“Sometimes when almost everything is wrong, one thing is so right you would do it all again.”   ~ Alice Randall in Elle

“I think the most un-American thing you can say is “You can’t say that.” ~ Garrison Keillor

“Everyone should have kids. They are the greatest joy in the world. But they are also terrorists. You’ll realize this as soon as they are born and they start using sleep deprivation to break you.”  ~ Ray Romano

I have way too many of these. I couldn’t decide which to use so I figured what the heck — toss several out at once. These are the kinds of things that get my wheels turning. I could take any of them and easily write a column just from the memories and ideas they stir.

I like this one.

 ”Lose yourself wholly, and the more you lose, the more you will find.” ~Edith Wharton

 There are times when I’m writing fiction that I find myself totally lost in the story. Huge chunks of time will pass without me realizing it. It doesn’t happen all that often because I don’t get the chance to write all that often, but when it does, it’s amazing.

Years back, I used to refinish antique furniture–both for myself and to resell. I would often get that same lost feeling when working on a piece, stripping off layer after layer of paint. A whole day would pass in what felt like an hour. It’s been ages since I’ve refinished anything, but I hope I’ll be doing some of that again before long. Won’t be long before I have a workshop again. I hope so anyway.

“Normal is just a cycle on the washing machine.”  ~Whoopie Goldberg

I’m thinking of having that one etched on my tombstone someday.  

In an effort to get myself blogging more regularly again, I’m going to try to start posting at least one of my favorite quotes every day, and I’d love it if others would posts theirs as well. (Click on comments, or send it to me by email at karinfuller@cnpapers.com.) I just ran across one today that isn’t especially deep or life-changing, but nicely apt.  

“I am always doing that which I can not do, in order that I may learn how to do it.” ~Pablo Picasso 

I read it in the blog of artist Sheona Hamilton-Grant, who does the most incredible horse and dog sketches I’ve ever seen.    

I sensed he was behind me, but didn’t turn back to see. There had been something about the look in his eye as we passed that made me certain the small silver-haired guy was going to turn around and follow me.

I was carrying nothing of value–just a pair of dirty knee socks I was bringing in from the car. But apparently, those socks were just what he wanted.

 I could hear the light scrape of his footsteps and knew he was near. I felt myself tense, even though I was bigger than him.

 When he was a few feet away, he sprang. For some crazy reason, I tried to hang on to the sock, but it was useless. My attacker was crazed, growling and wild-eyed, all four feet planted firmly on the carpet, claws digging in. He shook hard, left and right, backing up as he pulled. When I heard the fabric tear, I let go.

 He began to run, looking back once over his shoulder, likely anticipating a chase. But I’ve experienced enough of these pup attacks to know he’d soon lose interest and abandon his loot. Of course, the loot would likely have holes in it by then, but I wasn’t up for another fight. I’d already thwarted his attempted theft of my purse, my gloves, a bookmark, and a CD. The socks, he could have. But he didn’t want just the socks, he wanted the fight and the chase

 Mere theft no longer provides him enough of a kick. He’s become a thrill-seeker. The kind of dog that—even though he’s lost enough blood that he should know better by now—continues to stealthily sneak up on sleeping cats when their tail is dangling to give it a yank hard enough to clang a school bell. The kind that will steal food when he’s not hungry. That will bark furiously at the door to lure our other dog from his prime sleeping spot so he can lay there himself. And he’s the kind that knows how to work cute to ensure his survival.

 If he were human, he’d be a flagrant shoplifter, the kind who attempts to make it out of the store with something like a big screen TV or a canoe.

 His thieving ways have become so clever that my once vast shoe collection has been reduced to one closer to that of a straight male. After the pup mastered opening my closet doors, I was forced to invest in hanging shoe bags. Once he mastered lower level shoe-bag extraction, I was forced to use only the bag’s upper slots.

 If I spent much money on shoes, I’d be far more upset, but since my footwear often costs less than a pack of rawhide bones, there’s been no significant loss.

 Still, his destruction of all but black shoes so diminished my choices that for days I ended up dressing as though I were in mourning. (The pup apparently believes black tastes like licorice, one of few tastes he’s not yet acquired.)

 I’ve developed the habit of referring to him as The Pup, but my daughter rather appropriately named him “Chewie.” He’s lived up to his name, although if he continues, we might be changing it to “Gummie” before long.

 In spite of his shortcomings, Chewie has been a truly good dog. He’s forced Murry, a full-blooded couch potato, to get off his tail and exercise. He’s been a great sleeping companion to his mistress, Celeste. And he’s livened up our household in a way I would’ve once sworn wasn’t needed. But in a way I’d swear we couldn’t live without now.

Although it’s been a while since Dad and I have raced, I don’t doubt that he could outrun me. I know he can out-debate me (and he’d say out-think me). My mom can out-walk, out-talk, and out-laugh me. She’s more flexible in her 70s than I was as a teen and remembers details about events that I’ve long forgotten. I’m not sure it’s a testament to how well they’re doing or how poorly I am, but I do know one thing–I’m grateful they are.

 When in the waiting room at my doctor’s office recently, a woman about my age came in with her mom, who appeared to be suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. She helped her still young-looking mother settle in a chair, then went to sign in. The mother immediately began rooting through the purse, grew quickly frustrated, then dumped the purse upside-down and shook out the contents. When she still couldn’t find (or perhaps remember) what she was after, she began to cry. All in the time it took her daughter to sign her name on a page.  

The daughter turned. Her shoulders immediately drooped and she closed her eyes for just a moment, then she hurried to her mother’s side. She scooped the contents back into the purse, talking in a calm, soothing voice.  

The mother kept repeating, “I just wanted a tissue. I needed a tissue.” She looked deeply embarrassed, suddenly aware there were others in the room. Someone handed her a box of tissues, but the mother couldn’t seem to stop repeating that she needed a tissue. 

The daughter sat and put her arm around her mother, then asked the strangest question. “Were you ever any good at throwing?” I saw the hint of a smile on her mother’s face. She sniffled, mopped at her tears with the back of her hand, much like a child, then smiled broadly.

“I’m wicked good at baseball.” 

Until the nurse called my name, I listened to the mother recount her stats and those of the other women on her long-ago team with such pride. Thinking back on it later, I wished I could’ve said something to the daughter. I’m not sure what, but something to acknowledge what she was doing. I kept thinking about how hard it must be–how exhausting and emotionally draining and thankless. I could tell she was tired, but she the way she cared for her mother was something special to see.  

My friend Mary Rodd Furbee, who died in 2004 at age 49, once wrote a beautiful article called “A Song for my Father.” In it, she wrote,  (more…)