Sunday, December 11, 2011

The Horseless Rider

CC Baron Gandolf
1983 - 2011

There are statues of riderless horses, significant in that they represent a rider fallen, deceased, lost in battle.

But what of the horseless rider?

For me, there is only air and silence. My horse lost his battle, has fallen, and now gone.

The air around me is not still; it is the wake of clouds as they touch the trees, and brush across my face, whooshing past as my invisible horse races past for the last time, winging his way onward, upward.

 My silence is weighted with memories, miles, and moments I can never forget. My silence is loud as the champion of my heart nickers, then rides on to the edge of the night wind.

I will bide my loneliness until the horseless rider and the riderless horse meet again.

















In memory of the Good Horse, Gandolf, CC Baron Gandolf, of Baron's Moon Arabians, who still lives on in my heart and in my dreams where we still ride together.

 Me, in front, riding Danzarr Moon, Gandolf's nephew and Beth Carlson Lewis riding CC Baron Gandolf. This is the most perfect photo I have of my two horses who delighted in being with each other as much as my dear friend Beth and I loved riding them together.

(Thank you to Becky Siler who was the photographer
responsible for most of these photographs.)

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

End of an Era - Steve Jobs Resigns as Apple CEO

I was at THAT SuperBowl. I had WON tickets to the Superbowl on a local radio station. I still have my Apple seat cushion and two years later I owned my first Mac, an SE. I published three magazines on that SE, and have never looked back. 


I have followed Apple, Macs and the i-Family to the present day and am sending this message on my almost 1 yr old MacBook Pro 17. I’ve earned my living as a graphic designer on Macs and still do.


I just turned 60 this past May and am proud of it. Apple kept me young, thirsty for the next great thing, the next new technology, software, platform and an Apple Store in my backyard. 


Thanks, Steve, for your vision, your ability to change the world. You changed mine, and in the process you became one of the best friends I never met. You’ve prospered. So all that’s left for me to wish you is “Live long!”

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Life with Chaos

In 1997, our first wolf hybrid, Chari, died. She was thirteen years old and had aged suddenly and seriously during the previous year. We were suddenly without our "Big Good Wolf". We missed her terribly. Dan and I didn't discuss getting another wolf dog right away. But I knew eventually we would.

In 1998, I took my oldest competitive horse, Gandolf, and competed in North Georgia in the National Arabian Horse Association's National Competitive Trail Championship. The location was Pigeon Mountain, a state forest filled with rocky, high hills and mountains, things I am the most scared of and intended to confront my fears.

The group I caravanned up realized we were very close to the border between Georgia and Tennessee, close to Chattanooga, the great battleground. Since we had arrived a few days early to acclimate our horses to the height and the rocky terrain, we all had breakfast at a tiny gas station just down the road. It was the sole sign of life on that side of the mountain.

The closest we were to what was going on in the outside world was the daily newspaper we usually read second hand every morning with our scrambled eggs, sausage and wonderful, hot coffee.

One morning, I noticed an ad for "wolf hybrid puppies for sale". We tried for several days to  call from my cell phone to see if the puppies were available to see. Finally I got through and made an appointment.

I was given complicated instructions on the directions but they were good directions and Kat and I found our way there late one afternoon. The owner, a real Southern lady, was hospitable and very loving toward her pack of wolf dogs. She showed me two of the three pups who were cute and inquisitive. Then she went into the garage to extract the shy pup who had gone inside and burrowed under a woodpile hiding from these invasive strangers who had ventured into her world.

As she was gently pulling the puppy out from the woodpile, she said the female was the most beautifully marked and would have a lot of black, gray and brown highlights on her adult coat, based on her dam's previous litters.

The lady handed the little girl to me and she pulled away slightly for a second. Then she looked at me. The gorgeous markings on her face looked like someone had taken a wet brush and expertly applied mascara under each of her eyes. She was perfect! I never handed her back. When we discussed price, the pup stayed in my arms and I pulled my wallet from my purse and gave her $250, an discounted, agreed-upon price, down from her original $400. She also saw that the puppy and I were meant for each other and we had already bonded.

There will be more, much more to this long overdue story about my beloved Chaos soon.

Monday, January 17, 2011

The Scent of Carnations



Each year on Valentine’s Day, I drive across the north bridge to Palm Beach and purchase dozens of carnations from a tiny floral shop on South County Road. The delicate, early spring buds fill my home with fragrance and remembrance. 
Surrounded by the scent of carnations and impressionistic childhood memories of the Royal Poinciana Playhouse, The Breakers and Whitehall, I sift through a lifetime of Florida seasons to that one particular sunlit winter when I was nine years old.
In January of 1960, the brilliantly sunlit Palm Beach winter season was fast-forwarding into the new decade. The glittering island’s sensuous allure always attracted suntanned, well-dressed gentlemen. They were often accompanied by tall, elegant women wearing thick, lustrous furs and restraining small, fluffy dogs tethered by jeweled collars.
Under clear, azure skies, they shopped Worth Avenue, gently buffeted by gulf stream breezes while their liveried chauffeurs jockeyed for coveted parking places on A1A, above the beach.
Along with the rest of the world, my mother and I lived in a small house on the opposite side of the Intracoastal Waterway, a thin ribbon of inland water that permanently separated the wishful window shoppers from the wealthy power buyers.
Devastated from the last sputtering embers of a failed marriage, my mother relocated to West Palm Beach from Detroit where, she told me, she intended to restart her life. With her lean, model’s figure, she quickly found seasonal work as a model for Saks Fifth Avenue, conveniently located next to the famous Everglades Club at the west end of Worth Avenue. Three days a week, she worked the lunch crowd as they sipped martinis and lounged the afternoons away on the patio overlooking the golf course.
My mother quickly became obsessed with everything about Palm Beach. On her days off, we frequented the premiere shopping district of the rich and famous, eagerly exploring the narrow “vias” and “avenidas” just north of the island’s main social and retail sales artery. Together, we discovered the sacred burial grounds of pet monkeys and beloved dogs and other hidden treasures.
After her divorce was final, my mother turned from winter modeling to a more boring but steady annual income. She unenthusiastically spent eight hours a day in a tiny office at one of West Palm Beach’s most prominent downtown legal firms, producing an almost adequate weekly paycheck. 
Believing she was destined for something greater, she blamed her failed marriage for her current state of despair. Dating only occasionally, she never brought anyone home. When Don appeared at the front door in January, I began paying attention. 
Over the next few days, through overheard phone conversations, I became aware that he was wealthy, married and separated by hundreds of miles from his wife’s hostile indifference.
My brief existence involved my mother and the exclusive world she created for us. Don’s sudden presence in our lives caused a strong sense of alarm, a feeling I had never experienced.
My mother had been introduced to Don at a New Year’s Eve celebration and they began seeing each other almost every night. For eight weeks, he swept my mother out of her middle class nonexistence and into crisp, velvet evenings filled with jazz, late dinners, expensive champagne and laughter.
Don was tall. At 5 foot, 8 inches, my mother was a statuesque, willowy woman but beside him she looked like a tiny porcelain doll. Atlanta was his home and the source of his soft, drawling accent. With a touch of distinguishing gray in his dark hair and a deep, tropic tan, he was almost handsome; a well-mannered, Southern gentleman.
Fighting a life-threatening disease, he had come south to convalesce in the cool, showy brilliance that was mid-season in Palm Beach. At the invitation of a long-time friend and French aristocrat, a suite of rooms had been reserved for him at the Brazilian Court. This quiet, elegant, off the main thoroughfare hotel was nestled in a residential neighborhood on the west side of the island, within walking distance of the Intracoastal and Worth Avenue. His friend, the Count, also provided him with transportation. A white Rolls Royce and driver were available to him on call.
Overnight, my mother became an elegant, voluptuous creature with an unique sense of self. Her modeling career had given her the tools she needed to transform herself into a vision of infinite possibilities. She was in love.
Each evening during that brief, bittersweet season, glowing with once set-aside aspirations, she kissed me goodbye over distractedly prepared dinners, gave misguided directions to the babysitter du jour and rushed out the front door.
Inexorably drawn to the parallel Palm Beach universe across the Intracoastal like an innocent moth to a sinister flame, she was unaware of and unprepared for the emotional abyss that loomed ahead of her.
That winter is still an incomplete canvas of an imagined, surreal event to me. It never was and always would be the consummate, fairy tale moment of my mother’s entire, otherwise ordinary life. 
Constantly left at home on the other side of the Intracoastal, I felt lonely and abandoned. Don’s presence sliced through our now tenuous bond. She was bewitched; I was bereft.
One evening, while Don waited in our living room for my mother to finish putting on her makeup, I was angry and rude to him, indifferent and hostile. When that did not achieve my intended effect, I surprised myself by running out the front door and down the street. Running away was something I had only seen children do in movies, usually with much higher motives. I didn’t go far and hid openly where I knew I would be found. I was a rehearsed prodigal, hoping my behavior would make my mother come to her senses, realize the error of her desertion and restore our world to the way it was before him.
When she finally found me, I was walking home defeated. I told her I didn’t want to be forgotten because of him. She suddenly understood my rebellion, showing surprise and remorse at my tears. My punishment was to apologize for being rude.
I remember standing very still after saying I was sorry. From his considerable height, he looked down at me seriously for a long time. Then he put his arms out and pulled me close to him. I saw there were tears in his eyes. In a quiet voice, he whispered in my ear,
“I understand. I’m so sorry we’ve neglected you.”
I hugged him back, drinking in the scent of his exotic cologne. When I stepped back and looked up at him I knew we were reconciled; we were friends. 
From that day until the end of their relationship, I was included as much as possible in their evenings and their lives. If I close my eyes, I can still feel his big bear hugs and the tone of his deep voice during our many conversations.
He was an educated man. We spoke about his travels and the places he had seen. He brought me books and patiently answered all my childish questions. Even after all these years, I still wish I could sit and talk with him one more time. So many things were left unsaid.
Palm Beach's winter social season rushed head on through January and suddenly it was Valentine’s Day. The Rolls delivered Don to our front doorstep, his arms filled with dozens of multi-colored carnations. Our home overflowed with the heavy scent of blossoming flowers. I wandered from room to room, burying my nose in each bouquet, entranced by the fragrance of each colorful, opening bud.
The scent of carnations lasted for almost two weeks. My mother lovingly arranged and rearranged them until only a few spent blooms were left. For me, the scent and remembrance of those Valentine’s Day carnations was my single, lifelong reminder of their impossible, romantic interlude. Like those colorful spring buds, their affair lasted only a few days after the last carnation had faded and died. As adults, they must have instinctively known their idyll would be brief. Toward the end, I sensed a deep sadness in the two of them. 
Although his convalescence was incomplete, his angry wife had phoned and insisted he return to Atlanta. In the space of an evening, my mother devolved into her former self. As suddenly as it had begun, their time was over. Don was gone.
In the desolate March evenings immediately following his departure, from my bedroom window, I watched as my mother sat alone on our front porch. She faced east, gazing across the Intracoastal at the illusive, emerald isle beyond it; the source of her greatest joy and her current, desolate sorrow. Her desperate attempt at a happily-ever-after ending had eluded her grasp.
One still night in late April, the phone rang. It was Don’s mother. She was a kind woman who knew her son’s heart. She told my mother Don had gone back into the hospital after his return to Atlanta. His unrelenting wife denied him any solace prior to his death. Aware he would never again see the woman he had loved and left in Florida, he asked his mother to let her know when he died.
After her tears stopped, my mother sat alone in the darkness holding the only photograph she had of him. The next morning, I watched as she tore the picture into tiny pieces and threw them away.
For the remainder of her life, he was rarely mentioned. To an indifferent world, it seemed as if her haunting memories of Don had been relegated to a seldom visited corner of her fractured heart. I was the only one who knew this wasn’t true.
Each year, on Valentine’s Day, my mother would drive across the north bridge to Palm Beach and buy dozens of multi-colored carnations from the tiny floral shop on South County Road. For as long as they lasted, the fragrant scent from those spring flowers seemed to briefly lift the silent stillness of her heart.
Her brief love affair has remained the most extraordinarily tragic yet beautiful fairy tale in my otherwise ordinary life. Until now, my years of constant editing have kept her story from being told.
After my mother’s death, I continued her unique Valentine’s Day tradition, filling my home with early spring multi-colored buds every year. In my wishful hope that heaven is a particular place we create from the most memorable moments of our lives, dozens of her favorite flowers are also placed upon her grave.
I want to be sure the scent of carnations reaches them wherever they are.

[Author's note: For those of you who knew my mother, understand this is a work of fiction. There is some truth and a lot of story. It all comes together and turns out to be, as Jimmy Buffett would say, "a semi-true story". Enjoy! 1/19/11]

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Big

When she was born she was the largest kitten. No white at all except under her tummy, she was black as night. As she and her three sisters grew, she maintained her status as the biggest. Not being great at sexing tiny kittens, I simply assumed she was a he. She was so big. So we called her Big. But still thought she was a he until we took the three kittens to be spayed and neutered. It was then we learned she was a she.

But the name stuck. She was still the biggest and she was still Big. She was also the wildest, bravest and the most aloof although she was still very affectionate. It's just that the other two kittens, Spot and Angel, were better in that department than she was although she had the biggest purr to go with her large frame.

Probably the first out the doggie door unto the back screened porch, she led the way as the 8 month old kittens played and explored their new, uncharted territory. Probably, she was the first out the last doggie door and into the great outdoors. She led the way as the kittens frolicked in the small yard, climbing the trees, running and finally, walking on the top of the board fence.

It was just a hop down into the big yard, an acre, at least. And then off to the east property, in its natural state. They played and played, always coming home when I called to spend each night in their kitty kondo.

Until Saturday night. With Spot and Angel tucked in, I called and called for Big. She didn't come. I walked the yard, and down to the gate. I waited in the house and went out again. No Big. She had never spent a night anywhere but with her sisters, safe in their beds.

The windows were open and I went to bed listening for her little meow, asking to come in the front door but there was nothing and I fell asleep.

Dan went to work early on Sunday and I got up, asking if he'd seen her. He said he thought she had come in but it wasn't her, it was her mom. I searched the yard, the east property, drove around the two blocks and called and called all morning. Big never come and I knew in my heart something had happened to her.

Speaking to a friend on the phone, telling her I was devastated that I had lost one of the kittens, I looked out the front window at the horse trailer. Under the trailer I saw the familiar shape of a cat. Hanging up, I ran outside to the trailer calling her name.

She didn't move and I knew the worst. The trailer is very low to the ground and crawling underneath was not easy. I made it far enough to reach her back leg. She lay on her side. She looked asleep but her cold body told me what I had known in my heart. My Big was dead.

There were no marks on her where she had been bitten by a dog or hit by a car, there was nothing to indicate how she had died. I cried for a long time. I had known something bad had happened and the tiny kitten I had helped deliver ten months ago was gone.

When Dan came home, we buried her near where I had buried her two stillborn sisters. I sat for a long time with Spot, Angel and Noche, their mom. They stayed close to me that day and I feel certain they knew she was gone long before I found her.

Dan mentioned that Sophie, our Standard Poodle, hadn't wanted to come in the house that night. She seemed concerned. She knew where Big was and didn't want to come in because she was guarding her.

I will miss her so, the brave one, the wild one. I was only able to share ten months with her but they were such wonderful months and I will never forget my biggest kitten, my Big.