Bubbly

There's a first time for everything:  we won a raffle prize.  A raffle prize that we like.  A prize that actually makes me feel guilty. 

Let me explain.  Friday night the four of climbed into evening clothes, shut Josie in her crate, and boarded a train for Manhattan.  We were going to work at the Petroushka, a gorgeous society event at the Waldorf Astoria put together annually by volunteers to benefit the Russian Children's Welfare Society.  We've continued working there every year even as most friends and relatives have begun buying tickets for dinner or dancing.  I somehow doubt we'll ever go any other way.  The people watching is better when you're working.  It's good to be something of an insider.  And now we can bring our children, decked in Russian costume, to sell raffle tickets and add to the ambience. (Peter, in fact, had done this himself as a kid, with his sister and cousins.)  

Usually once we are finished as ticket-takers, we hover on the edges of the dining room to watch the entertainment and wait for the dancing to begin. This year Militsa, daughter of the priest who had baptised Peter 47 years ago, invited us to sit down in some of the empty space at her table, and gave us glasses of wine ...and her dinner.  She shared the dinner of her neighbor, an elderly pediatrician. Filet mignon, gratin of potatoes, asparagus all perfect in their way from the Waldorf kitchens.  We did not deserve it for the little bit of work that we did, two hours of saying hello to people and giving them their table numbers. Nor do we deserve the bucket of Champagne that we just won, but we will certainly quaff it with joy!

Perfection

We had a truly blessed weekend at New Skete a couple of weekends ago; everything about it was great. For one, time together as a family was amazing. We've always traveled well, and it seems like it keeps getting better. The kids, one ten and one tween, still really love our company, and we get even tighter when there's an adventure, especially a sleepover one.

The monks reserved the whole questhouse for us, given that the people who would have taken the third room cancelled out. So we had two small two-bedded rooms to ourselves. We arrived pretty frazzled on Friday evening, maybe around 10, after a full day's work and a rumbling drive up the Taconic. After giving the monks some time to themselves after Matins (they take a quiet Saturday morning), we hung out with them around the lunch table, back behind the kitchen. We talked about everything: dogs, movies, and church. Regarding the latter, we had a really interesting conversation about what sin is, and what sins are, especially what it means to "sin involuntarily." Aside from my own pleasure in the conversation, I was glad that the kids could be a part of such an exchange, in all the places

 that it went -- coming in and out of interest (Lizzie's ears would perk up especially when we'd return to the canine subject matter.

Over the two days we were there we were fortunate to have several hours with Br. Christopher with whom, again, we talked on a wide variety of subjects. But since Josie was with us it was especially fun for us to get continued advice from him on raising her, training her, etc. It was great to watch them together, and to have him make observations about watching us together. 

The liturgical life, as usual, was beautiful. Different in some ways -- one of New Skete's contributions to the Church is to be working with the possibilities of gentle but sensible liturgical reform, with their own style and modality of chant, some new translations, some new texts, and a few tweakings of ritual nature as well.

After Sunday liturgy, Patricia had one of the best conversations she could remember in a long time, with Br David, that centered around issues of language and translation -- this is one of the things that really gives her enjoyment in life. I talked about jazz with one of the members of the parish community, a young jazz pianist. Chances are I've turned him on to Keith Jarrett, for some years now my favorite jazz pianist. In the interim weeks I burned him a sampler CD.

All that, with some bracing walks down the country road, beautiful Christmas lights that were still up adorning the chapel, bell tower, and outlying buildings, and some good sleep, and good food, made for an amazing weekend. Pretty perfect actually.

More on perfection: today is also super-bowl Sunday. Not that this usually arouses great passion among us. We usually tune in, just to be part of the culture. Today Pat's made some *ss-kicking chili, we're preparing nachos, guacamole, and other treats. But what got me thinking was a fine article in this morning's Times about perfection. Classic NYT: it's super-bowl Sunday, the Patriots have had so far a "perfect season" (no losses) and they feature a front page piece is about the nature of perfection in sports. The point? Perfection doesn't really exist. Is it perfect not to have lost a game? The Patriots surely yielded some touchdowns, made some mistakes, fumbled periodically, and might have had one or two lucky breaks. So where's perfection? And yet there are all those victories. So what, I might ask, does that mean for our lives? Can we expect perfection every day? In our work, relationships, raising of children (and a dog)? Perfection isn't something one ever arrives at. Plus, how can you measure results -- as if there's just one scale? It's easy to get lost in the logic: strive? Yes. For what? Excellence, but in what? Danger? Yes, of undue obsession. So what to do? Care? Not care? I don't know, but something tells me perhaps we wouldn't be wrong if we set the bar just a bit ...higher. 

Ottoman Empire

"Josie, NO!” No way was Josie going to get to touch any of our furniture, especially the soft stuff. But one day, maybe a month ago, she simply, matter-of-factly, climbed aboard the ottoman that goes to our large stuffed chair. I looked at her, and she looked at me, and we both knew from the start that this was too perfect to say “no” to.

 

Well, not exactly perfect, because she’s growing and is already a bit too big for this piece of furniture. Pat and I have actually seen her fall asleep and slide off, crashing to the floor. (Unlike cats, who make any accident look intentional and safe face by preening, Josie looks totally outraged and embarrassed.)

 

But she’s there on that ottoman a lot. It’s soft. It’s elevated and brings us closer into her view, and her into ours. She looks great there. She reigns. Sometimes rests her head on the arm of the stuffed chair next to it, and quietly goes to sleep like that. And she’s never, ever, not once tried to mount any other piece of furniture in the whole house.

 

Not to say that she’s miss well-behaved – things are generally better on that score, but there are a host of issues to address. We’re going up to New Skete this weekend, all of us, and those poor monks will be inundated with our questions about her. But we’re really looking forward to watching her romp with some real experienced German sheps. Maybe they’ll teach her a thing or two…

New Year's Resolution

It’s been a while since we checked in. You can see what one of my New Year’s resolutions is. A holiday recap: On Halloween, Elizabeth dressed as a secret agent and Michael as Naruto (if you don’t know this character, your manga credentials need brushing up): Josie pretended to be a bat and came along for trick-or-treating. She was a bit of a trial. She’s not used to walking out at night, nor to meeting great crowds of humans in our neighborhood, all of whom smell of candy and odd plastics. For Thanksgiving, she came with us to the family feast in Connecticut, and spent much of the day camping outside the house, waiting for treats to come her way. Alice flew in from Little Rock to join us as well. While Peter and the kids went off for an extended TG celebration in Bridgehampton with the rest of his family, Alice stayed here with me and Josie. We spent the weekend cooking up our family’s Thanksgiving favorites: pumpkin pie, cornbread dressing, a kosher turkey breast, baked pumpkin drizzled with honey and toasted pecans, and other delicacies. We took Josie on daily romps and chases through a nearby field and fed her the occasional tidbit. St. Nicholas’ Day passed by with little canine acknowledgement, though the kids received their gifts from a pretend fourth-century bishop by that name at church school.

Josie is now 10 + months old, and a whole new dog in terms of whether she wants to obey (she doesn’t), her agility, strength, and stamina. She can pull all 155 pounds of me across the floor on her chew rag (the remains of her first crate liner). We spent much of Christmas vacation together with her. We devoted the week to family time, mending parts of the house that needed mending—plaster cracking off ceilings, doors that wouldn’t shut, pictures that needed hanging—and romping her around the school grounds or taking her on longer walks than usual. Until after Christmas she more or less ignored the tree and the presents. In the beginning we did a lot of stamping on and yelling at the tree skirt a la Sarah to scare Josie away from it (she seemed merely puzzled by all the noise). Recently, though, she’s found the tree useful for hiding behind when she snagged a forbidden sock or slipper, and has begun nibbling at the ornaments despite all the Bitter Apple sprayed on them. The tree’s days are numbered.

We also spent much of the vacation following Alice’s progress. My parents drove up from Houston to Little Rock the weekend before Christmas to help her finish packing up her house. They joined her for the drive to Decatur, Georgia, and helped oversee the movers as they unpacked the moving van. It’s a ten-hour drive from Little Rock to Decatur. Alice had two cats, long accustomed to roaming their neighborhood, in the backseat. They yowled so much, despite sedatives, that she began to consider leaving them road-side—but fortunately they all survived the journey intact, perhaps, except for nerves.

Josie’s aggression levels are on the rise, which is putting one of our cats in danger. Cinder has persisted in her policy of non-violence towards the dog, which means that Josie has begun stepping on her and snapping at her, instead of backing away in fear, the way she does with Jack, who has slapped her on many an occasion. Since Cinder won’t protect herself, even when stepped on, I’ve called the Invisible Fence people to see whether she can be fitted with a collar that would set off Josie’s shock collar.

We are giving some thought to getting a new car—or at least a newer used car--as our old Quest is really on its last wheels. It coughs and sputters so much of a morning, rainy or not, that it is hardly reliable. Josie is a consideration, though. Although we’d like to shift out of minivans, we need room for two kids, an occasional grandmother or other guest, and the two of us, as well as a 65-pound canine. As for whether the car should be new—what about those muddy paws—and not just the dog’s—the kids’ wiping of feet is a little sketchy… Unfortunately, we test-drove a Highlander Hybrid over the vacation. It was freakishly quiet, and delightfully responsive, great turn of speed, correcting all deliberate mistakes, and deceptively light in feel. Maybe it’s time to start buying lottery tickets….