Tag Archives: love

The Water Bill

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Sandy stood in the kitchen looking at the water bill in astonishment. $5,000 dollars? Were they kidding? She looked at the usage. Half a million gallons? That was the size of a lake.

“That’s insane,” she muttered. “I couldn’t use that much water in ten years, much less in 6 months. There’s obviously some mistake here.”

She scanned the bill for the customer service number, found it, and bill in hand, walked up to the office, picked up the phone and dialed the number. After maneuvering her way through a maze of voice mail menu items and waiting to get a live human being on the line … a total of 15 aggravating minutes … a non-recorded human voice came on the line. ” Long Island Water Resources, may I help you?”

“I certainly HOPE so,” Sandy responded. “I have this water bill for $5,000 and there has GOT to be a mistake. I couldn’t use half a million gallons of water in a decade.”

“May I have your account number please?”

Sandy read off the number and waited while the computer brought up the file. “Well, ma’am,” said the disembodied person on the line, “according to our meter reading, that’s your usage.”

“It’s impossible,” Sandy repeated.

“Well, ma’am, that’s what the meter reads.”

Sandy mentally counted to ten and took a deep breath. “May I speak with your supervisor, please?”

“Certainly. If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll put you through.”

Over the course of the last few years, Sandy had become an expert in dealing with bureaucrats. One of her prime rules was “when in doubt, go up a step in the hierarchy.” On the other end of the phone, music was now playing. She was back on hold.

The last couple of years, nursing her dying husband had given her a kind of dogged determination. She would straighten this out, however long it took. She hoped, though, it wouldn’t take too long.

She drummed her fingers on the desk, waiting for a voice to come on the line. The music on the line changed from classic rock to country, then to a Broadway ballad. Still she waited. Finally, a voice came on the line. “This is George Connor. May I help you?”

“If you are a supervisor at Long Island Water Authority, then maybe you can,” she responded.

“You’ve got the right guy. To whom am I speaking?”

“I’m Sandy McHenry and I’ve just gotten a water bill that says I used half a million gallons of water over the last six months and owe $5,000.”

“Well, did you?”

“That’s ridiculous. I have a 60 by 100 foot plot of land and a house with one and a half baths. I live alone, unless you count the five cats, who, I should add, rarely bathe and never turn on the faucets. There’s clearly some kind of problem that needs to be tracked down. I have low water use toilets, make sure that the pipes and taps don’t leak, and take showers rather than baths. In my entire life I’ll never use this much water … “

“May I have your account number?” he asked.

Patiently, Sandy read off the numbers again and waited while he brought her account up on the computer.

“I see what you mean,” he said. “You’d have to fill and empty a couple of swimming pools a week to use that much water. There could be a number of possible explanations for this. I think we’ll have to start by sending out a field engineer to look around.”

“What do I do about the bill?”

“I will put a freeze on your account for now, so you won’t be considered overdue. We can schedule an engineer to come out tomorrow. Can you be home between 8:00AM and 4:00PM?”

“I guess I’d better be,” she said. Then she sighed. She’d taken so much time off during the last couple of years, another day would hardly matter.

Hanging up the phone, Sandy tacked the bill onto the cork board behind the desk. She leaned back in the chair and looked around the room. So many memories. Before Jonathan had gotten so sick, this had been his “lair,” where he’d kept his old typewriter, books, racks of pipes and humidor. He came up here to write, smoke a pipe, think, escape.

Jonathan had been such a private person. Even after he and Sandy had married, they’d had separate bedrooms. Mostly, they’d slept together in one of the other, but sometimes, he had needed to be alone.

Sandy had known from the start of her relationship with Jonathan that he wasn’t in good health. She’d known he’d had a heart attack before he turned 40, needed daily medication. Had to be careful of his diet. He wasn’t supposed to smoke at all, but he did. He wasn’t supposed to drink, but he did that too. He was supposed to exercise regularly, which he didn’t. And he was 23 years older than Sandy, having turned 50 the day after she turned 27.

But Sandy had loved him. He was charming, witty, original, and smart. He seemed to know something about everything and a lot about some things. He had a rich voice and could tell a story better than anyone she’d ever met. He made her laugh, made her think, helped her grow into herself.

And then, she helped him die.

And now, there was the water bill. A $5,000 water bill. Maybe tomorrow would bring a million dollar electric bill. The excitement, she thought, never ends.

Farmhouse

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Daily Prompt: Unconventional Love – Strangely True

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Today, tell us about the most unconventional love in your life. Photographers, share a photo that says unconventional.

Pandora’s box had nothing on this one. Wow. Sizzle. Smoke. Hot, hot, hot!!

Okay, this is a G-rated site, so I won’t go there. Instead, I’ll tell you a story and leave you free to fill in the details from your own rich imaginings.

At 18 I married my first husband. I was already in my senior year of college. Jeff ran the college radio station as Station Manager. My now and forever husband was Jeff’s second-in-command, that is to say Garry was the Program Director. The two men were best friends. Together with most of the people I still count as friends, we had a great deal of fun. Not just the usual college stuff. We were creative. Just our Fall of Sauron Day parties — scripted, costumed, with special effects — were the stuff of lifetime memories. And, because we were young and healthy, we could party all night and go the work the next day looking none the worse for wear. Try that nowadays!

I married Jeff in August 1965. I spent the next year finishing my B.A. and having my spine remodeled, so it was a few years before I got on with life. My son was born in May 1969. We named him Owen Garry, Garry being his godfather and all.

Fast forward through a non-acrimonious divorce. I later realized if you just give up everything and walk away, it’s easy to be amicable. It’s also a big mistake you will come to regret sooner or later.

Off to Israel with the kid. Not too long thereafter, a marriage in Israel about which I won’t talk, even under torture. One visit from the ex and current husband – exactly in time for the war in Lebanon. It ruined  our plans to see the Hermon and the Galilee, but created great anecdotes for another post. I have one picture that says it all: me, Jeff and Garry arm-in-arm by the Dead Sea. The picture taken by husband number 2.

Photo: Debbie Stone

Photo: Debbie Stone

August 1987. Back to the USA. Garry and I are an item. Subsequent to finalizing my long-distance divorce from husband number 2, we are wed. It’s the right marriage to the right guy. I declined to have my first ex-husband be best man at my third wedding. We did, however, have the “real” reception at his house. There was the official one at the church, but the fun was over at the old house.

Garry and I will celebrate our 23 anniversary in September.

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Daily Prompt: I Want to Know What Love Is — LOVE IS

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Together

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Love is.

Love wants not to be defined.

Love defies explanations.

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Do you breathe? Live under God’s light?

Then you know love.

It’s in your bones, your blood, your soul.

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Love is feeling.

The more you try to imprison love in walls of words,

The faster it will run from you.

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Trust is the food of love.

Trust love, that you know when you give it, know when you get it.

Mated Swans

Embrace it when it comes.

Share it.

Bestow it freely, in joyous abundance.

Love given away never diminishes the love you have.

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Love is for sharing, not saving.

Is it love when unshared?

Then it is, I think, an idea only.

Love thrives in light, withers in dark.

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There is but one kind of love.

Its expressions and objects vary, but love is, of all things, the simplest.

Love is.

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Daily Prompt: Companionable – Becoming Together

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The old man and his wife had been living in that old house for many years. The kids had moved away and were none too young themselves anymore. The grandchildren had children, almost grown children and long drives to visit each other were difficult. No one had much money to spend on plane fare and even if they had, there wasn’t much fun to be had at airports these days.

So the couple stayed home. That was okay. They were good together. Their marriage had come relatively late in life, after the child-bearing was done, though they’d known each other since … when was that? College I guess. more the 60 years ago. It didn’t feel so long ago, but the calendar didn’t lie.

Companions and friends.

Companions and friends.

Dan and Molly lived indoors more than they used to. They had a lot of property, but maintaining it had fallen by the wayside as back and knees and hips got increasingly creaky and painful. It was okay. The garden grew jungle-like, the flowers were a riot of colors even without tending. If the rain came, the flowers continued to grow. Even the weeds were pretty. Every year, they cleaned up as much of the fallen leaves from the towering oak trees as they could before their bodies started screaming “No!” Then they’d sit on the glider in the yard and smile at each other.

It wasn’t quite how they’d expected life to go. But they had each other. They could talk together, remember together and that was good. Special.

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They had but one important wish, that somehow when the time came for them to go, that they could do it together.

Thus was their wish granted. Together, for all the seasons in companionable peace, in the shade of the tall oaks as they gradually became part of the land itself.

 

Prompts for the Promptless – True Cost: Tinker Belle

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Can you set a price on love? Can you set a number to it? Can you calculate it by the cost of health care, toys, dog food? Grooming?

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Tinker Belle was a Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen, also called PBGVs or Petites. They are a medium-sized, shaggy rabbit hound from the Vendée region of France, but have become over the past 20 years, quite popular as pets, though they are definitely not a dog for just anyone. They are smart, funny (they will do almost anything to make you laugh), noisy, and into everything.

Tinker Belle was special. From the day I brought her home from the airport (she had just flown up from her breeder’s home in North Carolina), she wasn’t like any other puppy I’d ever met. She was incredibly smart. As a rule, hounds are intelligent, but she was something else. Housebreaking? We showed her the doggy door. She was henceforth housebroken. She could open any door, any gate and close them behind her. She would open jars of peanut butter without leaving a fang mark to note her passing. All you’d find was a perfectly clean empty jar that had previously been an unopened, brand new jar.

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She was deeply sensitive. Probably born to be a therapy dog, she knew who was in pain, she knew who was sick. She knew where you hurt. She was the only dog who would never step on a healing incision, but would cuddle close to you, look at you with her dark, soft eyes and tell you everything would be fine. She never hurt a living thing, not human or anything else … except for small varmints she hunted in the yard. She was, after all, a hound and a hunter at that, born to track, point and if necessary, kill prey.

She was the smartest of our five dogs, the smartest dog of my life. Not just a little bit smarter than normal. A huge amount smarter. When you looked into Tinker’s eyes, it wasn’t like looking into the eyes of a dog. She was a human in a dog suit. She knew. We called her Tinker the Thinker because she planned, she remembered. She held grudges. More on that. For all that, she was Omega (the bottom) in the pack, we thought it was mostly her own choice. She had no interest in leadership. Too much responsibility maybe? But the other dogs knew her value. When they needed her, other dogs would tap into her expertise in gate opening, package disassembly, cabinet burglary, trash can raiding and other criminal activities. Throughout her life, she housebroke each new puppy. A couple of hours with Tinker, and the job was done. It was remarkable. Almost spooky. She then mothered them until they betrayed her by growing up and playing with other dogs.

When Griffin, our big male Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen came to live with us a few months after Tinker, they became The Couple. inseparable, deeply in love. They ate together, played together, slept together, sang together. When about a year later, we briefly had a little Norwich Terrier pup and Griffin (what a dog!) abandoned Tinker to go slobbering after Sally … well … Tinker’s heart was broken. She became depressed, would not play anymore with humans or other dogs. For the next 10 years, Tinker refused to so much as look at Griffin. Worse, she apparently blamed us, her humans for having brought another girl into the house. In retribution for our crimes, Tinker began her Reign of Terror.

Tinker took to destroying everything she could get her fangs on when she was three years old. She’d done a modest amount of puppy chewing, but nothing extraordinary. She was more thief than a chewer. She would steal your stuff and hide it. Shoes, toys (Kaity was very young), towels, stuffed animals. After Griffin betrayed her with that stupid little bitch — Sally was indeed the polar opposite of Tinker being the dumbest dog I’ve ever known and ill-tempered to boot — Tinker was no longer a playful thief. She was out to get us.

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Nothing was safe. She had a particular passion for destroying expensive electronic devices. Cell phones, remote controls, portable DVD players, computers. If she could get a fang to them, she killed them. She would do more damage in under a minute than I thought possible. For Garry and I, it meant we couldn’t leave the room together unless we put everything away where Tink couldn’t get it. Tinker would strike quickly and she was lethal. If we were going to bed for the night, every single movable item that was less than 6 feet off the ground had to be put away. If she couldn’t get to any small expensive electronic items, she ate the sofa, the rocking chair, the coffee table, a lot of books, many DVDs …. and for dessert, shoes were always yummy. For many years, I didn’t own any shoes without tooth marks. We called such items “Tinkerized” and we had a grading system ranging from 10 – Utterly destroyed, to 1 – Only shows if you look closely. Most of my shoes fell into the 2 to 3 range and since she tended to start at the heel, I figured most folks wouldn’t notice.

Kaitlin’s toys were safe if Kaity was currently paying a lot of attention to Tinker. If not, she was punished with the beheading of any doll Tinker could find. She didn’t bother with limbs, but always went straight for the head. She gutted stuffed things with grim efficiency.

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During one memorable intermission, Garry and I went to the kitchen to grab something to drink and she dismembered our remote controls. We were gone, by the clock, about a minute. The kitchen is adjacent to the sofa were we watch TV, so she managed to do this with us not 10 feet away. It cost me a couple of hundred dollars to replace them. She pulled off the backs, tore out the batteries (but never ate them), then ripped out the wiring and boards. She didn’t waste any time, either. If she had the leisure, she’d also tear out the keys and generally mangle the cases, but if time was limited, she went straight to the guts of the thing. She was good.

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For 10 years, we lived under siege. If you didn’t want it Tinkerized, you couldn’t leave it exposed, not for a minute.

Yet we loved Tinker and for the last year of her life, after we brought Bonnie home, Tinker became a real dog again. Under the influence of Bonnie, the friendliest, happiest, most charming Scottie on earth, Tinker came out of her sullens and played with Bonnie. She ran around the yard and played tag, joined the chorus when the other dogs pointed their muzzles at the sky and sang. Hounds have such beautiful voices and Tinker’s was the most beautiful of all. When she sang, nature sang with her. I suppose this is a matter of taste, but for those of us who love hounds, you know what I mean. Singing is a social function for canines. When a pack sings, it isn’t an alert. It’s a chorus. They are really truly singing together. Each dog has a part, joining in, then pausing and rejoining at the right moment. Tinker was a baritone, the deepest and loudest of the canine voices and Bonnie is a coloratura soprano, very musical, but light.

Almost exactly a year ago, Tinker died of cancer. She had shown no symptoms except a slight slowing down and a very minimally reduced appetite. One day, she collapsed. She was riddled with cancer. There was no organ in her body that was unaffected. How in the world she had so effectively hidden her illness is mind-boggling, but she did. A couple of weeks later, Griffin had a massive stroke and died. They were almost exactly the same age and I don’t believe for a minute that the timing of their passing was mere coincidence. Despite Griffin’s infidelity, the two PBGVs were Karmically joined and could not live without each other.

The house was so quiet with the two hounds gone. We didn’t have to hide everything anymore, though it took us months to realize it was safe, that I could leave my laptop out at night and no dog would bother it. After the two hounds passed, the pack did not sing for half a year. One day, mourning ended and they started to sing again. Now, they sing twice a day, early in the morning (get up Mom) and in the evening (pause that show, time for the chorus).

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What was Tinker’s true cost? We paid $700 for her when she was a puppy. Who knows how much her medical care cost over the years? Who remembers? That’s such a basic part of the contract between dogs and their keepers. They love us, we care for them. Other damages? Thousands of dollars in electronic gear, furniture, shoes, books, DVDs, videotapes, dolls, stuffies and who knows what else.

But she paid us back, you see. Because when I was terribly ill, Tinker never left my side. When I was back from surgery, missing another piece of me and in pain, Tinker was there, never placing a paw where it would hurt me. How does it add up? How much was the love worth? What is the true cost of a lifetime love of my dearest friend?

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Meraki Figures — With love, imagination, and good cheer

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Friends, made with love. And straw. Plus some old clothing.

From the first time I ever saw autumnal or harvest figures in New England, I was fascinated with them. They are a distinctly New England “thing.” They don’t seem to have any history or mythology. They simply sprang up and began appearing. People just create them out of whatever they happen to have on hand. They sit them on benches, hang them in trees, tuck them on porch swings and on rooftops.

I wanted to make my own and this year, I did.

I bought a bale of hay and I went to the church yard sale and bought some old clothing. I found some of my own unused clothing and brought that out. I took a couple of pillow cases to use for heads.

On a sunny October afternoon, my granddaughter, her best friend, me and whoever felt like wandering into the yard and helping built our two friends.  My granddaughter drew the face on one, her friend drew the other. We all stuffed. I found a couple of brooms. We plopped them on a bench and tucked them in amongst the forsythia.

They seemed tired, as if they has just brought in the whole harvest on their own.

They were made with love, hemp cord, old clothing, straw … and a good dollop of imagination and good cheer. Made with love. Enjoyed for a whole season and through one winter and into the spring. Is this Meraki?

I do most things with love. I write with love, I take pictures with love. I care for my family, my friends and all of it is love because there is no other reason to do it.

But these were not ONLY love. They were also fun. That’s a special kind of love … love with a light heart.

For anyone who wants to make their own figures, warning: you need a lot more straw than you think. Get two bales of hay, not one!

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Love, Peace and War

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The question was: “How come religions that say they are all about peace and love seem to be leading the march to war … and are responsible for so much death and destruction?”

Gods and dolls in the bedroom

Gods and dolls in the bedroom

And so I said:

Proclaiming you are fighting for love and peace is like screwing for virginity.

Have you ever noticed that every nation at war has God on their side? Has anyone ever heard God weigh in on the subject? Or considered that God might favor the other side? Or no side?

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No one goes to war for peace and love, no matter what they say. Wars are begun and fought for money, land and power. Not necessarily in that order.

War is fueled by greed and hate. The rest is rhetoric intended to make us march to the beat of war drums, to stir whatever embers of hate live within us into a fire hot enough to burn through our prohibitions against killing. If a soldiers’ heart is full of love, how could he be sent to kill?

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There are times when fighting is all that remains … but how often is that really true? How often is it more rhetoric intended to make aggression sound like self-defense, a thin excuse for a land grab?

War has always been with us and probably always will be. We seem ever able to find reasons to kill and few reasons to seek mutual respect and peace. If everyone genuinely wanted peace, we would have peace.

I don’t believe my God wants war, but I guess it depends on who you worship.

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Love Is

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Love is.

Love wants not to be defined.

Love defies explanations.

Love is feeling, knowing without interpretation nor clarification.

The more you try to imprison love in walls of words, the faster it will run away from you.

Trust is the food of love.

Trust! You will know love when you have it, will know when it is given to you.

Acknowledge it when it comes to you, then share it. Bestow it freely, in joyous abundance.

Love given away will never deplete  the love you have.

Love grows when you give it away.

Love is sharing, not saving.

Love thrives in light, withers in darkness.

There is but one kind of love. Its expressions vary, but love itself does not.