Another Week, Another Eulogy.

Momma and Jack, October, 1998

The horrible thing. 

The thing I can't talk about.

The thing I knew was coming and dreaded and could not bring myself to face, has happened.

My darling Jack The Dog has gone.

Cancer sucks.  Lymphoma sucks.  Even when it's just your dog.

On Friday evening, he seemed much as he had - declining, but not broken -  but when we awoke on Saturday morning, we knew that the time had come.  He was suddenly no longer interested in eating and his legs could no longer support him. 

His girlfriends (see below) came and spent the better part of the day with him and with us, all of us lying with him on the floor, petting him, loving him until the time came to let go.

The vet made a house call, armed with her pink syringe, and Jack quickly went to sleep in my arms. 

It was horridly painful.

It still is.

It seems absolutely mad that just last week he was insistently barking for Pumpkin Cookies.

How in the world does time just keep moving on? 

I couldn't write a word at first, but, as I'd felt compelled to write a tribute to Cosmo J. Bird less than a month ago, I now feel an even stronger urge to share the story of Jack The Dog with you.  I don't need sympathy or comments or any of those things.  Just, please, read on to share the life of one, very loved, Jack Dog.




Jack the Dog at 2 years old.


THE STORY OF JACK THE DOG

When my husband and I were first married, we lived in an apartment, but finally got enough saved up to buy a small house in a bedroom community, about 40 minutes north of where we worked. 

My husband has always known that I simply can not live without dogs, and he had always promised me that we'd get a dog as soon as we had a house.  He kept his promise.

Within two weeks of moving, I was reading the paper in my new dining room, sipping coffee and probably having a bagel, when I spied an ad in the local paper advertising three litters of puppies available in a nearby desert-ish town for $25.00 each. 

$25.00?

That's IT?

Suffice to say that I didn't have too much convincing to do, and being childless at the time, it was easy enough for us to hop in the car and drive 20 minutes or so to Anza.  As soon as we stepped out of the car, we were immediately swarmed with puppies.

Swarmed, I say.

There were SO MANY puppies-- three mothers, two fathers--all living on a working farm, puppies spilling out of the barns, puppies romping in the grass, puppies yelping, puppies panting, puppies running to the water dishes... it was sheer madness and hilarity. 

The mother of one of the litters was a beautiful Chow and Shepard mix, the father, mostly Australian Cattle Dog.  Most of her pups looked similar with crazy-fluffy long, thick under-coated fur, black and tan markings and purple spotted tongues.  I had my eye on a little boy with the cutest curly fur, and I followed him around for a little while, attempting to catch his eye, when I noticed that his straight-haired brother was following ME. 

I couldn't shake him.

No matter where I went, or which puppy I played with, this guy wouldn't let me go.

That's right.  We didn't pick Jack The Dog.  Jack The Dog picked US.

So that was it, then.  He was coming with us.  Aside from finding Jack (or the other way around, if you must), the most amazing part of the day was when his mother followed us to the car, stuck her nose in, gave it (and us) a good inspection, and then finally nudged Jack one last time and turned back toward the barn. 

It was amazing.  I'd never known a momma dog to say goodbye like that. I'll never forget Jack The Dog's Dog Momma and her goodbye and well-wishes. 

He was named on the drive home - 'Jack', for the everyman.  'Jack' for the great Jacks in history and literature and song.  'Jack' is a good name for a dog. 

And that is how I came to be the Momma of a $25.00 desert dog-boy.

It wasn't all roses and sonnets, of course.  He was a bit on the aggressive side, a bit too crazy when people came to the door, but he was the smartest dog I've ever known. 

He considered it a personal affront that cats and rabbits exist in the world, and had a special bark for each of them.  In fact, the only not-so-smart thing I ever saw from him was the time when he was still less than a year old, and he was so intent on running after a cat across the street that he didn't notice that there was a car coming.  Fast.

He ran smack into the side of the moving car, bounced off the door, and rolled in a fuzzy ball down the street.

He was fine.  The driver was a little shaken.

Opening Jack's Stocking, Christmas, 2010

I've never known another dog to love Christmas as much as I do.  Jack did.   He loved sitting under the Christmas tree, he loved presents and insisted that HE have presents to unwrap at any gift-giving occasion.  Sounds expensive and spoiled, I know, but he was perfectly happy if I wrapped his old toys in newspaper, which is exactly what I did. 



My husband and Jack used to stare out the front window on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa Claus.  I made him a Christmas stocking, and I'm pretty sure that he waited all year long for me to bring down the boxes of Christmas decorations so it could be ChristmasTime again.

Waiting for Santa.

My mother, the Saint, fed Jack his very first people food, when she came to visit my house for the first time during Thanksgiving.  Of course, she gave him turkey.  Right off the platter.  Which spawned a lifelong infatuation with deli meats.  Try making a sandwich with a barking dog at your heels.  Every.Day.

He was my first child.  The first dog that was ever really mine - not my parents' dog, not my family's dog.  MY dog.

Jack gets his first look at Miss M, April, 2007.

When my actual children came along, Jack was always right THERE, inspecting new babies, keeping watch over baths, supervising the putting into car seats and encouraging both of my kids to run after him long before they should have started walking.

The first time we took him camping, he had a blast exploring around the campground, until it was time to settle in for the night, and he spent hours looking from us at the campfire to the car and back again, clearly wondering what the hell it was we were thinking and why weren't we getting in the car and going home?

Run, Run as far as you dare.... then run back to Momma.
At the Salt Flats, near Anza-Borrego State Park, California.

As long as we lived in that first house, every year after we'd unwrapped our Christmas presents, we took him to the mountains to find some snow.  He reveled in it.  He darted in and out of the snow, burying his nose deep into the white, snuffling forward and sideways, making long, winding trails under the trees.

Building Snow Dogs with Daddy on Christmas Day.

We took him for walks in a nearby desert-y meadow, under a bridge with fantastic graffiti, and he would rurunrunrunrun through the flowers and scrub and sand as fast as he could, ears back, fur flying, tail straight as an arrow.

Under his favorite Bridge.

My best friend, Laurie, lived nearby with her two gigantic wolf-mix dogs, Mitoc and Teemo.  They were the best of friends.  Jack would lick poor Teemo's often infested ears, taking care of his older brother and running in and out under the legs of Mitoc the Lumbering Gentle Giant.  He loved them so much, that when Laurie and Mitoc and Teemo moved away to Virginia, we didn't DARE mention their names, or Jack would go tearing around the house searching for them for hours.  For ten years, this continued, until fate brought Laurie back home to San Diego just this past year (her dogs having made their own journey's across the Rainbow Bridge), and while Jack clearly wondered where Teemo and Mitoc were, just having Laurie back made him happy.  I'm so glad Jack lived long enough to spend time with his girlfriend again.  Ah... First love...

Miss Laurie comes to visit, Christmas, 2010.

When we went on vacations, family friends, Jule and Bob, would come over every night night to feed the dogs and birds and fish, and ended up liking the menagerie so much [Ok... maybe not the birds, which Bob nicknamed"Ted (Bundy) and "Jeffrey (Dahmer)" for their propensity to bite the hands that fed them] that they stayed for hours every night, lying on the floor, covered in dog hair, stroking fur.  Jack adored Jule.  Adored her.

In the backyard of our first house, before we had landscaping.



But I think what Jack loved most of all - and what we loved most of all - was just spending time with us. 

He had a job to do... the Chow in him made him an excellent protector, and the Cattle Dog kept him from being a "One Man Dog" as a Chow often is.  Any friend of mine was a friend of his, and until he was an old-man-dog, there was just no way to keep him from jumping up on people when they came to the door.  No way.  He was too happy to see them.



Such a beautiful boy.



Ohhh.... It's still too soon.

I've been on the verge of tears for days.  The worst is leaving the house, only to come back and find him missing.  No Jack to greet me.  No wagging tail and doggie grin.  No soft ears to stroke before bedtime. 

His absence is palpable and our collective heart is broken.

We are empty.

We Miss you.

Sleep well, my friend.

My heart will always hold you, even though my arms no longer can.

/Jack The Dog's Momma

Lavender Hill Pumpkin Farm

I think I might have mentioned how much I love this time of year.  Maybe once or twice.  Or Thrice. 

We had planned to visit the Pumpkin Farm on Saturday, but a very serious and awful thing happened on Saturday instead, (more on that later, once I can bear to speak of it... right now, I simply can't... so...) and we didn't make it.

However, we were able to gather our wits about us on Sunday morning, and in fact were in need of a diversion.

Lavender Hill Pumpkin Farm it was, then.

Miss M asked us before we even left the neighborhood if it was "Very Far Away, more than a mile?"

Yes, dear.  More than a mile.  In fact, 15 or twenty miles.  We even have to get on the freeway and go up a few exists to get there. 

But, we made it ALL THE WAY there without catastrophe, fighting, biting or screaming, and the kids were super excited when we pulled into the parking lot. 

Miss M immediately says, "Hey! I've been here before! They have a SWING here!" which always surprises me, seeing how she's all of four years old, and just HOW MUCH can she possibly remember?

Quite a bit, it seems.

She ran immediately to the swing, which required copious numbers of photographs, like SO:

They must have put that swing there just for HER. 

My sweet boy was also in his element, as he spends his summers in Ohio on Grandma and Grandpa's Farm, and is love with all things that grow.  He was astonished to see what appeared to be GIGANTIC Italian squash - some were almost as big as he is - but in fact, were something else, although likely related.  he was sorely disappointed when I didn't buy one for him.  But what was I going to do with a zucchini (nearly) the size of a small automobile? 

He did find solace in the other varieties, though, so don't feel too badly for him. 


Sweet Boy points the way to the pumpkin patch.



In among the various squashes.



Isn't she the cutest thing?

"This little one?  Or.... whatever it is over there?"

Cut off the vine and ready for your wheelbarrow!

Mmmmm.... white pumpkins....

Not so many "Polar Bear" pumpkins left...

But plenty more pumpkins up the hill....



At the checkout stand, a Pumpkin Museum featuring quite an array,
but I have no idea if these are actual known varieties or special Lavender
Hill names or what.  They were pretty creative.
Clockwise from top left:
"EthelPink The Almost Ready", "Tiki Tiki Tembo No Sa Rembo Chari
Bari Ruchi Pip Beri Pembo", "Rumplstiltskin", "EthelBlue the Unsure"



The apparent Literary/Historical Pumpkin Section included: "Alice",
"The White Rabbit", "Pippi Longstocking (I put that in there just
for you, Miss Pia!), "Sacajewea and "Jabba The Hutt".  And yes,
I realize that theRikki Tikki Tavi Pumpkin could have gone here
as well, but you know... the pictures didn't arrange nicely in a
group of fives and threes.

See you next year, Mr. Swing.

And THEN we went to get Frozen Yogurt and hit up the local Street Fair.

Pretty successful day, all things considered.

\Julianna

Colby Jackson, Sculptor

I went down to the Palomar Community College Ceramics Studio last night to help a friend Raku Fire some of her ceramics pieces.  It was SO nice to be there again (awhile ago, I ran out of available units... overstayed my welcome, as it were, so I can't use the studio anymore), and even nicer to see friends that I haven't seen in awhile. 

It was my favorite kind of evening-- smokey kilns, burning newspaper in metal trashcans, the big reveal of the glaze when the smothering was done.  Amazing.

While I was there, as usual, I ran into Colby Jackson.

Colby at work.

This is Colby.  Sculptor.  Artist.  Friend.

Colby is something of a Savant.  Something of a Genius.  Something of... Well, he's just Something.

Colby is Autistic.

He makes figures out of clay - thousands upon thousands of figures - sculpted from his imagination, from the depths of his more than interesting mind.  He casts figures out of Bronze.  He uses concrete house stucco and latex paint when he makes something REALLY big.  Which he does.  Often. 

He makes CHAINS out of clay - forming Interlocking 3-4 inch loops of reclaimed clay, often marbled with several different varieties of clay, adding links and links and links to chains that can reach 15-20 feet.  People seem to just eat them up - he sells a LOT of chains.

Mostly, though, he makes Alien Heads.  They all seem to mean something to him, but they don't usually have names.  I asked him once where he got the idea to make alien heads, and he just kind of looked at me for a moment, then simply said "My mind". 

Fair Enough.

I love to watch Colby sculpting.  Every time he adds an eye, a ear, a smile, HE smiles.  I've watched him flat out giggle as he makes his figures take shape.

Sometimes, he makes something new.  More often, he makes hundreds of nearly identical copies of the same figure.  Over and Over.  And Over.

Colby's sculptures aren't to everyone's taste.  Not even close.  But *I* love his pieces, I love his creativity, I love the glimpse into what makes him tick.  My husband describes him as a "Madman" in the best possible, artistic way.  I readily admit that my husband and I are collectors of Colby's work.

Last night, Colby came up to me in his usual way - he generally works from "scripts" when talking with someone, and you can pretty much predict your entire conversation based on previous conversations, but he will occasionally surprise you, and it IS possible to draw him out, if you ask the right questions - saying his usual half-emotive way, "Well-I'm-glad-to-see-you-Yeah-would-you-like-to-see-what-I'm-working-on?"

Of COURSE I would!

I follow him over to his work area, pleased to see a new rendition of an idea I've seen before:  hundreds of items, hand sculpted, fired,and placed inside a glass enclosure, in this case, kind of like a television set. 

In the past, I've seen him make a sort of stucco cube/coffee table, with glass windows on four it's sides, and filled entirely with THOUSANDS of dice - colored plastic dice, black and white dice, hand-made ceramic dice, ten-sided dice, math dice, dice with pictures instead of dots.  When I prompted him, he told me that he'd been collecting dice since he was a child, and had just decided to DO something with them.  When I looked in the windows of the cube, I could see dozens of ledges and platforms, the dice painstakingly arranged, and piles and jumbles of dice on the bottom.  It was AWESOME.

Inside the enclosure. A jumble of Aliens.

This time, he had filled the enclosure with some of his Alien Heads (and a couple of chunks of glass he'd found in a box in a storeroom).

It's a familiar figure to me - I've seen this one a million times, in a million colors, in a million different sizes.  There's a GIANT one of these made of chicken wire, stucco and house paint hanging around the studio - mostly because it's SO BIG I don't think Colby could get it home, and even if he did, he wouldn't have anywhere to put it.  It must be ten feet tall if it's an inch.

He makes many variations of Alien Heads - sometimes multiple heads stacked on top of each other - but this one seems to be a standby.

View from the other side. They are all the same, this
time made of dark clay and fired but not glazed.

See that smile?  With every stroke, every addition... the
smile. I don't know anyone else who so outwardly
enjoys his work. It's a privilege to know this man.

In the above photo, you can see Colby, grinning, applying stucco to what is surely a chicken wire frame.  If you look closely at the top, you'll see another alien head, this one glazed in white and dark blue, stuccoed into the top of the piece.

His hands move so fast, I had a very hard time getting
them in focus on my iPhone.

He ALWAYS has his headphones on.  Being something of a music-freak myself, I asked him what he listens to.  Turns out it's techno and dance music.  Makes sense.  He likes the repetitive beats and bass lines.  I can dig it.

He also drinks energy drinks by the case.  I've never seen him drink anything that wasn't an energy drink.  Maybe a Mountain Dew.  And he usually has chocolate.  Another reason to check in with him and see what's going on.  He's very generous.

Although, I worry about him and all that sugar.

But THEN I remember that he rides a bicycle EVERYWHERE, and is just about the leanest, most fit person I know.  I guess he'll be ok.  And while I have never even had a single sip of an energy drink (actual, brewed coffee notwithstanding), I do have something of a chocolate issue.  So probably I should just hush my mouth.

Three of my newest Colby Jackson acquisitions.

Colby has THOUSANDS upon THOUSANDS of these things.  Big and small.  In boxes at the studio, in several lockers on campus, in his trailer home, in friends' houses... everywhere.

He sells them at the bi-annual Palomar College Ceramic and Glass Sale for a pittance.  A PITTANCE.

The above three figures I purchased for less than $20.  It's a crying shame.

He DID finally get a gallery showing last year, and my husband and I went to the opening, and it was the first time that I was pleased that I couldn't afford anything.  Someone had finally priced his work for what it's worth.  And curated it in such an amazing way that my husband and I were simply dazed at the show.  "Colby Jackson's Milky Way Galaxy Shop".  That's what he'd called it. 

Holy COW... there's a video.  Watch it. 

Anyway.

Close-up of the Blue Guy.

He has a WINDOW in his back.  He's a HOUSE.

I bought this for my husband for Father's Day last year.
A small example of his multiple-headed figures.
This one only has two head.  I've seen as many as 7
stacked on top of each other.

I bought this one because I'd never seen it before.
Had to have it.

I have had multiple other Colby Jackson Alien Heads in my house, but alas and alack, dogs and children and slightly tippy sculptures.... sigh.  At least I know where to get more.

If you are interested in getting your own Colby Collection going, you can find his work at The Palomar College Student Art & Craft Sale (Every Fall around Thanksgiving, and every Spring around Mother's Day) and he's recently begun selling at Buena Creek Gardens in San Marcos. 

Clby may not be the greatest artist of our time, and some may not even apply the label of "Artist", but I think that the sheer magnitude of his work speaks volumes.  Actual Volumes. 

And I firmly believe that everyone could use a few of these guys in their house, garden and office. 

Ssssssnakesssss....

ssssscary sssssnakessss.

I mentioned a little something-something that I was working on a few posts ago, and finally got to it.  To be honest, I actually acquired the supplies for this well over a month ago. 

My, how time flies.

I first saw this idea on Pinterest, and the link lead me here, where the blogger pointed out that she actually got the idea from Martha, herself.  Huh. 

Well, if there IS one thing Martha and I have in common, it's our love for Halloween, so, c'est la vie.

I didn't follow Martha's directions.  I seldom do.  Call me a rebel.

I found my snakes at the dollar store - the large ones were $1 each (I bought 6), and the small ones came in a pack of... of... Oh, I can't remember.  I think I bought two packages, though.  Whatever.  Just get some sssnakess, m'k?

It's pretty self-explanatory, except that I would recommend a larger can of spray paint than I had.  I purchased a tiny little mini spray paint can simply because, in California, all the spray paint is under lock and key (thanks a LOT stupid Paint-Huffer Idiots) and my Michael's store had a few bottles of this mini spray can on TOP of the Spray Paint Cage, instead of IN the cage. The probably weren't supposed to. But there they were. 

It is a SERIOUS hassle to obtain spray-paint here, y'all. 

You first have to hunt down an employee (as IF!) and hope that they have the key to the Paint Cage (as EVEN MORE IF!).  Which is basically just not going to happen.

Seriously.  I mean, have you ever tried to get customer service at Michaels?  Fuhgeddabbouddit. 

And no, I'm not about to make a second trip to one of the big box home improvement stores, because it's pretty much the same situation there as well. 

Stupid Paint-Huffer Idiots.

ssssspray the ssssnakessss.

Anyway.  Since I'm NOT a stupid paint-huffer idiot, all my paint ended up on my 18" grapevine wreath and my ssssnakessss.  

I ran out of paint.  I knew I would.  Sigh. 

But, at least I'd finished the front of the wreath and (mostly) the backs of the ssssnakesss.

I jussssst liked thissss picture.

I liked thissss one, too.

I heeded the original bloggersss advice and taped
their little red tonguesss for a tiny pop of color.

Of course, as soon as I finished spray painting (read: ran out of spray paint), it began to rain. 

Pretty much a given that the only time it rains in Southern California, you've just finished a spray paint project that you've left in your yard to dry.  Yep.  Pretty much.

sssee?  Red tongue.

AFTER I finished mine, I read Martha's directions. 

She talked about securing the ssssnakesss with floral wire.  Ummm.  No.  All you  REALLY need to do is to wind those ssssnakesss in and out of a few carefully chosen branches like so.  If you do it right, they don't move.  Not much anyway.

I needed to touch up with acrylic paint a little bit,
ssseeing how I ran out of ssspray paint.

Done.

And done. ssssweet.

sssspooky.

CUTENESS OVERLOAD!

My blog-friend, Pia, in Sweden has put together this book of Food and Bobbaloos on Blurb. 

food and drink with bobbaloos by pia k töre-wallin




Reason number 127 why I can't wait for payday.