The comfort of the movie you've seen over and over your whole life-I needed that last night

 Last night we watched "The Trouble With Harry" a Hichcock film. I've seen it over thirty times, maybe more since I am 67 and I think I first saw it around age twenty five. That first time I saw it, I was living in Minneapolis, and my parents were living in a condo downtown. My father had chosen it to rent and watch. I can remember the four season porch we sat in, the tile floor with Swedish rugs, the two Westies in my lap, my father's pipe...and of course I remember loving the movie and it's quirkiness. I'm sure my mother had prepared delicious food as food was central to all Dunn gatherings no matter how small.

Martyn and I have some ritual movies we begin to rewatch each fall, into the holiday Christmas season. We usually start with the Harry movie in the fall. Here we are, living in New England and we are currently surrounded in fall color just like the movie. I remember that first time I saw it in Minneapolis, I yearned to be back in New England where I'd spent four years and then some in college. I could just feel the autumn of the region as I watched, and could remember autumn walks at college, or on trips up to Vermont.

Last night one of the sensations I had was being able to feel the freedom of the little boy-so well acted by a then 5 year old Jerry Mathews. He tramps all over the country side with his air gun hunting rabbits without a phone or an entourage of people guarding over him. I grew up like that too-sans the air gun but always on the look out for rabbits [to hold of course]. I also  remember starting out as an artist in my twenties, and loving the scenes where John Forsythe takes his paintings out to the food stand and a millionaire from NYC drives by and discovers them. I remember thinking maybe that could really happen to me if I moved to a small town. 

Anyway, I wrote this because I was thinking as I did chores, why do we rewatch movies over and over? I decided it is because of the shared memory, but also becasue in the familiarity there is comfort. The memories of my parents, of college...and now the familiarity I'm lucky enough to share with Martyn. It's like you sit there watching it together, and you both have this shared secret, you know how the movie works. It's kind of like that shared experience you have with someone when you go on a wonderful trip and only the two of you really know the details.

The familiar gives us bearings, and groundings, and memories of past which helps guide what's next. The child that has the same household to come home to each night has a different confidence than the one who doesn't. As the east wing was destroyed, we see an example of a familiar landmark destroyed, vanished by the choice of the few. It wasn't nature that knocked it down, it is one man's ego and tiny, misshapen penis. A ballroom is a good idea, but as someone who grew up with an architect father, and who also worked as a young woman with the number one architecture firm in the area, I am so disturbed, and angry, by how it was, and continues, to be handled. No thought or planning. no accountability. Of course his minions love it-it doesn't matter if he destroyed the entire White House- in their eyes, it is the fact he stuck it in their faces-those people-the others- and just did it.

So, watching that movie last night, with the backdrop of a place I love and respect [even when it had people in it I disagreed with] being torn down and made into golf course fill...the movie was even more comforting. It's not about being blind and thinking we 'can go back to the good old days'. It's not that he wants a ballroom-it's his arrogant let them eat cake attitude as neighbors lose their SNAP benefits. I

As we go forward I'd like some road maps, signs, and stable compasses...no mater which route I take or which tug boat captain is steering. 

There's no tug boat captain right now. Just pirates.

  

 

 

 

When I'm vulnerable like this, it helps me understand my animals even more

I had my surgery on Tuesday in which they carved out a nice 6 inch area on my back to take out a melanoma. The cut goes down to the muscle so there is a recovery period, which I'm in now. All is well so far.

In the hands of the nurses and caretakers at surgery, you must let go, and be vulnerable as you are in their world, and it made me think how these experiences can enhance my work with the vulnerable animals.

Here I am recovering at home with a fine nurse aide-aka Martyn- getting help when I need it. I can speak up and ask for help. But animals can't. They are of course speaking up for help in their own language-a growl, eye and ear position, tail flagging, pawing dirt, etc. But it is up to us animal caregivers to translate their expressions. And many species do not show pain or vulnerability as that would be a kiss of death out in the wild.

Not being able to do simple movements after a surgery is a feeling of vulnerability. And when you get to my age, you start to be more aware that younger people might be looking at you as old, or not able to help yourself. We do not want to be felt sorry for, we do not want pity. We simply need some help. We do not want to be detracted from as we age.

I am an active person, as you might have guessed. I prefer to work alone. All of that is trouble for any recovery, even a simple recovery which in many ways this is. I'm so grateful I opted not to have the lymph nodes removed too [common procedure, but we opted to do another test that allows me to have follow up sonograms of nodes, since the tests showed low probability of spread]. I can only imagine the discomfort of that. I was thinking how my animals rely on me to make those choices. They are blessed in a way without knowing the details-which is what makes this job difficult at times.

Martyn has stayed home with me all week. It felt silly, but really it is needed. Bending, pulling, all can be bad for the back incision, so I am following orders. I do get to care for the front barn and Lulu and Olive Oil. Today I sat with Olive a bit-she is doing okay, in fact she was up and standing this morning which is a great sign, she usually waits for me. I am her nurse, I am the one that helps her as she is in her vulnerable positions. I am the one who tries to show her empathy without demeaning her as she tries to walk and stand-just like the nurses do after surgery. Even if she could speak in my language, it's possible she would hold back telling me everything-to protect her freedom-just as we people do when speaking to a nurse as we try to leave the hospital as soon as we are able, and get back to our world where we walk and climb stairs on our own.

I thought of the times I'd try to take the arm of Martyn's elder father when he'd walk on stairs, and he would pull his arm away, in a bit of disgust-he did not want my help. But as I age, I get it too–he just wanted to show himself and everyone he could still do it, he did not want to be detracted from. 

 

 

Lying on the table getting injected with radioactive dye I had a thought

 A couple days ago we drove down to Portland at 5 in the morning [a two hour drive] so I could get a test that will show the surgeon which lymph nodes my small melanoma cancer mole drained to. It is standard procedure-more on that later, I don't want this blog to be a diary of my aging body but I will share some things as I go along.

 One lies on a scanning bed, the kind with an open ring [I told my doctor I am unable to go in an MRI tube and never will unless I'm dead}, and after they inject the cancer site with dye, you just lie there and wait. It was easy, and the shots are nothing since they numb the area.

Martyn had once said to me that I looked at hospitals and doctors with suspician and fear, and he looked at them as helpers–for they saved his young life years ago when he was involved in a horrific accident. A drunk driver ran a stop sign, out in the rural area he lived at, and Martyn was life flighted out of the area, and he spent weeks in traction and had multiple surgeries. He's lucky to be alive. For those that don't know the story, I had minor anxiety feelings when something bad was happening, and I waited almost 2 years to get on medicare to find a cardiologist as I knew the tests were too expensive. After three weeks of various stress tests, the final one showed I was 99.9% [no exageration] in my main artery, a shock to everyone since I eat right and am healthy. And they wisked me to surgery, I had no time to think or fear, I was just in complete "I am not in control of this" mode.

My mother drummed into my brain that people go to hospitals to die. That was her experience up in the country when she was growing up in North Dakota. Her mother died when my mother was only 8, of a completely ridiculous reason-she had appendicitis and the rural country doctor was known to be a drunk and he sent her home misdiagnosed and she died a horrible death. It clearly, as is understandable, marked her life and colored many of her personality traits and beliefs.  

But I realized something as I was lying there, calmly, having this procedure in the same hospital where I'd had heart surgery a year and a half ago–I no longer felt fear of the hospital, or doctors. I told Martyn this, that after having so many procedures and getting to know the doctors, I felt like it was a place that helped me, and I saw it as a safe place. They were helpers. After facing such a serious surgery and aftermath...I just let it all go, the fear that is. As we left the radiology area, I caught a glimpse of a tunnel and I remembered being wheeled through those tunnels to get CT scans the days following surgery. It didn't scare me, I just thought of it like a positive memory.

It got me thinking how fear colors so much of our choices. This is true with animals too. The horse hears a strange noise as you are riding through the woods and fears it. His rider is hopefully a leader in his eyes, but if not, the horse reacts from fear. The dog bites out of fear more than displeasure. The child acts out not because he's bad but because he's fearful of doing it all wrong and getting punished again.

Or the person who has never met a person of another color or culture sees someone walking down the street towards them and becomes scared as they don't know them, and they confuse their mannerisms or dress or speech as a threat but it is more likely they are being misunderstood. Many people fear immigrants taking their jobs, even though the jobs they are working in are being helped by the immigrants, or the immigrants are working jobs many americans won't take. Have you harvested food for 10 hours a day? This is fear of status and power and ignorance of the real situation.

Fear colors politics and laws and always has and it always will, in my opinion. Fear of losing power, control, boundaries, positions, status...the list goes on and on. People stay in jobs and relationships out of fear.

So when I get fearful, I try to ask what is it I don't know that is making me scared. And look for helpers. Sometimes its a doctor. 

 

 

Lulu Makes a Flying Machine For Olive

"Tails & Tales" short stories–which show case the voices of the animals and Mrs. Dunn– will be posted here as they are written. I will continue to post them on Patreon also. In time, I might be bringing the last years of "Tails& Tales" stories here to archive for blog readers.

“Mrs. Dunn!” I heard as I left the house. It was Pickles the goat. I prepared myself for the worst and hoped for the best. “I ran out of glue,” Pickles said.

It was two weeks before Halloween. I promised myself I would not get pushed into costume making this year.

“What happened to the no glue rule?” I asked as I entered the barn.

“I thought it was the no glitter rule?” asked Pickles.

“That’s another one,” I said. “Dare I ask what you are up to?”

“My costume is a puddle, and Puddles is going to be a pickle. Get it?” Pickles asked. And she and Puddles started laughing uncontrollably.

Goat humor, I thought.

Earnest came walking in with some blue wrapping paper. “Here you go Pickles, it’s all I have,” he said.

“Well, I guess I won’t be a very big puddle, just a little puddle,” said Pickles.

“Better to be a little puddle than a sour pickle!” said Puddles, and the two began another laughing fit.

Suddenly, a tiny dark creature ran into the barn–it leapt to the right, and to the left, and then to the right again, and then the left, stopping at my feet.

“Lulu!” everyone yelled in unison.

“I found some nails, now I need a hammer to finish my box!” Lulu said in excitement.

My head raced back to when I was five and I too found some nails, and a hammer, and I made a monkey cage, at least that is what it was in my imagination. In reality it was a 5” deep box with crooked wood bars. It would need a very skinny monkey but I was convinced if I built it, my mother would get me one. So with that memory, I kindly asked Lulu, “What are you going to make, Lulu?”

“A flying box, so Olive Oil can go for a ride in the sky!”

Olive Oil was another little baby goat that arrived with a condition that made her crippled and she could not walk or run like most goats. She lived in a special hut with Lulu so she wouldn’t be lonely but she couldn’t be around the big goats alone.

Earnest the pig stepped in, “How will it fly, Lulu?”

The Goose started flapping his wings and Earnest said, “Of course, your feathers will be perfect!” 

Pickles gathered some feathers and said, “Come on, Lulu, I’ll help glue these onto your box!”

I whispered to Earnest, “We can’t break Olive’s heart, how will it fly?” I asked.

“I’ll figure something out,” the pig said.

The next day, I heard excitement in the barnyard. There was Mister Dunn, running around with a box over his shoulders, goose feathers blowing in the breeze, and a little crippled goat laughing in pure joy as she flew through the air. All the animals followed behind them, including a tiny blue puddle, and a pickle.

Change unsettles some people

When I first painted for some galleries back in the 2000 era, I had my first taste of finding some followers of an artist hate change. "You need to do the big red ones, I can sell those fast," said one [jerk] gallery guy. He kind of was right, at the moment. But I could not paint red all the time. It depended on the weather and time of year, etc. 

When I switched to more abstracts, one buyer said she missed my 'cartoon style". Ouch. I had no idea I had a cartoon style. Recently someone said I should be painting, perhaps? You go with the muse, and if you don't, you're doing it for someone else. And when I was younger, I was always trying to climb ladders, get in shows, galleries, be like that person, etc. etc. I was my own band, but I can see now that for the first time in my life I'm as free as an artist as I've ever been. I also have a paid mortgage and live very simply and like it that way...so, I had other responsibilities in '96 when I started and had to work hard as a single woman to get to where I am financially.

When Sundance sold out and got rid of most of the old staff including my art buyer who was so supportive of so many of us, I knew it was a big shift. I used to get a lot of sales from people that would go to Sundance and then find me later. Every painting would sell. Sales have been really bad this year, but I was out of commission for a while, and to be honest...for some reason...I'm not that worried about it. I guess because I'm alive! And I'm loving my clay work. Clay was right there to help me move on, just like it was back in college. I will paint still, but how, when, we'll see. I have a canvas I want to paint over. I woke up the other day thinking of it, hw I wanted to cover most of it up in beiges. I might paint over all of them out there. They were all done for Sundance, and I can tell I was painting for them, with my heart in it, but not totally for me. I mean, you have to make a living with some of the output. People are always wondering about another book. And I would love to have my animal stories see a book and a wider audience. Maybe it will happen after I'm dead! It seems to work that way sometimes. But to be honest, I know I can still write a book, I'm not sure I have it in me to self publish again, and I'm not sure I'd do a good job with all the elements that go into that since I do it alone.

So...change. It's always there. It's unsettling. But oh so...growth worthy! The leaves change all the time and nobody gets upset with that. But a painter turns to clay, or a folk singer gets an electric guitar, or a pizza shop starts adding sandwiches into the menu and followers either leave, or they embrace it. Neither option is wrong. I think of all the musicians I've followed since I was about 8, and how most evolved into their work...Joni Mitchell is a good example. Bob Dylan... I heard some bag of hot air blogger say he liked the Dylan optic movie a lot, and he said of the real Dylan "Those were his best days as a musician, he has never done anything up to the same level." I wanted to reach through the screen. I highly disagree. For a near 80 year old write to say a then 20 year old musician had his best days 60 years ago....wreaked of his own ageism. His music has only gotten richer, more layered. And one of his songs, "Murder Most Fowl in 2020, when I first heard it, I said to Martyn, "That is his new 'Blowin' in the Wind"". Daivid Bryne, Marianne Faithful, Paul SImon's latest...on the list too.
I guess this is a long winded way of saying, I'm enjoying clay, it speaks to me, and I like my wonky, crooked bowls I'm building. I appreciate there are a still a few people sticking around to see what evolves.

Who is Mrs. Dunn? I'm Katherine too.

 I was born to an architect and a mother who lost her mother at age seven. Both shaped my world in many ways–maybe some future writings will share how.

I was a bred and born a Minnesotan and feel it is still my homeland. My work ethic is midwestern. But Maine is Minnesota with an ocean and I feel very connected to the land of Maine and don’t intend to leave.

As of this writing, I am 67 years old– not old, not young, just an age. I identify with those in front of me, not behind me. I don’t regret not being twenty, or thirty or forty or fifty, or even sixty. The way I see it, and feel it, is…life wears you down.I wouldn’t want to do it again, I just appreciate the now of it. I figure I might have ten years, maybe 15, maybe less, but no matter how many, I’m shifting and my muse just kept saying I need to start a brand new blog to write about now, and the coming of whatever comes. My life for 20+ years, and art and writing, have focused on my work with animals. This subject is still with me, and is part of me and will always be entwined in my heart, memories, art and writing…but I want to hear my own voice again. Does that make sense to anyone?

I want to explore my own head. My heart survived being broken two years ago, surgery saved her and I must let her speak more, instead of always speaking through Earnest the pig or Pickles the goat. Those creatures will still be in my stories, and have wisdom to share, but I need to recognize my own voice again and not be afraid to hide behind my beloved pig or goat. The voices of the animals bring out the best parts of me, mainly because I have time to think versus just responding-but I have dark rooms too.

I just want to write, make art and feel the clay between my hands. I do hope someone might come along and start a dialogue here with me, but…that’s not the incentive. I’m in so many places online, all of us artists are who are trying to make an honest living and get our work seen. I just thought this one place could be more…open to me, not so much about selling, and trying to keep up with videos so the non profit keeps going.

I'm feeling a bit...

“Oh, there are a lot of lousy people in the world. Also, a lot of terrific people. You’ve gotta remember that, and you’ve got to move in the right circles. I have days where I just want everyone to go fuck themselves or walk off a cliff, but I only say that to myself, and I smile and I walk home and I have some tea, I talk to my husband, I might take a nap. Then I wake up and I write, and in writing, I wipe away all the unpleasantness of the day, of the people, of the city, whatever. We have it in our power to overcome assholes, and I think we have them thrown into our path to see if we have the chops to handle them." Interview with Ruth Gordon
. Conducted by James Grissom
1984

In the past year, even before, but especially this past year, I’ve felt much more like I am an animal, or a tree or leaf or insert your favorite creature in nature, versus being a human. Of course, I am human, and I am no better than anyone reading this-but I think the reality that has sunken in for me is that many more humans than I thought really aren’t very kind. They really aren’t people I’d break bread with if I knew what is in their heart. I certainly wouldn’t bring them into my barnyard.

I’ve always been an optimist, always. In the last year, or a bit more, that has wavered. I am seeing the underbelly that was always there in this country, and world-I just always thought there were more of the kind people than the not-so- kind ones. Of course, those I call unkind think I’m this or that or whatever label they have crowned as superior. I use to think we could all talk it out. I use to think if I just focus on the good in anyone’s heart, even Putin’s or [add a name of your choice]. But I guess like an old friend said to me over 30 years ago-“Katherine, some people are just evil”. At the time, I was so sad to hear him say it, he was the kindest person and really a friend and still is and I valued his opinion, still do. So when he said that, I felt so sad for the world. I refused to see it. But I see it now, or I think I do and it’s making me want to stay inside the fences of the farm. I’ve always been a homebody but lately I just have lost trust in so many humans, including humans I don’t even know walking in the grocery store.So, there’s that going on inside me. Trying to be human amongst humans that are total selfish non empathetic control freaks. They were always there. They just are louder and stronger now, as they’ve been encouraged to expand their horizons.

For years now, I thought my job is to just bring my heart to everything i do-and i feel I have. My heart ended up almost exploding because of it. I truly believe my heart was breaking from not only so many animals deaths in the past year, but also combined with going to the elder homes for seven years and watching those people die. Thing is, I’m not afraid really of death, but I work amongst it, and it is a lot of loss. 

The surgeon said to me before my bypass, “You have an incredibly strong heart to have survived 99.9% blockage, but it’s like your heart has been saying as best it could, “I can do this today, but sure I can do this too much longer.”

That struck me. When I had my follow up echo and go to hear my heart pushing blood [it sounds like a washing machine!] I almost cried, I was so proud of her. At night since surgery, I always pat my heart and thank her, and i also often apologize to her. I was working her so hard.

One of the things I tweaked in my life was stepping back from taking animals to Cove’s, a medicare facility in our area that takes in elders, ones that can’t afford other care. They do their best, but in reality, it can be a very bleak place to visit. I’ve been doing visits for 8 years there and other places. After heart surgery, something needed to shift, for my heart…for my physical heart and emotional heart. So I don’t go there anymore. I took a break, but then my calls and emails weren’t responded too. It was hurtful after all the time and energy I put into those visits-often bringing gifts like handmade puzzles and playing cards, dolls and decorations- but in time I see it was for the best. I did my work there, now I needed to step away. I won’t go back. I still share my animals with elders, but in smaller, intimate ways and in settings that seem to value what I’m doing and show it.

But at the same time, I am feeling I would rather focus on my animals, and my art. I feel those are the things that won’t completely break my heart. As Ruth Gordon says in her quote above, we do have the power to overcome assholes. It’s all in how you deal with something, not what was tossed at you. So to deal with assholes, I’m reaching inside, and bringing out-through art, writing and animal care-what I feel in my heart. My heart hung in there for me-now and I must hang in there for her.

Story: The Puddles Poop Watch

“You ate all of them?” I heard Mrs. Puddles ask in disbelief as I entered the barn.

I looked down at a sea of little goat faces, and there was one who had his head turned the opposite direction.

“Puddles, do you have anything to tell me?” I asked.

“It was Pickles’ idea! She encouraged me!” Puddles said, and at his feet were many ripped up seed packs.

“Mrs. Dunn, I simply told him how especially delicious the beans are,” said Pickles.

“Puddles, I think Pickles meant the actual beans that grow up from the seeds are delicious, not the seed pods themselves,” I said.

“They were a bit hard,” said Puddles. Earnest the pig came in with his little chalkboard. 

“Well, I will have to alter the planting guide again,” he said, as he erased the rows of beans on his layout.

“You mean there won’t be any beans this year?” screamed Hannah.
 

As you can imagine, this caused little Hannah to start crying, which of course led to old Poetry the goat to say, “Child, there are more important things in life to worry about than beans! Here, use my hankie.”
 

“Mrs. Dunn, can we buy more bean seeds? You know they’re our favourites and delicious,” said Pancakes.
 

“Especially delicious,” said Pickles, smacking her gums.
 

“We’ve purchased our seeds for the year. You have to learn there are consequences for your actions,” I said.
 

“Conqour-ranches? That doesn’t sound good,” said little Hannah.
 

“Mrs. Dunn is pointing out that for everything you choose to do, there is a direct correlation in the universe to another thing happening,” said Earnest the pig.
 

Their faces were blank, and there was silence.
 

“Earnest means that when Puddles chose to eat the bean seeds all by himself, the herd will now suffer because there won’t be green beans this summer,” I said. 
 

Everyone sighed, and Puddles turned to face the wall again.
 

“Well, there might be a solution, Mrs. Dunn,” said Earnest the pig, and he grabbed his chalkboard and drew a picture of Puddles’ body. He grabbed a stick, pointed at Puddles’ stomach in the picture, and explained, “This is where the bean seeds are now.”
 

Everyone shook their heads in understanding.
 

“By tomorrow morning, they should be leaving the body here,” and he again pointed at Puddles’ body in the picture.
 

“Oh good grief,” said old Poetry. “Are we really going to be on Puddles Pooping Patrol all for some beans?”
 

“Well, let me know how all that works out,” I laughed. 
 

“You mean how it all poops out,” said Pickles and we all laughed and laughed...except Puddles.
 

The next morning, I was headed to the barn when I heard much excitement. Everyone was screaming in joy, “Puddles pooped!” 
 

Everyone was hugging Puddles and thanking him for pooping out the seeds.
 

“Well, Puddles, you now understand what a consequence is,” I said.
 

“Yes, Mrs. Dunn. But Mrs. Dunn?” he asked. “I ate some garlic bulbs too.”