Free Range Dog

Leroy hears the approaching snaps and crackles on the road way before you do and shoots from the barn like a bat from hell. By the time you catch on, you wonder if this is his swan song but go through the futile motions of calling his name and loudly clapping your hands. You reach the threshold of the barn door to catch the parade of this Napoleonic little dog nipping at the passing car's tailpipe and raising hell with his newly mastered coonhound wail. Eventually he relents and parks himself in the middle of the road to finish his barking chorus as the intruder fades into the distance. His job done, he tunes you in and returns to the barn with his head hung and tail tucked. You're annoyed but mostly relieved to see he survived the knucklehead jaunt, so you don't inject too much anger into reminding him that he's a bad dog. The slight wag of his still tucked tail tells you he has you figured out -- his display of shame is a charade. 

Later he leaves the barn to roam the land and returns after an hour to set something at the foot of your chair. At first glance it looks like a piece of tree bark, but you don't pay it much attention since your'e caught up with dispensing a litany of business clichés into the phone. He seems peeved that you're ignoring his offering and mutters a stifled bark. You wave him off and step outside to finish your call. Back at your desk a subtle funk permeates the air. You survey the surrounding area then look down to find him chewing on what turns out to be a pancaked dead mouse. Restraining the rush of salty saliva in the back of your throat, you backhand his behind, assuming he'll drop the chunk of rigor mortis and retreat. He darts off but with the prize in his soft mouth. You don't bother chasing because he loves that game and always wins. An hour later you have to mute the phone to conceal from your client the deep bellow of his retching in the corner. You consider it demented of him to be wagging his tail so wildly when he finishes expelling the dead rodent from his system.  How can he enjoy that?   

In the early afternoon your legs and mind need a good stretch so you decide to walk the property. You whistle and call for Leroy but he doesn't come. Did he finally get the balls to go rogue? No, there he is at a far outstretch of your land in the compost pile rolling around in rotten vegetables, egg shells and coffee dregs like some filthy swine. He sees you and makes haste to run over and rub the muck on your pants. You make a mental note to give him his third bath of the week before your wife gets home from work.    

This meathead montage from a day in the life of your coonhound puppy endears him to you, but in the back of your mind you ponder: How deeply attached should you get to a country dog?

In the city it's seamless to develop a deep undying affection for your pet because there are regulations you must follow to maintain order and preserve his life. These urban parameters mitigate the risk of investing crazy love in the relationship because typically, unless you're a deadbeat, you can expect your dog to be around for a while. Out here in the country it appears to be a different ballgame, unless you choose to be a prison warden. The nuances and rules of dog ownership here, like many things, are much more relaxed, less structured. So when you brought Leroy into the fold a few months ago, you were confronted with a series of choices for how to manage his safety. You wrung your hands as you researched the array of constructs available to safeguard the little guy -- doggie zip lines, invisible fences, wireless containment systems. Ultimately you decided on a free range concept and set realistic expectations for what that could mean. Your love for him comes with an asterisk. 

For now he seems to know his limitations and keeps his troublemaking antics within eye and earshot. Though you know that eventually he will push the boundaries farther and flirt with breaking your hearts, when you watch this little lug prancing freely and naturally about his domain, truly seizing this day, it feels worth the risk, and if you're being honest, you're a little envious of his spirit. 

The Fog of Thanksgiving

This Thanksgiving in the new country digs we're hosting a small gang of friends who are family and family who are friends. As usual when it comes to the holidays, I'm consumed by the internal debate over which I prefer more -- the approach and giddy anticipation of an event or the actual event itself. Both have their merits, so 'all of the above' is a completely reasonable call, but if I'm being honest, this debate is really just a distraction from the anxiety and fear that comes with an event's recession into memory. I've developed an acute, if dysfunctional, barometer for the moment an experience peaks and becomes the past. Every summer at the beach I lay flat on my back in the sand to let the surf wash over me, indulging in its zen warmth; then, just as quickly as it arrived, it recedes, leaving my skin prickly, my soul shivering. That's the most poignant living metaphor for this real time separation anxiety I experience. It's something of a curse, for it probably holds me back from absolutely embracing the present. I like to think that as I get older this will dissipate, but it hasn't yet. In the meantime, I spend much of life in reflection mode -- revisiting experiences, reveling in memories -- which really isn't so bad. These days I put a lot of stock into what Paul Auster once said: Memory is the space in which a thing happens for a second time. So I live with it. 

Looking ahead to the next, I've been sorting through my own Thanksgiving memories and asking friends about theirs. Processing these conversations, I discovered a common thread: the absence of many, if any, specific monumental memories. Most of the stories seem to be generic amalgams and generalizations that amount to little more than accounts of Thanksgiving's Greatest Hits -- food and football. Yawn. I think two things might be at play here: we're going through the motions too much instead of stamping the day and/or we're just getting too plastered to remember much about it. 

This year I feel the need to have a game plan so I developed a few Thanksgiving mechanisms and strategies. Most of the following friendly suggestions stem from regrets and some lessons learned the hard way.  

Punch the Clock

In 6 weeks when we're fat and slow, cursing that our skinny jeans no longer fit, perusing the health club's fitness class schedules, we'll quickly point fingers at the buffet tables that flanked the room of every holiday gathering we attended when we all know the siren that sang us to self-loathing shipwreck was not the food -- it was the booze. Not only does alcohol obviously crank up the calorie count, it blurs and slurs the whole experience. The older I get, the more that whole adolescent warning about alcohol killing brain cells matters. It may be too late for me in the grand scheme, but I've developed a novel ambition to hold onto what I have left in the tank.

None of this is to say I won't be hammered Thursday -- I just want to pace myself down that road, which is why I hit up my friend and cocktail mad scientist Jeff Faile back in DC for a punch recipe to kick off the day. It's goes without saying that an open bar straight away will leave you and some guests too drunk when the bird lands on the table.  

We're calling this punch the Doppler Effect, because it seems to encapsulate the whole motion of approach, pass and recede that haunts me these days.  

Ingredients: 

6 ounces Aperol

5 ounces Jim Beam bourbon whiskey

8 ounces prosecco

8 ounces soda water

2 1/2 ounces honey

2 1/2 ounces hot water

4 grapefruit wedges

3 sprigs rosemary

Directions:  Pour Aperol into a glass, add one rosemary sprig, cover and set aside for 24 to 48 hours at room temperature. Fill a medium sized container or pan with water and freeze to make a large ice block. In a shaker, mix honey and hot water and shake well. Chill rosemary-infused Aperol, whiskey, prosecco, soda water and honey syrup for one hour then add to a punch bowl with the ice block. Squeeze grapefruit wedges into punch bowl and throw in the rinds. Add rosemary sprigs to garnish. 

Pass on the Grass

Chances are, your hosts have been project planning and grinding for several days on the preparation, cooking and staging of this big day. By the time you and other guests arrive, they are running on not much more than fumes of adrenaline. They are all smiles but underneath it whimpering with exhaustion, pining for a second wind. If for nothing else than respect for them, lay off the weed at least until after dinner. You'll be doing yourself (and your date) a favor by not being the loser at the table scarfing everything down without savoring a single bite because munchies supplanted your true appetite and turned you into a slob. Your hosts didn't cripple themselves for this dinner party so some cat could go Cheech & Chong on the fruits of their labor. If you want to contract the munchies and gorge yourself, save it for any other day and Taco Bell.     

That being said, fire and brimstone probably won't rain down if you sneak out for a one-hit in the window between the table clearing and the spread of pies being set. It's possible you'll need those munchies to excavate space in your gut for more food anyway. Just remember that if it's cold outside, the reefer stench will especially stick to your clothes, so beware who you chat up when you re-enter because they will smell it all over you.   

Show and Tell

By now you should know not to show up empty handed to any party, not just Thanksgiving. If you don't, you can saddle up to the kid table. It's fine in some cases to grab a random bottle on your way to a dinner party, but for special occasions it's better to put some thought and heart into it. If it's wine you brought, at the table you might share some context about the bottle you chose. Say it's one of your favorites -- tell us when you discovered it and what you love about it. Or if it was recommended by the wine expert at your liquor store, share what you gathered from him/her. I know very little about wine -- that's my wife's department -- but I love learning from friends about wines they love. Those wines stand out to me when I'm roaming a liquor store and take me back to the dinner when I first tasted them. 

The same goes for whatever dish you contribute to the feast. Presumably there is some history or family tradition behind the side you offered to bring. Sharing that with us can only elevate the dish because of your thoughtful and loving disclosure.  

If you brought weed, the safe bet is to keep that to yourself. Not everyone is cool with the mule.  

Up your 'Thankful For' Game

It's unbearably cute when it's my son's turn to share what he's thankful for and he says that he is most thankful for his family. When a grownup says the same and passes the gavel it's a little unbearable. You've been around how long now and that's the best you can come up with? Ok, it's fine if your family is on the list of what you're thankful for, but it can't be the only thing. Give this one some serious thought and feel free to break the mold with any sort of heartfelt tangent. Odds are you've been engaged in little more than idle chitchat at the party up to this point. Greater odds are you hardly speak to your grandmother during the year in any way that leaves an impression of who you really are. This is your chance to move people, to give them a look behind the curtain. There are only a few times a year when you will be at the table with family and friends who matter to you the way these do, and you're running out of years. Tattoo the occasion with something that will make your grandmother well with tears, your mother blush, your kids giggle and your wife love you even more. Go out on a limb with this moment. You have it in you.

Surprise People

Throw a curveball this year. If you're the guy who perennially disappears to the television right after dinner and with age have developed a shred of self awareness, volunteer for the dish corps. You'll raise a few eyebrows and score some credibility. Maybe you typically ignore the kids bouncing off the walls at these gatherings. Chat one up this time around. It will endear you to the parents and you'll catch a spark of that buzz that kids can radiate.  

On the topic of dishes, my wife chimes in from the peanut gallery to say that the new black is guest helpers who can package and store leftovers. Apparently dish help was so 2014, and this year it's all about the mad Tetris skills in the kitchen.  

I'm setting the over/under for my own achievement of these suggestions at 2. My ambitions only go so far these days. In the meantime, I wish everyone a safe and warm Thanksgiving. 

Making Friends

Lately you've been collecting origami figures that you find scattered about the house. These are the product of your 7-year-old Cole's regular disappearances into your home office. Independently he finds pieces of scrap paper that are destined for the garbage, repurposes them and moves on. On the surface this should be unremarkable, but the deeper this world dives into the digital rabbit hole where kids too often stare 100 yards into screens, you're happy to see him using his imagination. Recently when praising his artistic talent and creativity, you asked where he comes up with these ideas. He grinned and casually responded that when he needs a friend he just makes one. You returned the smile and kissed his warm temple.

In 2nd grade, he's in his 3rd year of an Individualized Education Program (IEP) aimed to strengthen his focus and catch him up with the appropriate reading and writing benchmarks. You're not familiar with the origin of the IEP terminology, but each time you say it feel like you're skirting the gist with fluffy euphemism, not looking it in the eye. Your son has a learning disability; he's a special ed kid. Last week in a meeting with his teachers, the most recent of many, you gleaned that he doesn't appear to be very interested in creating friendships at school and hasn't committed to memory the names of his classmates, despite his sunny and warm personality. At recess, they say, he generally rolls solo, often drifting to the fringe of the playground to climb trees, appearing to be engaged in conversation with himself. Somehow this behavior does not trouble you remotely, and though intellectually you know their intentions are good, you bristle at their concern.

You've always known Cole to be a halftime adjustment guy -- he starts the school year behind, over winter break figures things out then owns the 2nd semester -- so while you take it seriously you're not hung up on the academic Xs and Os. Your paramount concern is preserving his independent and creative spirit. He's your kid, so bias certainly enters the equation, but you're convinced that this daydreamer might be thinking and feeling on a higher plane while pleasantly posturing his way through school. He can't read a chapter book for shit but he can read a room and light it up.

You'll never bury the memory of him as a kindergartener in a testing room with three DC Public Schools specialists, charming them to the point where one had to excuse herself to jailbreak her contained laughter in the hallway. She was lightning quick to apologize when she saw you on this side of the two way mirror and explained that his character and comedy just overwhelmed her. With a hand on your shoulder she said, I don't care what comes of all this, dad. You got the sweetest apple on your hands and that's what matters. This was not breaking news to you but still stung your eyes with tears. There you were wallowing in despondence with the deepest pit in your stomach, sitting in the bowels of some administrative building watching the dissection of your son's mind, and he rocks the whole boat with a tidal wave of smiles and sweetness.  

It's true that he freelances and entertains himself. When you bought this country home on acres of land, you envisioned your boys roaming the property and exploring the surrounding woods. Cole wasted no time embracing that concept. It warms your heart to look out the window and see him splashing in the creek, swinging from tree branches or peering from behind a bush while gripping the twine tied to a rabbit trap he made from a moving box. He's in his element here.

In Michael Chabon's memoir, Manhood for Amateurs, there's an essay in which he uses Michael Pollan's exposure of the myth of free range chickens as a metaphor for his own kids. The essence of it is that kids today live within the constructs parents and teachers have created where their basic needs are met and ultimately develop a comfort level with this that hinders and smothers their imaginations. Given the chance to explore, most kids would rather hang within those confines and stick with what they know. This also pleases parents and teachers because it mitigates risk and keeps life organized. Chabon goes on to synthesize this eloquently:  

That may be why I spend as much time worrying about the crap in my kids' imaginative diet as I do fretting over their eating habits. Free space, free play, and the sense of independent control over a world that is vague and discoverable at its edges: These act as a kind of filtration system enabling kids not to work the crap out of their minds but to compound it with the alloy of their own imagination, tempering it against the hard edges and rough spots of the physical world. All great crap is open-ended but only if it can be carried by a child right out into the open. Otherwise, kids get trapped within the flats of the vivid and convincing set that we have constructed for them, afraid to go through doors that lead nowhere, staring through a CGI window at a pastel-and-pixel view of a world they fear or have forgotten how to reach.

One day outside forces will conspire to tip him off that he's different, that he's coloring outside the lines. His peers will ostracize and chip away at him for not falling in with the rest of them all these years. They'll laugh at him for being a SPED kid. You know it's coming because you know some kid's can be real assholes. Dark clouds will accumulate and challenge his magical ability to call out their silver linings. Every parent fears the inevitable moment that the world reveals ugliness to their child. You're stuck on how to handle that revelation. In the meantime, you can only encourage him to keep on keeping on. You don't want him to be anyone else, reading comprehension scores be damned. You don't worry about his future success; you worry about his right now. The rest will work itself out if he stays true. Your childhood and adolescence were riddled with so much doubt and private hand wringing over how to fit in, which led to some regretful social climbing and abandonment of your true self. As a parent you are grateful for that hindsight and rely on it to know when and how to run interference with your kids.      

Tonight you practice sight words with him. The stack of flash cards on the coffee table grows taller each week. When the dog whimpers at the back door you leave the room to put him outside. You return to find that Cole has fashioned a flash card into a tiny paper airplane. He sails it to your lap. You unfold it to reveal the word he chose: because. 

Note:  My friend Ian Sohn recently wrote a thoughtful piece called Conscientiousness vs (and?) Creativity that struck a chord with me. I strongly recommend.

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Machete Morning

Caffeine has hardly begun its number on your system, but you don't need it at the moment because adrenaline's got you covered as you sprint down the hill to the bus stop gripping a machete in one hand, a can of pepper spray in the other. Today you're more thankful than ever for the end of daylight savings because if this shit was going down last week, you'd be running in darkness and might easily trip, skewer yourself and bleed out on the gravel road. You had different designs on country life that sure as hell didn't involve a 7:00 AM imitation of The Walking Dead's Rick Grimes en route to a zombie bash, but here you are in full panicked stride responding to Jack's breathless phone call about a wild dog being a school bus stop bully.

Get the fuck away!  Not what you expected to hear when you picked up. He's the good boy, the role model of your two sons, so alarm bells ring immediately -- he wouldn't drop filthy language like that if not truly terrified.  

Jack -- what's going on? 

The pit bull, dad. He stammers, short of breath, and you hear the rapid crunch of gravel. They're running, just like you told them not to if they encountered this specific beast. He's at the bus stop. 

Don't run, Jack. You're pulling on your boots and contemplating a weapon. He'll chase if you run -- just walk slowly and no eye contact. I'm coming. 

Hurry, dad. His voice trembles.

The machete is under your bed, the pepper spray in a kitchen cabinet. You arm yourself and go. The surging pulse of blood in your ears drowns out whatever your wife says as you leap from the top porch step to the ground. Your right ankle twists awkwardly, but any pain is diluted for now. There's a fierce burn in your chest and traces of tears in your eyes. You're straddling a nexus of raw emotions that you will never be able to contain if anything ever happens to your boys.    

Halfway down the hill you realize that Leroy, your coonhound puppy, is hot on your heels -- a complication you don't need, another moving part you'll have to defend. Suddenly, thankfully, you hear the school bus pull up around the bend and pump your legs harder to catch sight of them boarding safely. Not breaking stride, you decide it's time to take matters into your own hands and confront this menacing mongrel whose rap sheet, according to accounts around the hollow, includes murdering a donkey, a small dog, a big cat and 7 chickens over the course of the past two years. 

When you first moved here and spotted the dog running loose, you went through the proper channels by contacting the game warden who immediately knew the dog you referred to but merely advised that the owners have been warned about keeping it penned and a lack of photographic evidence of the AWOL beast has tied their hands. A week later you pulled your phone and shot a few photos of him at the foot of a private road adjacent to yours then emailed the game warden, hoping it would set the arm of the law in motion. This time her tone reeked of annoyance when she told you the private road was the dog's property, precluding her to do anything about it. You regret ever telling her you'd moved here from the city. In hindsight, you're certain her tone changed during the first conversation when you shared that back story. So you stocked up on pepper spray, eschewing a chorus of neighborly advice that you get a gun. 

When you reach the brush ten yards before the stop, you pause and swat Leroy's behind, sending him confused and dejected back up the hill. Better than a locked jaw on his little neck, you think as you tread forward quietly with your head on a swivel. The scraping sound of each leaf hitting the ground makes you flinch and grip the machete harder. Now your legs feel heavy but you carefully scout the area and find no sight of him. He seems to have pulled off a country Kaiser Söze -- poof, just like that, he's gone -- for now. You're vaguely relieved to have missed him and at once regretful that this saga will continue.  

Just then a pickup truck approaches and passes slowly enough for you to notice the look of horror on the face of the woman behind the wheel, and you snap from your personal theater to realize that you're a grown man standing on a country road brandishing a machete. 

Chainsaws and Ankle Socks

You've always been more mouse than man when it comes to hard labor or being remotely handy around the house. You can barely hang a picture without putting several holes in the wall. Back in the city you developed a solid network of reliable tradesmen to call when something went to hell. You had a guy for everything: a drywall guy, a gutter guy, a brick guy, a floor guy, etc. Google always delivered in the clutch when one of your guys couldn't. It was easy to justify this approach: you and your wife worked hard and earned well enough so that paying for labor didn't set you back.  

You suspect your kids are sick of it, but in the name of preventative maintenance you bust balls about how they handle furnishings in advanced stages of wear and tear. You're certain that if Jack slams that antique hutch door one more time, the hinges will disintegrate and it will shatter on the floor, so you ride him. Decay makes you anxious because when something breaks you will be forced to confront your mousehood. And as if you need it, your wife will chime in to remind you. 'If you had a handy bone in your body,' she'll say, "I mean, even a handy sliver of cartilage...' Grinding your teeth, you leave the room and dial up one of your guys.  

Now the playing field is reset. You're in unfamiliar territory, planted in a farm house surrounded by acres of land without a guy for anything. You're guy-less. Suddenly the pulse spiking realization that you are the guy hits you and you grind your teeth some more. Then you breathe deep and decide that part of this life change, this refresh, will be reinventing yourself as a handyman. After all, no one here knows you're a mouse. For all they know, you're a hardware store regular with a vast wardrobe of work boots, flannel shirts and baggy jeans. Come to think of it, there was a time when you knew how to do things, back when your parents mistook you and your brothers for day laborers during a two year Victorian home remodel in South St. Louis.  

An excavation into the deep archives of your childhood fails to yield anything useful. What you conjure brings shadows of trauma. Putrid fumes of paint thinner.  Images of your small hands itching and peeling from errant flecks of stripper. Back breaking pieces of drywall ceiling held up by your quivering arms while a rickety ladder shivers beneath you. Plaster dust mixed with sweat caking on your skin like papier maché. A thumbnail, destroyed by poor hammer aim, smelling like a dug up body for an entire summer. Wait, was that asbestos insulation you so casually tossed around while gutting that third floor? Should you rethink your take on those chintzy mesothelioma commercials? You get the picture that your subconscious buried those memories for a legitimate reason, and with them any handy skills. So be it.  

For the most part the new digs are solid. You don't foresee any major malfunctions on the horizon. Then a biblical rainstorm hits town and brings major flooding. Soon the ground is too saturated to absorb water. The roots of a giant pine tree in your front yard lose their anchor and it falls. Immediately you consult Google but not for a tree guy. You're researching chainsaws. Butterflies flutter in your gut as you stroke keys and click away. You read reviews, good and bad, and can't relate to a single shred of insight posted by these users, so the star rankings fly way over your head. No worries, you decide, you'll get the lowdown from a sales guy.  

The sales woman at Sears can barely mask her borderline disdain for you. You catch her sizing you up as she approaches in the chainsaw aisle and immediately regret your decision to run this important errand after the health club.  In your Lulu Lemon outfit and precious ankle socks, you look like you should be shopping for a juicer, not a mean gas powered machine. Wearing ankle socks to the chainsaw aisle is bringing a knife to a gunfight. You're tempted to shrug her off and slink away when she asks if you need help. She looks like she chews tobacco and wears brass knuckles. For better or worse, you decide to come clean about your backstory. Clearly she already pegged you a pansy, and you are wilting rapidly in her gaze of disapproval, so why bother pretending to have any experience?  Most likely she has forgotten more about power tools than you will ever know.  In any case, maybe she'll find your rookie candor endearing.  She doesn't.  You might be wrong but could swear her fist clinches in response to the cutesy tone you inexplicably employ. You are shoveling shit and it's thickening, so you go limp, agree with everything she says and pay for whatever she suggests. You just want to get this over with and get your ankle socks out of there.  

Back in your barn you spend an hour watching Youtube videos of burly corn fed guys chainsawing trees. It seems fairly straightforward. Now you're in proper gear -- tattered hoodie, ratty jeans tucked into wellies, bug eyed safety goggles, work gloves -- so you get after it. Logically you start with the branches, because that tree trunk's girth intimidates you, and you take care not to cut those propping the tree up. You don't want it losing its makeshift support and rolling onto you, and the last thing you need is to chop off an arm with your pocket knife like James Franco. Your wife would be so pissed. Your are laser focused. Your grip is strong. Your stance is wide, like a congressman in an airport stall. It intoxicates you, this gritty hard work. The branches fall and fan out to the side with ease.  After cutting a dozen or so, you power off and drag those heavy limbs to woods bordering your land and stack them. You're drenched in sweat, your muscles hurt so good. You start wondering if the outfit that cuts your grass is hiring. You could see yourself spending days doing work like this.  

As you drag another branch to the pile your thoughts drift to Raymond Carver and how he took on mindless custodian jobs and wrote in his down time. It's been inferred that the simple nature of such jobs and the lack of mental strain left Carver with plenty of creative juice to bang out some of the most celebrated short stories in literary history. You embrace that concept and envision blazing a similar trail as you pull the cord and bring the saw back to life. You rev it hard and listen to the sizzling hiss of the chain cutting the air. Really, you could get into this. You angle the bar to take out two branches at the 'V' point from where they stem and the saw goes to pieces. The chain pops and twirls, the bar falls to the ground and the casing flies off. On a dime your good vibes turn dark and you fill the clean country air with filthy language and rage.  

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Two-cycle fuel leaks and pools in the bottom of the wheelbarrow like blood as you push the carcass, now in five pieces, up the hill to the barn. You suspect this can be fixed but don't remotely trust yourself to tackle that. That's a job for a true handyman. The long haul feels vaguely like a funeral procession and brings back memories of your grandfather wheeling their St. Bernard, Duke, your friend, to the woods for burial. You spit and come back to the moment, staring down the fallen tree that got the best of you today. Then you park the wheelbarrow and remove your gloves to summon Google on your phone about that tree guy.