The Puppy Farm

I’ve written before about my wonderful childhood puppy  (See Fluffy, or How I Got My Dog and Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes)  but sadly there is more to tell.

I’m sure today’s child rearing gurus would advise you to tell your kids the truth no matter how painful,  but I suspect my folks practiced the old school kind of parenting.

When I was 10 Fluffy was hit by a car and the really awful thing was I saw it happen.  I was coming home from school when she saw me from across the street and ran towards me.

I don’t know why Fluffy was off the leash that day,  or if somehow she had gotten out of the house alone.   I only remember the sound of screeching brakes on our usually quiet street,  my beloved dog lying motionless near the wheel of a car,  and my mother and my visiting uncle kneeling in the street trying to console me.

Eventually they led me to the house and told me the vet was taking Fluffy to a puppy farm in the country where she would get well.

I never saw Fluffy again and although we never got another dog,   we did have a succession of wonderful cats.  (See Missing Pussycats ,  Mr Bucco and the Ginger Cat,  Hotel Kittens,  and The Cat and the Forshpeiz)

Over the years I must have wondered if there was something a little fishy about the puppy farm story and whether city dogs who get hit by cars really do go to the country for rehab.   But I never questioned my parents because they were grownups and I knew grownups never tell lies.

And now my parents are gone and my uncle is gone,  and surely the vet is gone too,  and so there’s no one left who can tell me what really happened on a shady Bronx street one afternoon over half-a-century ago.

And so I choose to believe that Fluffy did go to that puppy farm in the country,  and for all I know she’s there still.   For in my mind’s eye I still see her running through the fields  –  the Elysian puppy fields.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Book Club

I took this photo in front of my friend Helen’s beautiful waterfront home on City Island in the Bronx.   Pictured are the wonderful women in my  Uptown Book Club,  in the back row – Reina,  Karlan,  Judy,  Marlene,  and Helen;  and in the front row – Renee and Paula.

It seems I have a propensity for joining book clubs,  but if I have to name a favorite,  this is the one.  (See Book Slut, or Why I’m in Six Book Clubs)

When we started meeting about 20 years ago our assigned leader was Renee,  a New York Public outreach librarian who led monthly book discussions for a group of teachers and school librarians in the Bronx school district where I was working.  When that outreach initiative ended,   Renee agreed to continue meeting with us informally,  and our group meets to this day.

I’ve written more about this book group,  my  friendship with Renee,  and sadly her untimely death.  (See Comfort Food for Renee.)

Now we take turns leading our book club meetings,  but still feel Renee’s presence,  joking about what insightful question she would ask to open the discussion,  and what else she would say about the book.

Several of the other women in the club have also become good friends,  while others I see only at our monthly meetings,  and yet after years together l feel very close to them all.

If you’re already in a book club you know the special bond that can exist among passionate readers.  And if you’re not,  but you like reading good books and making new friends,  what are you waiting for?

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Sunburn

One sunny Friday afternoon we went to our local coffeeshop for a quick bite and then to the garage to get the car for our weekend drive to Connecticut.

My fair-skinned husband is prone to sunburn so after putting the convertible top down,  he rubbed some sunscreen on his face.  Then as he drove I was scrutinizing his profile,  as wives in passenger seats are apt to do,  when I noticed a drop of something white on his shirt collar.   At the coffeeshop he’d complained there was too much mayo in his egg salad,  and so I assumed a bit of that egg salad had somehow gotten on his shirt.

There were no handy tissues so I swiped at the white bit with my finger and then put my finger in my mouth.  Of course it wasn’t egg salad but a stray bit of sunscreen and it was  bitter!

I grabbed the Coppertone tube and there – in all caps – was the dire warning – FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY,  DO NOT INGEST.

”I’ve just poisoned myself,  you have to get me to a hospital quick so they can pump my stomach!”   I cried in mounting panic.

”Calm down and call Coppertone.”  said my level-headed husband.    And sure enough beneath the dire warning on the tube was a toll-free customer service number,   and so I took out my cell phone and called.

The Coppertone rep listened to my sad tale and asked some pertinent questions –  my age and relative health,  what meds I take,  and how much suntan lotion I had ingested.

”Not to worry.”  he said after hearing it was just a dab.

I thanked him and somewhat embarrassed I added,  “I’m sorry if this sounded a little bit crazy,  but believe me I thought it was egg salad!”  

“Oh,  I believe you lady.”  he said,  “You can’t make this stuff up!”

I didn’t tell that Coppertone guy,  but in my head I had already written this story.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

A Thousand Little Touches

My father – six years older than my mother – died in his early 80s.   (See My Dad and the Word Processor,   Saying Farewell to a Special Guy,  Six Pack, My Father, the Outsider Artist,  GP and Turkey and Trimmings with Flu Shot)

My mother,  who it seemed had never been sick a day in her life,  developed a heart condition after he died and survived him by less than three years.  (See My Game Mother,  Elbow Grease,  Still Life and Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes)

In fact it seemed she’d been prescient about her own mortality.   After his death she became depressed and when we reminded her how much she still had to live for – her two daughters and two grandsons –  she said she’d try to stick around,  but just for a few more years.

Then talking about my dad she said what she missed most were those thousand little touches – the warm sweater or mislaid pair of eyeglasses,  or handful of grapes or hot cup of tea,  all lovingly brought to the side of the one who had asked.

As a child I surely took my folks for granted and probably didn’t think much about their marriage.  It wasn’t until I entered the fray myself in that sometimes bloody battle of the sexes,  that I realized what a good and enviable marriage they had.

They certainly had different personas – almost diametrically opposed I would say.   My dad was unpretentious,  peace-loving,  and rather than socializing was happiest at home playing the piano or making art – his two great hobbies.   My mom was quite the opposite – opinionated and always ready for a debate,  gregarious,  and full of energy and wanderlust.

Yet as different as they seemed,   and like all couples they sometimes disagreed and sometimes argued fiercely,  they were wonderful to see together –  demonstrative,  often holding hands,  and undoubtedly very much in love. (See Around the World in 80 Days)

Although I don’t profess to know the secret of their happy marriage,  I’m sure if there’s a Great Beyond they’re out there together,  still hand-in-hand!

– Dana Susan Lehrman