DAY FIVE.

DAY SIX.

DAY SEVEN.

I like to start things off optimistically and with a bang. So, I’ve entered a Writing Battle, in which I will spend three days writing a short story using a genre, setting, and character that I draw. Once I’ve completed it I will post it here – I think? Am I allowed?

Until then…

DAY THREE

A DAY.

Easy drive into town. Auto insurance quotes by (CarPlay) phone and text en route. Free downtown parking (joy!) in a low clearance garage with impossibly tight turns (stressful!). Lunch meeting with a former colleague, talking all things fundraising and non-profits and a rapidly changing world. Brisk cross-town walk under (sunny, cloudless) blue skies to a reserved shared learning space at the beautiful central branch of the public library. Virtual meetings ranging from chart of account changes (left brain) to film festival prep (right brain). Slower retracing of cross-town steps to a historic hotel, FaceTiming with adult child #2 along the way. Digital commiseration about the Luka trade (RIP Mavs) between adult child #2 and adult child #1, currently in management at said historic hotel. Tall jokes (always tall jokes) about adult child #1 by his colleague. Successful (harrowing) navigation back out of the garage and into the (choppy, aggressive) flow of traffic. The dreaded thunk of a sideswiping car (little Mercedes G-something) changing lanes without looking. Winding paths through a side street and parking lot for the inevitable taking of photos (Bronco for the win), exchanging of insurance and contact information, empathy (a student driver). Position re-assumed (headed home) with the top back and carrying hope that the damage is truly as it appears (virtually nothing). Satellite radio (all the way up) and wild wind speeding the miles along. Driveway examination by flashlight of the (virtually non-visible) potential damage in the early twilight. Spicy (garlicky, citrusy) red beans and rice mopped up with sourdough. Delayed response emerging (slight but discernible).

“Alexa, play John Mayer.”

The man knows (mine and Mayer).

Originally written December 28, 2017; reposting for posterity

Since many of you asked for the story on Lowry aka “Legend” – here you go. Christmas evening, 2017, just after dinner, we let the dogs out to potty in the backyard at Ryan’s childhood home in Minnesota. There is no fence, but over the previous few days, they established a route they would run, and then return to the back door (the colder it got, the quicker they returned). Even when Lowry’s hunting instinct allowed him to catch a rabbit, he proudly brought it to us at the back door. So, when Major came back without Lowry, we assumed he’d caught the other rabbit and would be back momentarily, particularly because it was around -4 with a real feel in the -20s at the time. When he didn’t respond to Ryan’s whistle, we knew he’d probably taken off after something and was too far – he’s a beautiful athlete of a dog who can run and run and RUN, like the wind. We headed out in three cars to look throughout the neighborhood, getting out to explore the many wooded areas, creeks, parks, etc, as long as we could stand it (frostburn and frostbite happen FAST in these temps). Several Park Valley neighbors joined us in searching despite it being Christmas and unbelievably cold, and Barb posted on a South Hopkins nextdoor site and there were many, many people working on that end. A wonderful example of community that meant SO much.

For those who have never been in this kind of cold, it’s just not possible to explain it except to say – when Texas people were posting all about freezing to death, we were dealing with temps fully 50 degrees COLDER. The reality is – if a dog like Lowry (thin, no winter coat, no winter experience!) stops moving, they die.

After a couple of hours, we forced the kids to go back to the house and stay, while Ryan, Brett, and I continued to drive a wider and wider area looking, getting out, walking everywhere as long as we could handle it, through snow drifts and ice, then getting in to warm up before going out again. You never know how or when to decide to stop. But eventually, we knew – we weren’t finding him, there are a million places where he could go, and we couldn’t risk ourselves out in the cold any longer.

The next morning, Ryan and I went back in daylight and looked everywhere, again, in a wide radius, and found nothing. We simply could not imagine that he could survive the cold and keep moving for so many hours. It had been as cold as -25 overnight. The grief we felt was literally overwhelming. We had fairly successfully navigated our first Christmas without Ryan’s dad, and the last time our family would be together in Ryan’s childhood home of 42 years. Now we had to put aside our own grief – again – and parent two teenagers through a massive, unexpected loss – again. We decided that what we loved about Lowry was his free spirit, his athleticism, his commitment to the hunt, and his ability to run. He was a legend. So if he was to go, what better way than doing what he loves? (yes, that was the parenting spin – alone in a room, we could hardly breathe imagining what he went through out in the elements). Both kids accepted that, but wished we at least found him and had his tags. None of us wanted to go back to Texas without them.

For that day and half of the next (same weather – no warming trend whatsoever), we tried to keep busy. I was headed out to take the kids to a movie to burn some time (which crawls in times like these) when I received a voicemail from a gentleman saying he had Lowry, wasn’t sure if it was a he or she, and wanted to talk to how we could get him back to us. I immediately called back and discovered his address was more than 2.5 miles away, as the crow flies. We would NEVER have found him. We knew he must have found him curled up, frozen, since he didn’t know male or female and of course wouldn’t want to check beyond looking at the tag. We told the kids they couldn’t come (we weren’t sure what shape he was in) and headed that way. We were torn between fresh grief, peace at having closure, and admiration for his ability to make it that far – legend! (because who knows how many miles he actually covered, back and forth, to make it that far!). On the way, we made cremation arrangements and it just hit us all over again. We pulled up, got ourselves together, and knocked on the door. After some barking by a little dog inside (which made me irrationally angry), Chuck and his wife Bert opened the door and invited us in. I couldn’t talk so Ryan was “doing the deal” when I looked over toward the barking little dog…and saw Lowry’s face, eyes looking at me, from the other side of a baby gate. I grabbed Ryan’s arm and said, “he’s ALIVE!” – to which Ryan did not react – so I said it again, and Ryan just bent over. Poor Chuck – he was bewildered – I told him, “We thought he was dead!” and Chuck said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I never thought to say he was alive!” In retrospect, we’re sure Chuck didn’t realize how very long Lowry had been gone – almost 48 hours when he was found. Again – legend! What dog survives that? Lowry!

Lowry looked even thinner than usual, and was basically in shock. He was shedding hair like crazy while we held him. He flinched if touched when he couldn’t see it first. We were able to go grab the kids and Major before we headed to an animal hospital. All of the workers at Glen Lake Animal Hospital couldn’t believe the story, and just loved on him. The doctor examined him, and he had some nail and paw injury, as well as loads of burrs embedded in his fur. He lost almost 8 lbs in two days (more than 20% of his body weight) and the vet discovered he’d gotten into garbage and eaten paper and some other stuff, which indicates that he really did survive outdoors in the elements all that time.

For the first night, he had some trouble settling down – he always sleeps with eyes squeezed shut, but he fought sleep like a baby does for most of the evening. When he woke this morning, he walked like an old dog with hip problems, taking the stairs one at a time instead of bounding up in 3 leaps as he was doing before. But throughout today, he has eaten, taken the meds the doctor gave us, and we’ve already seen his usual Lowry personality and physicality returning, down to the tail wagging.

As I mentioned, I always liked dogs but until Major and Lowry, I wasn’t really a dog person per se. When you are an adult, especially with tweens and teens, your dogs really become the unconditional love you treasure on days when it feels there isn’t enough love going around. You take care of them day in and day out; they aren’t like children but neither are they like animals. I did not understand how deeply they burrowed into my life until those two days and nights when I thought Lowry was gone forever, and we were facing a new normal – again.

I’m so grateful for the many friends and family who checked in, prayed, and most of all, didn’t belittle or marginalize our feelings. The Hopkins community was so lovely in efforts to find him, alive or not. The Glen Lake Animal Hospital and Dr. Bettendorf were just the best. And we have huge gratitude to Chuck and Bert for helping get Lowry inside – he was skittish by the time they found him, and fortunately they used body language and words that we often use when we put him to bed, so he obeyed and came in their house.

And a last word – if Ryan loves you, and something happens to you, he WILL NOT STOP trying to find you/help you/fix you until I make him stop. He will do anything for the people – and animals – he loves. If nothing else, I’ve learned all over again how lucky Texan, London, and I are to have him.

Last spring I went to an event put on by a local fly fishing shop, Living Waters. It was called Ladyfish, and it was entirely dedicated to engaging women with the sport of fly fishing. A blend of information, hands-on practice, and storytelling, it was inspirational to say the least. I walked away with pages of notes, with one quote underlined and circled and starred. “Women can, and should, be fly fishing.”

For me, until I met my husband, fly fishing was something people did in high end films. It required an amazing stream, beautifully vintage gear, and perhaps Brad Pitt or someone similar – all captured by expert photography. But not long after I met my husband, I met his father. In the 24 years since that meeting, my view of fly fishing changed dramatically.

My father-in-law, Mike, was the definitive Minnesota outdoorsman (to me, anyway). He did it all. Hunting (deer and birds), camping (most meaningfully to me at Site 13, Mosomo Point, Cut Foot Sioux), and fishing (lake and stream), in equal measure. But it is fly fishing that best characterizes Mike in my mind.

I was fortunate to have a really lovely relationship with my father-in-law. With a husband who coaches and two kids who play sports and performed in the arts, I spend a lot of time in the stands, and more often than not, Mike was right there with me. Over the years, we had ample opportunity to engage in the sort of meandering conversation that forms the basis of comfortable friendship. One of my favorite conversations I’ve had with anyone, ever, took place on the way to the Soudan Mine and Ely, Minnesota, while Ryan and his brother stayed at the campsite to fish and my earbud-wearing kids zoned out to movies in the backseat. We covered a lot of ground over the years, including fly fishing…the streams, the trout, the gear, the rhythm, the connection. It sounded beautiful but unattainable for me. Like something that had to be a part of your DNA…and it wasn’t a part of mine.

It was only a couple of years later that Mike died, without warning, just a handful of years after his own parents. Lulled by the false expectation of many years to come, we were suddenly faced with so many questions, unanswerable in his absence. If you could only fish one stream, what would it be? How do you decide what fly to use and when to change? What is your dream catch? We knew just about all there was to pass on about camping, hunting, and fishing the lake. But fly fishing was more of an art, and a mystery. My husband had been with him many times, but was generally content to go along with the ride of Mike’s personal experience and knowledge. Suddenly, he was on his own. I certainly had nothing to contribute! It was a lonely feeling for us both.

When I saw an ad for the Ladyfish event in Round Rock less than a year later, I was intrigued enough to check the calendar. Even in the midst of baseball, basketball, and track seasons, that Saturday was wide open for me. Just to be sure, I ran it by my husband. His look of shock at my question – “Is it good by you if I go to this all-day fly fishing event for women?” – was quickly followed by an enthusiastic yes.

The event itself was pretty overwhelming, in a good way. Loads of great information, multigenerational speakers, hands on practice, and more. However, my greatest takeaway was that simple phrase – “Women can, and should, be fly fishing.”

As often is the case, life interferes between motivation and action, and mine was no different. But I knew – I knew – that I had to start fly fishing. I realized that the look that settled on my father-in-law’s face when he talked about fly fishing, and the timbre of his voice as he recounted some of his favorite adventures, were not unattainable to me at all. That connection to nature, to the water, to the process – it was accessible to me, too.

So, this fall, I finally settled on a rod to start with (for those who care, I decided to go with the Tenkara Sato, as I thought this streamlined method would help me get started without the added complication of line management). After long conversation and demonstration with the absolutely lovely people at Living Waters, I was ready to go.

With a goal of working on the cast and just getting familiar with the feel, Ryan and I grabbed my waders and took off for a local stream. It was late in the season and not the best location for a catch, but perfect for practicing the cast without catching a tree instead. And for a couple of hours, with the autumn sun spilling shadows that slowly crept across the stream, that’s exactly what I did. I’m generally an impatient learner; I want to master things quickly. But the magic I attributed to fly fishing as an outside observer proved real and true for me on the water. After the first five minutes of total discomfort, the outside world receded and I found myself in thoughtful solitude and peace. I didn’t catch a thing, and I could have stood there for hours longer exactly as I was. I was relaxed, and felt no pressure at all. Just a sense of belonging, and appreciation for God’s creation.

The early journey home of the sun in fall finally caught up with me, and I packed my things away and walked along the shore for a bit, watching my husband take a few more casts with a spinner until dusk won the day. We stopped short when we saw a really enormous fish in the water; we couldn’t believe its size. It would have been an amazing catch, and I was glad when it disappeared into the dark. Because I will be back, and I hope it will be waiting.

I found myself strangely free of responsibilities for a brief time last weekend. In a burst of spontaneity, I broke my self-imposed “read-the-book-first” rule and took myself to see The Hate U Give. A classmate from high school had challenged friends on social media to see it, process, think, listen. I have a lot of respect for her, so I did.

Well, I’m stuck on process.

Every time I start to try and even talk myself through my response, I just stop. I tried to write about it, which led to the title of this post. So I decided to just tell you a story. It requires me to share a bit more about myself than I normally do. It’s hard for me to hit publish on a post like this, because the sad truth about writing is that you do not control the reader nor the reception. But I’m going out on a ledge.

Some time ago, Austin had just enacted the ban on handheld devices in the city. I knew this was the case; I did not know that included using your phone for GPS unless it was physically mounted somewhere (i.e, propped on your dash counted as handheld, whether you had a hand on it or not). While on my way to photograph a building for a client, I was pulled over on Mopac Expressway by a police officer on a motorcycle.

For those of you who are not from Austin, Mopac is a much-travelled highway west of downtown, by which the wealthier parts of town are accessed. People drive extremely fast, there is virtually no shoulder in many places, and there is significant space between exits. So, when the officer signaled for me to pull over immediately with no exit in sight, I did my best to get as far over on the (non-existent) shoulder as possible. It is important to note that I had NO idea why I was being pulled over. I wasn’t speeding. I wasn’t texting. I wasn’t calling anyone. I couldn’t imagine it was something like a taillight, or surely the officer would follow me to an exit for safety.

The officer came to the passenger side and indicated for me to roll down the window, which I did. The conversation went something like this:

Officer: “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

Me: “No, sir, I do not.”

Officer: “Austin is a handsfree city and you were using your handheld device.”

Me: “No, sir, I was not holding my phone. It is running navigation for me.”

Officer: “We will discuss this in a moment. For now, please hand me your license and proof of insurance.”

PAUSE. At this point, I have to share something I have kept fairly private, until now. When I first began photographing real estate properties, I sometimes found myself alone in remote and vacant homes. I had some safety measures in place, including calling my partner when I arrived and when I left, or sometimes taking her or my husband along. I had the frightening experience of walking in on a squatter once. Even more often, I would arrive at a property to find myself alone with a male homeowner, and a few times my inner radar sounded the alarm. In response, I would call my husband on my cell phone…or pretend to if he didn’t answer. Now, inside I consider myself quite intimidating and fierce, but the reality is, I’m a pretty small woman. I’ve taken self-defense in the past but I am smart enough to know there are limits to my abilities. So, after a few such instances in a relatively short span of time, I decided to get my concealed handgun license. I took the course, legally purchased a gun, and began to carry it with me on these shoots. Because I am a responsible, licensed gun owner, I know that when pulled over, you are supposed to hand over your CHL with your license and inform the officer if you have a gun in the car, and where it is. So…

Me: [handing my license, CHL, and insurance card] “Here is my license and my concealed carry permit. I do have a gun in the car. It is in my camera bag in the back seat.”

Officer: [stiffens a bit, and takes a more authoritative tone] “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to exit the vehicle. Do not make any extra movement; just step out of the car now.”

Me: [looking out my window at cars whizzing by at 80mph about two feet from my door] “Sir, I can’t step out of the car! That’s oncoming traffic…I’ll be killed! I can tell you exactly where the gun is, and you can remove it while I keep my hands on the wheel.”

Officer: [a bit sterner] “Ma’am, that will not work. You have to get out of the car while your weapon is there. You may not make any move except to step out of the car.”

Me: [still not okay with dying on Mopac, so I straighten my back and respond, respectful but firm] “Sir, we are not pulled over in a safe place for me to exit this car from the driver’s side. YOU won’t even come around to the driver’s side. I can direct you to my weapon, or you can watch me climb over the passenger seat to get out, but I am NOT stepping into the right lane of Mopac!”

Officer: [really stern] “Ma’am…” [stare]

Me: [staring back] “Sir…”

Officer: [continues to stare at me; I stare back with excellent posture] “Fine. You say the gun is in the backseat? You can climb out on this side. Do not reach toward the back seat while doing so.”

So out I clambered, in a skirt and heels. He gave me a ticket and a lecture, and I stood as tall as possible and took it, knowing the entire time that I would be showing up to that court date (which I did, and won). When all was said and done, I drove off, furious. He was willing for me to endanger my life (Austin people can back me up – this is not hyperbole) over phone navigation, despite the fact that I clearly respect the law and genuinely sought not to be perceived as a threat (as evidenced by my handing over my CHL and identifying my gun and its location without waiting to be instructed).

As I later relayed the story to my husband, I was angry. I could easily have lied about there being a gun in the car, and I guarantee the officer would have believed me. I was polite, and respectful, and disagreed without being aggressive or combative, and yet he was going to insist that I step out onto Mopac. How would he feel if it were his wife being asked to do the same, I fumed. I am generally a huge fan of police officers, but I was NOT a fan of this one.

Shortly after this event occurred, a friend posted on Facebook about a talk she had with her teenage sons. I did not know then to call it “the talk” because that was vernacular that never entered my parenting world, unless you were referring to the birds and the bees. No, I mean “the talk” about her black sons driving, and what to do if they were pulled over for any reason (or, for no reason they were aware of, as I was on Mopac that day). Where to put their hands. If they were wearing a hoodie (like the ones their baseball and football teams wore for warmups), make sure the hood was down. The voice to use. The words to use. The best way to show respect, to obey, to comply. Basically – everything they should do to avoid violence, or worse. Even if they knew they had done nothing wrong.

I remember telling my husband about it, in the light of my own recent interaction at a traffic stop. The truth is, I knew I was on the side of right in my situation. There was no reason for that officer to be concerned about violence from me, because I followed the letter of the law and simply didn’t want to endanger myself due to the choice he made about where we would stop. So I felt confident and justified in standing up for my own safety at that traffic stop. But reading my friend’s words, I realized that, were I to trade places with her son and all other circumstances were equal, no one in the world would advise me to take that same confident and justified stance. No one.

And I just don’t know what to do with that. Still.