Loose dogs and assigned parking spaces

Last night, just before bed, Brady and I went outside for his last potty break of the day. I hooked his leash to his collar, opened the door, and we stepped outside.

I hoped, just at the edge of consciousness, that we wouldn’t meet any of the loose dogs that roam the alley next to our condo building. Brady can’t stand it when he’s on-leash, and another dog isn’t. Without fail, he lunges toward the dog, barking loudly, his hackles raised in a long ridge from his collar to halfway down his back. We’ve tried and tried to train this out of him, and either we’re not good enough trainers, or it’s something we can’t erase from his brain, some fundamental sense of injustice, some doggie rule of fairness being broken.

The coast was clear, and we continued around the building to where I had parked our Subaru. I noticed a blue Tundra pick-up parked next to the Subaru, half on the pavement, half on the lawn. Parked where there was clearly no parking space, despite the fact that there was a free spot on the other side of my car.

Now why would someone do that, I wondered. Probably drunk, I thought (and if you saw our police blotter, it would be your first thought, too).

But then it occurred to me that maybe I had parked in the Tundra’s assigned spot.

Each of the condos in our buildings come with an assigned garage spot, and an assigned outdoor spot.

Liesl parks her Tacoma in the garage, and I park the Subaru outside. When we first moved here, I carefully parked in our assigned outdoor space. It was across the lot, about as far as possible from the only door accessible to Liesl, but it was summer, and it didn’t matter then.

But when winter came, the plow buried our assigned spot under a massive snow pile. The parking lot became a rutted, slippery expanse of ice and gravel. It was easier for Liesl, and for me when bringing in groceries, to park closer to the other end of the building. Besides, by then we’d lived there for long enough to have noticed that very few of our condo association neighbors followed the rules—about parking, or anything else.

I wondered, as I thought about the possibly angry Tacoma, why the association bothered to assign outdoor parking. Obviously, the snow-clearing plan depended on some of us not using our outdoor spaces. Even now, on May 21, there’s still snow piled in our spot. Why make a rule we would be forced to break?

And I thought about the municipality’s loose dog ordinances. Why have a law about loose dogs, and no intention to enforce it?

I thought about how angry I feel when I’m trying to follow the rules, and no one else cares. I thought about I’ve started flouting the rules myself, as a way of coping with my anger.

And so I came inside and wrote this Facebook status:

An ignored and unenforced rule is corrosive to a community’s sense of order and fairness.

Better not to have the rule.

Thoughts on assigned parking spaces and loose dogs, among other things.

The banana in my belly

Many of you have heard the news elsewhere, but for those of you who haven’t, here it is: Liesl and I are expecting a little girl in July.

At just about twenty-one weeks, she’s the size of a banana, or an heirloom tomato, or a grapefruit, depending on which week-by-week description you read online.

Our journey to this exciting place has been a long one. We talked about becoming parents early in our relationship, but because of differences in age and temperament, the answer then was “not now.”

Instead we moved from Michigan to an apartment in Anchorage, and Liesl began classes in aviation maintenance. A year later we moved to a house in Eagle River, and then in 2009 we moved to Girdwood, where Liesl had found work as a mechanic.

Then a few years ago, two of my doctors asked, on separate occasions, “Do you want to have children?” This time, our answer was, “Well, maybe.”

Many long conversations later, we were ready to say, “Let’s try.”

As I’m sure you can imagine, “trying” was much less exciting—and much more expensive—than it is for straight, fertile couples. But it has its own magic—the magic of science, I’ve started calling it.

We’ve had wonderful medical care, both here and in Seattle; some of you, when you heard the news, said, “Aha! That explains it. All those trips to the doctor—and visits to Seattle.”

Now that I’ve broken the news here, I hope to write more about this amazing experience of creating a whole new person; holding this secret has contributed, I believe, to my bad case of blogger’s block. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself!

Photo by Robin_24

Thoughts on citizenship

Liesl and I are night owls. We’re trying to mend our ways, but we see midnight most nights.

It was closer to one a.m. this past Sunday (well, Monday, really) when I began to wonder what time the inauguration would start. A quick Google gave me the unwelcome news: eleven in the morning. Eastern Time. Seven o’clock here in Alaska. I set my alarm for 6:55.

The next morning, as I stumbled from bed to couch, I wondered, “Why is this so important to me?”

Not quite awake, and freely associating, I thought about my grandfather, my father’s father.

A staunch believer in the tenets of his Plymouth Brethren faith, my grandfather Herbert thought of himself as a citizen of heaven. As such, he did not vote. A conscientious objector during World War II, he served as an ambulance driver instead of heading off to war.

But if you looked at my grandfather more closely, if you saw past his insistence that he was a stranger and an alien in this world, you would find a very patriotic American, one who love all the pomp, pageantry, history and ritual of the country he claimed was not his own.

I remember going with him to see the tall ships in New York during the Bicentennial in 1976.

Over the years, we went to countless Revolutionary War reenactments. I still have a musket-ball pendant strung on a strip of suede from one of those outings.

We attended Christmas concerts at the Ford Mansion in Morristown, one of George Washington’s headquarters during the revolution, where all the performers dressed in period costume.

His covert citizenship was even stronger on the local level; it felt like most of Woodbridge knew Herb Christensen. As one of the owners of Christensen’s Department Store, the anchor store on Main Street, he forged deep connections with customers, and with retailers up and down the street. I grew up listening to stories about how Christensen’s had survived the Great Depression, and how they had helped their customers survive, too.

He was a quietly gregarious man, someone who loved one-on-one conversations. As I watched him interact with customers, with fellow attendees at a basketball game, with the mayor, with the person in the next lawn chair at Independence Day parades, his manner contradicted his separatist theological beliefs. For all his words about the next life being more important than this one, his actions showed him to be a man who loved living in this world.

I think it was his spirit, alive in me, that propelled me out of bed on Monday morning.

In my journey from the Plymouth Brethren to Unitarian Universalism, I have abandoned much that connects me to my past. When I discover treasures that are still with me, when I reclaim my history, I feel grounded, stronger, more whole.

At the same time, I am grateful for the freedom I have found as a UU—freedom that allows me to savor this world unapologetically.

The irony is that, too often, I don’t. Too often I let pain and loss keep me from engaging, from choosing to connect, from loving this world and its people.

But patriotism is not my grandfather’s only gift to me. I also inherited his quiet gregariousness, his love of conversation.

My sociability has been dinged up a bit—by years living as a strong-minded, not-straight woman in a fundamentalist, patriarchal system—but it’s still there.

And it’s what I bring to the work of being a citizen of this world—building relationships, catalyzing ideas, one conversation at a time.

Photo by cliff1066

Downhill, and up again

It happens every year. And every year I forget.

After summer solstice, I begin a leisurely walk downhill. The slope is gradual. Not something I notice at all.  Feels like level ground. So easy.

But after winter solstice, something happens.

I wake up, and look behind me. I see how far, how deep into the valley I’ve walked.

I look ahead, and the path out of the valley seems long, and somehow steeper.

Some people say, “Get out more.  Be more social. Use a happy lamp. Get more exercise.”

There’s some truth there. Particularly here in Alaska, it’s dangerous to be naïve about the darkness of winter. Valleys can become seemingly inescapable canyons.

But there’s also something to be said for following the terrain of the seasons, for living like a bear—gorging on summer’s abundance, sleeping through winter’s deprivation.

I really, truly don’t know.

I do know that right now I’m on the uphill path, walking out of the valley into the light.

How about you?

 

Photo by Gretchen Fitzenrider

 

Don’t squander the light

Beginning sometime in November, I can watch sunrise and sunset from the same south-facing window in our condo.

The sun emerges from behind a ridge on the left half of the window, and disappears behind another ridge on right half.

As days pass, the distance between sunrise and sunset shrinks, as does the window of daylight.

I’ve always lived in places where autumn was a long slide into darkness, but never has that come into sharper focus than it has here in Alaska.

When the sun comes over the ridge in late morning, I open wide the thermal drapes in that south facing window, savoring every moment of light on clear days.

When the sun disappears behind the ridge, I close the curtains tight, preserving the condo’s warmth.

What I’ve learned, living here, is that light is a treasure.

As daylight diminishes every day, I grieve, and hunger for Solstice. When Solstice finally comes, I celebrate the rising momentum of joy.

In these days of darkness, may we rejoice in each ray of light.