Hello Dolly

The remnants of Hurricane Dolly made their way to New Mexico on Sunday, devastating the town of Ruidoso with flash flooding sparked by six inches of rain in 24 hours. New Mexico Business Journal reports that most of the town was unaffected by floods, but other sources report 200 homes either damaged or destroyed, one person dead, 13 bridges washed out, and 70 people stranded in Upper Canyon.



Though the Ruidoso flood topped New Mexico's news for several days, there was little national coverage, which I attribute to a world so caught up in the parade of climate change catastrophes that we become jaded to these events. There is no doubt that recent midwest floods eclipse the Ruidoso flood, but I was baffled that national coverage was so dismal. I am also coming to realize that important New Mexico news is often neglected in the non-local media, as if the state isn't even part of the U.S. Sometimes I feel like I live in a third world country within U.S. borders - a country often neglected and ignored. I try not to take this personally.

While Ruidoso was being pummeled, Dolly was kinder to northern New Mexico. Storm clouds and heavy rain moved in on Sunday afternoon. An hour later the sky cleared. At sunset we went for a walk along the ridge. It's always nice to be outdoors after rain scrubs the air clean, but the sticky clay that adhered to the soles of my hiking shoes was another story. As it quickly built up, the clay added two inches to my height. Now I know what it's like to hike in platform shoes.

Monday morning we rose early, packed up, checked out, and drove to the lake for one last dog swim. Tired and happy, the damp dogs settled on their futon in the back of the minivan for the ride home.

On our way out, we stopped at the Heron Lake Dam for dramatic vistas of the silt-laden, cocoa-colored Rio Chama.


As we approached Highway 84, which would take us all the way to Santa Fe, the steep cliffs of Brazos Peak, at 11,286 feet, loomed in the distance.


Just north of Abiquiu we marveled at the multicolored sandstone formations that whispered, "Georgia O'Keeffe country."





We stopped for a picnic lunch at Echo Amphitheater, a magnificent natural sandstone formation that causes people to make weird sounds and speak strange words just to hear them echo. Telly's shrill, loud bark echoed nicely.









After lunch we drove a few miles further to Ghost Ranch, where we took in more breathtaking scenery and considered the dinosaurs that once roamed the area and the geologic significance of the ground on which we stood. Ghost Ranch was bequeathed to the Presbyterian Church a number of years ago and now serves as a non-denominational conference center that hosts retreats. (This week the Center is hosting a conference on peacemaking and non-violent communication, in an astonishingly beautiful setting.)





Heading south, Cerro Pedernal, a 9,862 foot flat-topped butte in the northern Jemez Mountains and the subject of a famous Georgia O'Keeffe painting dominated the distant horizon. Pedernal means "flint" in Spanish. Ancient Puebloans living nearby used Pedernal’s agate and stone for arrowheads, scrapers, knives, and spearpoints. Today Cerro Pedernal is one of the most recognized landmarks in north-central New Mexico.


Several hours later we were back in Albuquerque, where the temperature was close to 100, mountain breezes but a distant memory. This is the hottest time of high desert Albuquerque summer. Our inadequate, too-small swamp cooler is working hard, but the load is great at this time of year. So we sweat and remember happy, cooler times at El Vado.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
-Rumi

On our drive from Albuquerque to El Vado Lake, we hit thunderstorms and heavy rain in the mountains of Carson National Forest, once inhabited by the ancient Anasazi people. On arrival at our cozy cabin, light rain continued for a short while, but ended just before sunset. In the fading sun, gently falling raindrops glistened like diamonds. We were restless that first night, canines and humans alike -- attentive to new surroundings, unfamiliar beds, and strange sounds in the night, including an unidentified growl near the back porch. Looking out the window we saw nothing, but chose not to venture out to explore. At 4AM everyone was awake, and as our wild visitor had apparently moved on, we leashed up the dogs for a walk in the peaceful darkness. After our walk, the dogs went back to sleep, but I chose stargazing. There is something about pre-dawn that's magical, mystical. Staying awake at the window was compelling, no matter how tired my body. At that hour, the Creator is palpable.

At dawn I watched a hint of sunlight slowly peek over the hill behind our camp, as the sky celebrated the awakening with streaks of pink and orange. Magpies squawked in tall trees. At this elevation we saw no deciduous trees, and the sweet fragrance of evergreens intensified as the sun warmed the air.

After breakfast, we drove down the steep, winding dirt road that Telly soon learned led to the primitive lakeside camping area where she could run free. The dogs' exuberance was exceeded only by their sheer joy, as they chased tennis balls and sticks, excitedly dropping them at our feet, begging for one more toss in the water. They were tireless.


After our morning swim, we once again enjoyed the views from the cabin of which we never seemed to tire.




In the afternoon we let sleeping dogs lie in the cabin and drove to Heron Lake as storms loomed on the horizon. We found no swimming areas for the dogs superior to our treasured El Vado spot, but we did find vultures perched in a dead tree that seemed to resonate with the incipient bad weather.


When the storm passed, we were treated to this spectacular sky from our back door.


Though internet and phone deprived, we did find a small TV atop the refrigerator, connected to Dish Satellite. With my aging eyes, I could only watch it standing directly in front of the fridge. Viewing from the daybed across the room required binoculars to see images on the miniscule screen. Tuning into news and weather, we learned that Dolly was planning to visit New Mexico. We awaited her arrival and considered the irony of moving from Florida to New Mexico to escape hurricanes. As for me personally, I wondered what secrets the dawn breeze would tell on Sunday.

God's Country

Last Friday we traveled north some 175 miles, the van bursting at the seams with luggage, food, dog toys and dogs, for a long weekend in the Northern New Mexico Rockies. The prospect of living without cell phones and Wi-Fi for three nights was worrisome. Though I'd looked forward to this getaway for weeks, I secretly dreaded being off the grid.

Located 30 miles south of the Colorado border in Los Ojos, the Stonehouse Lodge is perched high atop a ridge overlooking El Vado Lake. We rented one of the Lodge's five cabins cozily located in a neat row on the ridge, the lake a few hundred feet below.


Though rustic in every sense of the word, the cabin was spotless. My first order of business: Determine Cell Signal Strength. Glancing at my phone with trepidation, I read, "SEARCHING FOR SERVICE." With no bars, I was officially incommunicado. I shut off my phone and stashed it in a corner, trusting that my anxiety would abate with the device out of sight. I found comfort in knowing the Stone House Cafe has a public computer with satellite internet just 300 feet from our tiny cabin. Nevertheless, I steeled myself to use it as little as possible, determined to bravely face my addiction to electronic communication devices cold turkey. I might even welcome this freedom from the outside world.

The dogs assumed their positions patrolling the cabin and, when the perimeter was secured, they languished at the back door, looking out at the lake...


and this is what they saw.




The lake is accessible a mile away, off a dirt road I would hesitate to negotiate in winter without four-wheel drive. El Vado Lake, a man-made reservoir and part of the San Juan-Chama Drinking Water Project, is home to rainbow trout, browns, and kokanee salmon. The Rio Chama connects El Vado to Heron Lake, just a few miles north. While Heron Lake is a no-wake lake, El Vado hosts water skiers, jet-skis and small boats towing inflatables ridden by squealing children. In spite of motorized craft, the lake was surprisingly tranquil and quiet. And, the fish were jumpin'.

We found a quiet, secluded swimming area where the dogs could romp freely without disturbing anyone. In fact, we saw almost no one at the lake, other than a couple from Albuquerque carrying fishing rods and a cross-legged young man who swam to shore from a pontoon boat in search of a restroom. Telly spent the first two days at our apparently private beach trying to understand the mechanics of swimming in water over her head, and by day three earned her swimming badge. It was great fun watching Murphy and his baby sister play for hours in the lake. It was also fascinating to observe Telly gradually overcoming her fear of water.







Sunset walks along the ridge with the dogs were a wonderful way to end each day.




We were treated to rainbows daily after late afternoon storms that seemed to appear from nowhere like clockwork. By Saturday, both cell phone and internet were removed from memory.

Have a Good Day!

Caveat Emptor

Last Friday I purchased some software online that I've been coveting for several years. SwishMax2 is a flash authoring program touted as the next best thing to Adobe Flash, but far less expensive. Swishzone also sells dozens of reasonably priced, very cool, Flash website templates, but they can only be customized in SwishMax. Basically, I bought the program just so I could use the templates. I was ready to purchase at least a half dozen templates along with SwishMax2, but decided to try them out first and wound up only buying two. This proved a most prudent move, as both templates are full of bugs and unusable.

Evidently, the templates were all created in earlier versions of SwishMax and just don't seem to work right in the new build of SwishMax2. The program itself has been highly praised in tech circles, but the templates malfunction and are, in my humble opinion, worthless. After spending almost five hours trying to figure out why the templates weren't working, blaming myself for not being fully versed in the software, and tearing out no less than a dozen hairs, I located other folks on the Swishzone Forum who were experiencing identical problems. At that point I emailed Tech Support and demanded a fix. It took 3 days to get an answer from "MikeC," who suggested a fix for template #41 ("GlassFX"). It seemed a reasonable tweak, but unfortunately caused a second page to malfunction. This morning, yet another page crashed my computer repeatedly and I lost my work. The page will not save. I have yet to hear back with a solution for the new problems.

The second template (#101, "Moonglow") just doesn't work at all, and there are evidently no tweaks. I was told they're working on it and will reopen my support request when they've figured it out. (Translation: "Relax and breathe, throw another shrimp on the barby, and have a nice frosty lager. We'll let you know in a year or two when we get this thing working...")

I asked, but they refuse to give or sell me the (discontinued) earlier version of the program so I can at least use the templates, nor will they refund my money for the useless templates. As they're based in Sydney, there isn't much I can do, other than publicize their unethical (and probably illegal) business of selling templates that don't work in the newest version of their software. Nowhere is there a disclaimer on their website stating that the templates don't work in SwishMax2. This is not just a sin of omission. Swishzone's deception is intentional. The company offers a half-price discount if the templates are purchased along with SwishMax2. What's wrong with this picture?

The pen is mightier than the sword, so I post this tale of woe for anyone considering SwishMax2 and the very seductive templates that are offered for sale. Buyer beware! They look pretty, but my advice is, "STEP AWAY FROM THE TEMPLATES...."

Godspeed, Pop

Donald W. Ahrend
August 29, 1926-January 18, 2008

Dad passed today at 4:09 PM Eastern Time.

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength and I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says: "There! She's gone." Gone where? Gone from my sight -- that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her; and just at the moment when someone at my side says, "There! She's gone," there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "There she comes!"

Letting Go

Pop is in the final stages of preparing for his last great journey on the planet, a journey he must make on his own. We come here alone, and we leave alone. Signs of life have waned today. This evening he slipped into a coma. My family called me from the ICU and let me say goodbye to Pop as they held the phone to his ear. It was my hardest moment since Pop was diagnosed 8 weeks ago. All that remains is the letting go.

How do I let go of a person I've known for my entire life? He's always been there. It's surreal to imagine him not being around. My adult self says, "He's lived a good life, and soon he'll be out of pain." My inner child screams, "No Daddy, don't leave!"

Tonight time stands still. I wait for the phone call. In my mind I whisper as if he could hear me, "It's OK to go home, Pop. We'll be OK."

They say losing a parent is a rite of passage, that it opens new doors and causes us to reassess our lives and values. We confront our mortality and face our fears. I can't think about any of that now. I just need to get through this long night.

Waiting

Dad was rushed to the ER Monday morning, unable to breathe and obviously hypoxic. An hour later Mom called to tell me Dad has double pneumonia--one of the ugly complications of Multiple Myeloma. He's remained in the ICU since then, breathing with the help of a ventilator, slipping in and out consciousness under a blanket of heavy sedatives and IV pain meds designed to keep his frail body still. During the past few days his kidneys have begun to shut down--another ugly complication--and dialysis attempts have been foiled by heart and blood pressure irregularities. Today Mom saw a few glimpses of recognition by her husband of 60 years, as he struggled to communicate by squeezing hands that reached out to comfort him. His voice, however, is silent, his body motionless. What is he feeling? Does he have pain? Does he realize what's happening? Is he afraid?

From 2000 miles away, there is little I can do but wait. I am haunted by mental images of Dad tied to machines in order to survive a few more hours. Is it wrong to want to remember him the way he was when I last saw him seven months ago, or am I simply a coward, afraid to watch him slipping away? Today Mom told me she didn't want me to see him this way. But I feel more and more like I should be at his bedside, helping him on his journey, wherever it may lead.

In my own way, I'm preparing for the worst and hoping for the best. There has been no change in his condition. He is gravely ill. Expecting a miracle seems like a set up for the mother of all disappointments. Yet, I keep hoping and wondering what it would take for him to bounce back and fight this wretched disease. His immune system has been decimated by the cancer and chemo he'd begun just two days before his hospitalization.

I don't know how to lose a parent. I've never done this before. Though I've watched my friends go through this over the years, I've always wondered what it felt like. Now I know. My body craves sleep and my brain is numb. It's as if a limb is being removed against my will and I'm paralyzed, powerless to stop it. Sleep seems a viable option. Make it stop. Make the cancer go away.

The dogs have been amazingly responsive to my confusion and despair. They've been sleeping a lot the past three days and have refrained from pestering me, other than occasional potty requests at the back door. They know what's happening. I rewarded their wisdom and compassion today by taking them to the park. They joyfully romped on soft grass, and in the cold, bracing air I felt alive. I have not been out of the house much this week. I spend my time curled up on the sofa, where I drift in and out of sleep. These past few days we've napped together--two dogs and a tired woman--in the afternoon sun that streams through the family room windows. Sleeping with the dogs in the middle of the day is comforting. Zen Master Murphy tells me sleep is healing.

And so I wait for a change in Pop's condition. In my grief-induced fog, I wait to know what I'm feeling. I wait for a sign that he's improving, or getting worse. I wait for him to breathe his last breath. These days I speak often with Mom for medical updates and mutual support. We share the unspeakable loss of a beloved father and spouse. We talk about how different our lives will be. We wonder about the future. We laugh and cry in the same breath. We allow ourselves to just be. This is something new. As a family, we are not emoters. Our unspoken tribal law has dictated that we control our emotions, no matter what. It has governed our interactions for decades. Rules, however, are sometimes made to be broken, and as we give ourselves and each other permission to dive deeply in our oceans of grief--as we explore dark, uncharted waters--we strengthen our bond and deepen our respect for one another. This is completely unexpected, disorienting, disarming. Yet I welcome it as rain falling on parched land. We bond in our loss.

Words fail me this evening. I am losing the battle to stay awake. Thinking of the inconceivable possibility of removing Dad from life support in the coming days drains me, empties me. Perhaps tomorrow will bring a sign of change, for better or worse. Tonight life stands still. It's the waiting that's hardest.

Life and Death

Cancer used to be a dirty word. For the past several years, I have noticed the alarming increase in cancer diagnoses in people I know. Cancer. All kinds of cancers, A-Z. Cancer seems to be occurring almost as much as the common cold. My way of dealing with the unfathomable is to look for causes. It's a knee-jerk coping mechanism, my way of trying to control the uncontrollable. I frequently succumb to the delusion that if I know what causes something horrid, I can probably avoid it in my own life. Until now, that is.

Many years ago I read Rabbi Harold Kushner's controversial bestseller, "When Bad Things Happen to Good People." At the time, I found it interesting; it appealed to my logical mind and gave me a certain amount of comfort. But it scared me too. I was raised to think if we live a good life, we'll be rewarded. If we do bad things, we'll be punished. If we pray with indisputable fervor and conviction, God will listen to our prayers and come through for us. This duality is, after all, what underpins Judeo-Christian belief. Lately, however, the notion that bad things happen randomly, without regard for our good deeds or kindnesses, seems not only a possibility, but a reality that gives me little comfort in the middle of the night.

Dad was diagnosed with a rare cancer last November. Multiple Myeloma is a bone marrow cancer that attacks certain white blood cells. Defined as a "blood cancer," it accounts for 1% of all cancers. After many weeks of countless blood tests, X-rays, MRIs, bone scans, a bone aspiration and a biopsy, it was clear it wasn't a back problem causing Dad's severe pain, but a systemic malignancy that continues to grow daily.

For two months Mom has crusaded for stronger pain meds, spent endless hours on the phone with Dad's health insurance provider, endured dozens of hours in doctors' waiting rooms, waited for weeks while the insurance company considers whether or not to approve the prescribed (and staggeringly expensive--$400/day) oral chemo drug, and watched Dad's condition deteriorate daily. We had all grown to believe nothing bad would ever happen to this strong man who always presented the picture of health, a person who lived a life of service to others, a man who was, quite simply, a good person who most assuredly has a very comfortable spot reserved for him in the afterlife.

The hardest part is watching him gradually lose his independence and mobility, as he suffers with indescribable pain that worsens each day. In the wee hours, as I lie awake night after night, I run through my mental inventory of reasons why this happened, when in fact none may exist. My obsessive thinking replays like a broken record. Is this a consequence of environmental toxic assaults? Was it the DDT he used in the 50's when he worked in my grandfather's greenhouse? Preservatives and artificial ingredients? Processed food? Pesticides? Or maybe there's an emotional basis. Louise Hay's "Heal Your Body A-Z: The Mental Causes For Physical Illness and the Way to Overcome Them" sits on my coffee table as a semi-permanent fixture. My left brain is reluctant to abandon its relentless search for an explanation for this wretched illness.

A monk asked [Zen Master] Tozan, "How can we escape the cold and heat?" Tozan replied, "Why not go where there is no cold and heat?" "Is there such a place?" the monk asked. Tozan commented, "When cold, be thoroughly cold; when hot, be hot through and through."

I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't know if the chemo will work, if this is Dad's last year on the planet, or whether he'll live to a ripe old age. The only thing I know with certainty is that I can't change anything, despite my desperate wish to magically make him well again. When I'm hot, I'll be hot through and through, and when cold, I will be thoroughly cold. And...I'll hope for a miracle. It's the most I can do right now, and--paradoxically--probably the only thing that makes logical sense. The words of Ram Dass, "Be here now," become a touchstone as I wrestle with doubt and fear.

I thought I knew a lot about life, healing, and prayer. It's pretty obvious there's a lot more to learn, as I watch my old beliefs explode into nothingness. Everything I've learned so far has brought me to this point--a place of unknowing and surrender. My journey is, in some ways, just beginning. It's about transcending duality and living fully in the present moment. Wherever we go, there we are. It's that simple. I'll never know the specific reasons or causes for Dad's cancer. I'll never know why a good person suffers with a bad disease, and I realize that living a good life doesn't necessarily guarantee good health. Life's a mystery, and it's really not about the journey--it's about how we respond to it.

N.B. Dad was to begin his chemo on January 3. Today he started one of his two chemo meds. He has still not received the second drug. We trust it will arrive in the next several days. This morning it became abundantly clear that he needs a personal care attendant. Mom quickly arranged for a nurse to visit daily. Mom is the unsung hero in this drama, negotiating, advocating, working tirelessly to attend to Dad's needs, and doing everything he can no longer do for himself.

Ramblings From the Desert

This clear, crisp New Year's Day morn, I watch the first hints of daylight overspread the valley as it emerges from a blanket of cold night air like a sleepy bear. The sunrise palette changes continuously as the light struggles to peek over the Sandias, much like I struggle to climb out of bed these past few weeks.

A new day, a new year, but same old me. Resolutions are opportunities for failure, so I won't venture into that den of disappointment. However, my intentions, as I consider the newness of this year, are to live with more kindness.

Kindness is an inner desire that makes us want to do good things, even if we do not get anything in return. When we do good things from this inner desire, there is kindness in everything we think, say, want and do.

-Emmanuel Swedenborg

Before assuming a permanent spot on my typing stand, this quote was unceremoniously displayed on a small square of paper on the fridge, lost in a sea of magnets, things that jingle, shopping lists, coupons, cartoons, and photos. Now that it's on my desk, it serves as a frequent reminder to slow down during days when difficult clients erode my patience.

Whatever happened to kindness?

If there were but one thing that might save the world, perhaps it's kindness. Years ago, when bumper stickers were fixed to actual chrome bumpers that protected our cars from minor impacts, I drove around advertising that we should all "practice random kindness and senseless acts of beauty." Though I'm loathe to apply sticky stuff to a phony plastic "bumper" these days (or worse yet, the back of the car), for fear of damaging the incomprehensibly delicate paint, I continue to embrace the notion that kindness is more powerful than anything we can possibly imagine.

No matter how noble my intentions (kindness is one of the Knightly Virtues), kindness is just plain hard in a world where I often feel manipulated by advertisers, betrayed by government, and bamboozled by less-than-honest citizens. These days, is seems my life revolves around survival tactics. When I leave the house, I lock my computers with thick, padlocked bicycle cables and stash my hard drives, laptops, and cameras in a locked cabinet, in case thieves decide our house is full of stuff they want. At one point I even considered buying a safe. While I admit this lockdown ritual may be a by-product of living in the city, I also recognize that city living is far more risky now than it was ten years ago in Boston. Is it possible to think about being kind when I'm constantly assuming a defensive stance?

Stepping away from the realities of securing my home every time I run to the co-op for bread, broccoli and bittersweet chocolate, including telling the dogs to "protect" and bark at strangers (one wonders whether they full understand this mandate), I acknowledge the existence of another reality that eludes me at least half the time. This parallel reality is filled with gentle people who derive pleasure from doing things for others, whose lives are motivated by compassion, who share and pay it forward daily.

My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.

-The Dalai Lama

Personally, I find patience and understanding inextricably intertwined with kindness. I also notice that being caught up in a vortex of deadlines and pressure generally renders me downright cantankerous. So in this new year, I hope to find stillness in everyday tasks. I invite the possibility of finding joy in chopping wood and carrying water. (This is a metaphor. I have no intention of wielding an axe or lugging anything heavier than a chocolate bar.) I welcome the opportunity to calm my spirit, work less, and make time to read. I will teach myself patience by standing on the longest line at the market. I'll pay a toll for the car behind me. I'll listen more and be less self-centered.

Lofty ambitions, but maybe I'll move closer to creating a life of random kindnesses this year. When you think about it, it's really not all that difficult. We all practice random kindness from time to time. We just need to practice it more often.

Websites worth checking out:

Help Others
Blossom International
The Random Acts of Kindness Foundation
Kindness.com
Extreme Kindness

Happy Creepy New Year

What is it about dolls that's so scary? There was Talky Tina from the 1963 Twilight Zone episode, "Living Doll" ("My name is Talky Tina, and I'm going to kill you...."), Chucky (from the "Child's Play" horror film series), and my favorite scary dolls of all time, The Geezenstacks.

Watching the Twilight Zone marathon this evening--an annual New Year's tradition--I was reminded of a 1986 episode of Tales From The Darkside entitled "The Geezenstacks." I was delighted to find it on You Tube. I'm a hopeless Zone addict, but some of the Darkside stories were hard to forget. The Geezenstacks was one of them.

And so, I submit for your perusal...The Geezenstacks. Running time: 22 minutes.

The Geezenstacks - Part 1




The Geezenstacks - Part 2

Merry Christmas

The "kids" love their new tug. It's an extra-strenth toy for aggressive tuggers. I suspect it might last through lunch, but I doubt it will be intact by nightfall.

Preparing For Christmas

Another reason to be cheerful around the holidays: funny hats.

Shame On Me

Judy has put me to shame with her many interesting blog posts lately. She's already issued a mandate that I post something before she stops reading my blog altogether. In spite of her threats, I continue to spend night after night plopped in front of the TV, too lazy (or uninspired) to write.

OK, I lied. She didn't threaten me. But I do worry I've lost my blog readers because of my protracted written silence.

Turnabout is fair play. I put Judy to shame this evening with the elaborate vegan dinner I prepared. Her dinner, apparently, was a sticky bun. I've decided after several months of general malaise it's time to make some changes in my life, starting with diet and exercise. It's never too late to get healthy again. My sedentary lifestyle has caught up with me. I am becoming one with the sofa.

The dogs are enjoying the cooler weather in Albuquerque. It seems to energize them, and their rough play has taken an almost aggressive edge, as if they're pushing their wrestling to the edge just to see how far they can go before one of them complains. Telly is beginning to show signs of growing out of puppyhood, though she's nowhere near abandoning her puppy ways. She still jumps, wags her tail incessantly, and climbs in any available lap - all 60 pounds of her - whenever she feels cuddly, which is most of the time. Telly sleeps soundly at my side right now, her wet nose resting at my elbow.

Thanksgiving was spent with siblings who flew to New Mexico for a week. It was nice to spend time with my brothers and their significant others. The last time we gathered for Thanksgiving was eight or nine years ago.

David and Telly

David and Jennifer posing on the banks of the Rio Grande

Ginger - what a cutie!

Jim and Ginger catch up on their reading

We dined one evening at the High Noon Saloon and Restaurant in Old Town, and were served the largest slab of chocolate cake I've ever seen. It weighed in at one pound. (The waiter brought 6 forks.)

One serious piece of cake

The desert is chilly these days, though only the mountains are frosted with snow. Nights are cold and days sunny. Albuquerque winters are short. By February our days will be warm again. It's a great time of year to hike.


Unfortunately, hiking seems like too much work these days. (There are signs that this attitude may soon change.) Instead of fresh air and exercise, I've become addicted to eBay. The dining room is bursting with pottery I've won in online auctions during the past month. But that's another post.