What Will I Be Wearing When The Big One Breaks Loose?

Carolyn J. Rose

 In the past few months I’ve read several articles and watched at least two TV programs dealing with the Cascadia Subduction Zone. That’s the 1000-mile-long boundary between the Juan de Fuca and North American tectonic plates. When the plates shift in a major way—and apparently we’re long overdue for a big shift—the Pacific Northwest will be in for earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions. That means lots of destruction followed by months of disruption.

Finally shaking off denial, I’ve been stockpiling bottled water and emergency supplies. I’ve made a list of neighbors’ phone numbers and designated a person in another state to serve as a message center. I have spare clothing and shoes in the garage and in my car. I fill my gas tank when it reaches the halfway mark. I bought an extra propane tank. I have plastic tubs filled with toilet paper and towels. When the guys at the hardware store see me pull up, they automatically place another small flashlight on the counter, knowing I’ll buy it along with birdseed and whatever else I’ve come for.

And every day I remind myself of two facts. 1) If this thing rips loose the way they say it might, everything I’ve done won’t help all that much. 2) If this thing rips loose, it will undoubtedly rip at a very inconvenient time.

In other words, I won’t be fully dressed, standing outside the house well away from falling debris, holding the wrench I need to turn off the gas and water. I’ll more likely be asleep, in the shower, at the pool, or ensconced at the computer in my bathrobe and slippers—my raggedy bathrobe and worn-down-at-the-heels slippers. Chances are that when it happens, I won’t be wearing the best underwear in the drawer—the stuff without rips and possessing elastic that’s still stretchy. I might even be—gasp—without a bra.

Well, you can’t say my grandmothers didn’t warn me about what would happen if I didn’t pay more attention to my underthings. And if they can see me from wherever they are, they’ll be rolling their eyes as I race to a safe place.

But, honestly, if this thing rips loose like they say it might, I doubt anyone else racing for a safe place will give a hoot whether I’m wearing my bathrobe, a towel, or a tutu.

Finding True Love

Carolyn J. Rose

Like many women of my generation, I grew up on stories about girls like Cinderella, handsome princes riding to the rescue, and the myth of happily ever after. I recall mooning around the house speculating about my true love—a fairly nebulous guy whose physical characteristics changed yearly. At the core he was kind and generous, smart and witty, and willing to fight dragons and walk through fire and do whatever it took to be with me. (Because, you know, it was all about me, and he would be consumed by his love for ME.)

I recall asking my mother if she believed there was only one “right” person for each of us, one “real, true love.” Further, I grilled her about the difficulties of finding that person. What if he lived in India or Nepal or the very center of Africa? What if we never met? Worse, what if he had already lived—and died?

My mother was a practical woman with a job, three kids to care for, meals to cook, laundry to do, a house to clean, and homework to supervise. She probably found my romantic notions ridiculous. As a matter of fact, it seems she presented me with the already-died theory.

As I grew older and more realistic and had loves of various degrees and durations, I shelved the dream of consuming, perfect love. But then, at the age of 53, I met the one who would love me without conditions, who would abandon all others to run to my side, who would be patient, sweet, and joyful.

Her name was Bubba.

She was ten pounds of silky gray hair, tiny black eyes, crisscrossed teeth, and strong spirit.

 

For fifteen years she was always glad to see me when I came home from work, from the supermarket, or even from a two-minute trip out to fill the bird feeder. She often danced with joy—or with the hope of getting a dog cookie. She cuddled, she snuggled, and she herded me out for walks. She inspired me to create Cheese Puff in my Subbing Isn't For Sissies books.

And then, along with me, she grew old. There were more bad days than good, more anxiety, and more loss of physical control. Finally, Mike and I made one of the hardest decisions of our lives—we sent her on ahead to wherever and whatever.

As we watched her spirit depart, our pain was fierce and raw. We sobbed, unashamed and inconsolable. When the pain abated, it left scars—bright and cold and empty places in our hearts.

We lost more than a dog.

We lost more than a companion.

We lost pure, true love.

What they'll say about me.

“I get up every morning and read the obituary column. If my name's not there, I eat breakfast.”

George Burns

 Maybe it’s the gray, nasal drip rain of December mornings in the Northwest. Or perhaps it’s a product of waking up in the morning, looking in the mirror and blurting out “Holy &*^%&*&^%$ I’m 67 years old. Like George, I find myself scanning the obituaries in the morning paper, (after reading "Pearls Before Swine") and wondering what my death notice will look like.

The same phrases turn up in many of the final tributes: “Devoted family man;” “Loved bowling and his grandkids;” “Enjoyed travel and gardening;” and so on. Nothing wrong with any of that really. But does it really capture the person? Does it provide the essence of the unique and imperfect human being who shuffled off this mortal coil? One day I’d like to pick up the paper and read something like this.

            Frank would have had a much longer and fuller life if not for that idiot who delayed him for a nanosecond at the green light on 33^rd and Columbia.

            Francine liked to dress in colorful clothing and was once mistaken for an exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.

            Bruno’s crowning achievement was his virtuoso performance of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” using only a pair of spoons and his underarms.

            Meg was voted “girl most likely to be listed alphabetically” by her high school class.

Charlie had three 300 games to his credit. Unfortunately he was a golfer, not a bowler.

Shellie had a rebellious nature and was a true contrarian. Unfortunately her efforts to always be “out there” never received any public acclaim. It’s fair to say she was (wait for it, wait for it,) “A Rebel Without Applause.”

Eldon’s life was summed up by something his mother said when he was 8. “That boy is a real stinker!”

Dolores exhibited an almost uncanny grasp of the obvious.

I think my own obituary should list the major achievements in my life.

            Mike held the distinction of being fired from the same radio station twice under different ownership.

            The artistic pinnacle of his career was making a battleship out of scotch tape when he was 10.

            Is the only known example of someone’s wardrobe requiring an environmental impact statement.

            Will always be remembered in the Vancouver theater community for his bravura performance as The Wardrobe in C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Received a regional Tony award for “Best depiction of an inanimate object.”

            Never, in his entire life made a list, had a plan or knew where he left his reading glasses.

 I hope that when that morning comes, and I read my own obituary in the paper, that whoever wrote it is entirely honest about who I was and how I lived my life. Actually, I’d rather they kept it brief.

            Mike Nettleton: He came, he lived, he loved, he tried hard but sometimes screwed up, he treasured every moment with those he cared about. He was fun while he lasted.

Apparently, it’s all about the dog

Carolyn J. Rose

   

When I wrote NO SUBSTITUTE FOR MURDER I thought of it as a single story, a standalone. Many readers, however, let me know they saw it as the beginning of a series. They liked the characters, they liked the voice, but most of all they liked Cheese Puff, the protagonist’s entitled dog.

Readers got in touch to suggest things that could happen to the ten-pound orange mutt. Those ideas got into my head. They grew. And more stories emerged.

Before I knew it, Cheese Puff, although neutered, fell in love with a long-legged Golden Retriever named Lola. He acquired a number of outfits, including formalwear. He went on shopping excursions, to plays and movies, and out to gourmet dinners with Mrs. Ballantine and members of the Cheese Puff Care and Comfort Committee. He was even kidnapped by a drug dealer.

In the latest book, NO SUBSTITUTE FOR MISTAKES, someone starts a cat-bashing blog in his name, his life is threatened, and he tangles with a rogue duck. To his chagrin, a cat comes to the rescue.

I’m grateful to Bubba, the pound puppy we took in 15 years ago this month, for providing the inspiration for Cheese Puff. She’s given me unconditional love, plenty of attitude, and constant reminders that it’s not all about me. “Small dogs,” Dr. Blair Ferguson told me when we took Bubba to his veterinary clinic for her shots, “rise each morning with one thought in mind—I will bend you to my will.”

Boy, did he nail it. But, I have to admit, there’s a certain freedom to knowing I’m not in charge.

  

 Bubba won’t be with us   much longer, but she’ll live on as long as Cheese Puff has adventures.