Look at those faces. Innocent. Sweet. "Just love us, dad. A cookie would be nice." You'd never believe that one of them is a serial barker. And its not the dog who spends most of his time in Zen poses. That would be Ching Ching, the Shiz-tzu. No, it would be Miguelito, the Chorkie who sees ghoulies in the bushes and gets upset at the mailman, a passing cat, a man with another dog, the wind, the moon, a disturbance on the sun. And he thinks I need to know these things. So he barks excitedly and persistently. Especially when I am on the computer or watching my soap. Do you suppose he has a method to his madness? Do you think he knows I will eventually come and find him and scold him and tell you get his little tail inside this very moment? And don't you think I try to ignore him? But who can concentrate on anything with Barker the Sentry going off and off and off? Okay, so I know the game. Tonight I sat down to write. And as soon as I started typing...you guessed it...bark bark bark. I gave in. I went to the back slider and turned on the light. There was my little soldier in the lantana, barking! Barking! Barking! I imagine there was something in the lantana, but I'll never know. I wasn't about to go foraging at 10:30pm. No, I called him, he finally came in, and here he sits on my lap, blissfully sleeping now. Do I think he knows what he's doing? Do you? Is there a question whether to bark or not to bark? Not to this dog. Not my Miguelito.
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There was a time or two I was an independent little cuss. Yes, me. I rebelled. I remember a time I decided that after school I would go to Robbie Bloch's house to play. I decide all on my own. And so I did. Trouble was, I was a second grader. And I didn't call my mother to let her know where I was. Of course it didn't occur to me she would worry. I knew were I was. And it was 1958. Nothing bad happened to little boys in 1958. At least not that we heard about. Not is suburban Detroit. So I had a good time playing whatever we were playing and finally Robbie's mom was making dinner and wondered if I shouldn't be getting home. "I guess," And so I left to head home. It must have been late spring because it wasn't anywhere near to get dark. So I just started back on my usual route home when I saw a familiar figure in the distance. It was my father. He was not happy. Suffice to say I got a bit of a whipping with a thin switch on the way home. Across the back of my legs. Didn't hurt much more than my pride. It began to sink in that what I had done was not a good thing. Even though we didn't have cell phones, I did know our landline number by heart. And our address. We had to learn it in case we ever got lost. But I wasn't lost.... But my folks didn't know that. I was grounded for sometime after that. I think I saw why what I had done wasn't exactly right, but, still. Okay, it was wrong. And I never did it again. To this day I still feel like I need to let someone know I'll be late coming home. Of course my dogs, Ching and Mig, don't care, even though they do scold me when I get home; mostly because they are hungry I expect. My mother hugged me oh-so-tight that night at bedtime. It was then I realized just how worried she and even my dad had been. Although it was a foolish thing to do, it was also nice to see just how much my folks loved me. 6/18/2017 2 Comments Father's Day MysteriesI've had this picture on my bureau forever, but its been a long time since I really looked at it. It is one of the few, perhaps the only, picture I have of my dad when he was a kid. This is with his brother, Ross. If you look closely, there is a young girl peering out the window. I am sure that is my dad's sister, Jenny. Why she wasn't included in the picture, I don't know. Sad thing is I will probably never know since they are all gone now and I have long lost touch with anyone who might know. In fact they are probably all gone too. My guess is that this picture was taken circa 1917 or '18. My dad was born in 1911, Ross in 1912 and Jenny in 1913. There was an elder sibling and a younger sibling, both who died as children. Again, there is no one to ask any more. A lesson I am learning, probably much too late of course, is to ask questions and listen to the stories your elder family members tell. Someday, as with this picture today, you might want to know why they were dressed in those odd little suits and the girl banished to the indoors. What I do know is that my paternal grandfather was a very stern man and had little patience for his kids, especially after my grandmother was killed in a fire. Again, I don't know the details of any of it. Another family mystery to ponder on this Father's Day. What I do know is that even just this little snippet of history my Uncle Ross told me years later helps me to understand my dad and why he was the way he was when my brother and I were growing up. He was what they would call "bullied" by his dad and charged with taking care of his younger siblings. He rebelled from what I understand, and it was a family in turmoil. A story for another blog. In any case, I am thinking of my dad today and how he tried his best to be a good father. Although my dad was a life-long alcoholic, he worked everyday, kept a roof over our heads and food on our table even though he was either working in the factories or out drinking in the evenings. He always came home at night, though. That I interpreted as security I guess, because it was our "norm". No father is ideal. I was lucky to have a dad who cared as best he could. And even though I sometimes hated him and wished he were dead, now that he is, I wish I could tell him one more time that I really did love him. Happy Father's Day, John Beyer McMurray. May you rest in peace. This is the back of the picture. It was common to get photos printed on post card stock in those days. The note says "Will be up when the roads get good hope your all well. Russell Russell was my grandfather. This is the only souvenir of my grandfather I have. Happy Father's Day, Russell McMurray. I learned today that the gal who did mani/pedi's for me for several years passed away last evening after a short but almost violent fight with cancer. Her name was Marie. It was a shock to most who knew her. Marie was a feisty, spirited, pretty woman with whom you always knew where you stood. During our salon session, we would talk about everything from relationships, finances, and even politics. Marie was very involved in local politics, attending most city council meetings and voicing her opinions about the latest bond or tax measure or whatever was on the agenda. She's always tell me to be sure to vote this way or that, and funny enough I'd usually agree with her...even though she was pretty republican and am pretty democratic. That, however, didn't affect our friendship as it developed over the past seven or eight years. Now she's gone. Suddenly. Horribly by cancer that she either didn't suspect or kept well hidden. Marie was a cowgirl who loves country western in all its forms. I think she grew up and in Norco and we here in the Inland Empire know that is the heart of horse country. And flags...well...Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day...her home was like a float in the Veteran's Day Parade. And more than flag and country, Marie love Halloween and Christmas. She would spend weeks decorating her booth. Halloween was a bloody mess (tastefully done of course) and Christmas, well no one loved Christmas more than Marie. Globes and Santas hung from the acoustic tiles. Gold streamers, glitter, Merry Christmas and Feliz Navidad banners...it was truly amazing. Marie was one of those rare people who come into your life to perform a service and over time becomes so much more than a service provider. And even though we didn't always agree politically, there was not a prejudice bone in her body when it came to people of all gender identities, sexual persuasions and marital status. "Everything is great until someone breaks a nail," she would say. It was stenciled on her workspace wall. So it is with disbelief and great sorrow I am trying to accept that someone so vibrantly alive, so direct and even blunt at times, but kinder than most and a source of support to many, is gone. Her last name was Bull, but with Marie, there never was any bull. And who you saw was who she was. No pretense or phony baloney. She was the real deal. Godspeed, Marie. I will miss you. 6/15/2017 1 Comment Not All Dates Grow on TreesAll dates do not grow on trees. Here, in So Cal, there are vast date groves in the dessert and every year in the spring they have the Date Festival. I imagine a lot of people take dates to the Date Festival. And not wanting to date myself, I think I went to my first festival in 1976 more or less. All of this started me thinking about, you guessed it, dates. June is a month with thirty days. If you think hard, each of those days are anniversaries of things that happened in June. Weddings, graduations, birthdays, retirements. So many are in June. My parents married on June 10. My cousin was born in June as were many friends. I graduated along with many others, on June 13 (high school) and June 1 (college). I retired in June. My mother passed away in June, as did a man named Jeffery Owens whom, although I never met him, his death by hate crime here in Riverside, had a profound effect on my life. I'm sure if you think about your life, there are a lot of these type of things that have anniversaries in June. The granddaddy of them all as far as Big Dates that occur in June is, no, not Stonewall and Gay Pride Festivals, but of course, those are indeed extremely significant events. No, the Big Date I refer to here is the Summer Soltice. The longest date of the year. The day we officially begin Summer! Yay! I guess, yay! Summer is here already to So Cal with temps over 100 starting today or tomorrow. Summer Solstice. Celebrate! Okay, so that's my ramble about dates, their varieties (Barhi. Syrupy rich soft date, the softest and most fragile. Dayri. Heavy, sweet flavored soft date. Deglet Noor. Sweet delicate flavored semi-dry date; known for its “true” date flavor. Halawy. Also Halawi. Khadrawy. Also Khadrawi. Medjool. Also Medjul. Thoory. Couldn't resist..who knew there were so many varieties of dates?) But dates bring back their history while maybe we are creating new events and memories to celebrate. If we are luck, the new events outshine the bad ones and we are consoled. But we remember dates because to forget, well, it just wouldn't be fitting. "Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it." The quote is most likely due to George Santayana, and in its original form it read, 'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.' The phrasing itself certainly is catchy. Something to think about as we hurtle forward through the dates of June and the chaotic times in which we live. |
Rob McMurray,
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