG2TJGPClQDC0zXTQxJb1gx7LXBZ9A2nAxSxyHMC5L5EYsaBH_EzMv5-CYRAeivOQjtEYXepPvhiWzDLMY6SFI9xgNcGaXAnCVYbZrvRfo_jKWKxDRj1BMNA86qLul9-BEcJF3yTdH75wz4yWKS_AZkY7r9Nyt6TMIUFc0" width="239" /></a></div><br /></div><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Time is lost, saved, borrowed and often, a river. <span style="font-family: georgia;">Some times it's stolen or of the essence. I am finding it to be surprisingly elastic as well.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When I left the Torpedo Factory Art Center after seventeen years, I expected to do so much exploration in my home studio. Working four days a week had limited what I could accomplish. The remaining three days were given over to real life: groceries, appointments, and obligations. I longed to have hours to experiment, study and travel.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, here I am, free as a bird. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Possibilities are so vast, I am immobilized.</span><span> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Without the 4/3 dynamic, the days meld together. Everything feels like a day off. I no longer get up at 5 am to jumpstart the day. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>I am woozy with time. </span><span>I love the slow mornings. But progress soon </span><span>drifts off to something else. There is no sense of accomplishment.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>My daughter calls every Wednesday at 5:30. </span><span>She never forgets. </span><span>Yesterday she didn't call. I kept expecting the phone to ring. Hours later I realized it was Friday, not Wednesday.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I am not complaining, just surprised.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-75506773803113869262023-03-01T16:05:00.000-05:002023-03-01T16:05:25.069-05:00A Visit to Studio Three<p><br /> I<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px;">f you have not been to the Torpedo Factory Art Center in Alexandria, Virginia, you have missed a great space.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px;">There are 80 studios with working artists open to the public.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px;">You can watch artists create, ask questions and perhaps find a piece you love.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiutcfhJlO3Ndf92n69h-JLOPen8wkNUJcxYI76xmwsFPcpmo0q5el0j2USu2LU81WkmOSTtwLOITvW48Dpta4JrNaOL6TcGv-Ch50cwy5c5VQGzRYttl2To2tLz6RJ-lnr2w8UrXyMLPJenNq8ohZFaRpn4XT7TSohWyju70VL8Aw2T81lO9geGKEj/s4032/IMG_0397.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiutcfhJlO3Ndf92n69h-JLOPen8wkNUJcxYI76xmwsFPcpmo0q5el0j2USu2LU81WkmOSTtwLOITvW48Dpta4JrNaOL6TcGv-Ch50cwy5c5VQGzRYttl2To2tLz6RJ-lnr2w8UrXyMLPJenNq8ohZFaRpn4XT7TSohWyju70VL8Aw2T81lO9geGKEj/w320-h239/IMG_0397.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">This has been my perch for several years.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Studio 3 is flooded with natural light from two walls of huge windows.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My gallery is down below, featuring over thirty oil paintings. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW-9K6K20FocndpCT3XdG9XFt1DzkqNekmGSU5zzzXvPycvOXS_cPTcXICAYiJNXlJG6TJTjVCQK5KHwYu3JX5d5boYBbqdwOH1pDajIp1BEfdleW6s7xdI5x7H0WrNN_YYnLdWSN9b61n7EsG0gXD4HksZcdzXfYECqk2e84eonUwED9hi-gddUk8/s4032/Recents%20-%201%20of%201%20(1).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW-9K6K20FocndpCT3XdG9XFt1DzkqNekmGSU5zzzXvPycvOXS_cPTcXICAYiJNXlJG6TJTjVCQK5KHwYu3JX5d5boYBbqdwOH1pDajIp1BEfdleW6s7xdI5x7H0WrNN_YYnLdWSN9b61n7EsG0gXD4HksZcdzXfYECqk2e84eonUwED9hi-gddUk8/s320/Recents%20-%201%20of%201%20(1).jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid40S2v_S2yq9RjDlD1GzWBIhQ3C9Vs6NPbQVHWSGVz1Vlm_I0BfKgmr6u_wDNmQIPlPCNWd-POJFgIWno0p2iKx8IPHUCblh52GNLBVNmcvLSpDrcpo58XcS6XIclYAnk39ANOJR2BounxZ9bv4DMN30fgTVSsTS-LC9NyK_oCDi6zeSYm-Spwmtd/s320/IMG_0418.jpeg" width="320" /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">I would love you to visit!</span></div><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZLVjHQxPRaBbruNI-rjEHrCZeuECor4_iVaht3K8HBnCVMaFHUHkjOqrZIVtrhoQTmSGBjGjMB_SHOz9D5QnJjDpCwIaJbtsRvkg52z6MPNKjBXWEpF_QMN2F5iccYMHwHkfVvRFAVvk8IToFpqYqQOgGBnbWugNVt5TZr_-fQAIspREUj1bUuXIp/s4032/stairs.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZLVjHQxPRaBbruNI-rjEHrCZeuECor4_iVaht3K8HBnCVMaFHUHkjOqrZIVtrhoQTmSGBjGjMB_SHOz9D5QnJjDpCwIaJbtsRvkg52z6MPNKjBXWEpF_QMN2F5iccYMHwHkfVvRFAVvk8IToFpqYqQOgGBnbWugNVt5TZr_-fQAIspREUj1bUuXIp/s320/stairs.jpeg" width="240" /></a></span></div><p></p>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-74704554665591623612023-02-13T15:47:00.000-05:002023-02-13T15:47:15.582-05:00Is there such a thing as too much paint?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtM1rZ1WBKOnTP9sG0odTIHKDCibz5KjKq65msMRjEoACd4kfo4aAoN-sCwGGFkgTvifuAC7D_jqqsMnDxflCifzKWfKkl21fPHaRPvi06WZzj8I6-DTBfEkQMfp6xnvPa7UDgYHdTXiBw_QTDCTjeTmTYuxygvjAQzX6n32bQwnE6T7VHtml6RyIA/s4032/IMG_0292%20(1).jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtM1rZ1WBKOnTP9sG0odTIHKDCibz5KjKq65msMRjEoACd4kfo4aAoN-sCwGGFkgTvifuAC7D_jqqsMnDxflCifzKWfKkl21fPHaRPvi06WZzj8I6-DTBfEkQMfp6xnvPa7UDgYHdTXiBw_QTDCTjeTmTYuxygvjAQzX6n32bQwnE6T7VHtml6RyIA/w480-h640/IMG_0292%20(1).jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I am not a hoarder. Well, not in the true sense of needing the County to intervene with shovels. But I do like my colors. When I started painting 20 years ago, I became a pastelist. Pastels are tools of intense pigment, which is a pure joy. Unfortunately, you can not mix pastels. You can stroke a glaze of one color over another but they remain distinct. The only solution in my mind, was to own at least one of every color available. So I do. (I worked in an art store.) <br /></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I stopped painting with pastels because my teacher, Diane Tesler, said I could easily move back and forth between the two mediums. Framing large pastels with non-relfective glass had become exorbitant. </span><span style="font-size: large;">So, I became an oil painter. </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">I had much difficulty using a paint brush. It felt so awkward to have something between me and the color. With pastels, the hand is directly on the pigment. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span><span>I never was able to move between the mediums. I had a sure touch with pastels, but now it is gone. And I still struggle with the brush.</span></span></p></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> One can paint beautifully with a limited palate. Many do. There are many ways to make a color from other colors. Yellow and black make amazing greens. Lemon Yellow and a Mars Black makes a very different green than Cadmium Yellow and Ivory black.One color, between different manufacturers, can vary distinctly. </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">I remain seduced by colors. </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Blue is my signature color. I have about 30 varieties of blues which can morph into dozens of other colors.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe someone <i>should</i> call the County.</span></p>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-65462677600039888262022-06-14T10:08:00.002-04:002022-06-14T10:08:38.004-04:00 Time is not an arrow<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7687oxHrWpfTzmtqJmuz3pfLb2IGgWsKMqi6SVxFMwxOtS7Bls72NbM0qtJQZEYjUpE-Yslwf_dQN7SrcaHplPaqPeSzELf3FCe67AlGLDKYu17bXmE1aAowoCQT5TsAGX3GtLvvl_DDLrBfKJlzEQ2_2dTWgNRVVnxDNBX5spavpnC_qw4J1mFJd/s225/images.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7687oxHrWpfTzmtqJmuz3pfLb2IGgWsKMqi6SVxFMwxOtS7Bls72NbM0qtJQZEYjUpE-Yslwf_dQN7SrcaHplPaqPeSzELf3FCe67AlGLDKYu17bXmE1aAowoCQT5TsAGX3GtLvvl_DDLrBfKJlzEQ2_2dTWgNRVVnxDNBX5spavpnC_qw4J1mFJd/w400-h400/images.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Time is not an arrow, it is a blow to the senses. One minute you are a sentient being, and the next you cannot open a bag of cheese. There is no strength in my hands or fingers. I find myself, more and more, using my teeth. Soon they will be down to nubs. I will have to gum my food. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I did not think 74 was <i>that</i> old, but apparently I have been mislead by advertisers. It is old. What irks me most is not the daily reminders of imminent decay, but the loss of word recall. "Anomia is a form of aphasia in which the patient is unable to recall the names of everyday objects." And wouldn't you know? They have made a board game of it. In the game, you describe an object and the other players have to guess the word. And that is more or less what conversations with me have become.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In middle age, a person's memory is reasonable. But as you age your brain becomes dense, like a hoarder's house. There are narrow pathways, but there is no way you can reach the broken aquarium under the cat in the Barbie dollhouse.</span></p>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-56356249112307374222022-06-01T13:08:00.000-04:002022-06-01T13:08:21.516-04:00Gone, Baby, Gone<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3cw96KhYukpeC1LJ7MYPBkYuwaglYXPyX_OSHupG1ifYPzomsXlNiqToi0khgkZ2EWFZJ4ge7nIIu8VE3FJSgn-ya7R6v6z4jHjNqJnScTToKFMjhwNfMqBcPxBObLsT9XCVcCk6Em8GXqL8Zjdn0AIYsEHAEuED1LOaNAceotl2Lr4YinsHLbvM/s400/sam%20blog.tiff" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSC2WLokvPUVvpDn8fiortkFN5XbzYXzmaKgaNCGdN8Z47I77bcXRY_wgFaLUdvYJlIvyVoDgfGrVC5ykC5lBNURDRDaWsdOVck_Sn9Dd4aMULIMcPlyOZs4QXqV9P2KAvJgbdBUo1NJG9SkO4eMXC_xxkyZTL5On8vKQZaoOdICPc9tf_gwapP8Ee/s3024/sam%20poist.tiff" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSC2WLokvPUVvpDn8fiortkFN5XbzYXzmaKgaNCGdN8Z47I77bcXRY_wgFaLUdvYJlIvyVoDgfGrVC5ykC5lBNURDRDaWsdOVck_Sn9Dd4aMULIMcPlyOZs4QXqV9P2KAvJgbdBUo1NJG9SkO4eMXC_xxkyZTL5On8vKQZaoOdICPc9tf_gwapP8Ee/w466-h466/sam%20poist.tiff" width="466" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Before Sam, I had never had a dog argue with me. We never knew the source of his grievance. Sometimes, I argued back, miming his outrage. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Sam was adopted at two by my son who treated him well. Perhaps his first two years were horrific, full of cats and scary city rats. He was eight when we took over his care, including two knee replacements</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">With time the arguments subsided, but he never lost the urge to comment. He always wanted <i>something now, dammit. </i> He could be alone in a room and still he groused.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> He was aloof, but he and I cuddled when no one was looking. We were good to Sam.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> The car seemed to come out of nowhere. Sam was hit and dragged. I thought he was going to be okay as he was standing when I got to him. But he wasn't. The vet offered options. It wasn't the cost, but likelihood of a painful life that made us pause. My son agreed via Trans-Pacific call to let Sam go.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The silence in our home is deafening.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-44554151302838542542021-06-02T14:30:00.002-04:002021-06-02T14:33:11.261-04:00Death by Root Beer<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr22a42RezDo8ztYD96ddJ-yPTWnGANmTqW2-yzYukVnwP_c2O5d4cVn8LyQ-NFcHjxc2VnLvH0YdryMvhzw1I3pCNvdykZTZTB2zsQ_XYlfqwIgspPMP3F4Lr_rveHecDwBvRHd7UWvQ/s269/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="187" data-original-width="269" height="445" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr22a42RezDo8ztYD96ddJ-yPTWnGANmTqW2-yzYukVnwP_c2O5d4cVn8LyQ-NFcHjxc2VnLvH0YdryMvhzw1I3pCNvdykZTZTB2zsQ_XYlfqwIgspPMP3F4Lr_rveHecDwBvRHd7UWvQ/w640-h445/images.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Once again, I have killed my laptop computer with spilled root beer. The MacBook pro was seven years old, surely living on borrowed time. I was determined to keep it going. Not out of sentiment, but because it ran Photoshop Elements #6. My business depends on photos, for paintings and for sale.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I inadvertently upgraded to BigSur OS last year and discovered to my horror that it would not run my antiquated photoshop software. In a panic, I purchased Photoshop Elements #20 and bought the 'for dummies' book. I tried, I really did. Then I called Apple and reverted to the old OS.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My new computer uses the futuristic Photoshop Elements 2021. Another app paid for, another 'for dummies' bought. I have leapfrogged into the future and it is not pretty. What was once so simple is now tortuous.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I considered repairing my old Mac. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>The technician quoted a minimum of $650. Only the track pad f</span><span>ell victim to the root beer </span><span>but it is of one piece with the battery and the keyboard.</span><span> Clever apple.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A few days after its death, I turned on the old laptop. The track pad did not work, but I reasoned maybe a new magic mouse would. I was right! Some files are missing or corrupted, but I can process and print images.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It will take another pandemic for me to untangle the future.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-22592916993250198172021-04-26T15:35:00.002-04:002021-04-27T16:56:27.052-04:00"I Should Say Something...."<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1GlKi4RXvFw/YIcNzqy7iFI/AAAAAAAABzA/EQWIz_lUiC0nMDTsm31sgbM26Oh9WsAHACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Harv%2Bas%2Bstud.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1410" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1GlKi4RXvFw/YIcNzqy7iFI/AAAAAAAABzA/EQWIz_lUiC0nMDTsm31sgbM26Oh9WsAHACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Harv%2Bas%2Bstud.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> It has been five months since I posted the blog about my brother's death. I cannot explain my absence. It wasn't a 'slough of despair' that kept me away. Just a general torpor.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> Above is a photo of my husband when he was in college. We have been together, despite some epic clashes, for a very long time. I cannot clearly remember who I was back then. Probably just as well. He always tells people 'we have a tempestuous relationship: I am temperate and she's the pest.' True enough. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> There is an urban myth about a couple celebrating their 20th anniversary. He gives her 14 roses, one for each good year. She saves six and throws the rest in the garbage.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> I had little notion of the woman I would become or he would be. I do remember standing outside the church and wondering whether we would make it.</span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> Next month is our 50th wedding anniversary. It boggles the mind.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPElvgYC4WrKKRDb0aJZ0V_1MFZQqiz8F5C_c4U-NupRN-r6vAXn0DVl_tl5QBDbL0lIw1kCur7JYMSQwObnAQKlk8tSmsEY1-ZcPzb1cZIgI2L3GIb7t6OJAyZbFK5auxze6McQ5Gvk/s1185/hand+c+psiu.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1185" data-original-width="1150" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPElvgYC4WrKKRDb0aJZ0V_1MFZQqiz8F5C_c4U-NupRN-r6vAXn0DVl_tl5QBDbL0lIw1kCur7JYMSQwObnAQKlk8tSmsEY1-ZcPzb1cZIgI2L3GIb7t6OJAyZbFK5auxze6McQ5Gvk/s320/hand+c+psiu.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-76113182090215409312020-10-27T21:17:00.006-04:002020-10-28T13:54:13.803-04:00Brudder<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DdHM_As83tA/X5iNH_lWtvI/AAAAAAAABsk/DrANXzqj0voRirZcA2y0DDLkEVHkwvVpACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/bad%2Brot%2Bcopy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1530" data-original-width="2048" height="467" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DdHM_As83tA/X5iNH_lWtvI/AAAAAAAABsk/DrANXzqj0voRirZcA2y0DDLkEVHkwvVpACLcBGAsYHQ/w626-h467/bad%2Brot%2Bcopy.jpg" width="626" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>What can you say about a brother who once sprinkled Tabasco sauce on your Easter Jelly Beans. Not all of them, I would have tossed out the whole batch. Vance was fiendish. I had to pick my way through the landmine of the Easter Basket. One was not surprised that he shared a birthday with Adolph Hitler.</p><p> Vance was six years older than me. He died this morning. He had been ill for a very long time. Oddly, knowing something will happen does not lessen the jolt when it does. </p><p>I have another brother whom I adore, but Vance loomed large in my life. He never once said a nice thing to me or my other brother, but his wife says he was very proud of me. He was better with wood than with words. He crafted beautiful furniture, forged wrought iron, took amazing photos, made wonderful castles and houses for his nephews and nieces. By trade he was an industrial archaeologist.</p><p> The three of us took ownership of our childhood summer home in 1985. The house is very old, and prone to disaster. It still stands, largely because of the years Vance spent bending it to his will. He was tireless. We all worked on the house, but always under his direction.</p><p> I wrote a few novels and Vance became one of my best characters. ( I think he really enjoyed that.) But really it wasn't much of a stretch of imagination. Here is a true story: Vance came home for my wedding weekend . My parents had two crazy, excitable Weimaraner dogs, Misty and Storm. Vance always addressed them German commands. I don't know where or why Vance got the bullwhip, but he started thwacking it on the driveway. Not <u>at</u> the dogs, but it riled Storm and he bit Vance. My parents had offered us a honeymoon at their house of the Vineyard, provided we take the dogs, (My parents would arrive in a week.) Off we went with two crazed hounds. Storm had to be quarantined in a shed for a week. He howled and clawed at the door. It has been fifty years, but that is all I remember of my honeymoon.</p><p></p><p> My brother was cantankerous to us, but known for his generosity to others. An enigma wrapped in a puzzle I never solved.</p>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-71843240503114438412020-08-22T12:48:00.002-04:002020-08-22T13:18:22.641-04:00Time Limps (But May Gallop)<p> </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vZmmP5HTNbruRCcCCvWmmQEcjIUtujVudg3HGT1b_i27Q-xFD0JxXHu-auyEHU-GpwkmbYSF3MTQgzt3Xrf0zltctD5MyU7HumKAhqLXzACJUylVnsOFQvPKnQRZwPoIqkrkenWYPGo/s1440/find+your+place+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1076" data-original-width="1440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vZmmP5HTNbruRCcCCvWmmQEcjIUtujVudg3HGT1b_i27Q-xFD0JxXHu-auyEHU-GpwkmbYSF3MTQgzt3Xrf0zltctD5MyU7HumKAhqLXzACJUylVnsOFQvPKnQRZwPoIqkrkenWYPGo/s640/find+your+place+copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>I started this blog ten years ago, sitting on Chappaquiddick, on the very same sofa. Thankfully, the view has not changed. No pink condos or mega-mansions intrude. This view is my happy place. </p><p>The pandemic has spoiled summer. Massachusetts doesn't want anyone outside of New England to enter without a very recent (72 hours) negative Covid test. Otherwise, you must self quarantine for fourteen days. There is $500 a day fine. But, alas, the state is relying on the honor system. Given the furiously snarled traffic when we drove from the big ferry, I suspect many are not honorable. </p><p>Chappaquiddick is a small island off of Martha's Vineyard. Usually, it is free of the drama on the main island. But just this week there was 45-car lineup to take the eight minute, three-car ferry to Chappaquiddick. When my father bought our house in 1953, there were 75 houses on the five mile (tip to tip) island. Now there are upwards of 400.</p><p>Usually we have lots of company with friends that gather once a year. Much of my time is spent gathering recipes, making beds, buying liquor and grocery shopping. Usually, I hit the Stop and Shop every other day. I love the time spent with friends, but not the time required for organizing. </p><p>This year, no guests. </p><p>The morning after we arrived ( with our recent, negative Covid test results) , I felt odd and a little elated. No lists. I feel as if I am in suspended animation. I have not been to the beach, or to town or to Stop and Shop. </p><p>I sit on the porch where time passes quietly. </p>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-29192265862206241272020-07-13T12:09:00.000-04:002020-07-13T12:09:56.752-04:00Night Music<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGAPOZJBH60FsOrJ8o6V3ldOCqHpu2m3qPlxas2Y6GqXAvI3dpEbBS_g-kN4VBCL_rAqWDUAiPRLOXaNoWt_fMrjaYEjIKUiHncyOIwhwMcP8LveGan4-vT0TtP8Rxo6p93PGYNPMxgY/s2048/floyd+two096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGAPOZJBH60FsOrJ8o6V3ldOCqHpu2m3qPlxas2Y6GqXAvI3dpEbBS_g-kN4VBCL_rAqWDUAiPRLOXaNoWt_fMrjaYEjIKUiHncyOIwhwMcP8LveGan4-vT0TtP8Rxo6p93PGYNPMxgY/w400-h266/floyd+two096.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Summer night music. The sound of cicadas and frogs at night is a favorite balm. Some nights, when I am unable to sleep, I will sit on the porch and absorb the lulling hum. It has been a banner year for lightening bugs. But this summer, there has been no night music. It's mid July. Where are the frogs and cicadas? Is it just my neighborhood?richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-65160366284369190452020-05-22T13:18:00.001-04:002020-05-22T13:18:29.260-04:00A Pandemic Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Iax9oElcn4w/XsgFSMGRq4I/AAAAAAAABmU/u4zPsg7zqRot6bhWFFuL0-Id5NmKoQMjwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Iax9oElcn4w/XsgFSMGRq4I/AAAAAAAABmU/u4zPsg7zqRot6bhWFFuL0-Id5NmKoQMjwCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/images.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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My Pandemic life has been better than I thought it would be. I have been on 14-day quarantine <i>twice, </i>but so far, so good. I never felt house bound or bored. MOMA offered free online courses. I took Design as Fashion and Seeing Through Photographs. (I highly recommend both.) I became a jigsaw puzzle enthusiast. I painted, albeit in cramped quarters. I missed my studio at the Torpedo Factory. The Factory is closed but we must still pay rent<br />
My dog walks increased in distance, from 45 minutes to 3.5 to 4 miles a day. I think the outdoors kept me sane. I assumed walking over 25 miles a week would result in weight loss, but it has not. I don't understand why. So, I have a drink every night. It used to be just weekends but the days became indistinguishable. Oh, and I have developed a habit for Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt, buying them by the case online.richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-22198014897629749422020-04-05T16:22:00.001-04:002020-04-05T16:22:31.806-04:00Beware of what you wish for....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMZrsR12YTdXLGFQu3UDF2hIxJnVSMqwUmqmqYLjtdUhaXH2lPNvd4JftKucokA2GINHwWu_oO1Qc9hXn2SouievkZeDhgO_3x89yXiOyTemB3AX1DuAlWzfT01dJmMO9uxyB9f0wPhs/s1600/IMG_4465.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMZrsR12YTdXLGFQu3UDF2hIxJnVSMqwUmqmqYLjtdUhaXH2lPNvd4JftKucokA2GINHwWu_oO1Qc9hXn2SouievkZeDhgO_3x89yXiOyTemB3AX1DuAlWzfT01dJmMO9uxyB9f0wPhs/s400/IMG_4465.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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My grandchildren live with their parents in Niger, West Africa. They were home for Christmas. I would not see them again until late summer before their next posting to Laos. (Two years ago when they were in Korea, I thought it was a long haul. Laos is nearly 24 hours away.) <br />
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Covid-19 swept through our fragile lives with a vengeance. When they closed the schools and playgrounds, I could only be grateful that my kids were grown. No homeschooling for me! My husband and I selfishly hunkered down with a full freezer, stack of books, a full bar and netflix. <br />
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My daughter -in -law and grandkids (3 and 5) caught the last plane out of Niger before the airfield closed down. They were to quarantine for two weeks. Our health is less compromised than her family's, so they stayed with us. I really enjoyed their company and was sorry to see them go to an isolated cabin in the Shenandoah area.<br />
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My son was still in Niger where Covid 19 wasn't considered as serious as malaria and Colera. Until the State Department thought, maybe it was. A cargo/sickbay plane flew from Madagascar picking up the Americans. It was thirty-five hours and several stops before it got to Niger. By the time it landed at Dulles, my son had a fever. He stayed in a hotel room. I suggested it was Covid-19. He insisted that it was "Niamey Crud" not Covid-19. Eventually the State Department ventured that he did have Covid-19 and monitored him by phone. He is on the mend and looking forward joining his family.<br />
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Once again, I am reminded, everything hangs by a thread.richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-52508073729527914142020-02-05T15:28:00.002-05:002020-02-05T15:28:32.405-05:00Offices of Tilted and Askew<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg32IUY0lThRhWlcFrQN6W64vId0Coifp19ddGQu8pTw8hYIXuxW426uIH22V00mhdpCosdrSEex8yJC8vqz1DPOYr8o1wHoEy7Cx7PBNhxG_c0GFTDhCCGPAk0UiCJS3_J2cfbGZi7ca8/s1600/pandora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1192" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg32IUY0lThRhWlcFrQN6W64vId0Coifp19ddGQu8pTw8hYIXuxW426uIH22V00mhdpCosdrSEex8yJC8vqz1DPOYr8o1wHoEy7Cx7PBNhxG_c0GFTDhCCGPAk0UiCJS3_J2cfbGZi7ca8/s400/pandora.jpg" width="297" /></a></div>
© 2007 Cindy Packard Richmond<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I wish I could say I embraced the future with Apple's OS 15 Catalina with its 64 bit color. I honestly tried. But when I tried to open my spreadsheet of expenses for 2019, nothing! I had made backups and backups of my backups. OS 15 wouldn't open any of them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Apple support helped me back to the dark ages of OS Mojave and Elements 6. </span>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-66900277114401554182020-01-22T11:59:00.002-05:002020-10-28T09:33:13.237-04:00Choppy Water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mwd5DFmlL78/XiS8HbZQQmI/AAAAAAAABhw/6xaZ106iPvIwfMxlzbX-pBK05LkYvlNngCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/turmoil%2Bweb.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="950" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mwd5DFmlL78/XiS8HbZQQmI/AAAAAAAABhw/6xaZ106iPvIwfMxlzbX-pBK05LkYvlNngCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/turmoil%2Bweb.jpg" width="380" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> "Turmoil" © 2019 Cindy Packard Richmond</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I got my first Apple computer in 1984. A one-piece monolith, it sat about 18 inches tall. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Floppy disks (which did not bend much less flop) could only hold ten pages of data. (Hence the truncated chapters of my second novel.) I have stuck with Apple all these years, mostly for their support system. I am not xenophobic, but by the time I call the support line I am already beyond flustered. I need instructions in English-as-first-language help. Apple is very good at that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Apple recently upgraded to the Catalonia OS system. I might just as well have taken an axe to the head. Suddenly, many of my workhorse applications were unusable. Apple slapped white circles with diagonals through the dock icons. My Photoshop Elements, gone. My scanner, kaput, my spreadsheet photos and records of 400 plus paintings, unretrievable. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Photos are essential to my business. I paint from them and I sell them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I never feel so old as when I have to wrestle with a new program. Once I upgraded to Photoshop Elements 11, but that was too daunting. Elements 6 is my comfort zone. I have used it daily for 13 years. When Apple refused to run it, I hoped the Elements 11 version might pass muster. Ha. Only Elements 2020 ($99)will do. I bought two books on how to use 2020. I am still mystified.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Photoshop 2020 seems to have issues Apple's OS Catalina. My printer is mad and reports that it can not print at 300 dpi. As one website said, Catalina <span face=", , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "noto sans" , sans-serif , "apple color emoji" , "segoe ui emoji" , "segoe ui symbol" , "noto color emoji"" style="color: #292929;">has ended Apple's "32-bit app support, forcing such apps to run in complex workarounds." I'll say.</span></span><br />
<span face=", , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "noto sans" , sans-serif , "apple color emoji" , "segoe ui emoji" , "segoe ui symbol" , "noto color emoji"" style="color: #292929; font-size: large;"> The coup de grace came this morning. I plugged in my shuffle to download podcasts and the computer went black. I unplugged the shuffle and got the screen back. Tried again. Black again. </span><br />
<span face=", , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "noto sans" , sans-serif , "apple color emoji" , "segoe ui emoji" , "segoe ui symbol" , "noto color emoji"" style="color: #292929;"><br /></span>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-15562335954750936562020-01-06T15:50:00.000-05:002020-01-06T18:45:47.668-05:00On My Way<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFsOJR7YyA_GnGqOxtePONA9UIfvO3EZTUBBBdez0u9PQU8uVSEfa3eW3SG3qll4ttSF3kM26D5J2yoowgqJfPHMhBLm5I5Vv4qgGACHOMvie3piCYrtx5z32LVZFk4RxQVuYQk-V9W4/s1600/On+My+WAy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1142" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFsOJR7YyA_GnGqOxtePONA9UIfvO3EZTUBBBdez0u9PQU8uVSEfa3eW3SG3qll4ttSF3kM26D5J2yoowgqJfPHMhBLm5I5Vv4qgGACHOMvie3piCYrtx5z32LVZFk4RxQVuYQk-V9W4/s400/On+My+WAy.jpg" width="285" /></a></div>
"On My Way" © 2019 Cindy Packard Richmond<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I have been remiss in my blogging. I don't believe anyone objected. Yesterday, a bridesmaid from my wedding forty-nine years ago, happened upon my blog. It is comforting in this era of voter manipulation, cyber bullies, stolen intellectual property, pedophilia and financial hackers, that something good can come from the internet.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Maybe the world has always been this chaotic, this frantic, this fragile. Bad news now travels too fast, trampling civility in its wake.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> If I post again, I will try to be wry.</span>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-58556935293016052152019-09-02T16:30:00.002-04:002022-05-31T15:45:52.480-04:00Plumb Tickler<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The plumbing fixtures in our shared family house are 114 years old.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We have the same plumber we have had since 1953. I suspect by now we are dealing with the grandsons of the original plumber.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv73U6WByP3vSiC0MU6pruX10f_rRFf2JppACl7wgU-uPAvF6R1zNrefPJF_oDAUa8-nkQ3QtxhyphenhyphenhqYOMloTqZjZxWDx_jj2e9LheiVzl1Z1gvRCZatOBuvTORdbITOCTYl4FhCDvK08I/s1600/60E6CAC4-B756-49CB-9BFB-89C3CC32FB83.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv73U6WByP3vSiC0MU6pruX10f_rRFf2JppACl7wgU-uPAvF6R1zNrefPJF_oDAUa8-nkQ3QtxhyphenhyphenhqYOMloTqZjZxWDx_jj2e9LheiVzl1Z1gvRCZatOBuvTORdbITOCTYl4FhCDvK08I/s320/60E6CAC4-B756-49CB-9BFB-89C3CC32FB83.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">To fix our many plumbing ills, the plumber must wait in a ferry lineup. Sometimes for hours. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmffaDTjpuY5SgSk1eipF1eSpdD7M1-MuRhaWKSwsqlbk9ncqQZcACOzRNSIxOub6m-qV1UMEkZ6iS5bCmqT3H6GJoHsaTM129SU78zyObmo01FNl6GaTzMmXetAVeAwjuf0Kn_5yF5qM/s1600/IMG_2562.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmffaDTjpuY5SgSk1eipF1eSpdD7M1-MuRhaWKSwsqlbk9ncqQZcACOzRNSIxOub6m-qV1UMEkZ6iS5bCmqT3H6GJoHsaTM129SU78zyObmo01FNl6GaTzMmXetAVeAwjuf0Kn_5yF5qM/s320/IMG_2562.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This spring, when the water was turned back on, the bar sink leaked. We called in our reliable plumber. We were in Virginia at the time. We asked for an estimate. He declined to give one. Too many unknowns. When we arrived in mid-August we pursued the issue. A man, who said he had been working on our pipes for 30 years, in fact had apprenticed on our pipes, came. He said our plumbing was legendary on the island. Everyone else had bit the bullet and upgraded. Our plumbing belonged in a museum, he said with affection. Our leaking copper sink has a wooden box attached underneath. That combined with old lead dissolving pipes means it will take two days or "five to six thousand dollars" to repair. Unless of course they run into something unexpected.</span>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-62600458315471616762019-08-28T16:10:00.003-04:002019-08-28T16:13:31.418-04:00What Lurks Beneath....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hyLnEvPChPs/XWbS6hbOr-I/AAAAAAAABdE/eZX1RDzrFFIpYPKDZWsQw3M0C3DoFljzwCLcBGAs/s1600/DC29D4C2-4F8E-4E87-9775-7A0F11828570.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hyLnEvPChPs/XWbS6hbOr-I/AAAAAAAABdE/eZX1RDzrFFIpYPKDZWsQw3M0C3DoFljzwCLcBGAs/s640/DC29D4C2-4F8E-4E87-9775-7A0F11828570.jpeg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was a child, ticks were mere annoyances. They were ever so nicer than mosquitoes. We would pluck them off, or out, with little concern. While the adults had cocktails, the children would gather the dogs for their nightly rummage. Ticks were dropped in glasses of soap detergent. (I had one in my ear once which wasn’t fun, but no one dreamt that </span><span style="font-size: large;">Rocky Mountain Fever was a real possibility.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> One of my true pleasures in life is walking the paths and beaches of Chappaquiddick Island. My family bought a house there in 1953. When people talk of ‘a sense of place’ I know what they mean.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Now, Ticks have become more than an annoyance. They are smaller and fiercer than their predecessors. They carry life altering diseases. Before I walk, I spray myself with toxic fumes. The mosquitoes always manage to find the one vulnerable spot, so I have no doubt the ticks will as well. Last year and again this year, I have random, itchy, fluid filled bites all over my legs. Last year I saw a doctor who was unable to identify them. This year, I went to the local chat site and found I was not alone. Others had been bit.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Some believe them to be tick larvae bites. ( Chappaquiddick has an explosion of tiny lone star ticks.) Someone thought the bites were from chiggers which was oddly more comforting than tick larvae bites. Someone else posited that we don’t have chiggers on Chappy. All of the afflicted hope that larvae bites don’t spread the disease. I mean, what are the odds?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Cloaked as a sheik, Sam tried to fool us, to escape unseen into the night. Today he is scheduled for his second knee repair in eight months. </span>Sam is my son's dog, who is living with us for two years.<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"> I do love Sam. When we took Sam in last summer he was a dynamo, requiring more than an hour of exercise a day </span>to be <i>just</i> rambunctious. He raided the garbage, humped every person, dog or pillow within his reach, and whined through the octaves for hours at a time. But even with all that, he is a better dog than he was seven years ago (see "Run, Roo, Run" from 2012 blogs).<br />
His last surgical recovery was a very long slog for all of us. Twelve weeks of confinement, two months of limited exercise. When he blew out his other knee a month later, we keened. We vowed no more expensive surgery. But Sam is a runner and a jumper. To see him hobbled and dispirited broke our resolve.<br />
Also, daily CBD oil has made him sweeter, less anxious. He hasn't raided the garbage or humped any one or thing in a long while. His argumentative vocal sessions are shorter. <br />
We took Sam in to the vet hospital this morning. Other dogs on the surgical docket were there before us. Sam commenced baying and wouldn't stop. I had never heard him bay before. I suspect he was trying to incite a canine revolt but his intended conspirators were lily-livered.<br />
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richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-34257155229086736382019-05-14T16:03:00.002-04:002019-05-15T10:14:52.629-04:00Next Door to The Great Beyond<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fk2eJa_5HkY/XNsTy0BohOI/AAAAAAAABZk/941M9-WeGfY2oBhvyxeT8YnpO7U-xPjpQCLcBGAs/s1600/color%2Bechoes%2Breversecopy%2Bcopy%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="982" data-original-width="1440" height="435" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fk2eJa_5HkY/XNsTy0BohOI/AAAAAAAABZk/941M9-WeGfY2oBhvyxeT8YnpO7U-xPjpQCLcBGAs/s640/color%2Bechoes%2Breversecopy%2Bcopy%2Bcopy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
"Color Echoes" © 2011 Cindy Packard Richmond<br />
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In regards to old age, my father used to say "After 70, it's all maintenance."<br />
It is disheartening that so many people aren't making it to 70. Reunion bulletins bring distressing news. The best athletes in my high school class are dead. Three of my boyfriends from college are gone.<br />
A dear friend called on Thanksgiving 2018 to say she had neuro-endrochinal cancer in her liver, legs and lungs. She was crippled with pain and didn't know if she would do chemotherapy or "mosey on down the road". She opted for the brutal chemo. Her doctor at the Mayo Clinic promised to tell her when treatment was pointless.<br />
At the end of January, he told her she had a month get her affairs in order, that her death would not be painful, that she would fade away in her own bed. We spoke the advantages of knowing when and where Death would come. There is a certain solace in facing the inevitable.<br />
Two weeks before her expected death, the doctor called. He had been at a medical conference. He wanted to try an experimental, small cell lung cancer trial.<br />
A week later, she said I should expect her to visit this summer. I thought she was delusional.<br />
Two months later she was not in remission. She is cured. The cancer is dead. The only caveat, she has to take $400 dollars of pills a day for three years.<br />
I saw her last week. She is fit as a fiddle (whatever that means). Her doctor has written up her case for medical journals. She is the only Mayo Clinic patient to have beaten this form of cancer.<br />
Would that cancer miracles weren't so rare. But I am damned grateful for this one.<br />
.richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-63423840041575696432019-02-27T15:38:00.003-05:002019-02-27T15:45:52.973-05:00Perilous Packard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3WyXC4oAKzXxxp_k351vp1vh_Hx8Uxe8v2Rwtgs-9XnHCEqABhWTVPkvtfKSqrXXSImxl3SaCE44Sggs5iWYfGF1viiFM_OiBjy3-VOY19ofRcxlGIVEpAoBuTQrJ4-24tY4guUhHzWA/s1600/depositphotos_12298559-Young-woman-tide-up-and-looking-in-distress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1023" data-original-width="765" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3WyXC4oAKzXxxp_k351vp1vh_Hx8Uxe8v2Rwtgs-9XnHCEqABhWTVPkvtfKSqrXXSImxl3SaCE44Sggs5iWYfGF1viiFM_OiBjy3-VOY19ofRcxlGIVEpAoBuTQrJ4-24tY4guUhHzWA/s400/depositphotos_12298559-Young-woman-tide-up-and-looking-in-distress.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
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I tend to trip, stumble and fall. Often. A back surgery 30 years ago left me with a partially numb leg and foot. The upshot is that I have no foot reflex. Nature walks, with their tree roots and stumble stones, are fraught with danger. When walking, I must keep my eyes on the ground or I will trip. Do you know how hard it is for an artist to look down and ignore what is all around her?<br />
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Last week in the woods I looked up to see an eagle my husband had spotted, and went splat. Usually I feel myself tripping and brace myself. This time I didn't. First thing I felt was my face hitting a rock. I heard my nose break. Five stitches, four hours in the ER and stacks of gauze later, I emerged. For days I was so <i>purty</i>, with streaks of purple, yellow and green, festooning my face.<br />
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Peril swept beyond me to those I love. My husband, who walks 5 miles a day and maintains a healthy diet, hurt his foot. He was horrified when the doctor diagnosed gout. He wouldn't be surprised if <i><b>I </b></i>developed gout, I am apparently more"the sort." Think Ruebens. Turns out it isn't mere gout. The doctor reconsidered and ordered an MRI and blood tests. My husband has taken care of me during long bouts of recovery, so I try to be sunny and helpful.<br />
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Added to this ghoulish mix my son's dog Sam. I have come to love Sam, even though last week he took a bag of Cosco Coconut Clusters from the top shelf and ate it all. We nursed Sam through a torn ACL surgery for 3 long months this fall. It was more difficult than nursing a human who had the capacity to reason. This week Sam blew out the other knee.<br />
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My husband refers to us as the disabled and disfigured. Apparently, Jeopardy is in the House of Packard.richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-20812173645241928362019-01-29T15:11:00.002-05:002019-01-29T18:46:02.770-05:00Open Concept Living<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgumySRhbkKLfhYdjUDBi7TjT4STS0JbTYp8iaBUk5-ugxrN2ZWTlOjKGHMORYV7BczJbhuW2YhKYvbJZFY-rmaNqxrkbagYBNXRRkQFeg0p41peJ8BUTtqBMWz8ylC_3fUXKEUQQh35mU/s1600/th.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="240" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgumySRhbkKLfhYdjUDBi7TjT4STS0JbTYp8iaBUk5-ugxrN2ZWTlOjKGHMORYV7BczJbhuW2YhKYvbJZFY-rmaNqxrkbagYBNXRRkQFeg0p41peJ8BUTtqBMWz8ylC_3fUXKEUQQh35mU/s640/th.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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A woman gave me a new excuse as to why she couldn't buy my art. "I love your work, but we live in an open concept house. There just aren't any walls for art."<br />
She had me there. I watch HGTV late at night. It appears everyone wants open-concept living. Parents say they want to be able to watch their children as they cook. The thrill of watching as walls are demolished 24/7 might be an addiction. I do love it when something nasty falls out of the wall.<br />
When are these buyers going to realize they have been had. I suspect, as soon as their children become teenagers.<br />
My house is of an old 1970's-concept. Apparently, if the trend continues, we will never be able to sell it. We couldn't tear down walls without losing a bathroom and a staircase. In fact, we added a french door to separate the living room from the family room. When my kids reached adolescence and seemed to be everywhere all at once, I craved solitude. A room of her own, a la Virginia Woolf.<br />
I might come to regret the demise of Open-Concept. Building walls can't be as visceral an act as smashing walls. Unless of course, it is on a border.richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-76744878499635546392019-01-23T17:03:00.000-05:002019-01-24T09:02:55.570-05:00Hark the Herald...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0d3EKYPi8Na412aE7-3qzEfDtzj_FOzTIAaFDzkeLLaLpsTjYb_-MvoQmSbNPub3miGfrsuOGFjLz4YIlOaJHvdSssUi_Od_6W2CvyKKI4iqZ0PD25rIU2yYguH36uGn8AyUq_VZep2k/s1600/hark+the+herald++copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="600" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0d3EKYPi8Na412aE7-3qzEfDtzj_FOzTIAaFDzkeLLaLpsTjYb_-MvoQmSbNPub3miGfrsuOGFjLz4YIlOaJHvdSssUi_Od_6W2CvyKKI4iqZ0PD25rIU2yYguH36uGn8AyUq_VZep2k/s400/hark+the+herald++copy.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span> "Hark the Herald" © 2004 Cindy Packard Richmond<br />
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My husband and I lay in bed this morning talking about death. We used to joke that it was a race to the finish to see who won the "non compos mentis"sweepstakes, leaving the other to deal with the mess. I would sooner die than be left. Yes, I am a coward.<br />
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So many of our friends are in grips of cancer, dementia or other horrors. So, are we the lucky ones, the ones that got away. No. We are a small island in a sea of despair. The waves are lapping at our shore. Deep in our cells, nuggets of cancer (him) or dementia (me) are biding their time.<br />
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How does one die "peacefully" without the prelude of months of pain.richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-13551481724782232682018-11-12T14:11:00.001-05:002018-11-13T08:16:55.559-05:00Squeak No More, My Gutted Friends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLzFzV2kehdNfTdKZ6PV_lPY4CXz75z8sySRN4QKef1elfZsHxiqv8i-6ONcDJ-3ddbZNaiPdsDvmrb5wlIkVUnNuUypDnYWnBWkv7rBosNr7WHHC1OZy99yfhIfpt3XrVPjcEHIfjjo/s1600/squeak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1475" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLzFzV2kehdNfTdKZ6PV_lPY4CXz75z8sySRN4QKef1elfZsHxiqv8i-6ONcDJ-3ddbZNaiPdsDvmrb5wlIkVUnNuUypDnYWnBWkv7rBosNr7WHHC1OZy99yfhIfpt3XrVPjcEHIfjjo/s400/squeak.jpg" width="367" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">My son's dog Sam is with us for two years. Sam is a sweet dog, but</span><span style="font-size: large;"> is not easily amused. An hour walk, a half hour of Kong ball is required to calm him. Sadly, Sam has had major knee surgery and is confined to small quarters. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> His recovery is not going well. </span><span style="font-size: large;">It is tough to hobble a springing pogo stick. As leaping is forbidden, Sam has returned to the lesser sport of gutting squeaky toys. The above picture shows the recently disemsqueaked. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Even though he is on doggy-downers, he bounces around his small pen, thrashing the toys as if they are rabid squirrels. If we remove the toys he whines piteously</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> After three weeks he should be allowed to take several 10 minute walks. But bouncing has set him back. My husband frets that this expensive surgery was in vain. Or God forbid, will have to be redone. And certainly, Sam is in worse shape than he was two weeks ago.</span>richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5651515221186352208.post-39469431520939701052018-10-16T15:48:00.002-04:002018-10-16T15:58:12.091-04:00Cry Havoc and Let loose the Dogs of War....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There is an old joke: a minister, a priest and a rabbi argue about the beginning of life. The priest says it is at conception. The rabbi claims life begins at birth. The minister says, life begins when the kids are gone and the dog dies....<br />
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When my dear Clio died in 2009, we swore off dogs. We would be footloose and fancy free. <br />
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Regretfully, I am no longer able to jet off at a moment's notice for a weekend in Paris. The whirling Whackadoodle (it should be a breed recognized by the AKC) in the photo is Sam. And Sam lives with me.<br />
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Six years ago, I told my son not to adopt a dog. He could not afford it. Confidently, he insisted that mutts were far healthier than purebreds. Ha.</div>
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Sam is allergic to chicken, turkey, beef, pork, venison, rice, wheat, potato and corn. He eats dry kangaroo pellets. Other than the kangaroo pellets, Sam is a vegetarian. His treats range from raw onion to raw brussel sprouts, to bananas. He used to like apples but now distains them.<br />
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Sam broke his tail and had major surgery. His digestive and skin troubles are legion. He went to Korea for two years with my son. At the end of my son's tour Sam was so lethargic the vets thought he had kidney failure. They pumped him full of fluids to make the 14 hour flight. Back in the states, Sam was weak and tired. My son next tour is two years in Niger, West Africa . We didn't think Sam would survive the flight. I agreed to keep him. I honestly thought Sam was going to fade away by Christmas. </div>
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But lo, a miracle...it was determined that his kidneys weren't failing. He has Atypical Addison's disease. His blood has to be tested regularly to make sure he hasn't slipped into regular Addison's. With prednisone he's his old whackadoodle self. House guests this summer found him delightful. until he launched into marathon humping sessions. It was a red rocket nightmare.</div>
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Sam becomes destructive if not exercised. He doesn't tire easily. We took him on long walks and hurled balls with a Kong tosser. Sam has a great midair catch. But he will only chase the kong balls that squeak. Kong balls look just like tennis balls, but Sam is nothing if not discerning. Throw a regular tennis ball and Sam will look at you dismissively.</div>
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Two days before my son's plane lifted off to Niger, we learned that Sam had a torn ACL. Surgery is next week. His other knee is on the verge of tearing. All those midair catches, I guess.</div>
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So Sam is ours until death do us part. I did not want a dog. But truth be told, in the nine years since Clio died, we never jetted off on a whim to parts unknown.</div>
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richmondlikethecityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457737985982548231noreply@blogger.com0