Grrrrrrieving

Elisabeth Kubler Ross wrote about DEATH AND DYING and her book included the steps associated with grieving. That was 1969. I read it in college during a psychology course or maybe sociology.

I'm entering step 2 today. ANGER: anger over Frieda having to die, more anger at the people who mistreated her so badly she feared her own shadow, even guilty anger at myself for not being able to fix it.

Expect me to write about it on this blog. Look at the title if you doubt for a moment that I wouldn't open up and try to rip those unknown individuals (I hesitate to call them humans)"a new one".

We had six dogs. Some people would say that's too many. But there are two of us and we are retired and we love dogs. All the dogs were adopted/rescued - call it what you will, they all have pasts, usually sad, some bad. Frieda's was both.

You might not think going from six to five would mean much. But it does. Each of them is bonded to the others and to us in lots of ways. One of our dogs had been tied to a tree in the country, her dead puppies and 17 other adult dogs nearby. The property owner lived an hour and a half away and drove by once or twice a week to toss out food. If the chain went far enough to get some of it then a dog was lucky. That's Sally's story. Needless to say she has issues.

We started out fostering Sally. She was adopted by friends but ran away, in the country, and that led to 9 days of searching for her, thru mucky fields. It was Frieda Joy who truly brought her back to safety, walking with me thru mud on that ninth day, making a "scent path" back to the live trap set for her. The next morning there was Sally, waiting. We brought her home. She and Frieda found solace in the life they shared here. Sally sits in Frieda's spots and went to Frieda's feeding spot when Frieda wasn't there Monday night.

I'm angry that Sally had already had much taken from her and now she has lost her best friend. Don't we all know how that feels?

For Sally and the others Frieda Joy was the alpha dog. Just her presence made it clear, even when she was frightened. She was first to the door with a greeting, first to a lap when thunder and lightning started, first to leap into the car when a field trip was in order. She got treats and then everyone else got them. We tried not to over-pamper her, tough as it was, because all the books say it's not good for them. But we spoiled her and protected her.

We just couldn't keep her from the demons she brought with her, the past sewn into her soul, carved on her heart. She covered them bravely with all the love she could muster up but sometimes those bad guys eeked out.

We helped her through those times but this time they beat us. But they didn't get the best of her. That's ours, all ours.

Kitchen Which

There was a time when I had a cute little kitchen witch hanging around here but it's long gone. Still the play on words is worth doing.

The true topic is old time kitchen smells vs. kitchen designs. Reflecting upon the flaws I find in my own kitchen I have concluded that none are so great that they cannot be overcome by the familiar smells associated with something cooking or baking.

Who among us doesn't love walking into a place where the aroma is the ambiance, the experience, the memory? [Apologies if you have scent-deficit-disorder.] Not the fancy-schmancy candle scents. I'm talking about the real thing.

Kitchens I remember are mostly those in relatives' homes. Stands to reason, as when we ate away from home it was usually at one of those houses! But there was the pink kitchen at Aunt Margaret's. As I recall it was what she always had wanted. And, we ate at a big long table in the dining room once we were old enough. I remember her checking the turkey and then suddenly ,when it was close to carving time, all the women went into action: whipping potatoes, mixing the gravy, putting out the relishes, those brown and serve rolls...dressing, jello salads - the works! It all mixed in the air and was the call to the wild to come, to come, to come and indulge.

At Aunt Grace's it was grapefruit. I remember visiting there and that is what she was serving for breakfast. I'd never had it, had never even seen it. But it didn't smell sweet. There was no surprise that it didn't taste so sweet. I ate it, using the special edged spoon and still squirting juice on myself and others. Soon I was allowed to go the room I was sleeping in and read LITTLE BLACK SAMBO, a book from the shelves in there. As I recall, the tiger ran around in a circle and melted into something. I think it was butter. Not a PC book for these times.

When I went to the country, nearby where I live now, Aunt Edie always had more overflowing dishes and more people than the table could hold. Chances are some of what we were enjoying came from somewhere in the yard or garden. What I remember most is the smell of freshness, of "just picked". There's the scent of hands being washed, of sunshine on warmed skin - all mixed with the smell of ice cold milk and also great iced tea. And I remember the china cabinet we had to avoid bumping and the party-line wall phone and the steep steps to the upstairs and the cowboy motif in my cousins' bedroom.

So, instead of changing the kitchen I will opt for a ceiling fan and lighting placed more appropriately. The heat seems to be captured and stored in the work area. That has got to cease. And, instead of wanting something that could go in a magazine layout I will opt for what can't be seen. I will keep on cookin' and bakin' to fill the air with great scents. After all, nothin' says lovin' like something from the oven, right?

Now, go to the kitchen. Inhale. Ahhhhhh.