Well, it’s going to be getting lighter every day from now on, which is a good thing. This has been a very dark winter solstice here at LivingSmall. Everyone warned me that the holidays would be hard, and they were right. I’m off today for Colorado, to spend the holidays with friends. I’ll be back next week.
I should have paid closer attention when I came home last night, but I’d been to a party and I figured the dogs had just been hanging out downstairs on the guest bed, because, well, it’s the guest bed. This morning, however, it was clear something was up. Raymond had been scratching at the door intermittently during the night, which was odd because he’s three, and long past not being able to make it through the night, and when I got up at seven-thirty, he bolted out the door in a way that isn’t typical for him.
I was lettting Owen in through the back door (they’re very spoiled and some mornings go in and out and in and out — I should crack down but it’s not like I’m so busy inventing a cure for cancer that I can’t get up and let them in and out and in and out) when I smelled it. Something bad had happened in the basement. There were sad little puddles of doggy-diarrhea down there. Careful puddles on the linoleum, where they could be mopped up. Poor Raymond. No wonder he’d wanted to go out all night long.
So, I got the mop, the paper towels, the bucket, the Pine Sol and cleaned it up. Not fun, but what can you do? Animals (and people) we love sometimes leak noxious fluids. Because we love them we try not to throw up and just clean up the mess.
It wasn’t until later that I saw what the problem had been. I’d left the dogs in the yard when I went to Maryanne’s to celebrate her birthday — it was a mild night and they’d been cooped up much of the day. I thought they’d like being outside.
It looked like a tag-team operation. There was a deep hole in the front flower bed, a hole that bore the distinctive marks of a manic-Owen digging operation. And an errant daffodil bulb. We’ve had a little trouble with this, and it looked like Owen had done the digging and then offered up a daffodil bulb to Raymond — Ray, who will eat almost anything. Ray who isn’t the brightest dog we’ve ever known. And since daffodils are toxic to dogs, we had a night of furtive dog puddles downstairs, followed by a morning of the saddest, ashamed-of-himself dog one’s ever seen.
He seems recovered tonight — and tomorrow I’m going to spread some mulch in hopes of smothering the siren smell of daffodil bulbs.
I knew I was in trouble when I caught my connecting flight in Salt Lake last night and didn’t find out until I got on the plane that we might be diverted to Billings. Although cleaning out Patrick’s storage stuff wasn’t nearly as bad as I (or Sally, or Hippie) had feared, it was still exhausting and all I wanted was to get home, pick up my dogs, and spend the evening on the couch watching part 2 of Angels in America. Luckily, the storm lifted enough that we landed in Bozeman, where I found messages on my cellphone from both Wendy and Julie offering me a bed for the night so I wouldn’t have to go over the pass. But I wanted to go home. So after assuring both of them that if the pass was bad I’d turn back, I set off in the new Subaru with my new snow tires.
The pass was snowy, but okay because the plows had been through. Where things got interesting was when I got off at Jackson Creek road to go pick up the dogs at the kennel. The frontage road was six to twelve inches deep, with snow falling fast, and blowing across the road. Hmm. Glad I bought snow tires last week. I hate driving in that kind of snow, the kind that falls toward you so that you can’t really tell if the car is moving. But, with no one else on the road, I just stayed in the middle of what appeared to be the road and plugged along.
Then came the turn off to the kennel. Quinn Creek Road. If the frontage road hadn’t been plowed, Quinn creek really hadn’t been plowed. And the kennel is up a steep hill. A challenge. Would I make it or would I have to hike up the hill? I put the car in low gear and miracle of miracles, up the hill I went. As I was leaving Terry asked if I had a cellphone, and said to call if I got stuck, that they had a big truck and would come get me … but I didn’t get stuck. The three of us cruised down the hill, crept the two miles back down the frontage road to the highway, and then drove a steady forty miles an hour down the highway back to town. Where we climbed into the couch, and fell asleep during Angels. A happy pile of girl and dogs. It’s good to be home.
Just a quick entry before I take off for California (to deal with Patrick’s two storage units). The Birthday Party was a wild success — everyone came, they ate almost all of the Ham As Big As Montana, they drank everything, and fun was had by all. Robert-the-Painter made three cakes — a tray of carrot cake cupcakes, a flourless chocolate cake, and a lovely lemon curd and blueberry tart. Jim and Geri and Tim and Linnea gave me a rhinestone tiara, which I may never take off. There was champagne.
And then there was Julie, who I have known since we were in our early 20s, and her big mommy-bag full of fireworks. We’re not talking firecrackers here — although there was a lovely string of firecrackers — we’re talking fireworks. Rockets that go way way up and explode in a shower of red stars. Spinners that make a great noise and also shower red sparks. Many many fireworks which she and I shot off with glee in the backyard.
Which is, of course, why the cops showed up. The first time, I played all innocent birthday girl. “Oh I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know about the ordinance.” The cop clearly looked relieved that we were all geezers and away he went.
Then Julie snuck out into the backyard and blew off another barrage.
Which is why, when we were loading her car, and before Gary walked her over to the Murray Hotel (Julie lives in Bozeman, and sensibly decided that an icy pass and a birthday party were not a good combo), the cop showed up again, asking “Why am I back here?” We assured him the party was really over this time and away he went.
So, it was great fun. A good party. And a good party was one of the things my brother loved, and was good at, and while we all missed him last night, we kept it festive.
I turn 40 next week — on Wednesday, the 10th. Patrick and I talked a lot about what to do for my 40th — for a long time I wanted to go to Vegas for the National Finals Rodeo. As some of you know from earlier posts, I have a deep and abiding love of rodeo. The NFR is the rodeo of rodeos, and it’s in Las Vegas, a place so fabulously weird that it seemed appropos for a 40th birthday. But then I moved here, and I have so many nice friends that I didn’t want to trek to Vegas and ask friends far and wide to come join me. I wanted to stay here. I wanted to have a big party and have all my new friends around me. We talked about renting the Elk’s Club (colloquially known as “The Big Room” around here). We talked about renting the newly-renovated Martin’s cafe. I had Patrick, also known as the Concierge on the task.
And then he died.
Which really threw a wrench in, among other things, my 40th birthday plans. I’ve been back and forth about what to do. Apparently, some of my girlfriends have also been plotting, and plans were afoot to rent the Big Room (which conveniently comes with a bar attached). And then last week, when Gary told me he was coming to visit, I decided to suck it up and throw my own party. Because Gary will be here to throw it with me. Which makes it less pathetic than throwing a party alone, especially since we have a clear potluck tradition here in Livingston. I’ll buy a lot of wine, some good champagne for me and some booze for the big guys, cook a ham and a potato gratin and make a big salad. People will bring food and drink, including a cake, the responsibility for which I’ve thrown out to the girlfriends, and we’ll all gather in my house to officially drive out the funeral gloom, to toast the fact that as my friend Hope says (Hope who lost her two older sisters, her father and a cousin when her father’s plane crashed when she was thirteen), “In families like ours, just being alive at 40 is a big achievement and is something to celebrate.”
So, Wednesday night we’ll be here, having a bittersweet celebration. Patrick’s the first one who would have wanted a party, so here we’ll be, eating, drinking, and toasting the fact that we’re all still here, and that we’re alive, and that a new year is about to begin.