Batty’s Pride And Joy

August 18, 2012 By

My Noah and Zoe in early August, 2012

Who’s Batty?  I am.  That’s what my granddaughter, Zoe named me when she was just beginning to talk and it’s stuck.  Doesn’t sound anything like Grandma or Grammy or any other name little kids call their grandmothers.  But that’s fine by me.  The evening she was born, when I first held her, she looked at me with wide open eyes and a wrinkly forehead. I think she recognized me from some other lifetime as a cray old lady who did magic tricks.

I admit I like the name and feel that Zoe is one of a very few who knows me for who I really am.  In truth, I am a bit batty.  I come from a long line of other batty people who had tough lives.  I’m proud to pass my own battiness on, as long as the recipient understands that it’s something that can be fun as well as painful.  It’s the sad, painful part we want to let go of, going rather for the silly, live-your-life-wide-open kind of life.  I’ve struggled with the painful part all of my life and I’m finally in the crazy, happy place I belong.  My hysterical laughter no longer embarrasses me. I can ask stupid questions, pretend I’m very smart, and say what I mean. The trick is to do it without doing anyone harm.

I’m recently back from a joyful summer break visiting my daughter, Lisa, her partner, Deena and Zoe and Noah of course. They live in the beautiful mountains of North Carolina, a good six and half hour haul one way. For me that’s a long time to sit in a car. Fortunately for me, Bill does most of the driving and we stop three or four times along the way to stretch, have a meal and attend to other needs.  But it’s so worth the drive just to be with them and out of Central Virginia’s hot, hazy and humid summer days.

Arriving is always one of the best parts of each visit.  Glowing smiles abound when I open the car door and step out to be smothered in huge hugs and sweet kisses. I take in how much Zoe and Noah have grown and notice a few gray hairs have appeared on Lisa’s head.  I’m sure they notice the changes I’ve undergone too … my newest wrinkles and the unmistakable stiffness I feel as I climb out of the car.

If we saw each other more often, we’d hardly notice the subtle changes that take place on a daily basis, but since we only see each other three or four times a year, those changes are always the first things we see.  I clearly remember watching my parents age every time we had a chance to visit after I’d moved away from home. I always imagined them the way I saw them the last time we were together. I would find myself feeling a bit sad as I watched them move through their own journeys toward the end of life.  But now, my eyes are trained on the maturing of two young people who have their whole lives ahead of them.

Zoe, Batty and Noah in early August.

During our first couple of hours together we feel the excitement of wanting to sit down and talk about all the things we miss telling each other during our weekly phone calls.   For me, there is no substitute for an in-person, face-to-face, laugh and cry together visit.  Skype and my handy Iphone are merely  pretense.  The best visits come with seeing each other for real, laughing so hard we almost wet your pants and holding each other through times of sadness.

Noah, granddad Bill, and Zoe.

Noah turned nine in July, and Zoe will be twelve at the end of September. I adored them as babies but now I love them even more as they grow in body, mind, and spirit, providing deeper conversations than we’ve had  before.  Zoe has always been a writer.  Since she was first able to hold a pencil and spell, she’s written stories, always accompanied with her brilliant drawings. Now her interests are expanding to photography and film.  I watched her first efforts at animation and I have a feeling a camera is in the works for her birthday.

Noah is all about space and Star Wars.  For his birthday I sent him a model of our planetary system that he  put together with the help of his mom and Deena.  It now hangs proudly over his bed.  He also has a large regiment of tiny plastic soldiers that he lines up to do battle with each other. He is very fond of his Grandaddy, Bill, wanting to spend as much “boy time” with him as possible.  The feeling is mutual. They spent an evening at a minor league baseball game at which the local team won (Yay), and frequently got lost on their way to other places like Chucky Cheese.  Needless to say, good ole Granddad was a bit worn by the time we left to come home.

Zoe wanted “girly time,” and on our last day there, I treated her to her first Pedicure ever.  She giggled the whole time, being very ticklish, and chose silver and a bright red for her toe nails.  I, of course, not to be outdone, had to have two colors as well and chose a teal blue and a deep scarlet.  I liked Zoe’s combo much better.  Lisa was the boring one with only one color, red.  After our pedicures we met the “boys” for lunch at Plant, one of Asheville’s finest vegan restaurants.   Deena, Lisa’s loving significant other, couldn’t join us much of time as she works long days.  We missed her but had the weekend and some evenings to catch up with her.

Zoe, Lisa, and Noah

Over the week we shopped for school supplies, took nice long walks in the cool of morning and swam together in the pool at the nearby fitness center.  Zoe would dive under water and attack my feet like a crab, while Noah sat on Bill’s shoulders and loved being thrown over and over again into the water.  We shared wonderful meals together and each afternoon we took some time to go our separate ways for napping, reading or just being alone.  Zoe and Noah spent two nights with us in the small condo we rent when we visit and Lisa and Deena had some time without the kids.  I remember how valuable those times were when Lisa and Mark were small.  It was a spectacular visit.

Like any grandmother who is madly in love with her kids, I admit the real reason I wrote this post is that I intend it as a love letter to them and to show off my family in photos.  So forget what we did and just oooh and aaah over this batty woman’s pride and joy! (-:

Filed Under: Childhood, family, Friendships, Gratefulness, Life, love, Time, Travels, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,

Companionship

August 12, 2012 By

Sam the Man, also known as Sampson, Sambo, Little Sam and one big hearted dog.

Sam has lost three of his best friends this past year.  Last November it was Molly, the little Maltese/Terrier mix with whom he fell head over heels in love with the first time he met her.  They were very close and when she died, he grieved along with the rest of us.  After a month or so it seemed as though he was okay with her being gone.  He enjoyed being the only dog in the house, finding it easy to break the rules we had set up for them when there were two dogs instead of just one.

We always allowed them up on the bed for afternoon naps, but at night they both slept on their own cushy beds on the floor next to us. They seemed to understand the difference between afternoon and night and rarely jumped up on the bed during the wee hours unless there was a thunderstorm or one of them had to pee.  After Molly died, Sam gradually made his way up onto the ottoman at the foot of our bed.  He’d get comfortable and when he was sure we were asleep and the sound of snoring filled the air, he’d quietly move up onto the bed.  If he dared, he’s snuggle up against a human leg. Not liking hot legs, we’d gently move him back to the ottoman, until one night we said, “The poor boy is lonely,” and left it at that.  By then, he knew he should sleep in the middle of the bed, not up against his human’s bodies.

Of late he’s been looking sad.  He wasn’t eating much and wasn’t bringing us his favorite toys for us to play with.  Just two weeks ago, the day after his best kitty friend, Peppermint died, Bill and I left for a week visiting our grandkids. Though Sam was here at home with his beloved, Bobbie, who always comes in to stay with him while we’re away, he got even more depressed. When we got home he wasn’t eating.  His tail, usually a happy wig-wag machine and a sign of how he is feeling, didn’t wag much. I was very concerned and knew he was deep in mourning for his three family members, Molly, Cleo the cat who died in June and now Peppermint.

I knew what the best medicine would be and sent a message out into the Universe to see what we could do about it.  The following day, when I went to the SPCA to pick up Pepper’s ashes, I took a walk past the dogs up for adoption.  They were mostly big hounds and pit bulls, not matches for Sam.

Next, I went to the pet supply store hoping to find a new exciting dog food that might tempt him into eating again.  I walked through the aisles and turning a corner entered into a larger open space. There right in front of me was the cutest little terrier mix I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.  He came over to me, greeting me as if we were long-lost friends.  Terry, was one of the dogs at an adoption event the store was hosting for Animal Connections, a local dog rescue group, that specializes in small dogs.  It was through them that we found Molly, ten or so years ago.  I knew this was the little angel dog that would be powerful medicine for Sam.  And if Sam and Molly had been able to have puppies together, this little man was what they would have looked like.

Terry. Sometimes I think of him as Terrence

I rushed home and brought Bill and Sam back to the store to meet  one year old, Terry.  When they met, Sam’s tail was waving a mile a minute and we took them both outside for a little pee party in the grass.  I was happy, Terry was happy, and Sam was happy. But Bill was reluctant.  We’d promised each other we that we wouldn’t fill the house back up with animals again and thought Sam would be fine after a while.  He’s also been wanting to travel more and knows I don’t like to be away  from my animal companions for very long.  He thought that the more animals there are in the house, the more reluctant I would be to leave them.  Not so.  When it comes to my furry friends, whether it’s one or ten, they are my special companions and I don’t like to be away from them for very long.  I’d find my life empty without them.

Lily and Terry

At the end of our meeting, we set up a day for Terry to come to our house for an overnight.  That would give him and Sam plenty of time to get to know each other. On Thursday morning when Terry’s foster mom, Lynette, brought him over, Sam was very excited.  Within two hours, beside myself with joy, I called Lynette to tell her that Terry would be staying with us forever.  We’ll sign the final adoption papers today. But in heart and soul, no papers are necessary. He’s ours and we’re his already.

Sam is eating again and playing for the first time in many months with a new companion who he wanted and needed. Terry has a new forever home and seems to be as delighted with us as we are with him.  He loves to play and this morning finally coaxed Lily, our remaining cat, to play with him.  The floors are a jumble of toys that haven’t been used in a long time and when Sam gets tired and needs a nap, Terry carries on by himself, chasing a tennis ball he tosses around for himself. Or sometimes he crashes next to Sam. Bill adores Terry as much as Sam and I do. He whispered to me that if I wanted him to, he’d put it in writing that I was right all along.  Companionship, of all kinds, is big, powerful medicine.

The Boys

Filed Under: Animals I Love, family, Friendships, Gratefulness, Life, love, marriage, Mental Health, Travels Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,

Saying It Out Loud

August 2, 2012 By

“Seeing,” from my Artist’s Journal

I’ve written a guest post on my daughter’s blog, Sacred Circle.  It’s about my way of making  my intentions known, my Artist’s Journal, and the summer writing camp I’ve been attending.

I hope you enjoy!

Filed Under: Classes, Encaustics, family, Gratefulness, Life, love, Matters of the Spirit, Memoir, Mental Health, Retreat & Workshops, Uncategorized, Writing Tagged With: , ,

Peppermint, 2005-2012

July 29, 2012 By

Precious Peppermint

The first time I saw her, I had just signed up as a volunteer at the SPCA to help care for the cats that were housed at our local Pet Smart store.  She sat in her cage playing with a small yellow ball with a bell hidden inside, seemingly as happy as could be.  She’d already been there for several months and only left her cage when one of us volunteers would let her out for twenty minutes or so.  She rubbed up against my leg, purring like a miniature motorcycle, her perfect moon-face tilted to her right, forever looking as if she might have a question or two for me.  On her records I noted she’d been rescued from a woman who had been keeping some thirty cats in her home and I knew from one the notes left by another volunteer that he was considering adopting her.

I went every Monday morning at eight to feed the cats and clean cages.  It was a way for me to get some kitty time and have time out of my house where my mom was slowly succumbing to lung cancer.  My best cat friend, Hannah, had died only a few months earlier and I was missing the soft, gentle love that only a lap cat can provide.

Several months later I decided that being around homeless cats living in cages was not making me any happier that being at home with my dying mom. I gave notice that I would be leaving my post.  Peppermint was still there, waiting for the right person to come along and take her home. On my last day, a young family came in looking for a cat to adopt.  They had three children who seemed a bit wild, but I didn’t think much of it until they wanted me to let Pepper out of her cage so they could see if she would be the cat for them.  As I put her down on the floor, the kids lunged at her, squeezing her and fighting over who would get to hold her next.  Pepper was not happy and I found myself in rescue mode, saying that I had forgotten that she had already been spoken for.   The family considered a couple of the other cats and I sighed, very relieved, when they walked away without one.  That night Peppermint, Peps, Pepperoni, or sometimes just Pepper, went home to live with me and my pack of two dogs and another cat I’d  recently rescued.

She was my sweetheart, never learning how to stalk birds or squirrels, simply running toward them with all of her might as they fled way before she could reach them.  She loved to play with anything that rolled across the floor and took to stealing pens from tables and desktops.  Meowing loudly, as if she was bringing me a mouse, she’d deposit her treasures in the same place every day.  I often watched her walk down the hallway from my office with a pen sticking out of her mouth, dangling like a cigarette, until she got to the place where she stored them.  The only times she ever meowed was when she was carrying a pen or when I’d force her into a crate to take her to the vet.

About a year ago, she started having difficult walking at times and looking at all of her test results and her head tilt, the Doc thought that she might have some kind of brain difficulty.  We dosed her with Prednisone and she got better.  Just a week ago she went missing in the house for a full day and I finally found her hiding in the dark basement, not feeling very good.  Bill and I took her to the Emergency Vet, and they could find nothing wrong with her, saying that it was likely her brain condition, and that they would only be able to diagnose it with a brain scan. We were unwilling to put her through that. The odds were that most likely it would be  something that was untreatable.

We brought her home, checked in with her regular Vet, Richard, on Monday. He told us to just watch her and get back to him on Friday with a report.  She started getting better, no longer hiding in the dark, eating well and using her litter pan.  On Friday morning I called Richard and he felt she’d probably be fine.

Later in the afternoon she went outside and immediately got hung up in a shrub, unable to walk.  We rushed her to the clinic. Within the hour she had four seizures and bit one of the technicians, something she had never done before.  We all decided that there was nothing to be done but to gently and quietly put her to sleep. She died in my arms with Bill and Richard mourning along with me.

It’s been a big year for losses at my house.  Molly, my little Maltese mix, died suddenly last Thanksgiving of cancer and just a month or so ago, Cleo, originally my mother’s cat, crossed over the Rainbow Bridge, at age seventeen.  They leave behind super dog, Sam, and Lilliput, a crazy tuxedo cat who spends most of her time outside, threatening and often succeeding in murdering the local wildlife.

We’re hoping and praying that this string of losses will end for a while. It is so difficult to part with these special creatures that come into our lives.  In the meantime, I take solace in the fact that they were all once homeless animals to whom we gave their second chances. They lived out their lives in comfort, surrounded with love.

Just a year ago I complained that with the five animals we kept, the house often felt like a daycare center.  Today, it’s very quiet and somewhat empty. I wish they were all back sharing their lives with me.

Filed Under: Animals I Love, Friendships, Life, love Tagged With: ,

On Winning And Losing

July 21, 2012 By

Peony #10, © Joan Z. Rough

Truth is best served by recognizing a viewpoint as only a viewpoint, and refraining from taking that extra step of regarding it as true to the exclusion of all other views.  In other words, all views–even correct views–are best held gently, rather than grasped firmly.  

Andrew Olendzki, Blinded by Views

I first picked up a camera in the early eighties.  Afraid of anything technical, I often asked my  husband to take photos for me. Not interested in people photos or huge, magnificent landscapes, I was drawn to the small miracles that nature had to offer in the shape of a lily or a rose.  After being told how easy it would be for me to learn how to use a camera, I took a few workshops and was hooked.

I had a background in painting and was slowly growing weary of the weaving, spinning and natural dying I’d been involved in for years.  I became fascinated by microscopic views of everything, from the powdery wings of a dead butterfly to the patterns found in rock formations.  But most of all I was drawn to flowers.  The closer I could get, the more abstract my photos became. Encouraged by family, friends and other artists, I put together a body of work. To see what would happen, I entered ten of my images into the Virginia Commission for the Arts 1989 Prize for the Visual Arts, in the category of photography.

Day lily #20, © Joan Z. Rough

In the meantime, I had recently moved to Charlottesville in 1985, which has always been a mecca for artists of every ilk, from writers, to painters, and theatre people.  In this town there is a festival for almost every genre of art.  In November we have the Virginia Film Festival, in March there is the Festival of the Book, and in May, the folks who put together the LOOK3 Festival of the Photograph, hang the work of photographers from all over the country in local galleries and outdoors, in the trees on the Downtown Mall.

As a newbie in town I went about trying to become a part of the art community.  I am an introvert and it was difficult. Afraid of my own shadow, I’d grit my teeth and go to various gatherings to meet other artists and to see what was happening. I was shy and when I opened my mouth to speak, the words often spilled out in a garble of nonsense that even I couldn’t understand.  I felt that my work was unworthy and that I had little to offer the community. Rather than push myself forward I kept myself in the shadows, being grateful for any bit of encouragement.

One evening at a gallery opening, I met an elderly man known locally for his close-up photography of insects and plants.  We started talking and he invited Bill and I to his home to see his work.  I brought some of my own images along to see if he could give me some feedback. He and his wife were friendly enough, serving us a bold red wine and a few nibbles.  They lived in a lovely home tucked into the woods and I felt that I had finally made a friend.  He showed us his Cibachrome prints, all beautiful. There was a shot of a honeybee gathering pollen, close-ups of a variety of beetles and images of flowers. All were perfect specimen shots, ideal for a coffee-table book about the garden or as illustrations in a guide to insects.  He also proudly showed us his massive collection of romance novels that he had written under a pen name.

When he asked to see my work, I brought out a dozen or so glossy cibachromes of my flower studies, so very close-up that you might not realize they were flowers. Similar in perspective to Georgia O’keeffe’s paintings, some viewers described them as resembling water colors.  There were blurry areas and sharply focused lines of the edge of a flower petal or the inner landscape of a daylily surrounded by a pool of pure, sensual color. The first words out of his mouth were, “These are not photographs. They are an abomination.”

As I remember, the conversation went down hill from there and quickly downing the remains of my wine we made a hasty exit.  Although I was somewhat used to rejections of my work as a weaver and fiber artist, I had never had anyone make a comment about my work before in that tone or in those words.  All of the people who had critiqued my visual work in the past had given me constructive suggestions and ideas on how to make my work better.  This man brought to mind my father who would often berate me for not following directions or listening to how things are to be done. This was the first time I had ever been trashed by a stranger. I was devastated, in tears and ready to roll a huge boulder to the entrance of my cave where I would hide and never come out into the light of day again.

Iris #24, © Joan Z. Rough

It took me a while to lick my oozing wound and to bring about some healing. But a few weeks later, a letter arrived from the Virginia Commission for the Arts, saying that I had been given an Honorary Mention for the 1989 Virginia Prize for Photography, by Edward Sherman, of the well-known Benin Gallery, in New York City.

Everything changed.  I went on to become a member at the McGuffey Art Center, here in Charlottesville and those photos, along with other bodies of my work,  went on to be shown individually and in one-person exhibitions in museums and galleries across the country.  And it wasn’t too many months before the phone rang, and the wife of the old guy who had trashed my work, asked me for my advise on getting her husband’s work to the attention of people outside of the community.

Despite occasionally feeling unworthy of being an artist and a writer, I’ve worked hard at not letting the views of others take me down. They are only opinions after all and if I let that happen, I would lose my very being. It’s been a hard lesson, but one of the most crucial if I am to do the work my heart brings to me.

How do you handle criticism and the views of others?  Have you ever been in a similar situation?

Filed Under: Friendships, Gratefulness, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, photography, The Garden Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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