Buttercup yellow. That was it. The color of my Daddy's 1970-something Volkswagen Beetle. Black vinyl seats with square stitch texture where gray dust would settle and I'd try to dig it out with my fingernail. Hot and sticky and sweet and sour in the Texas sun.
I always think of it when the subject comes up.
I was riding in the backseat, Daddy was driving and my little brother was riding shotgun though I'm certain he couldn't see over the high, flat metal dash....seat belt stretched across his neck, threatening beheading in the event of a crash. We were taking the turn from 410 eastbound onto I-35.
Daddy asked me the color of a passing car.
"Daddy! Don't be silly, you know what color that is."
"No, baby....I don't."
It was the first time he ever told me he was color blind. And I cried for him.
He told me my Grandma Garcia would send him to the store for thread when he was little and he would come back with the wrong color and she'd tell him he was stupid.
She didn't know then, either.
*******
2 year old Sunshine is learning her colors. We gather up the plastic Easter eggs on the floor of Grandma's living room and I ask her to show me the pink one. 8 year old Wes points and says "There it is!"
"No, baby....that one's blue."
And I see the buttercup yellow Volkswagen Beetle rounding the curve onto I-35.
Sweet and sour in the Texas sun.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Monday, March 31, 2014
Call, not Wilson
We picked him up on a cold and dreary Thursday morning from a small farm in Temple, Texas. He slept in my arms all the way home, all soft and squishy and perfect shades of cream and yellow and smelling like new puppy. Beautiful with his perfectly rounded little body and black rimmed brown eyes. The successor to a dog we loved more than we knew was possible.
Like any successor, he's taken some getting used to. He's not better or worse or anything like the former, he's just different. His own dog. And full of confidence in being so. Full of confidence in being Woodrow.
No hesitation. From the moment he walked in our door for the first time, he knew he was home. He was ours and we were his and I fully expected that cold ache to melt and move away.
But it didn't.
It grew.
And I pat this boy's soft head with the wrinkles etched in four distinct lines and I climb in the shower and weep for the comfort of the familiar. The one who quietly lived his life alongside us and who I can't stop thinking of now that he is quieter still.
I remind myself that grief is not quick and not clear and moves in peaks and valleys and shadows and whispers. And memories. It moves in memories long forgotten and can make me laugh right on out loud when I'm by myself.
Jason doesn't say much about him. Hasn't since he's been gone. But Wes and Sunny still march right up to the throne of grace every morning and ask God and Jesus to say hello to Gunther and they hope he has a great day.
It wasn't wrong for us to get another puppy yet. I know this. It was right and he was right and we're all learning the steps to this new dance in our family together. This new dance that includes potty training. And so much floor space.
Time heals all wounds. Most of them anyway. And laughter....laughter goes a long way, too.
And the innocent joy of a puppy.....there's just not enough to be said for that. The way he greets us with unbounded enthusiasm. Wiggles his whole body. Proudly sits on command and so gratefully accepts a scratch behind the ear. Confidently places two huge paws on the counter across from the kitchen sink and looks up at me, right in the eye. He almost smiles. Just a "Hey! Whatcha doin?".....Lord help, I need to raise my counters.
I bought him for Jason. But his heart so obviously belongs to Sunshine. He revels in rough play with Wes....but his girl. For his girl he will sit still. For his girl he will be gentle. For his girl he will share a popsicle and wait his turn for a lick.
He jumps up on the couch and snuggles in close to her. They sit together, for this moment the same size. She holds his face in her chubby still-a-baby hands and he slips his tongue through and laps a kiss on her nose. It is my fervent prayer that they will have many, many years together. That he will protect her and she will tell him her hopes and dreams, secrets and fears. And that when he dies of a ripe old age, she will know the joy of that heartbreak. Because she has loved. And she was loved. Because it's in that breaking that we feel the fullness of life. Sometimes it's the hurt that reminds us that we can feel at all.
And it's that hurt that tells me that I can love him. Not because he's the same. But because he's different.
Meet Woodrow Call. Labrador Extraordinaire.
Like any successor, he's taken some getting used to. He's not better or worse or anything like the former, he's just different. His own dog. And full of confidence in being so. Full of confidence in being Woodrow.
No hesitation. From the moment he walked in our door for the first time, he knew he was home. He was ours and we were his and I fully expected that cold ache to melt and move away.
But it didn't.
It grew.
And I pat this boy's soft head with the wrinkles etched in four distinct lines and I climb in the shower and weep for the comfort of the familiar. The one who quietly lived his life alongside us and who I can't stop thinking of now that he is quieter still.
I remind myself that grief is not quick and not clear and moves in peaks and valleys and shadows and whispers. And memories. It moves in memories long forgotten and can make me laugh right on out loud when I'm by myself.
Jason doesn't say much about him. Hasn't since he's been gone. But Wes and Sunny still march right up to the throne of grace every morning and ask God and Jesus to say hello to Gunther and they hope he has a great day.
It wasn't wrong for us to get another puppy yet. I know this. It was right and he was right and we're all learning the steps to this new dance in our family together. This new dance that includes potty training. And so much floor space.
Time heals all wounds. Most of them anyway. And laughter....laughter goes a long way, too.
And the innocent joy of a puppy.....there's just not enough to be said for that. The way he greets us with unbounded enthusiasm. Wiggles his whole body. Proudly sits on command and so gratefully accepts a scratch behind the ear. Confidently places two huge paws on the counter across from the kitchen sink and looks up at me, right in the eye. He almost smiles. Just a "Hey! Whatcha doin?".....Lord help, I need to raise my counters.
I bought him for Jason. But his heart so obviously belongs to Sunshine. He revels in rough play with Wes....but his girl. For his girl he will sit still. For his girl he will be gentle. For his girl he will share a popsicle and wait his turn for a lick.
He jumps up on the couch and snuggles in close to her. They sit together, for this moment the same size. She holds his face in her chubby still-a-baby hands and he slips his tongue through and laps a kiss on her nose. It is my fervent prayer that they will have many, many years together. That he will protect her and she will tell him her hopes and dreams, secrets and fears. And that when he dies of a ripe old age, she will know the joy of that heartbreak. Because she has loved. And she was loved. Because it's in that breaking that we feel the fullness of life. Sometimes it's the hurt that reminds us that we can feel at all.
And it's that hurt that tells me that I can love him. Not because he's the same. But because he's different.
Meet Woodrow Call. Labrador Extraordinaire.
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