Flower Friday

This Friday we are joining our friend Jakey for Flower Friday's blog hop!

The roses have bloomed at our neighbor's.  This is the view I have out of my office.

Wordless Wednesday - When Dad has to Work Very Late

Call of the Beguiled - a Post for Murphy and Stanley's Family

This is for the parents of Murphy and Stanley or anyone in Blogville that loves being in the outdoors, fishing, hiking, biking, or camping.
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The sun was setting, leaving wisps of lavender ribbons across the sky; clouds moving up the mountains, strands through which I could see the last phase of the moon. The bobber moved slightly, a fish, or the wind? I had seen one huge fin slicing the surface of the water, it was either a big carp or Nessie. I was tempted to jerk the line, but I waited. This is what patience is all about, being wholeheartedly engaged in the process that's unfolding, rather than yanking the line to see what's at the other end. Patience is good. I've been going full tilt for so long that it's time.

I learned to fish, up here on the Gray's river, within eyesight of an old wooden covered bridge that's still here today. The waders and equipment are still stored in Dad's garage if the urge to go out on the water, arises. Steelhead fishing isn't for the impatient, or the truly hungry, for we would come home without a fish more times than with.

I've had more than one female friend say"  "Aren't you bored?"

Then there was the salmon fishing,  early mornings in the back of a boat, making the treacherous trip across the Columbia River Bar, glad we went with a more expensive ride out to sea, rather than the one handed dude with a boat named "Roll of the Dice". On such trips, we usually brought home a fish but that was after being drenched with water that shot up against the bow like a geyser, the colors of the sea's rainbow glittering on the hull, as only slow deliberate movements are made, lest one get tossed into a white, hissing eternity.

I've fished both saltwater and freshwater salmon, the freshwater moving in from the oceans of their life into the rivers to spawn. There's nothing like it, that fixed spot in space when you think maybe you've snagged a rock on the bottom and suddenly the whole bottom begins to move and shake and you've got a freight train on your line. While your vision is clouded with bacon wrapped salmon and the hickory smell of the smoker firing up, your muscle memory is having a boxing tournament with a fish as big as a 3 year old, jumping out of the water, dancing on his tail like a washed out celebrity, then diving back into the water.

The male salmon is, as they say, all show and no roe, cocky and overambitious, The female, though, not inclined to bite, when she does will lay in with a heavy and placid stubbornness that begs you to start something. Like arguing with any female of strength and persuasion you had either be prepared for a long drawn out test of will or simply get out the scissors, cut the line and admit THAT was a mistake

Bored? Never.

Patience isn't stressed, rushed; its a steady strength we apply to life as we face it, be it staff to train, forms in quadruplicate or aging parents. As I waited, the call of a loon brought me back into the moment and I thought things happening back at home, rather than why I came here. And then the sound of it reminded me. "Can you hear that?" I whispered to the old dog sitting by my side, poised to strike in case I reeled in a pound of bacon. "That" being the sound of a small bass jumping on a small span of water on a planet spinning through space. This is what fishing is all about, not catching anything for supper, but simply a time with nature to be savored, when delight imbibes through every pore with the gossamer cast of a line. I really don't care if I catch anything tonight. I just enjoyed the communion of elemental waters.

This is why I hated the modern version of camping. Huge motor homes, where roughing it means doing without ESPN. Neighbor's closer than found in any subdivision. Camping was a fire built with magic and swear words, burned wienies and good beans, woodsmoke and bug spray, paper plates that fell apart. My camping was the sound of a hoot owl as the sun sets, it's dying rays reflected in a cup of beer as a black lab snoozed happily by the fire. I'm here, for those times when I don't wish to sacrifice the wonder of the present moment to work, society or noise. A loner always, I want a broad margin to my life. I can sit in the fading sunlight of a doorway between two trees from dinner til dark fall, rapt in a revere in undisturbed stillness and solitude.

As dusk settles in, I wonder about the lapse of time, the evening seeming like a mere moment, time like a season in which I grew like flowers in the night. Philosophers talk about contemplation and the forsaking of work and out here I realize what they meant. The day advances as the light comes into it, it's morning, and now it's evening, and nothing memorable is done. My days are not minced into deadlines of a ticking clock or the perusal of things no longer breathing. Let mornings be lazy, afternoons pass by in long walks or a flip of a fishing pole and if the day becomes wasted in the warm rapture of a sunset as nature sings its song in my ear - what's the harm?

Poets talk about "spots of time," but its only been flying and on the water where I've experienced eternity compressed into a moment. A moment where in an instant you can see your whole life and make a choice. No one can even explain to you what this "spot of time" is until your whole horizon is a fish and then the fish is gone. I thought of one large fish up in Alaska. I shall remember that fish when I'm an old lady. When I brought him up and saw the sun glinting off his back, rainbow diamonds of light against the waves, I was so enamored of him I couldn't even take a breath and in that instant, before he was gone time stopped. Only then did it hit me what I had lost.

I thought back to fly fishing in Montana, watching the fly fisherman standing, rod in hand, in the rushing water. His movement the languid strokes of a lover, making the most beautiful movements, a ballet of line and wind and hook. A ritual of the chase, the cast like a tease to the unsuspecting trout, content in their world, until he pulled them into his. As the trout took the bait, the man would smile, that quick knowing smile, and pull with a quick flick of his fingers and hands, like light strokes on a keyboard, touching yet pulling, desire planted, hook in place. Then after reeling the trout in, he ever so gently pulled the hook from the mouth of the trout, gently cradling her in his hand, a tender goodbye. Without a sound, just a quick unemotional tickle of her belly, he released her back downstream. He never looked back.


Catch and Release.

This was the outdoors. Splashes of daylight that recharged what you came here with. This was our outdoors. Unidentifiable sounds in the darkness that made you hold your breath at the bottom of your sleeping bag. A good book read with a dying flashlight, shadows dancing on the wall of a small canvas tent, and the musty smell of freedom and adventure. A quiet prayer to my God over a meal garnered by my own hand and cooked over a campfire.  A time when growth may not be on the surface but may be internal, and the weekend quietly drifts by in the warm embrace of the woods. But even in the woods, any good day must end.

As the last of the daylight seeped out of the sky, I thought back to work, but only briefly, for my mind now is rippled, not storm-tossed. These small ripples of water raised by the evening's wind are the only hint of turmoil in the calm. As the day pulled out of the sky, taking the wind with it, I cast one last time out into the still center of the water. There, utter and complete stillness, holding my breath, because even inhaling and exhaling was like a cacophony. The animals of the day were hunkering down for rest, and the night creatures not quite yet stirring, there was no breeze, no recognition of air even; it was the sound of nothing and everything. It felt like all my life past and present was contained in one space, and I was not just casting into it, I was part of it. Where for just a brief moment in the universe, the clock stopped ticking, and the world hushed.

The last night I went fishing back West I didn't bring a trout home for dinner, my true catch was as intangible as the starlight now playing on the water. I think of Thoreau's words "many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after". To fish it to flirt, to flirt, we fish, dancing with fate. Icy water and warm lips, we thirst, we reach with that last translucent breath, closing our eyes to softly bite the secret barb. We are drawn in with a soft gasp of breath, chest softly heaving, as we look into the unknown, up into the eyes that desired us.

This was my catch. Some nights in the woods, where I was able to pull the barb of civilization from my lips and swim rapidly to where the wild called to me. Where my heart is always at home.

Labrador Five-O

A friend of mine is having a birthday.  It can be hard to find just the right card for a treasured friend who is not happy about hitting the big Five-0.

But I found one  :-)

Tomorrow is crazy busy - so I'll see you all on Tuesday  (if my friend doesn't kill me  :-)

Saturday Eats - Gluten Free Pancakes

On our next vacation, I want to stay here!!
The Dog Bark Park Inn in Idaho.

Since jackhammers woke us up at 7 a.m. with the Village tearing out part of our street (which apparently they finished by 9 a.m. and then quit for the day), we got up earlier than normal.

I think I need some carbs (yawn).

How about some gluten-free pancakes?  Bricks? my husband said.  Nope, edible ones, using the King Arthur Flour Baking Mix (which has leavening in it already, like Bisquick).

Some stores carry it but you can order it direct at:

• King Arthur Flour

These turned out tall and fluffy and tasty!

Abby even got one!

In a bowl mix:
1 cup King Arthur Flour Gluten Free Baking Mix
1 Tablespoon sugar

In another bowl mix:
in 3/4 cup measure put 1/2 teaspoon lemon juice then top off with milk or almond milk, let sit five minutes
1 large egg
splash of vanilla extract
1 and 1/2 tablespoons melted butter.

Mix wet and dry ingredients just until moist, then cook on an oiled griddle.  These make a tall pancake so go for smaller ones, not plate sized or they won't cook through

Note:  If you want to make these with regular flour (not a baking mix) add 1 tsp baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon baking soda, 1/2 teaspoon salt and 2 additional Tablespoons of milk

Stormy Weather

Unlike Barkley, Abby Lab hates the water.  She won't go for a walk in it unless she REALLY has to go potty and you take an umbrella.  The kiddie pool was a total bust, she wouldn't eve step in it for a treat.  She even walks funny if the grass is wet, as if trying not to put her full weight down.

Late yesterday the remnants of  Tropical Storm Alberto barrelled over Chicagoland.  There was very little thunder or lightning but boy did it rain, pouring for about an hour enough that there was flash flooding in parts of the city.  It cleared out pretty quickly and since our driveway and street are torn up for new paving, my husband took Abbey for the alternate walk route, down our graveled alley which had some significant spots with pooled water.

Imagine my surprise when they came back and formerly dry Miss Abby was thoroughly soaked and HAPPY.

Apparently, she may not like water but she LOVES mudpuddles!

Abby is sending a big shout out to her dear friend Frankie Further who is having a barkday today.  His Mom said his present arrived.  It's a handmade stuffie that looks like Abby from one of our favorite Etsy sites  https://www.etsy.com/shop/wagsandwiggles

The Rescuers

Chapter 32 – The Rescuers.  From the Amazon #1 Best Seller "Saving Grace - A Story of Adoption" by L.B. Johnson


When the phone rang late one night, I recognized the voice. The caller was in law enforcement, a female friend, not a colleague. We chitchatted regularly, but a call this late was not good news and I was afraid it was professional in nature. She said, “I need you to help me rescue a dog.” Apparently, the deadbeats who’d been living in an old rental house down the road from her place booked out in the middle of the night. She saw the vehicles loading up and leaving. Good riddance, she thought.

Then, late at night, carried on the wind she heard the pitiful cry. A coyote? A dog? The neighbors are gone, it must be someone else, she thought. The next night she didn’t hear it over the cold wind, but on the third night she did, a high pitched whine of a soul’s abandonment.

The house remained dark; the utter stillness, complete silence a testament to the tears outside. My friend crept over, seeing no sign that the residents were anything but gone; the house empty of belongings, the yard covered in trash. It was a pup, a retriever, purebred from its looks, left chained up in the backyard with a bowl of rainwater and no food. Left to die when they vacated in a hurry.

She called: “I need backup.” I knew what she meant. So off I headed, taking no purse, only the gear in my truck, some cash, and dog treats in my pocket. When I got there the house was definitely vacant; no meth heads would be coming back and surprising us.

 As we approached, even in the dark we could see that the poor animal, a young dog, was starving and cold. The temperatures had been reaching down in the forties. Tonight was gray and even colder, with a forecast of freezing rain. For now, the sky held in the moisture, refusing to release it; but it was supposed to go below freezing soon. The dog wouldn't have survived the night, its only companion the smell of water and blood.

 Blood? Why did I smell blood?

My friend, crouched down over the dog as I stood watch, pointed at something. Hard-nosed law officer that she was, she had tears in her eyes: the dog had outgrown her collar, and it was actually was cutting deep into the flesh, leaving bloody tracks in what should have been the soft fur of contentment. The poor animal had to be in terrible pain, but she only licked our hands and tried to snuggle up.

My friend asked, “Can you get it out?” I always have some first aid and medical type implements in my bag, but I had to say, “I’ve never cut on anything still breathing.”

I expected the dog to bite me as I worked gently with small tools to free it. But she just continued to nuzzle our hands, even though in my attempt to remove this tiny round torture device I had to be causing her more pain. I looked up to the sky, thinking for a moment the clouds had finally given up their rain, when I realized that what was on my tongue was the taste of salt as I worked away.

When finally we stood up, the dog in my friend’s arms and the remnants of that collar lying on the ground like a broken mirror, we heard the crunch of tires. Both of us were poised for fight or flight until we saw that it was local law enforcement. There was the flash of red and blue, of a bright flashlight, the glint of a shield. We smiled, hands in view, thankful for the assistance and my friend was recognized with a “What are you ladies doing out here?”

 My friend called out, “Hey D.!” He replied, calling her by name, “. . . .What are you doing out here? I was keeping an eye on this place in case they were back and up to no good.” She said, “I’m just stealing this dog, sir.”

 He looked at the dog, a puppy really, then looked at me and said, “Who’s this?” She told him who I was, his eyes smiled as he recognized the name, and he chuckled and said, “And what are you doing out here?” I said. “Helping her to steal this dog, sir!”

He just laughed. Calling the local animal officer was suggested, but we told him, given this very remote and rural area, that might take an hour or more; the pup was in bad shape and had lost blood, she could die if we didn’t do something. My friend told the officer we’d take the dog to the vet, pay the bill ourselves, and get her a good home. The dog clearly was a stray in the eyes of the law, abandoned to die. The officer just said, “Dog? What dog? I didn’t see any dog,” and tucked some money in our hands to help toward the vet bill before he helped us load up and drove off.

The dog was cleaned up at the vet’s office, an after-hours emergency call. The wound would not cause any permanent damage but was serious. In a few hours that gentle little retriever was bandaged up and home at my friend’s. After we raised an amber toast in crystal goblets, recognition among tired friends, the pup curled up to sleep near the fire, joining a household that already had two spoiled, well-loved dogs. As I looked at their forms and my own, I realized that life brings us friends in many forms—both two- and four-legged, both with their own healing power of Grace.

Blogville Memorial Day 2018

Today's the day we join our friends at

• Living, Loving, and Barking in our Backyard

for Blogville's Memorial Day Festivities including a trip to the amusement park

I've got the catering truck fired up and ready to go! My boyfriend Frankie Furter is going to help set me up at the amusement park for all the foodables and we have lots of boxes of Treats from Chewy.com to share.

Before we eat, a prayer for all the brave men and women who have died defending freedom, what Memorial day is all about.

Then time for fellowship, fun, and food.

 There are lots of hot dogs and beefables to make a sandwich

 Pigs in a Blanket with bacon

Is the chicken done yet?

Oh yum - Cluck Strips!

Don't lick the grill!

Yum - Cheesy Mice

Lots of fruit!

Crunchy Cheesy Bites

Deviled Eggs

Pizza Bones!

Frosty Paw Style Bites

And of course. . . . 

Lots of Toilet Water.  Don't forget -  my BFF
Ruby the Airedale
has the Margarita Truck here and fired up so go visit!

Sunday Eats -

I've done the Swedish waffle on here a few times, but this weekend's take on it was our favorite so far.  They were made by replacing 1/4 of the flour with stone-ground cornmeal, adding a dash of vanilla, and cooking it an extra 15-20 seconds so the edges got all crispy like the edges of cornbread taste like when they are cooked in a cast iron skillet.  They were SO good.

You WILL need a Swedish waffle iron to bake these up extra thin (unlike Belgium waffles).  I have the Chef's Choice 840 ($69) and I've been really happy with it. I got mine from Amazon The heart-shaped Swedish waffles are a staple around here and on really hot days we have them for dinner with a little bacon and fresh fruit.  It also makes a super delicious thin brownie dessert.

MMMM, waffles . . . .

Cornmeal Swedish Waffles

Mix in a medium bowl in order given:

3/4 cup flour (if using gluten-free flour add 1/2 tsp Xanthan gum)
1/4 cornmeal
2 teaspoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
dash of salt
a small splash of vanilla extract (about 1/8 teaspoon)
3/4 cup skim milk
1 egg
3 Tablespoons melted butter, cooled slightly

Whisk until all ingredients combined - there will be a few small lumps in it - that's normal.

Using a 1/3 cup measure (or following your iron's directions) pour batter in the waffle iron sprayed with a little nonstick spray. You'll be tempted to add more batter.  DON'T.  Trust me, you'll have a mess. I love this waffle iron as it beeps when they are done, they turn out perfectly (I always cook a few extra seconds though), and the waffle iron is super easy to clean if you don't overfill.

I served with  a choice of maple syrup or lingonberry syrup

When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Water Balloons

Blessed be the LORD my strength, which teacheth

my hands to war, and my fingers to fight

-Psalm 144:1

Today is as good a day as any to think about such things for I have seen hell. . . . .

. . . . . and it's Wal Mart on a holiday weekend when it's almost 100 degrees.

The photo above was the outside temperature at the house at 2:30.  Really too hot to do anything,

But my husband has been gone for work for a week and I need to make him a homecooked meal. But first I need to cool off.

Husband: "What's for supper hon?"

Me:  "Hambush surprise?"

Husband: "huh?"

"you'll like it,  bring eye protection."

Flower Friday

"Life is the flower for which love is the honey." - Victor Hugo

Barkley Memories

The bookmark in the photo was crafted by a dear family friend, a robotics engineer who laser etched the last photo I took of Barkley begging for goodies on the weekend before he left us, on the top of an antique piano key (I play).  The ribbon it is stitched on is the color and width of his collar, which now lies in a book on the coffee table where I read before bed each night. I still tear up when I look at it but it reminds me of those friends I met and bonded with through that dog.

The Book of Barkley, on which this dog blog was based, was written in the Spring of 2014 after I lost my beloved black Lab Barkley to a sudden aggressive cancer, followed a couple of weeks later by my only brother, also to sudden, aggressive cancer. When I wrote it, I committed to donating all of its sales to animal rescue, focusing on the smaller groups that don't normally get a lot of funds.

It was a #1 bestseller in several countries, a Kirkus Review featured Indie author in their print magazine, on the cover of Memoirabilia magazine,  and a Silver winner of the Reader's Favorite International Book Award.  Yet I know, as any author does, that after a book's been out several years sales die off. (Insert sound of crickets here)

I checked  Amazon tonight just for grins, after getting a quarterly royalty check that was bigger than expected to find it is still #15 in genre at Amazon, almost four years after publication.

Bless everyone that's shared the word or supported it.  Through TBOB and people finding it through my follow up books, all best sellers as well, I've been able to donate well into the six figures to animal rescue across the US and Canada as well as sponsoring a dog at Search Dog Foundation.

I am indeed blessed and I think Barkley would be proud.

Wordless Wednesday - My Best Friend's Alarm Clock