Madeline Milkshake

 

October 11, 1996, the last time I woke up at home without a four-legged friend asking to be let out. That was until this morning. Last evening our Maddie made her trip to the rainbow bridge to catch back up with her brother Teton, who made the journey the previous year.  Madeline Milkshake Steele was a neurotic, beautiful golden lab, a month shy of turning 15. 

Our introduction to Maddie all started one afternoon when Jill was driving the girls home from school and her phone pinged. Jill asked the girls to see what that notification was to which they said, ‘Ginger had babies!’, “Who’s Ginger?” Jill asked not knowing the context that they were actually puppies. Ginger was our neighbor’s dog. Once home Jill and the girls visited next door to congratulate the new mom and her puppies. Little blobs of silky smooth fur, the size of a computer mouse and with eyes still closed. Our neighbor Shane had recently had an accident and was having trouble getting around, making taking care of the new mom and pups difficult. This was the impetus for what became daily visits to make sure everyone in the canine maternity ward was taken care of.

 We hadn’t planned on getting more dogs. We still had Auckie, our spotted wonder dog, though he was getting older and set in his ways. After visiting the puppies daily for numerous weeks, we decided to see if the multiple dog generations could get along. To our relief, Auckie simply ignored the lab toddlers as they bounced around. We decided to adopt two of the four puppies from the litter (2 yellow and 2 chocolate labs). Sarah gravitated to the chocolate lab who was the runt of that quad litter.  He especially liked being petted and was as calm, as I’ve ever seen a dog. Alex was attracted to Maddie, the feisty yellow lab who wasn’t shy about pushing her siblings out of the way at feeding time (nickname foreshadowing).

We now had two new puppies, but what to name them? The summer before we had visited a couple majestic National Parks and I floated the idea of naming them Teton and Yellowstone. A location-based naming strategy that I had started with Auckie. The name Teton the Grand stuck, but Alex had other ideas so the nearly named Yellowstone moniker was replaced with Madeline Milkshake (aka Maddie). 

So began the adventures of Teton and Maddie, ‘The Puppies’ as they came to be known.  In one of their first acts, they managed to prune (eat to the ground) the rose bushes we had around the back patio.  I kid you not.  When not working on their diets, they excelled at making walks around the neighborhood seem more like water skiing on land. The trick was to hold on, lean back and try not to fall or else risk being dragged indefinitely.

One of nicer habits Maddie and her brother had was to dart out the front door to visit their mom next door.  They would race to the front door, if no one answered they would dart right back home.  This nieghborly dash caught visitors to our house off guard, as well as our nonchalant reaction to the labs taking off across the lawns.  One of their most profitable visits came when they ran out of our garage, into the open garage next door and through the open house door.  They emerged minutes later, each with a gigantic Milkbone treat jammed sideways in their mouths and their tails wagging furiously celebrating their snack victory.

For Maddie the other side of her behavior coin may best be summed up by her trip to the groomer.  It was an utter failure of anxiousness.  Maddie was ‘invited not to come back’ after pooping multiple times on the person who didn’t see the humor in it that I did.

As they collectively got older, the puppies settled into their patterns of eating promptly at 6am, begging to play catch with anyone who would wander onto the back patio and doing everything together, side by side. 

As the world shut down, they were the two happiest beings on the planet.  We were around all day, every day.  They would nap on either side of me during each workday, I would refer to them as ‘my office staff’.  An office staff that had to be let out to the back yard only during the conference calls I was hosting of course.

The challenges of old age catch up to everyone.  Her golden hair turned snow white on her face.  Further along the path to getting old Maddie lost her hearing.  This made me particularly sad because I never saw a dog who enjoyed getting her name called more than Maddie.  She loved attention, always!  Now she didn’t have that simple pleasure that brought her so much joy.  After Teton passed in August of 2022, one day we were coming back to the house after running an errand.  When we got out of the car, we could hear Maddie howling.  It occurred to us that this was the first time in her entire life she had been alone.  Completely alone.  Before she always had Teton to nap next to when we were out.  Her howling expression of loneliness occurred each time we were out.  We then made a concerted effort to minimize the time Maddie was left by herself.  Through our tag team family scheduling, great friends, and fantastic neighbors we found house sitters and babysitters all trying to give her company and comfort.

Madeline Milkshake, the yellow lab who always sought the center of attention because she simply wanted to please.  She will be missed; she will be terribly missed, even for the 3am restroom calls.

In lieu of flowers, please donate to your local SPCA or a rescue organization.

Hung by the chimney with care

 

“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.”

This classic line is from 1823, when Clement Clarke Moore (or possibly Henry Livingston Jr.) wrote “A Visit From Saint Nicholas,”  The history of hanging stocking by the fire place can be tracked to this story, or if you are to believe the 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town' ledged, stockings were a clever plan to defeat the tyranny of the Burgermeister Meisterburger.  Either way, Christmas stockings became a yearly tradition for many. 

When I was a little kid our Christmas mantel was graced by a collection of Woolworth Christmas stockings.  Our family went with the standard red, with the white pho-fur cuff with our names in glitter glued into that fur.  Each year the stockings held traditional goodies that were reveled in the early morning.  We would find an orange (a harbinger of spring is on it’s way), the candy cane tube with m&m’s and the mystery chocolate Whitman Sampler to name a few. 

The yearly Christmas tradition was the same until the year my brother gifted us with personalized stockings.  Each stocking reflecting the interest and personality of the family member.

Here are my Mom and Dad’s stockings.  Mom’s with customized counter cross stitched birds on a Christmas sprig and Dad’s reflecting all of the fish he hadn’t caught over the years.  The second tradition that my brother’s action put into motion was the gifting of a Christmas stocking as others joined the family over the years.  When Jill joined our clan she was gifted a burnt orange boot with a rope script of her name and Rudolph the red nosed Bevo on the front. 

Of course the boot stocking being a little smaller than all others was rectified a decade latter when Jill was presented the Texas sized lone star stocking! 

When our girls came along, their first Christmas included the gifting their family stockings.  

Alex’s with snowflakes and the cuff as if it was a snowdrift sliding off the roof.  Sarah’s a Christmas candle and the cuff trimmed with silver feathers.  Each stocking garnished with a Heinz pickle pin for luck in the coming year.  

The power of tradition was reenforced with me last year.  I realized at the last moment I hadn't purchased oranges for the stockings.  Something I had done every year so my girls would experience a little winter magic like I did as a kid every Christmas morning.  Since to the best of my knowledge my girls never ate the oranges, not once, I shrugged off trying to make a last minute run to pick up the tropical fruit.  

After taking the stockings down and sifting through the goodies, Sarah expressed her disappointment in not having an orange.  Then it hit me, the orange wasn't just for having a naturally sweet treat, but rather a reminder that tradition matters, delivering comfort and seasonal continuity.  

My brother’s creativity continued to spread cheer as I had him create stockings for Jill’s sisters.  Lynn’s reflects her keen interest in her convertible Triumph in its classic styling.  Molly’s stocking screaming CHIRSTMAS! From the Muppets' Animal, complete with his chain and the body of the stocking being a monster’s foot.

Each of these stockings reflecting a family tradition and the tremendous skill my brother has in taking pieces of a person and stitching the thoughts into a meaningful gift that delivers holiday smiles each year as they are unpacked and hung by the chimney with care in anticipation of St Nick.

A Visit from St. Nicholas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

Four Orphans

The phone rang and it was my mom calling.

‘Thank you for the angel, It’s beautiful.  I have it hanging on the sliding glass door going to the balcony so I can see it all the time. ‘

A week or so earlier I had mail ordered mom the stained-glass angel through one of the numerous knickknack catalogues laying around the house after the holidays.  I was mostly happy that I had remembered to order it in enough time to have it delivered for her birthday.  My track record on such timing wasn’t always stellar.


“I’m glad you like it, I thought you would.”

“Oh yea, it looks great and catches the light in the window.”

That birthday conversation occurred sometime in the early ‘00s, I just don’t recall the specific year.

My mom and dad were not fancy folks.  They didn’t have a lot of extras.  I think spending money was difficult for them both in concept and actuality, seeing that they grew up through the Great Depression.   My mom would have never thought to spend money on herself for such an item like the angel.  While she got great pleasure out of this stained-glass art, and loved seeing it each day, she simply wouldn’t have made the purchase herself.  

Angel on the window years ago.

And so the angel with the translucent wings, golden hair, white gown with rose colored shawl watched over their living room, season after season, year after year. 

I enjoyed greeting the angel each time I’d get to visit them.  She would rattle against the window reminding you she was there when the glass door was opened or shut.  Other than that, her job was to quietly transform the light coming through the window.   In that job the angel excelled for more than a decade and a half.  Always faithful and serenely in place.

Like her reluctance about spending money on extras, I believe my mom’s youth shaped many of her perspectives on the world.  This included the creation of the Shirley measurement system.  While most of the world aligns to the Metric system and the US stubbornly adheres to the American system of measurements, my mom applied the Shirley standards.  A sampling of her measurement system includes key metrics such as:

*  Sheets to the Wind:  A visual judgement of someone who has had a few too many drinks.  A graduated scale maxing out at ‘three’, as in “he is three sheets to the wind.”

·        * Hogan’s Alley:  A way of communicating how messy a child’s bedroom is.  “Your room is worse than Hogan’s alley!”  I’m not sure who Hogan was, but apparently his side street was always a mess.

·       * None the Worse for Wear:  A somewhat vague evaluation regarding the wear and tear experienced by an item or person who had traversed an adverse event. 

Birthday Quilt

As long as I can remember my mother applied these Shirley measurements as the opportunities presented themselves.  These expressions come from the straightforward, some might say old-fashion, experiences that formed her life.  She simply was un-assuming with measured expectations.  Such was the case this past January when she had her 91^st birthday.  My sisters and brother had a family party for her, presenting her with a handmade quilt, with embroidered handprints of the immediate family members.  The get together was followed by dinner at Crackle Barrel, yes, Crackle Barrel.  My daughter and I spoke to mom late that day and she was very happy.  She couldn’t believe everyone went to all that trouble for her.  Her thoughts that afternoon were clear, expressing joy, happiness and mostly gratefulness.  It was a good day.  A really good birthday for mom.

Mom and Nolan

The angel made the relocation to my sister Lyn’s house when my mom moved in with her two years ago.  The angel received a new perch, catching the afternoon sunlight streaming through the trees and over the backyard deck.  She watched over my mom a few feet above her chair.  The same chair she would nap through cooking shows in, read stories to her great grandchildren in and endlessly read the directions on miniature boxes that contained her eye drop bottles.  


My sister and brother-in-law had just gotten back to the house after visiting mom who was admitted to the hospital a few days before.  While getting coats off and settling in during what had been a long, tiring day, they noticed the window above mom’s chair was uncomfortably empty. 

The angel had fallen.  


After over a decade of watching from her perch on my mom and dad’s window and another two years of dedicated sentry duty over my mom’s chair, the angel laid on the floor.  Part of the rose shawl had broken off, the white gown now with a tear in it, but all in all the angel retained her simple peaceful beauty.  You might say the angel was none the worse for wear.

Mom died the following day.
…
..

Mom and Dad late 40s

My mom had simple needs to experience happiness.  A good card game, ALDI oatmeal-cranberry cookies, a good book (before dementia stole her ability to string thoughts together), a really good fish sandwich (the kind that sticks out from all sides of the bun at the Friday fish fry), a restaurant that isn’t too noisy and hearing about her kids and grandkids.  While the later years removed some of those pleasures from her daily life, music continued to be a portkey to better times.  My family would play the 40’s Sirius station when riding in the car with mom.  She would sing along knowing the lyrics to each song from her youth.  Singing to those songs seemed to put her in two times of her life at once.

Along with her unique measurement system expressions, mom also had an saying that she would often recite.  Perhaps it was a way to put tiredness or frustration in its place.  Perhaps it was simply a habit to give daily events perspective.  Perhaps it was a comforting reminder of the end goal.  She would say,

“Oh dear bread and beer, if I were in heaven I wouldn’t be here.”

Mom isn’t here anymore.

The four of us are orphans now.

The power of music and memories is beautifully captured in this short from the movie Coco.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgpBt5STusE

Appalachian Spring

Circa 2015/16

“Learn a lot or don’t come home.

I love you.

Have Mr. Katz include Appalachian Spring in the band concert.”

I said those same three statements to my daughter Sarah three hundred and fifty-seven times during her 7^th and 8^th grade years.  I know this because it’s how I said goodbye to her each morning dropping her off at Clark Middle School.  All of which earned me the ever-popular eye roll followed by,  “c-ya”.

Those who might doubt my mathematical computation are underestimating my ability to be middle school child annoying.   Each semester I eagerly attended the school band concert awaiting the surprise of Appalachian Spring filling the auditorium/cafeteria with it’s sweet melody.  

I was disappointed each time.  I let my disappointment be known to Sarah. 

Fast forward to the fall of 2017 and Marching Band competition season.  Sarah was now a proud member of the flute section of the Centennial HS Mighty Titan Band.  She had ‘made the show’, meaning she would be marching in the competition season with a chance to ‘go to states’, and honor reserved for a select few schools that march and play and show themselves to be superior to other schools in the area.  Expectations were running high given that two years before the Band with show entitled ‘Empire’ was selected for the state competition.

It was a very cold evening that fall night as we waited for the results.  The drum majors in their full regalia were standing at attention with their band sitting in the stands on the far side of the field.   The mins dragged on.   I sat there with my older daughter who wasn’t shy about vocalizing her frustration as the waiting surpassed 10 mins, 15 mins and more. 

I said, ‘Alex my guess is there is a tie in the score and the judges/officials are trying to communicate everything to the band directors who had been summoned to the press box 20 mins before.  As the speakers in the stadium ended their silence, everyone knew the math.  Nineteen bands had qualified for the area competition, so only three bands would be going to states.  As the school names were read off each set of drum majors stepped forward and performed their ritual salute.  As we got down to bands 6 (not us), then 5 (not us), then 4 – Centennial HS Frisco.  What?   No?  surely they read the wrong school. 

The nerves and the shock and the disappointment was nearly overwhelming for us parents, siblings and friends.  I honestly thought my Alex was going to throw up right then and there.  She was crushed for her sister and friends who wouldn’t have the chance to ‘go to states’ and experience all of that recognition.  As it turns out, my guess was correct, there was a tie.  Two schools for third place, our school and another and using some tie breaking method the other school was award the chance to go to San Antonio and compete at the state competition. 

Alex and I made our way out to the parking lot where all of the school buses in the world had collected to transport all of these bands home.  We spoke briefly with friends in the band we knew and told them how much we liked their performance and how sorry we were for them missing states.   Those awkward, cliché sentences that while well meaning may not be helping those they are intended for at all.   The other pain of the night was knowing it would be two years before they could try again – ‘states’ for band competition is an every other year event.

Fast forward to the spring of 2019.

While working away on yet another conference call at work my cell phone rang.  It was Sarah calling.  Not texting but calling.  I think this might have been the second time in her life she actually called during work.  She texts quite a bit, but calling surely meant something had to have been up.  Worried I tossed off my headset and swiped the phone to talk with her.

Sarah - “Dad, guess what?”

Me - “nothing’s wrong, right?”

Sarah - “no – nothings wrong.  Guess what is included in our show next fall?”

For the first time in years I didn’t think of the title of the song, I was simply relieved there wasn’t something wrong.

Sarah - “Appalachian Spring, can you believe it?”

I thought she was pulling my leg.  No lie, one of my first thoughts was, ‘this is musical-magical-mojo’ and ‘they are going-to-states!’  I push that thought to the back of my mind and never spoke about it, not once.  Not to anyone. I thought about it a lot.  I mean a lot, but I never spoke about it, least it not come true. 

Late summer and early fall comes around with the band working through their show.  Competition season is each weekend in October, and it is common for the first weekend or two to not be the complete show, which was the case for the band.   Which means they were not playing Appalachian spring during those opening weeks.  

I started to tell Sarah that I think she was really pulling my leg and that they really were not playing it in the show. One evening I stopped by the south parking lot of school to snap a few pictures of the band practicing.  Sarah, now a junior drum major up on a conducting stand, saw me, laughed and said, “you just missed it, we went back to practicing part two.”    ‘sure, you did’ I replied.

Then Mr Rein said, ‘full run through’ to which I looked back over to Sarah who was already grinning back at me.  I was impatient as the band ran through the sections of the show I had witnessed them practice 837 times (not an exact count, but pretty close).  Then their marching formations went from swirling ovals to formal marching band lines.  The brass section knocked me back with the sound I had waited for all this time.  It was beautiful.  It was powerful and even emotional.  Appalachian spring was the closer sound, the sound that would cap a fantastic Spring and Sprung show and gain them high scores.  Rewarding scores.

During the whole marching season I witnessed a half a dozen or so practices.  Some in 97+ degree heat of August and some after long days of school.  I was struck by the togetherness, the encouragement and spirit the band collectively had.  Repeating sections of the performance again, and again.  Checking their ‘dots’, correcting, then doing it all again and again.  Section leaders and other shouting encouragement as they reset for the 23^rd , 24^th, 25^th time to perfect each bit of the show.   Other’s doing pushups as personal penalties for not hitting their spots.  The teamwork, collaboration, support, togetherness I found to be exceptional.

Fast forward to October 26, Area UIL competition day.  Competition day for selecting which bands, ‘go to states’.  Centennial didn’t have a good draw for the preliminaries– performing second out of the 21 bands competing.  The morning of the performance also presented with 45 degrees making the instruments all that harder to produce a good sound.  The Mighty Titan Band performed beautifully, now it would be up to the preliminary judges to determine which 10 bands perform in the evening finals competition.  

At the preliminary awards Centennial advanced to the finals with many of the other bands we know as very strong contenders.  This year would be no different, the competition in the finals would be very stiff in order to determine which 4 bands would head to San Antonio.

It’s often said in sports, leave it all out on the field.  In their group circles I overheard the section leaders imploring each band mate to do exactly that.  Give it their all, deliver greatness.

In their performance that evening the Mighty Titan Band certainly delivered an inspired performance.  The marching was sharp, the solos/duets were stunning beautiful, the quartet saxophone bees were great fun and as the horns turned to the crowd Appalachian Spring filled the stadium for the crescendo of the show.  They were done!

The last band of the competition performed and then the drum majors marched in lining up waiting to hear their fate.

The announcements came late again.  The 10th and 9th and 8th places were not tremendous surprises.  Then seventh place was announced, it wasn’t Centennial.   Then sixth place, and the name ‘Love Joy High School’ was announced to the audible surprise of the audience.  Love Joy was a perennial favorite to be a top band.  This meant there was an opening in the top four.

This is the part of the Friday’s Note where I share the great news that some other school was announced in 5^th place, the last non-qualifying spot.  The time when I say all that hard work, all that encouragement, all of those hours and weeks and months of practice paid off.   When the disappointment of missing going to states two years early by one spot becomes just a distant pain.  The spot in the Friday’s Note where I say that the special musical-mojo of Appalachian Spring catapulted them into the final four.

“In fifth place, ……………… Centennial High School Frisco”

The Titan drum majors in their formal whites stepped forward, performed their salute, accepted their plaque, then stepped back into formation.

It was over.

One spot from states.

No going to San Antonio.

The rest of the award announcements were noise to me.  I heard the school names, knowing kids and parents associated with several of those schools.  Surely they were excited.  I could hear the screams, see the hugs, smiles and laughter.  Could hear their bands yelling from the far side of the field excited for what they had accomplished.  All well deserved.   It just swirled around me.

I made my way out of the stadium to the side parking lot where I knew the band would have to walk through.  Jill came by pulling her little medical suitcase as the medic for the band.  Tears running down her face.  Forming full sentences was a struggle for the two of us.  A little later as the band meandered by, Sarah spotted me and came over leaning into me.  I hugged her and said they had done great and I was proud of them and proud of her.  I was proud, more than any words could appropriately convey.   I had nothing magical to say. The mojo was not there.  The special, weird connection of the Sarah and me and Appalachian Spring had come up short.  It’s one thing to feel disappointment for oneself.  I discovered the level of pain is that much more when feeling disappointment for your kids and kids you don’t know personally but wish so much for.   I called Alex at college to tell her the news and to buy time due to the traffic.  She was already aware of the results.  Apparently, twitter is faster than dad.  There was a lot of silence on the phone between us.  We had no words as the feelings from two years previous came back to us this night. 

When Sarah eventually got home that night, we were sitting in the kitchen talking about the day and she relayed the following story to me.  It was very quiet on the bus after the competition, while being stuck in the parking lot gridlock.  The mood somber with some members quietly crying in their disappointment.  The marching season was effectively over, over before they wanted it to be.  That is when Matt, a senior trumpet player and section leader stood and loudly exclaimed, “I have announcement to make!   I hereby retire from Marching Band!”   Smiles and a little laughter greeted his proclamation.  He had broken the silence and even brought semi-forced smiles to some faces.  Things loosened up and people started talking.  As had been done during summer band camp, after school practices and Friday Night Light performances the band was together.  Lifting each other up and moving forward, even if it was forward through a painful life lesson.

I’ll leave the discussion and disdain for judge number 2 to another day.  Today is for celebrating the band, their togetherness, their leadership, their work ethic and their beautiful power and excellent performance of their show Spring has Sprung, including Appalachian Spring.

It will always have a little magic-mojo to me, but a little less than the day before.

Here is the Centennial High School Mighty Titan Band competition show Spring has Spung!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=3&v=2WBJGtdRVY4