According to a press release issued by “America’s best-known hypnotherapist, John Morgan,” it’s now possible for dog owners to create the perfect pet through hypnosis thanks to Morgan’s “inexpensive, easy-to-use CD that provides a safe and effective way for any dog of any age to reach the essential first step in training, which is calmness and relaxation.”  

The CD “is the result of nearly three years of research by Morgan,” who apparently must now find a way to justify having played with his dogs for the past three years.  

Although skeptical, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by Morgan’s claim that “dog owners can magically change their pooch from a terror into a calm and relaxed pet.” Since our dogs put the terror in terrier, I figured what could it hurt to give it a try?  

Being a responsible pet owner, I first prepared myself by engaging in exhaustive research on dog-hypnosis techniques through the numerous instructional videos available on YouTube. Armed with my newfound knowledge, I put on some soothing music, dimmed the lights, and began talking to Murry and Chewie in an even-toned voice.  

There are precautions one must take when attempting to perform hypnosis on animals. For a session to be successful, it’s imperative that sarcastic, wisecracking individuals be removed from the immediate area. All potential distractions (such as food, sneering cats, television shows that feature the sound of a doorbell, and the ever-enticing hind end) should be considered and removed, when possible.   

Much to my surprise, I learned I’m a natural at dog hypnosis. My two subjects were quickly lulled into a state of calmness so thorough that if I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn they were sleeping.   

When I felt confident both dogs had achieved the adequate level of relaxation, I began to repeatedly recite my desired behavior modifications.    

The vacuum cleaner is your friend.   

Toilet water is yucky.   

Cat food is for cats.   

I will not bark at acorns, falling leaves, or bugs.  

Unfortunately, so deep was their hypnotic state that neither dog was able to retain my suggestions.   I went back to the Internet, determined to learn all there was to know about hypnotic techniques. As I’d already exhausted the subject of animal hypnosis, I expanded my research boundaries to all things hypnosis.    The results of my study and subsequent experiments have been varied.   

Not every child is meant for team sports.  

My daughter played soccer at ages 7 and 8. From Celeste’s time on the team she learned how to braid weeds, how to avoid drawing the coach’s attention so as to not be put in the game, and how mandarin oranges should not be consumed shortly before spinning with friends on the field.  (Several teammates and an innocent bystander learned that lesson as well.) Still, I wanted her to experience being part of a team, and when a friend’s son became involved with children’s theater, I asked if she’d like to try it as well.  

Unless around people she knows fairly well, Celeste is generally quiet and reserved, so I honestly didn’t expect she’d get bit by the bug, but she was. Completely and totally hooked from the start.     

And later this week, after five times in chorus-type parts, she has her first speaking role as an old widow in the Children’s Theatre production of Robin Hood.  She memorized her dozen or so lines almost immediately, but wouldn’t let go of her script until the night they officially went “off book.” (Her love of theater terminology can be trying at times. Me: “Have you seen my purse?” Her: “It’s over there, stage right. [exasperated sigh] Oh, please. That’s stage left.) 

Like most of the parents whose children participate in these plays, I’m not hoping her time with this group will encourage her to choose acting as a profession. Not every child who plays football or soccer or golf is doing so because they believe they’ll turn pro someday. It’s the same with the kids on the stage, except with theater, those who are taller or stronger or faster don’t have the advantage the way they do in sports, and with theater, the skills these children are learning will serve them well no matter what they do later in life.  

When Celeste was younger and just learning to read, we’d practice by reading stories out loud. Like most kids her age, she was choppy and halting, until she started reading the dialogue parts of stories using different voices. The sillier she read those lines, the smoother her reading became. Acting takes it one step further. The kids aren’t only learning how to just deliver their lines, but to notice what’s behind those words, what motivates that character to be doing and saying such things. I’m convinced that, in turn, helps develop sensitivity and understanding of the feelings of others.  

Memorization skills also improve tremendously. Along with their lines, the children need to remember where they’re supposed to be on stage, what kind of movements to make, how to recognize the line immediately preceding their own. There’s timing to master, rehearsals to attend, and commitments to fulfill. They’re part of a team and if they don’t hold up their end, the entire production could suffer. It’s a good kind of peer pressure. They can’t let down their friends. 

Even the most shy, reserved child will become less shy as their skills improve and their comfort level increases. They learn to interact with different people of a variety of ages and backgrounds. With sports, teams are generally made up of a small range of ages. Not so with children’s theatre, where casts can be filled with kids from ages 6 to 18. 

I’m not an actress myself. I could only muster the courage to be onstage if my costume made me completely unrecognizable. My fear of public speaking has been stifling for me, so watching Celeste become accustomed to being on stage is such a relief, as it seems unlikely now that she’ll develop the same inhibitions as me.  Acting is such a natural thing for children. They love to pretend. It gives them an opportunity to be someone else-someone brave or with magical powers or who robs from the rich to give to the poor. It encourages imagination and creativity.  

Far more than braiding weeds.  

For more information on the Children’s Theatre of Charleston, visit CTOC.org or call 541-7222.

In my kitchen window is an African violet my mom grew for me from a single leaf.  She took the leaf from her own African violet, which she had grown from a leaf.  

If it had been me who’d found the snapped-off leaf in the back of my car, I probably would’ve tossed it in the trash or left it to crisp in the trunk.  But not Mom.  She has this curiosity about her, this Let’s see what happens thing going.  She gave that dying leaf a chance, and it showed her what it could do.  That plant is now one of the most beautiful African violets I’ve ever seen, with dark purple blooms on one side and ruffly two-color blooms on the other.

I’ve never been the most conscientious person with plants.  In fact, my reputation as a plant-torturer preceded me so profoundly that when I’d walk though a greenhouse, schefflera would shudder, trumpet vine trees would tremble, and prayer plants would start their Hail Marys.  But even though Mom was aware of my history with plants, she still entrusted me with this special violet.

Let’s see what happens.

My mom has been doing that sort of thing all my life, planting-and actually growing-what most people would just throw away.  She took the lopped off top of a pineapple and grew it into a plant, kept the seed from avocados and grew them as well. 

I know that African violet in my kitchen window isn’t Mom, but in a way, it is.  I look at it and see her.  And because I’ve been determined to keep that violet alive, my other plants are now thriving. (Probably because they’re now being watered more often than once or twice every quarter.)

A few months ago, my friend Sue and I were talking about gardens, and she offered to give me some slips of her plants.  Slips was a term I hadn’t heard before.

“My mom called them slips,” Sue said.  “And she said you should never say ‘thank you’ for a plant because that was bad luck.  The plant would die.  Instead you should say, ‘I appreciate it.’”

Thinking I might have inherited some of Mom’s gift, I’ve been trying my hand at planting a few things myself, just to see what would happen.  Thinking a grape arbor would be nice, I planted a raisin. Nothing.  I tried sesame seeds.  Same result.

Luckily, I have some green-thumbed friends and neighbors who have given me slips, and there’s something about those plant slips I find extra appealing.  Not just because I’m a tightwad who loves getting a freebie, but because those plants will always be connected to the person who gave them to me.

Several years ago, when I was a single mother with an out-of-control, yet very dull, yard, one of my former neighbors, Trish, offered to help.  She spent hours thinning out plants from her yard and her sister’s, then even more hours helping me replant them in my yard.  A year or so later, Trish moved away, but the now lush, mature plantings continue to be a nice reminder of her.

This past year, I’ve found myself getting more interested in gardening.  Our new house has a heavily shaded yard with an abundance of ivy.  Finding the right plants is a challenge for a person who is green everywhere but her thumb.

Someday, though, I hope to have a garden filled with reminders of friends, neighbors, and Mom. 

And maybe a raisin plant, too.

I decided to take a week off from the column. Needed a little break. Wish I had my act together enough to stay ahead of the game, but that seldom happens.

Celeste got the part of an old widow in Robin Hood (Children’s Theatre), and she has about a dozen lines. It’s her first speaking part. She’s been in five or six other shows, but always as part of the chorus or part of a crowd. If she would perform onstage the way she does at home, she’d steal every scene that she’s in, but I expect she’ll do it just like they tell her to. She can do all these different voices, pick up accents and speech impediments and mannerisms so fast and accurate it sometimes boggles my mind, yet she still has enough shy in her that she’ll only do those things with family and friends.

 Another new development is our foster dog, Roo. We’ve had her for a month now, and she was a bit more damaged than we originally realized. She was rescued from the shelter, which had rescued her from dog hoarders who had 53 dogs in a single-wide trailer. Because the people had been in trouble for hoarding before, they didn’t let the dogs outside because they didn’t want the neighbors to know how many they had again. So Roo basically came to us with a fear of outdoors. Ever try to housebreak a dog who is afraid of outside?

 But Roo is so eager to please that she’s learned pretty fast. She still has a little trouble knowing how to ask to go out, but she’s getting it. She had never been around men until she was taken away from the hoarders, so she has a lot of trouble not being afraid of men. We’ve been taking her to the dog park and Petsmart to expose her to men other than Geoff.

I have no clue what kind of dog she is. She’s only about 10 lbs, so she’s smaller than she looks in the picture. She has the markings of a german shepherd, but circles around her eyes like a raccoon. Funny thing is she doesn’t shed at all. That’s a terrier/poodle trait, but I don’t see either of those breeds in her. She’s about 3 years old and hadn’t been spayed until we got her, but she’s remarkably healthy.

It’s been fun getting to know her and watching her heal and conquer her fears. She’s such a happy morning dog, and she harrasses Murry and Chewie (who are NOT easy to get up in the morning) until she gets both of them playing.

We’ve already found her one new home, but that didn’t work out, and it set Roo back quite a bit when we got her back. She was back to hiding under the bed and being afraid of being put on a leash. Since she’s doing so well with us and our other animals, I expect we’ll probably end up keeping her. It feels cruel to get her to trust, then hand her off to someone else and make her start all over again.

I’ve come to accept that I live a strange life. Mom says it’s God’s way of making sure I never run out of column material. 

I offer the following as case in point. 

Last week, I was skimming the online postings on Craigslist when I saw a post from someone looking for baskets. The post seemed heaven-sent. My latest attempt at organization had (as usual) resulted in little more than stuff being relocated from one part of the house to another. But this time, when the dust from my round-up had settled, I found a once-scattered assortment of baskets had been corralled together. 

We needed space. They needed to go. And here, thanks to the posting, was my simple solution. 

I sent an email to the woman who placed the ad, offering to give her the baskets, and we emailed back and forth several times to figure out where to meet. She’d only recently moved to Charleston from Ohio and wasn’t familiar with too many places, but we finally settled on one we could both find-the Moose Lodge parking lot just past Daniel Boone Park. Since we got off work at the same time, we agreed to head to the lot immediately after work.

She described her car (an older model blue) and said she had a bunch of Mardi Gras beads hanging from her rearview mirror. And since she’d said she moved here from Ohio, I figured I could spot her by watching for the car driving slow in the fast lane, lurching into the parking lot and then taking up two parking spaces.

But when I pulled into the lot, I spotted her car right away, parked a bit off by itself, windows rolled down. Ohio plates. Mardi Gras beads on the mirror. I waved to the woman sitting behind the wheel, and she smiled and waved back. Before either of us could say much, her cell phone rang and she answered the call.

Being in a bit of a hurry, I opened my car and began moving the baskets from my car to hers while she talked on the phone. I had quite a few baskets, so it took several trips, and I was feeling a little annoyed with her for not pausing her call long enough to at least offer to help. 

Still, it was no big deal. I wanted rid of the baskets and they were going to someone who could use them. I returned to my car and waved goodbye. She waved back. I headed for home, thinking no more about it.

Until the next day. When I got an email from the woman.

“I waited at the Moose lot for 25 minutes, but you never showed up. What happened?” 

I immediately emailed her back.  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

She wasn’t kidding.

And she apparently wasn’t the only former Ohio person parked in the Moose lot in an older model blue car with Mardi Gras beads.

Yes, I had not only loaded the baskets in the wrong car, but the woman sitting right there in that wrong car had let me.

Who can’t interrupt a phone call long enough to stop a total stranger from filling their car with baskets?

I keep picturing that woman, back home in Ohio, telling her family about how West Virginians are friendly and generous, although perhaps a bit weird.  

Since this incident, I’ve learned the Charleston Job Corp, located close to the Moose Lodge, is training people (many of whom have come here from out of state, seeking jobs) to work at the Tri-State Racetrack & Gaming Center, which has the whole Mardi Gras theme going on, thus the beads everywhere.

It’s a shame there’s already a book out there called “An Unfinished Life” since that would’ve made an ideal title for the story of my life.

Just ask my husband. He swears I suffer from ADHD, except in my case, it stands for Attention Deficit Home-remodeler’s Disorder. I’m not the only one who suffers from my affliction. Those who live with me suffer as well, as they’re forced to reside around and with my unfinished projects.

I’m not certain how I came to be so afflicted, but confess that my case is severe. I suspect the origins go back many years, to when I first entered the work force and an older coworker told me the best way to become an irreplaceable employee was to devise a filing system so complicated (or inane) that no one else could navigate their way through it.

(This particular coworker’s own system included two drawers devoted to the letter “T” due to her large number of files that started with “The.” The State of West Virginia. The Department of Motor Vehicles.)

So completely to heart did I take her advice that I was soon applying it in ways that went beyond mere filing-far, far beyond. To most every corner of my house and yard. Not only would no one be able to unmuck my many messes, but they’d be unwilling as well.

From the time we first walked through the doors of our house, my wheels started turning. There were so many possibilities.

And so little money or time.

But those afflicted with my variant of ADHD would never allow measly finances or a frequently erratic schedule to deter them from starting a large, involved, and extremely messy project (or three). Not for a minute. True ADHD sufferers are fueled by such limitations. Such roadblocks not only make the job more of a challenge, but they also provide legitimate-sounding excuses for not completing the job.

The main factor hindering me from completing a task is this bothersome little thing I like to call “Monday.” These Monday impediments always come along much sooner than I anticipate. During the week, I can rarely muster the energy after work to spend time on a project, and the aforementioned spouse’s escalating annoyance often compels me to relocate much of the construction-related material and byproducts to a less conspicuous area, thereby rendering the area into something I’m able to view as more finished/less urgent than do other members of my household.

Currently, there is not a single room in our house not bearing my mark–a mark as familiar to my family as that of Zorro. He of the Z. Me of the tape-masked, yet not painted; the spackled, yet not sanded; the mitred, yet not nailed.

That of which legends are made.

Just not particularly positive legends.

My husband compares me to a dog marking its territory, in an only slightly more tolerable manner.

Lest you believe me to be proud of my failings, please know that I’m not. I recognize the frustration of my spouse and my child, who must regularly traverse our abode in hurdle-like fashion. Still, I find myself unable to take most projects beyond a certain level of completion. Once the most challenging point is past, I find that my interest has gone with it. 

I envy the a surgeon who, once he’s performed his job on the patient, can pass the needle and thread to his assistant and say, “Close her up.” That’s what I dream of for my unfinished life.

Their anger was obvious.

“These juveniles need to have their feet held to the fire!” commented one person at the end of the Gazette’s online article about teen vandals who trashed a Charleston school.

“To do nothing only inspires more kids to do the same.”

Said another, “This is probably just the beginning of what they’re capable of.”

Another: “They should be publicly shamed. Make them stand in front of the school they damaged for a day, then move them to another public place for a day.”

Since I was angry myself, I chewed through the comments. The recent local vandalism problem was already fresh in my mind, as it had been a main topic of conversation during our dinner with Desper Lemon, a Ward 7 Councilman in St. Albans. 

“They did thousands of dollars of damage to the old Parkway Supermarket, spray-painted the church on Forrestal, damaged cars up and down the street,” said Lemon. “One 12-year-old boy is responsible for most of it, but his family doesn’t have the money to pay for the damage, and you aren’t even allowed to print the kid’s name in the paper, so nothing happens. He’s right back out there.” 

Lemon is frustrated because even though St. Albans already has a curfew that might help deter some of the vandalism, it isn’t being enforced. 

When the Vermont home of the late poet Robert Frost was badly vandalized by a group of 28 teenagers, part of their sentence included a requirement to take a class on Frost’s poetry. 

“I was thinking if these teens had a better understanding of who Robert Frost was and his contribution to society, they might be more respectful of other people’s property in the future and learn something from the experience,” said the prosecutor.

I like that the prosecutor was willing to try something different with the offenders, but my thinking is more aligned with those commenting on the newspaper’s site, which is basically that the vandals need to be forced to clean up their own mess. Until a person has spent hours trying to scrub spray paint off brick, they don’t fully appreciate the stupidity and senselessness of the damage they’ve caused.  

We can commiserate, point fingers at the parents, blame society and the lack of recreation choices available for teens, but the only solution is to come up with a punishment that fits the crime, and publish the results for everyone to see. The vandals need to have their actions made to be an embarrassment to them, and their punishment distasteful and harsh enough that to copy their actions would be foolish. We can’t allow them to be seen as cool. 

There are some who defend graffiti as “street art,” but street art and vandalism are two different things. For every one graffiti artist who does beautiful work, a dozen or more are just kids writing their names. True street art is far less common than vandalism, and while some graffiti <I>is<P> art, most is not. Most is vandalism.

Unfortunately, vandalism is generally considered a low priority by police, even though it’s a gateway crime. In the same way torturing animals is an indicator of future violence, graffiti and vandalism are indicators of future anti-social behavior. They usually move on to other, worse crimes.

There’s a temptation to excuse away the actions of these delinquents because we feel sorry for them, saying they’re acting out of anger or frustration and that graffiti and window-breaking serve as an outlet for them, but if their acts go unpunished, what’s to prevent them from thinking other more serious offenses won’t be overlooked, too? 

They might’ve been dealt a bad hand, but they don’t have to play it. 

We need to enforce curfews, designate a few bare walls where graffiti would be allowed, and most of all, we need to repeal the law that protects the identities of the offenders. 

They need to be held accountable for their behavior, and they also need to repay their victims for damages. In some cities, juvenile offenders are required to work for Habitat for Humanity, the nonprofit group that builds homes for low-income people. The state’s victim restitution fund pays the offender minimum wage for their time, except their earnings are sent directly to the victim.  

Instead of being sent to a detention facility, these teens learn construction skills, how to use tools, and other life skills, like showing up on time. And they see how long it takes to earn enough money to cover the cost of the damage they’ve done.

While it’s easy to sit back and say, “Make them clean up their mess,” it will be hard to enforce unless someone steps forward to volunteer. We need a group or individuals willing to be responsible for making certain the vandals get the work done. We have to stop saying it’s for the courts or police to handle. 

It’s the community’s problem, and it’s for the community to handle.

I was the kind of kid summer reading programs were made for. It took nothing more than a little competition (a challenge to see who could read the most) to turn me into a library regular. 

I came to love the written word so much that I can’t recall ever wanting to be anything but a writer or to work at a newspaper or for a publisher, and over the years, my enthusiasm doesn’t seem to have waned. 

Sadly, according to an Associated Press poll, one in four adults read no books at all last year. Twenty-five percent did not crack open a cover. The same poll reported that the average adult reads only four books per year. While I suppose I should savor being above average for a change, this is one area where I’d rather have lots of company. Especially in my own home. 

My husband makes his living writing, editing, and teaching writing, so it’s not surprising that he’s a voracious reader. He can wander the aisles of a bookstore for hours. The range of his curiosity is immeasurable.  Not so with my girl, who recently decided reading is “nerdy.”

Her blade cut deep. How could a child who has been surrounded by books since birth, who has been read to and written with, whose monthly Scholastic book orders occasionally threatened to reach car-payment levels, suddenly declare reading to be the height of not cool? I’d have been less shocked if she’d come home with a barbed wire tattoo and multiple piercings. 

Celeste has always read (and seemed to enjoy reading) the books assigned to her by her teachers, but nothing has lit the fire that would have her reading for pleasure or curiosity. I keep hoping she’ll stumble across the one that gets her hooked. I thought she’d found it last spring, when she tore through The Giver by Lois Lowry, loving it so much that she made us read it, too. But her fervor soon faded, and we’ve not found another that enthralled her that way. 

When I heard about First Book’s “What book got you hooked?” competition (www2.firstbook.org/whatbook), I went to the site hoping their list of favorites might spark some ideas. (The site is hosting a competition where they’ll award 50,000 new books to the state that gets the most votes. West Virginia placed third last year, and is currently third again this year, with less than a month to go before ending.) I skimmed the voter favorites and saw some titles that would’ve made my own list (Put Me in the Zoo by Robert Lopshire, Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White), but I wasn’t sure what might strike the fancy of my fickle 11-year-old. She’s at that age where so many books seem too young, but others seem too mature. 

It seems wrong (and maybe counterproductive) to force a child to read, yet to me, reading is every bit as important as a healthy diet, doing homework, and getting enough sleep. But how does a parent battle the not cool factor? My husband and I read all the time. Seeing one of us with a book is a daily event. But apparently, we’re the epitome of not cool. 

My 13-year-old niece, Madeline, is also a ravenous reader. When she visited this summer, she brought a duffle bag filled with novels. Since Celeste looks up to her cousin, I hoped she’d catch the book bug, but I think she’s immune. 

It’s a shame the Kindle, Amazon’s electronic wireless reading device, is still so expensive ($359) since that kind of technology might be what it takes for her to view reading as cool. But until they become more affordable, we’re considering canceling our cable. If her entertainment options are diminished, she might rethink her opinion that reading’s for nerds.

Normal people go to the beach and make castles.

We went to the beach and made people.

While typing these words, my toes are scrunching in sand. A single optimistic gull is lingering at the rail, although my crusts are long gone. A band has started warming up at the beach bar on the other side of the wall. And if Dustin Michael touches his sister’s toast one more time, he’s going shopping with Meemaw tomorrow instead of to the beach.

I don’t know Dustin Michael or Meemaw, but apparently, it’s an effective threat. There’s no more screeching from the balcony above.

(And come to think of it, Meemaw probably told Dustin Michael not to touch his sister’s toes, not her toast. Such is the plight of the eavesdropper.)

It’s strange to think that by the time these words are in print, our time at the beach will be over. That we’ll be back home in South Charleston and all I’ll have to show for it are a few thousand new freckles, hair the consistency of straw, and sand in places it’ll take years to get out.

And memories I wouldn’t trade for a million bucks.

We thought a trip to the beach wasn’t going to happen this year. Financially, it just wasn’t possible. The same as last year and the year before that. But my ex-laws, Bernie and Patty Vingle, came through, offering us the use of a condo they jointly own with relatives in Myrtle Beach. We jumped at the chance.

Even with the free place to stay, finances remained tight. Still, it’s possible to come up with creative entertainment methods that can be done on the cheap.

For example, it costs nothing to go down to the beach and dig a hole slightly narrower than a sand-colored beach towel. Once you have that hole, simply stretch the towel tightly across and secure, then build a large and elaborate sandcastle around the edges. Then sit back and wait for the first pack of obnoxious teenagers to charge the castle.

My favorite activity was discovered something by accident. It involved a bag of microwave popcorn and a drying-off-in-the-sun spouse who has become so deeply absorbed in his reading material that he fails to notice popcorn being scattered (I mean, accidentally spilled) all around him. Until the seagulls arrive. (He was so into his reading that he didn’t notice the gulls until there were almost a dozen.)

The next was a dare. It involved one crowded swimming pool, one somewhat innocent-looking (I like to believe) woman, and two fake ponytails which had been tucked, one on each side, into the underarm area of said women’s one-piece swimsuit. This allowed the phony pit locks to gather and protrude - enough, but not so much as to look too fake - the reddish-brown hair spilling luxuriously out against her contrasting swimwear.

And the final involved a little planning, although I didn’t know yet what I’d do with the realistic rubber Halloween hand I tossed into my suitcase before we left home.

So many kids enjoy burying Pop in the sand. In our case, it simply looked like we failed to dig him back up.